It might look as though I’m regressing.  48 hours ago, I picked up Danica McKellar’s book for 11-13 year old girls, “Math Doesn’t Suck,” and have compulsively gone through 10 chapters and two mechanical pencils.

I’ll admit it: at the end of the last post, when I said I was ready to put the puzzles down, I was wrong. Should I be revising my resume? Yes. Is a refresher course on complex fractions really necessary now? No. So what am I going to do next? Chapter 11!

It’s not that crazy, really. After so many days and weeks and months of ambiguity, it makes sense that I would want to dwell in a place of concrete answers. Solving math problems page after page is showing me that

• there are answers, and it’s not impossible to get to them.
• it’s never too late to develop skills I had given up on.
• whatever I think I know about myself isn’t the end of the story.

So this time, the process of self-discovery begins with multiplication and long division. I’m really looking forward to the algebra.

The last time I was addicted to Sudoku was during a period of unemployment in 2005. I would spend between 2-3 (or 5) hours each day working away at those things. I’d go to Kinkos to enlarge and copy off multiple pages of the same grid. That way I could solve in layers. Eventually, my compulsion faded and I went on to the next thing. Back then it was writing.

For the last month or so, I’ve carried my book of Ken-Kens around the apartment with me. Ken-Ken is like Sudoku only with more clues. Discovered in a NY Times on a plane to Phoenix last month, these puzzles have given me hours of focused concentration. More importantly, they get solved. I solve them. It’s not like a lot of life where it can often feel as if no matter how hard we try, the solution keeps moving father away.

When a puzzle gets to the point where the one pictured here is, I start thinking thoughts like, “Keep working at it.” There are more errors than correct entries, the scribbles begin overtaking the little boxes, the possibilities seem too endless. So I think, “Ruth, you can’t see it now, but there’s a solution. Don’t quit. You’ll solve this thing.” And usually, I do. I yell to Andy, “Yay! I solved ANOTHER ONE! I’m SO smart!”

It’s the kind of satisfaction that rarely comes along in the real world. Lately I got to thinking about why I latched on to the puzzles in this season of my life. What am I trying to work out? What needs solving?

I found out last week that my division at work is being “reorganized” (translation: shut down). I’m back on the job market. The news came as a relief. I can put the puzzles down. This time I’ll hop straight to writing.

39+364

40

40+1

Stay tuned for the details.

Replacing the belt on a vacuum cleaner was probably not on my “list of things to do before I turn 40″, but I can now add it to my list of experiences. It feels good breaking open a machine and getting your hands dirty putting it back together again.  Puzzle solved – belt replaced; check. What else can I do in the few days before my thirties end? 

For the last week or two, it feels like my every third thought has been, “I’m turning 40.”  I’m turning 40.

Recently, a dear friend of mine went first.  We have shared back to back birthdays (August-September) since we were nine years old. I wrote to her a few weeks ago saying that turning 40 didn’t have to be anything more than a bookmark. After all, my best shrink ever, Sidney (he stormed the beach at Normandy) told me with authority that things only have the meaning we give to them. That’s all. 

So what does turning 40 mean to me? If I let it, it can mean an ending of my youth. Oh, so melodramatic. No, seriously, last weekend, I sat in the second row at church staring at the earthenware wine jug on the communion table. Upon noticing the round shape of the pitcher’s belly, my next thought was of my own belly. Perhaps it was my cramping that made the thought ready: the last period of my thirties. Most sensible childless women my age have either deliberately avoided breeding, given up on the idea of having children, or frozen their eggs.  I’ve done none of the above. A younger version of myself might have sat there pondering her barren womb, feeling more empty by the minute, but I didn’t.

My thoughts circled around to Sidney’s words, “Things only have the meaning we give to them.” Besides, I have long given up on making this birthday about what I haven’t done before now. I never really had a checklist anyway.  

Andy and I are heading into the desert this week. Sedona, mostly. We’ll be at the Grand Canyon on the last day of my 39th year. One seventh of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World; check.

What will I see when I stand at the edge? I won’t know until I get there.  But I assure you, that canyon is not empty.

It’s not just happiness is it? Happiness happens every once in a while, or actually quite frequently, if you let it. No. It’s not just happiness, it’s a sense of well being. A sense of peace and health. The best we can do is chase after it , tap it on the shoulder, ask it to wait. “Please wait.”  Maybe it’ll turn around and let you look at it for a minute or two.  

People will tell you how to get it. Hardcover for $24.95 plus shipping and you never have to leave your house. Meditate 5 minutes every day. Breathe through your nose. Serve others. Write down everything you eat and stay within your points range. Vegetables are zero points. Walk briskly for 40 minutes 5 times a week. Engage in weight bearing exercise. Take Folic Acid. Don’t forget B-Complex vitamins. Floss daily. Pray. Sit in silence. Get out in nature. Give blood. Be grateful. Use “I feel” statements. Ask yourself, “What’s my part in this?” Color mandalas, beat a drum, get a massage. Acupuncture. Read The Tao Te Jing, The Torah, A Course In Miracles, The Qur’an, The Bible, The Vedas. Vote. Visualize. Donate. Detox. Fast. Slow down. Write to your congressperson. Exfoliate. Relax. Focus. Dance. Sing. Pet a cat. Rescue a dog. Contribute the maximum allowed to your 401(k). Be. Be still. Be here now. Follow the 12 steps. Keep coming back. Sign the petition. Pay your parking tickets. Wear a seat belt. Recycle. Create. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. Trim your cuticles. Call your mother. Feed the homeless. Receive. Tell the truth. 

