After the hospice benefit

A return to blogging, borne of the need to divest myself of thought.

See, I am tired of thinking. Absolutely, positively burned out.

I watched the final presidential debate tonight after attending a benefit for Francis House, a hospice staffed by angels who kindly and gently help the terminally ill with their journeys into peace. Well-fed, well-entertained and well-wined, I find that I am exhausted. Completely sick of thinking about democrat vs republican, bailout bills, out-of-control spending, abortion rights, an unpopular war and an economy that threatens to drift back into the 1930s. I am so tired of trying to figure out college financing, home budgets, career decisions. Should I vote this way or that? What do I do with seething anger over the economic crisis? How can I convey to my kids the enormity of the debt they are undertaking in getting through college? How do I rail against a system that has crushed the middle class, without taking responsibility and initiative?

But, the benefit reminds me that we all will die someday, no matter how much we own, what party we lean toward, which career path we take. In the face of death, all else becomes irrelevant. Small. Well, almost everything.

As I just now settled in to ponder all this on a warm couch manned -- er, beagled -- by an even warmer dog, I was grateful to retreat from it all with my animals. I can come home from the world and pet the birds, and they don't care what my politics are as long as I'm here and I hit the right spot just above the beak. My dogs will curl up in the bend of my knee backs, contentedly oblivious to my status and my ability to buy a better blanket with which to cover us. My Lab was happy today simply to splash in the cool water of an autumn lake, cheerily retrieving sticks regardless of apparent agenda; she cares only that she is not separated from those she loves. My animals eat when they're hungry, bark when they feel protective, go outside with their excretions and always, always show love when they feel it.

I want to live so simply. But my humanness won't let me. That is why I share my life with animals and why -- as I did tonight -- I drink wine with people I love whenever possible, especially when it can benefit others, too.

She's home

I have a daughter to whom the world just opened itself.

See, she's 17 1/2 -- a soulful, sensitive, intelligent and beautiful girl who stands at the crossroads between childhood and adulthood. From here on out, everything changes. And from my middle-aged point of view, I know that the rest of life is fraught (or blessed, depending) with change, like a sky's parade of clouds and sun, storms and blue.

She came home today, breathless after her very first weekend away from home without me. After her first plane ride, her first out-of-state college visit. And now there's no going back: She knows.

In one short weekend, she's discovered that the stage on which high-school dramas play out looks very, very small from 35,000 feet in the air. She's learned that her life can take her anywhere, with the right ticket... that education is a multifaceted experience that happens both inside and outside a classroom... that kindness can be found even in a great wide frightening world (thanks to a certain friend's grandma who played a very gracious host)... And most importantly that even as she flies from the nest, the nest stays put. Home is and always will be home, and her family will always be the one constant -- the keeper of histories, the protector of her soul, the solid, unshakeable sanctuary in a world that shifts with the wind.

When the time comes for her to go to college, I will miss her beyond words. But I will relish watching her open her life like a big birthday present, like I've done so many times before.

She is my heart, the tiny baby who changed my life, the little dynamo who knows me, perhaps, better than anyone. So for the time being, I am happy and relieved that she is here, and will be for many months yet. It's easy to talk to her about change. It's much harder to listen.

Educational disconnect

Here's an intriguing, thought-provoking piece on the daily lives of college students. Based on what I'm seeing with my high school senior and sophomore, I'm guessing it's dead on -- except for college debt, which I gotta believe will exceed $20k for most students. (I'm still thinking about the video, but the first question it makes me ask is, how have we, in such a "connected" world, become so disconnected?):

Stating the obvious

As any good writer will tell you: It's always better to show than to say.

*If you don't get what I mean, you'd best not apply for the job ;-).

Where I've been

No, not "where I've been while not blogging" (hey, summer is a busy busy time around here!) but a map of the states I've visited. Fun to see my travels represented graphically -- and to see where I've yet to go ;-).

Get your map here.

