Liberating Strong Roots

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Gratitude: March 2012

As many days as possible, I list six distinct things for which I’m grateful. The list is archived monthly.

Here’s March 2012 . . . 

Broken Dish. The friends who gave it to me. A conversation. Andy’s safety. A new day. Emails from New Jersey.

Beyond Baroque. Poetry. The laughter of the boy sitting in front of me. His curly hair. Assonance. The helpful clerk at the copy store. Printing machines. Paper. Fresh made tortillas.

A place to go today. Google. Learning about people. Relinquishing rigidity. Balance Bars. Balance Beams. Balance.

Being gifted with a class to learn some excel shortcuts. The woman who gave it to me. An amazing and colorful staircase. Tika Masala. Fog. Poets.

The experience of doing 6 loads of laundry to help me realize, again, how lucky I am that Andy usually does that chore. Washing machine. Clothes dryers. Stair cases. Fur balls. Laxatone.

Ellie’s new symptom prompting us to schedule her surgery. That nice tech on the phone at the vet’s office. Dr. Yuan. Being able to provide a forever home for her despite the challenges. Feeling committed to a sweet animal. Ruby’s hilarious personality. The laser pointer.

New Pillows. Clean sheets. Cat toys. Zombie stories. Gas stations. Work calls.

Professors who publish their work online for free so those of us too poor to study full time can learn from them. Professors. The internet. Links. Ink. Books.

Lots of hours getting to know good friends. A home cooked meal. Pesto. Oranges. Bathtubs. Moisturizer.

Two parking spaces on Roxbury. Another successful day of work. Dressing up. Junk food indulgence. Bringing kimchi to Andy. Century City.

Walking in the rain. My big water proof jacket. Earbuds. Music. Memories. Rosemary bread.

A crisp windy day. Good weather for the marathoners. Big warm coat. Red hat. A great G pic. Longing.

Gorgeous sky. Cool air. Playing with Ruby. Peaceful hours. Safety. Creative agenda.

A nice dinner with Andy. The time to continue reading Clash of Kings. George R. R. Martin. Quickbooks. Finishing a lingering task. Lifting weights.

My Dad’s eye surgeon. The technology to repair cataracts. Nerve block. Twilight anesthesia. My mom. Telephones.

Making time for walks. Time to do laundry. Dr. Y’s patience on the phone. The white door next to pink and red bricks. Quarters. Detergent. Laundry Machines.

Ellie’s surgery is over. The second 48 hours of recovery are almost over. She’s doing fine. Ruby has stopped hissing (Ruby hissing?). Sleep. Coffee.

The sound the wind makes blowing between the window panes. Rain. Crisp air. Waterproof jacket. Persisting with writing a story. Eyes.

Positive outcomes in the 4 chess games I thought I was losing (won three of them). Seeing my neighbor. Keeping vegan yesterday. Vegan Chocolate Chip Cookies. Choosing a birthday gift for a wonderful little girl. Tulips.

Shower sobs. Meditation tears. Completing two short-short stories in one week. The post office box on Sepulveda. Stamps. Postal service.

Old highrises. Independent filmmakers. Time to take a couple photos downtown. Yet another awesome meeting. Garlic sweet potato fries. A growing feeling of comfort driving downtown.

Celebrating My Work

Andy and I have a collection of dishes that we almost never use. I bet you have one of those, too. Too precious, right?

Well, this morning, I took my favorite mug off the shelf. Washed it. Filled it with coffee. And drank.

Why? Because last night I followed through on my commitment to enter the NPR Three-Minute Fiction Contest.

My desire wasn’t so much to become a contestant; it was more to prove to myself that I can, indeed, follow through on a writing assignment. Further, I wanted to begin what I’ve been putting off for years — I wanted to begin writing fiction.

So I did it. I wrote a story, sent it off. Mission accomplished.

The truth is, a lot of the hours between “I wanted to . . .” and “So I did it,” were uncomfortable. I almost gave up. I actually had given myself permission to give up.

