Work

Writing a blog, writing music, writing a poem, talking to a friend, keeping up with Facebook and email could engage the entirety of my day.  Sometimes I suppose it does...aside from walking the dog or going for coffee with a friend.  It has been a while since I have had a regular, routine job.  Some 18 years!  I have worked...probably much more intensely than those working a 9-5 job.  "Running to keep up" is the mantra I sometimes have used in this self employment gig.  Though lately, it has been more difficult to even begin!  I guess part of the reality is what happens as a woman ages. 

Unfortunately, our society devalues folks who are older.  Younger people tend to have more energy.  That is true.  Older people however, carry a wisdom that the younger ones need.  We need each other.  It is the simple truth.  And I am not sure how to move beyond the age stigma. 

Society dictates so many things to us.  I wonder how we can change those dictates and choose what is really best for us?  Instead of just going along with the stuff that is fed to us:  beauty, youth, power, position, money are what gets us what we want in this world; perhaps we could try to open our hearts and our minds.  Perhaps we could stretch beyond the norm and discover that stretching is just the thing our hearts and minds need as much as our body does!

I applied for a writing job today.  It is a job I really would like to have for any number of reasons.  And I know there are probably hundreds if not thousands of applicants.  Will there be anything in my resume and work history or cover letter which will jump out?  Who knows!  I'm not sure how some of that uploading stuff works, I think I uploaded my cover letter four times and my resume twice.  My age is showing!  I am hoping that the fourth upload will cancel all the ones before.  But one can never be sure.  Nothing showed up in the little boxes, which is why I kept uploading.  I thought it wasn't working.  But it was. 

Well, it's time for me to get out there and look for some music gigs over the summer.  I noticed a little restaurant in the area has added a piano to their decor.  It would be awesome to have more of those kinds of venues.  Of course, I don't think the piano is tuned, AND they have it sitting against an outside wall, which is a no no.  Maybe it came from someone's barn!  The cold isn't the problem for a piano.  Just the humidity.  I think my body is a bit like that.  I don't mind the cold either.

I hope the human resource people read my blog :-) 

These Hands

They are aging, these hands of mine,
skin no longer supple,
beginning to wrinkle.

Just today, they have held a hand,
petted 5 different dogs, and 2 cats
touched the cold stone near the waterfall;

they have put cashews in my mouth,
portabella pizza, asparagus and apple crisp.
they have held the steering wheel steady

as I drove the two hours home;
and they gripped the pillow as an unpleasant memory
played beneath my skin. 

They have typed out my blog,
acting as agents of my mind
and then packed my belongings
and carried them to the car.

These hands have stroked my cheeks
wiped away tears and held the kleenex
while I blew my nose.

They were washed thoroughly with nice smelling soap,
and this evening, covered in shea butter.
They made my dinner, and they slipped around the shoulders of my friend
as we hugged.

They play a good guitar and a mean piano,
and love to be challenged just enough
to work hard and practice a bit more. 

Sometimes they still clasp together when I pray...
oh and they fit together below my chin as
the Tibetan Buddhist monk walked past in his red robes

and I sat waiting at a traffic light. 
"May you be peaceful, may you be happy"
my words and my breath
gently touching them as I offered
a blessing.

And now they type
out this piece about themselves.
All of this just today. 

And I'll never tell tales about the things
they have done after one of them
turns out the lights.

Breakfast at the Pond

Sitting here on the deck, the silence is a lovely thing.  Sunshine is warming the crisp morning air and Papa goose is here for his breakfast.  Mama Goose is sitting on her egg, which one can only hope hasn't frozen, as she laid it very early.  Some brave little bird is eating suet as I am typing here on my computer.  He doesn't seem to be bothered that I am a mere 4 feet away.  However, several others have flown in to fly away again before landing.  A brave chickadee has nabbed a bit of grain.  The birds are making quite the racket, though a few minutes ago the area fell absolutely silent when a hawk circled, searching for some breakfast.  I think she went off to the swamp looking for her morning repast.  At the moment, chickadees and another bird I don't recognize are scolding me for being so close to their food. 

A peaceful, loving existance these birds have.  Well, of course peaceful is relative.  They have the hawk to watch for, and predators that eat their young, and other birds moving in on their territory.  And of course the woman sitting so near their food.  This is most disconcerting.  Another bird call I don't recognize.  I'll have to ask T, who will surely know.  Still, finding food, nesting and singing are their main occupations.  Maybe I can find a way to do that some day.  There are still places in the world where less is more.  I'd like to find a place like that.  I bet you would too.

Caris

The Pond and the Chickadees

A dear friend, who is no longer here, wrote her masters thesis about chickadees.  Friendly little birds.  They can be fierce as well.  I never got to read that thesis, but wish I had asked.  She did tell me though, that if you are patient enough, and still enough, you can get them to eat out of your hands.  I imagine she did get them eating out of her hand.  She was such a quiet, patient person, with a wonderful sense of humor.  I used to tease her about her freezer.  She was a wildlife rehabilitor, and one never knew what one might find in the depths of that cold storage.  Favorite ice cream, a roast, dead mice, road kill.  Of course it wasn't just thrown in there all in a mish mash, but if you looked in the wrong place, well...it was good for weight loss.  The ice cream would lose it's appeal! (I know she's not far away.  I can hear her telling me that I shouldn't be telling her secrets.  I did get into trouble one Easter by telling a guest just the truth about her freezer!  I had no idea she was so sensitive about it.)