Secret posts

If it's true and you've never told anyone about it, put it on a postcard and send it to Post Secrets.

In any case, go see what others have posted. It's a must-see!

Today's inspiration

"To live content with small means;
to seek elegance rather than luxury,
and refinement rather than fashion;
to be worthy, not respectable,
and wealthy, not rich;
to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart;
to study hard;
to think quietly,
act frankly,
talk gently,
await occasions,
hurry never;
in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common.

This is my symphony."

-- William Henry Channing

Dopa-me

Tonight, I watched Awakenings, an amazing 1990 movie starring Robin Williams and Robert DiNiro. It's a true story about a psychiatrist, Dr. Malcom Sayer, who sensed the humanity locked inside his catatonic patients...and in 1969 discovered that they responded to l-dopamine -- and "awoke." Sadly, the drug failed over time, and the lucid periods didn't last.

The brilliance of the movie lay in the parallel drawn between the "insane" and the sane -- and the contrast between appreciation and complacency. It leaves me to question who is really sick here: the patients who, upon awakening, marvel at every little miracle that graces every single one of each of our days...or the rest of us, who take it all for granted. Sure, every now and then we all wake up and realize how wonderful life really is -- but it seems we all go to sleep again, becoming oblivious to the miracle of common things.

Toward the film's end, the doctor addresses his colleagues:

"What we do know is that, as the chemical window closed, another awakening took place; that the human spirit is more powerful than any drug -- and THAT is what needs to be nourished: with work, play, friendship, family. THESE are the things that matter. This is what we'd forgotten -- the simplest things."

I've been feeling dreary lately, and I think maybe I need to wake up again.

Gender error?

So I signed up for free haircare samples from Sunsilk, but not without a glitch.

After I clicked "submit," I got the following message:

---

Please correct the following error:

- Invalid Gender

Click here to correct any errors.

---

I wonder what errors they can correct? This must be good stuff.

Citrus mysteries

Making mixed drinks last summer, I discovered something quite curious.

Lemon slices float, while lime slices do not.

I don't know why.

Life in a sensory deprivation tank

True, a fresh winter snow -- the puffy kind that's impossibly light and sparkles blue under the streetlights -- is among the most beautiful gifts nature bestows.

But we get too much of a good thing up here.

And that pristine sparkle always melts into a semi-solid mass of mush, mottled with a color best described as gray-brown, that builds up behind a car's mudflaps and soaks through the thickest boots.

So most of winter is a collage of gray: gray in the sky, gray on the ground, gray on the cars, gray in the brain. No wonder that this time of year, I crave a different kind of natural beauty.

Color. (Tulips. Erratic dandelions. Bright green of springtime leaves.)

Smell. (Freshly mown grass. Unlikely, happily stubborn hyacinths.)

Sound. (Birds! Crickets! Children playing kickball.)

No wonder an art class is such a good idea (particularly) at this time of year. Even just my amateurish sketches help break the bleak spell. And it gets me out into the gray long enough to enjoy time with a friend.

And, of course, friendship is a kind of beauty, too.

Winter distraction

I'm distracted, unable to focus. Many deadlines this week, but I don't feel like writing. Odd...I only have a couple of things left to write today but I'm stuck in the mud.

Some days, I wonder what I would like to be when I grow up.

Other days, I see that I'm doing exactly what I like.

And come to think of it, not many jobs offer the freedom and space to be stuck, and to wonder, beagle on lap and no commute.

Blah blah blah, who cares?

Okay, perspective check complete. I think I'll go work now ;-).

why I freelance

It's very cold outside.

My fat little beagle is warm and likes to cuddle. Under a blanket.

My laptop fascinates her.

My notebook fits just so in between the couch cushions.

And so it goes on a snowy winter night.