As if inventing plot weren’t a big enough challenge for me, I found the contest’s premise really annoying: write an original story – 600 words or less – that starts with the line, “She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.”

I thought, if she’s in a place where there’s a table, she’s probably inside, rather than outside. Probably. And if she’s in a room with a table, she’s probably in a dining room or a living room. Probably. And if there’s a door in that living room or dining room, it probably leads to the outside of the building. Probably. So she’s essentially leaving a place. It’s a departure. The story begins with a departure? That’s annoying. And who is she? And what is she reading?

These thoughts bothered me for weeks. Fucking NPR. But I sat in the chair anyway. And even though it felt difficult, I typed words anyway. And . . .

Today I got to drink out of my expensive purple mug.

Here’s the best part though, rather than feeling so reverent over completing a task, this morning, while I enjoyed that cup of coffee, I sat and started a new essay. I wrote for hours — had to force myself to stop down for both breakfast and lunch.

This is my work. I love it.

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Writing My Way Back to Gratitude

Something about taking Ellie in for—-

Time out. I typed the words above and stopped my train of thought to lift my hands from the keyboard to receive a cup of coffee from Andy. And when I did, I said, “Hiiiiii” in a soft voice typically reserved for sleepy cats. Only I wasn’t talking to a cat, I was talking to my coffee cup. As soon as I realized what I had done — spoken to my coffee with adoration — I burst into laughter, and haven’t stopped giggling since.

I’m seriously doubting my sanity right now.

What I had started to say was, something about taking Ellie in for The Spaying That Should Have Happened Before We Adopted Her has put me into a state of heightened anxiety.

Yesterday morning, I had myself in tears rambling on with “what ifs”. What if Ruby plays too vigorously with her? What if she’s in pain and she can’t tell us? What if she tries to jump up and pulls out her sutures? I whined to Andy that I wished he didn’t have to go to work. All the while, I wondered: who is this fragile person I’ve become?

Here’s a short list of what’s on my mind:

• I haven’t been writing. That’s not true. I had a rather impotent day at the keyboard yesterday attempting to come up with a 600 word story to submit for NPR’s 3 Minute Fiction. I get so fucking intimidated of the word “story”. I freeze up. Story? I doubt my ability to make up plot. I’m still mad at myself for not writing the follow-up blog post about Invisible Children. Now I’ve lost the passion over it. But working writers don’t wait for passion: they sit and do the work. I know this. And knowing it increases my sense of failure.

• I’m concerned about my decision to remain self-employed indefinitely (translation: money is tight).

• I’m currently losing all 4 of my correspondence chess games. Nearly resigned one this morning to relieve the stress until I remembered how Greg — god I miss him every minute — would say, “Never resign!” I’m too much of a beginner to really know when to resign, anyway. So I play to the death, a painful practice.

• Two weeks ago, while driving to a client’s, I heard a story on NPR about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have all the symptoms — except fainting. I’m not trying to be overly dramatic by comparing myself to a soldier. But I’m telling the truth. I experience some of the symptoms every day, most of the symptoms every week, and I’ve been feeling this way for months, long before Ellie’s surgery.

I suspect most people feel high levels of anxiety that they rarely exhibit to others. I’ve often thought, people take drugs for the way I’m feeling. I guess I do, too. I call myself Mini-Elvis when I think of my daily carousel of coffee, Coffee, COffee, COFfee, COFFee, COFFEe, COFFEE! WINE! WiNe, Bread. Wine.

I’m able to attempt some semblance of objectivity; I can see how fortunate I am. Still, anxiety, discomfort, feelings of not wanting to be alive creep back up, coupled with guilt for not being strong enough to enjoy all the goodness I’m immersed in.

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Probably, one thing that’s going on is that I’ve lost the faith I used to lean on for relaxation.

I remember the moment it happened. I got the news that Greg had — was — .  That he had died. That he was dead. And sometime that afternoon, the thing I used to call God — the imaginary friend I’d been talking to for over 30 years — was gone. Vanished.