So what do I do with my anger? How do I uncover it, and how do I move through it? Do I really need to remember where it comes from? I hear there’s a newly discovered planet orbiting backwards. WASP-17. White Anglo Saxon Protestant like me.  The scientists say it must have experienced a collision during its early history “which flung it into an unusual spin.” If  even the planets change course from early conflict, how in the heavens can we mere humans expect to correct our own paths?

Maybe it’s not some long forgotten childhood injury (an early history collision) that has me adjusting the stacks of paper on my desk repeatedly each and every day after day, straightening the pages so all the lines are parallel. Maybe it’s the casual lies people insist on telling for no apparent reason. Perhaps something that small is big enough. Because it’s not as if the two wars the U.S. is engaged in are on the forefront of my day. I can’t claim that I’m regularly conscious of the dozens of regions of Africa or Detroit where children are forced to take up arms. There are thousands-no millions-of injustices and damages and disappointments unfolding by the hour. Name a problem. Pick one. There is suffering all the time. Enough to make us spin backwards and stutter and lie. And hurt.

My shrink says, “It’s important that we talk about this.” Apparently, my “life vest has become a straight jacket”. How can I be brave enough to take mine off, when everyone around me seems to be wearing theirs? And with the state of things, who’s to say it’s safe to take the vest off now, anyway?

But I keep seeing it pass by: Well Being making its elusive orbit. Inhale. Allow your rib cage to open, lungs expand. “Wait. Please wait.”

First Family

I had NPR on this morning at the perfect moment to learn about Willard Wigan.  Now that I can actually see what they were talking about, I’m amazed.  

Willard Wigan micro sculptor

It’s so beautiful to hear that the whole thing started because the young 5 year old Willard had immeasurable compassion for ants.

Equipped with the new-to-me WordPress iPhone app, I’m standing just west of our apartment’s open door. At my feet, Lily sits practicing her morning meditation. She’s at the edge (“The Veranda”) of her universe. Someday, sweet cat, we’ll have a real porch for you. One with sunlight.

Mom sent me a link the other day from Oprah.com.  It’s about writing memoir.  At the end, there are 10 writing prompts.

1. Write two pages of something you can’t deny.
2. Write two pages of what got left behind.
3. Write two pages of something you wrote or did that you no longer understand.
4. Write two pages of apologizing for something you didn’t do.
5. Write two pages about a physical characteristic you are proud to have inherited or passed on.
6. Write two pages of what you had to have.
7. Write two pages of humiliating exposure.
8. Write two pages about a time when you felt compassion unexpectedly.
9. Write two pages of what you have too much of.
10. Write two pages of when you knew you were in trouble.

Just reading the prompts brings up all sorts of images and feelings of wanting to cling to privacy. I guess that’s fine; I mean, no one is suggesting that the two pages automatically end up on-line. They’re building blocks, puzzle pieces, tools, ingredients. 

I guess I better get busy.

Oh, and yeah, my mom’s pretty awesome for encouraging to write.

Dear Michael,

I can’t remember a time before you.  Your voice has always been in my head.

Back when it was a hit (was it really a hit?), I learned the words to “Ben” from hearing my big brother sing it over & over. The whole time I knew Ben was a rat and that just made the song seem all the more special.  I wanted you to be the star in the movie, not that bad-acting little white boy. And of course the Jackson 5ive cartoon show was my choice, unless Scooby was on.

The year Thriller came out, I had a sweet baby sitting gig with an adorable 5 year old.  He LOVED you. And even though I thought I was too cool for pop, I couldn’t deny the way you moved was magic.

I’m sorry for all of your suffering. You didn’t deserve it. Maybe we should have done more, sooner, to help you. I’d like to think people tried. I’d like to think you had friends. I hope you did.

I agree with the critics who say that Westerners have the attention span of gnats, that the death of 3 entertainers in one week is enough to push the Iranian protests out of our consciousness. How long have the people of Darfur been in peril, anyway? We Americans can’t even pay attention to our own two wars.

But this is exactly why your work was important, Michael. Great art like yours–expressions of our biggest joys and love–give voice to what is best about living, to why the struggles matter.

Last night, hearing your music again, with all of its uniquely Michaelness about it, I couldn’t help but smile and dance and celebrate. I’m not even a fan. Your sound is just in my life, and it’s such a very good sound. A real gift. Thank you.

Everlasting peace to you, Mr. Jackson.

Respectfully and fondly,

Ruth

You want to fall in love with your favorite actor, writer, singer? You want to fall hard?

Go to iTunes>Music>Celebrity playlist.  Do it. 