10 15 things I want to do in the next 100 years

In no particular order -- except for #1, which is, well, #1:

1. Live, someday, on or very near a beach, and grow geraniums in pots on my beachside deck.
   
2. Learn to like running -- and get really addicted to it.
3. Visit all the U.S. coasts (except Alaska's). I've seen the mid-Atlantic, the Southeast, the Gulf Coast. Still to see: the Pacific Northwest, the West, the Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico and Hawaii.
4. Become a neat freak.
5. Learn to draw and paint.
6. Write a book...maybe.
7. Get more involved with volunteer opportunities.
8. Do at least one good deed without fail every single day.
9. Learn more about working with databases, XML, Flash and other Web technologies.
10. Take up kayaking.
11. Make wine.
12. Get up the guts to let my hair go silver and keep it long.
13. Own and run an online business selling...what?
14. Trace my genealogy.
15. Visit Greece and Sicily, if I can get past the flying part.
    

Okay, wait. Now that I've gotten started, I see that I have a lot more to list and to do. And ever-less time to do it.

So what's on your list?

Six weird things

So here are six weird things about me:

1) My favorite place is on or near the water. But I came as close as humanly possible to drowning in an Oneida Lake boathouse when I was a little girl.
2) I love people, but I hate the phone. Despise it. I don't know why, and I wish it were different.
3) I love mornings but I hate to get up early. "So go to bed sooner," you say. But I love the nighttime!
4) I wanted to be a nun when I was growing up. Now, I am not religious in the traditional sense, but spirituality is very important to me.
5) Thunderstorms terrified me as a kid. Now I love them. They completely intrigue me. And they still terrify me.
6) I love liver, onions and bacon.
7) There are a lot more weird things about me, and I never know when to stop writing.

About this post
I was tagged for this "six weird things about me" post by Lisa. Each person who gets tagged then posts their own six weird things and clearly states how this works. And after posting, the person "tags" other people.

When you tag someone, don't forget leave a comment in his or her 's blog that says "you're tagged" -- and tell your friend to read your blog for information as to what it means.

I'm not sure yet who I will tag...not many of my friends have blogs. But most of them are delightfully weird.

It came from the swamp

I woke with horror this morning to find that a horrible creature had taken up residence on TH's* face while I slept in. A long, hairy, bristly creature that is scaring my kids and making the dogs howl.

Oh, I'd seen it before. It comes around when TH relents to pressure, shaves his winter beard and, um, gets a wild hair to do something goofy.

Family-wide panic ensues. We avoid the Swamp Thing at all cost. We refuse to go into public places with it. We don't feed or eat near it. Kisses are out of the question.

Tonight, we resorted to whatever means we had at hand to eradicate the rodent-beast.

We tried shouting it off TH's face.

My little girl tried to pluck its spiny tentacles one by one as TH napped, but TH defended it with halfhearted swats. He was possessed!

In desperation, my oldest son chased it around the house with duct tape. Swamp Thing merely laughed in defiance.

Finally, we realized it was time for the big guns: We took a photo.

Hey! Could it be? Is that the trimmer I hear up in the bathroom?

For the sake of all humanity, we can only hope.


*TH = The Husband

Pity Party (BYOWhine)

Oh, lots of people warned me about lots of things when I became pregnant with my first child. But the one detail they left out was that, sometimes, the whole dang deal hurts.

Fair warning: I'm throwing a pity party. If you've had a great weekend full of parenting reward and triumph, I'll understand if you head for the door. That's a whole different kind of party, and invitations are few -- so grab one if it's handed to you, and by God, get good and drunk on all that good feeling over there.

Anyway: See, I want to do this right. I want to teach my kids that goodness is its own reward. That patience brings peace. So does forgiveness, of others and of oneself. I want them to know that we can't place expectations on others without first placing them on ourselves. That self respect (and all that it entails) keeps us alive. That love takes many more forms that we ever imagine, but never dies. And that, still, sometimes bad stuff happens that we can do little more about than accept, and for those times, the very best place to head is home. That "home" will always have an open door, no matter where that is. That...well, I could go on and on, and I only hope I have enough time to tell them what little I know.