The chickadees are at the birdfeeder just now, and the sky is punctuated with a few clouds.  A passing shower even rained some hail a few minutes ago.  And old Becky, the cat is sitting on her kennel, grooming herself.

What will come next for me.  A friend and I had coffee this afternoon, chatting about things in general.  And then out of nowhere, she said:  "So are you facing an abyss?"  Perceptive cookie that one.  Indeed, my insides feel so flat, which every once in a while erupts in a fountain of tears..  I've been thinking about getting in the car and driving to Oregon in May, just taking off and seeing what comes to me.  Perhaps some music gigs, maybe a job someplace, maybe just a time to gather myself, reach down into the well and draw on my resources to face whatever does or doesn't come next.  Life is so short.  Should I go the southern route...which would be warmer, and fresh fruits and vegetables would be less expensive.  Or should I go the northern route, with Pitty Pat along for the ride?  Cool in places.

apple trees, wildflowers and foxes

Outside my window are two apple trees I have watched over many years.  I don't know much about taking care of apple trees, and it shows.  I tried to learn at one point, but the reality is that I don't climb trees or want to spray chemicals.  And now, after 9 years of neglect, the trees have pretty much died.  It's time to have them cut down, which hurts me.  I have loved watching them season after season:  even when there were few apples.  The lightning bugs love to come and dance beneath those trees in June. Birds make their nests there, and a cacophony of bird song is proof of the fact.  I am a lover of trees.  But I am not an ambitious apple tree grower.  I am a selfish lover of trees.  I just love to walk or sit beneath them, hug them, touch their trunks, gaze at their dignity and feel myself part of them.  But caring for them mystifies me, and always feels beyond my ability.

Years ago I used to have a friend who pretty much just let his place grow wild.  Tall grass in the front yard (he was out in the country), trees and flowers and plants grew however they wished.  Weeds were loved too.  The only thing he would actively do about his place, was to get on his riding lawnmower and make some paths through the wild and tall grasses.  I loved to wander there, especially that little spot overlooking a small valley where he put a bench for sitting and thinking and watching.  A little fox lived below in the valley, and with enough patience, you could see it.


One of the things he said to me one day has always stayed in my head:  "People who plant flowers in rows confuse me." 


No offense to the gardener who plants things in rows.  But I agree with my friend.

You know it's interesting, how some folks need things in orderly rows to feel comfortable. Nice neat rows.   I've never felt quite comfortable in those places or with those people.  There is this wild creature in me that takes some patience to draw out, and when I do come out for a visit, well, I prefer tall grass and a mixture of flowers here and there.  I get really nervous when things are so civilized there isn't a place for things to simply "be."

Unfortunately, this wild streak doesn't a good gardener/apple tree grower make.

Being the Flames

Photopher:  Jon Sullivan (public domain photo)

This morning, amongst my emails, there was a poem that arrived and pinned me to the wall.  When we go up in flames, our work is not to be the Phoenix that rises from the ashes, but rather it is our work to open ourselves to being the flames.  Lovely sentiment Galway Kinnel.  There are ways to endure most kinds of pain in my body, but the thing that hurts most and feels like it's just crazymaking pain, is a burn.

The latest crash and burn episode in my life:  leaving massage therapy school, has arisen from a deep, and long ago pain.  And it is crazymaking pain as well.  Opening myself to be the flame feels an impossible thing to do.  What does that mean exactly?  Where does one find the strength to be the flame?  Is it there within?  Or does it come from the outside? Is it some divine grace bestowed when we ask to be open?  Or is there some required period of suffering before we reach that place of abandon?

Many years back there were a total of 7 Buddhist monks that set themselves on fire in Vietnam.  It was in protest of a law which prohibited Buddhists from carrying flags on Buddha's birthday..  At the time, I was stunned that someone could do that to themselves, and then endure it in silence.  Clearly, the image of that act has remained with me all these years.  I couldn't bear to watch the film of it for more than a moment. 

With that specific act, the monks did it in a very public place, and made the reasons for it clear.  And many people bore witness to that act.  The act itself did not bring about the end of the war.  In the bigger picture however, we don't know just how much it influenced things at the time.  Of course, it had no effect whatsoever on some.  There is a photo of a monk going up in flames, and someone in the background is still looking for a light for his cigarette.  That somehow goes beyond the point of ridiculous.

The trouble is, for most of us, going up in flames is a private thing.  We may not light the fire, or perhaps we do on some metaphorical level.  But how does becoming the flames mean anything at all, if no one bears witness to it?  There is such silent suffering in this world.  Suffering that no one ever sees or understands.  And there is courage that we don't witness.  It may be happening to the person next to us on the bus, or the guy who cuts our hair.  They may be enduring the unendurable with silent grace.

And then of course, some of us scream like banshees.

movin' me down the highway

Sitting in a small diner, I was looking uninterestedly at the menu, deciding what to order for breakfast.  After getting the special, which was a great deal and included my coffee, I settled in to do some writing.  I looked down hard, trying to hide the tears which kept slipping down my cheeks unbidden.  I was feeling so dead inside.  Another dream has died.  I had told the director at school I was withdrawing.  As much as I have loved the process, the PTSD from which I suffer had become unmanageable in class. 

Jim Croce came on about that time, singing an old song from my teen years.  Like a pine tree echoing down the sky, I've got a name...And then I've got a song, and finally, I've got a dream.  Movin me down the highway...

I hope I can remember my name, and find my song and give birth to a new dream.  It's getting so hard.  Say a little pray for me dear readers.  A little hope, a little grace, a big miracle would be a good thing right about now.

Peace,
Caris