You’ll see that Jason Segel goes on record calling Leonard Cohen the greatest songwriter alive (me too!), that he fell in love with Pink Floyd in high school (me too!) and that he likes to watch Bruce do Thunder Road on Youtube (me too!).  You know what’s better than the music we have in common? The music he’s got on his list that’s new to me.

What’s better than a new favorite song? . . . . Nothing!

Uh, yeah, it’s a gorgeous Southern Californian day. The only reason I know this is because FB neighbors are reporting something about tan getting and beach sitting. Do I feel pathetic sitting in my pajamas in the dark checking out celebrity playlists? Not really.  

My rule for the day is not to do anything productive. Any sentence that starts with “I should-” is cut off there and the sentiment is shelved until tomorrow. Chores are forbidden. Educational reading off limits. I bathed, but only because running the hot shower with nowhere to go is both decadent and fun. 

Read Joss Whedon’s playlist . . . The Replacements’ “Unsatisfied”, Pixies’ “Wave of Mutilation”. . . I feel so known.

The best thing about (why am I plugging Apple again?) iTunes Celebrity playlists is that the songs aren’t merely listed, there are little snippets from the compiler. Joss gives great snippets. No big surprise there.

What a great way to do nothing. Spending 99 cents here & there aside, I’m very happily not lifting my fingers higher than a quarter inch off the keyboard.

I’m not going to beat myself up about taking a day off from the entire world.

You know what else I’m not going to do?  I’m not going to give this post a proper ending. Nor will it get a rewrite. It will simply end, and I’ll go back to not doing.

“They can kill us with their bare hands.”

It’s a sound bite from college that has stayed with me. The conversation was with a dear friend about feminism. She’s truly much smarter than I am. I don’t remember the steps of logic that brought us there. But I remember it being a big Ah-Ha moment for me.

I guess the point was that men and women are not created equal. And that human beings cannot escape the fact that we are animals by nature. That one being’s ability to kill another being will always play a role in how we relate, no matter how civilized we think we are.

And perhaps that was when I stopped putting on make up each day. Maybe I didn’t ever consciously link the two ideas – murder and cosmetics – but on some level I must have thought, “Men will always have more power. They will always subjugate us according to how they value us, so why should I spend precious moments of my life doing things I hate, like blow drying my hair and dieting, just to conform to their idea of a thing that is fuckable.”

Yeah, I was an angry Post Teen. This is how I’ve started referring to the 20-something Ruth – as a “Post Teen”.  See, if 40 is the new 30, that makes 20 the new 10.  Think about it.  Think about a bad choice you made in your 20’s.  It works, doesn’t it?

Okay, where was I?  An angry Post Teen. Right. Picture a pale faced young woman 20 pounds overweight dressed in a black sack dress, a too big flannel shirt, thick socks and Doc Martins. Her mantras were “I am not my body, ” and “Men are just desserts”. Of course, with that attitude, the only dessert she got for a while came in Sarah Lee boxes.

Somewhere between 19 and 39, I gradually got in tune with the fact that taking care of my body and nurturing my own appearance didn’t have to symbolize surrender in the battle over gender power. I’m still a jeans and t’shirt gal to a fault, very much in need of a wardrobe stylist, but I’ve made some strides in the right direction.

I’m learning to value men in spite of our vast inequalities. I guess the circles I run in don’t involve random displays of brute force. Thank God. Dwelling in environments where creativity, ingenuity, sensitivity, flexibility, responsibility, humor and exploration are values has shown me how brilliant the male animal can be.  

I’m still bitter about the fact that having a shaved head is an acceptable hair style for a man; and that such a ‘do reduces his primp time to less than 12 minutes – including flossing and moisturizing. I know men are held to standards of attractiveness as well, and that “survival of the fittest” includes cultural standards for What Is Handsome vs. People Who Just Aren’t Fun To Look At. I’m aware that appearing and feeling attractive can be a challenge for both genders, but when push comes to shove, a guy really can just shave his head and get away with it. And I’m way bitter about that.

But I am no longer a Post Teen. Acceptance is becoming as natural and soothing to me as strong black coffee.

This is the world we live in. Men can kill women with their bare hands, but they rarely do. And as much as I hate it to admit it — for whatever-god-awful-unfair-biological-reason-I’m not even interested in researching — I like feeling pretty.

Consistent with our quest for (and love of) transcendent shows to watch, Andy brought an A.V. Club article to my attention yesterday. I’m a lazy reader, but what Wire fan could turn away from that picture of Omar’s brilliant face?

The A.V. Club poses this question for discussion among its readers and staff, “What movie/TV show/album/whatever would you like to be able to see/hear again for the first time?”  (By “whatever” – I assume they mean other form of art.)  

Now, I get the question. It’s that feeling that comes when you’re close to the end of a book and you just don’t want it to end. You wish you could start over, and have the whole thing to look forward to. Fresh. And new. 

But if you ponder the question for a while, it’s easy to see there are really two different ideas at work here. One is dependent on the piece of art itself, the other is who we were at the time of the encounter.  

I’m one of those people who has spent the last 20 years giddily hollering, “I want my two dollars” at any opportunity. Do I want to erase all my memories of “Better off Dead” so that I – now a 39 year old woman – can literally see it for the first time? Read the rest of this entry »