That's the easy part.

But then these loin-fruits watch. Criticize. Blame. They shine a vivid, harsh light on all the ways in which I screw up. Sure, it's all part of the natural, healthful and necessary process of separating from one's parents. They yell their apartness, scream their independence -- sometimes deafeningly, sometimes so quietly I can't hear it. Sometimes I listen for a pin to drop and am startled by the boulder that lands too close for comfort. And in the aftermath are the questions that haunt me. Am I understanding enough? Am I too understanding? Am I letting go fast enough? Am I hanging on too tightly? I love them. I would do anything to keep them safe, happy, healthy. No question there. Do I show them in the right ways? Do they see it? Am I strict enough? Too lenient? Am I close enough? Am I too close? Am I too into this? Do I love them too much? Is that even possible?

I know it's all part of the plan, but does it have to hurt so much?

Nobody told me I'd feel so misunderstood. Nobody warned me I'd feel unappreciated. That the people I love most could, at times, be so cruel when I try so hard. That I would feel inexcusably, ridiculously, annoyingly sorry for myself.

Nobody, perhaps, except my own parents, in their own way -- but I was too young to listen.

Yet as I was writing this, the voice of someone who looks like me delivered a sudden, funny story about Something That Happened. And then, another, deeper voice drifted down the stairs: "'Night, Mom. Love you."

Nothing could ever sound sweeter. And gratitude works better than morphine.

But can it find my mind?

Popgadget: Personal Tech for Women mentions a product for which I've wished (often in obscene terms). Women, rejoice: Finally, no more "Where's the hoozit?" from the men we live with. Forget the tv remote: Now we can all fight for the transmitter.

Which he will lose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SmartFinder, by Evan on devices

"The average amount of time that a person spends looking
for misplaced things over the course of a lifetime is one year."
-- Harpers Index

...The SmartFinder comes with four color coded receivers which can be attached to things like keys, wallets, purses, mobile phones, and TV remotes. They even suggest adhering one to the kids; they're kidding about that (I think). With a remote control transmitter that can send a radio signal through walls and floors to activate the 85 decibel alarm on the receiver, locating items up to 25 meters away, you may never lose your keys again. It doesn't say anything about refrigerator doors, so "Uncle" Rog, who left his keys in the fridge one time, may still be out of luck.

Unlike the "clapper" system I had before, the SmartFinder has a low battery warning. Comes with 2 keyrings and 2 double-sided adhesive pads provided for attaching the receivers to anything.

£29.95 at Girls Shop UK

And the nominee for best tatoo issss...

"Grass don't grow on a busy street," so they say. Then again, it doesn't grow where there's no fertile soil, either. But I digress.

I found this image here, thrown in rather randomly among little factoids that debunk "lies your mother told you." (If you can't make it out, the tattoo is of a little guy with a lawnmower, mowing...well, you get the idea.) At that site, you will learn that we've given lemmings and elephants too much credit, birds don't cry at weddings, neither Mussolini nor Van Gogh was a true patron of public utilities, 10% is all most of us have, and lots more. Go see :-).

Can I use "wow"?

From the World Wide Words Newsletter:
*****
"Did you hear about the new world record score in Scrabble? Michael Cresta scored 830 points during a game at the Lexington Scrabble Club in Massachusetts on 12 October 2006. His words included quixotry, which itself claims a record as the highest recorded single turn, scoring 365 points. Quixotry: the state or condition of being extremely idealistic, unrealistic and impractical."
*****
I love Scrabble -- always have, ever since my mom hooked me on the game with all-night sessions when I was about nine. I'm a pretty traditional player and think the use of bizarre two-letter words that only pro players know kind of ruins the fun -- but still, no one in my house will play with me. So I've grown rusty...and completely wowed by a 365-pointer, let alone an 830-point game that apparently used words with some meat to them.

Or maybe I'm just being quixotic?