Eventually, months later, I asked myself to remember what it was I used to believe about god and existence. My intention wasn’t to attempt to regain the belief, it was merely to recall the details.

This is what I came up with. I used to find strength in the idea that we are all one — a part of divinity, of the creative life force. I believed that the notion of people having separate souls was an illusion of personality/ego/body. So I used to tell myself that when we die, the illusion of separateness is broken, our souls remember (re-member) being a part of one spirit — not unlike a drop of water rejoining the ocean.

But when the drop of water is someone you love, and it’s wrenched away the day after you realize that you’ve fallen in love, so that, suddenly, all there is to take its place is an ocean, the ocean holds no appeal. In fact, the ocean can go fuck itself.

If I continue to entertain the metaphor, I could argue (with myself) that I’m a part of the ocean, too. I could say there is no separation. I could cling, not to my beloved drop, but to the bigger picture. But I’m not there right now.

I’ve read books about how meditating will reopen my awareness of the one spirit. I have gifts of yoga videos and classes waiting for my practice. Maybe tomorrow, I say most days.

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One thing I know is that writing this post has helped calm the anxiety.

I’m thinking now about Victoria Williams’ song, “This Moment.” There’s not a good video I can find to embed, but here are the lyrics, and perhaps this MySpace link to the audio file will work.

It’s about this moment. Funny, when I hear it, I keep thinking about former ones, other times when he was here: wholly holy present moments. Happy moments.

This moment will never come again
I know it because it has never been before
I listen to the rain outside the door
A thousand voices singing songs that ain’t been sung before
Some days while lost in reverie
I find the very hours have slipped away from me
Well as the sunlight dances through the leaves
The patterns they awaken me
And I say hey ho
This moment will never come again
I know it because it has never been before
Here we are now
Soon it will be then
Here we are now
Soon it will be then
Here we are now
Soon it will be then
It’s nothing more, nothing less
Than the place that we are in
This moment, it will never come again
I know it because it has never been before
And I listen to the wind
And I see the trees are shaking…

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Stay Tuned?

By my records, I have three posts I’ve promised and not delivered. Actually, there are probably more than that, but I’m sure I’m the only one keeping track.

I endeavor to be the kind of blogger — the sort of writer — who follows through, who writes, who does a better job with punctuation than I’ve just done.

I’m not going to give up. Right now, though, the paying gig calls.

Evolving Response to the Kony 2012 Campaign

What’s Wrong with this Picture?

Constantly Editing, Ever Changing, Awake, Alive . . . There’s a reason I made that the subtitle of this blog. I can’t stop reading responses to Invisible Children’s Kony 2012 campaign.

Some of the points brought up by the people who oppose Invisible Children’s methods and intentions remind me of an uneasy feeling I’ve had while attending Big Brothers Big Sisters (BBBS) events. I’m not proposing there’s a direct correlation, rather, looking at what my experiences have taught me. I’m developing a blog post about this.

Here’s an advance peek at my thoughts:

I entered the BBBS program around 1999, spent hundreds of weekend afternoons cultivating a life-long relationship with my little sister, and was awarded Big Sister of the Year (Los Angeles) a few years ago.

So, unlike the war in Uganda, BBBS is something I know about.

My little sister isn’t “a cause” or “a case” or “a project”. No human being is. The critical responses to the Kony 2012 Campaign are helping me to remember to keep my terminology in check — I think even my most recent posts need some cleaning up.

I’ll write more about this in my next post. Stay tuned.

In the meantime, here are a couple well-written articles I’ve encountered in the last 24 hours that share points of view that are helping me to educate myself. I’d like to thank a new friend in Colorado and Al Jazeera for bringing these to my attention.

• “Don’t Reduce Uganda to a Meme” by Patrick Kigongo

• “What’s Wrong with the Kony 2012 Campaign” by Adam Branch

If you check out these articles, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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