Happy Thanksgiving to all!
Monthly Archives: November 2009
This morning, I began my Christmas shopping. It is so hard to decide what to buy.
Should I get a mosquito net for a child in Gambia? (13.00) Or a pig for a family in Indonesia (24.00). (Always thought it would be fascinating to raise a pig, but they are incredibly smart and knowing this makes the animal’s long-term fate is too dismal for me to consider. Naw, I’ll skip the pig.)
I could go with a goat for a family in Zambia (51.00) but that would make it seem I lack creativity, because I’ve bought goats several times as Christmas gifts in the past. I used to buy a cow every year, but after moving to Georgia I ventured out and bought different things – a llama, a goat,and/or rabbits. I’m forever choosing something that relates to my life in some small way. I like the symbolism, I guess.
My budget for this season is limited, but for all I can’t really afford to be generous this season, I’m not going to skip buying gifts for the important strangers on my list. I’m keeping my Christmas giving to about 100 bucks this year, wish it could be more, but even so, that’s enough to send a water purifier and filter to a rural school in Ecuador (87.00) leaving me enough for 10 chicks for a family in Mozambique (9.00).
Actually, Mark sold a house on ten acres to a fellow that professed the first thing he wants to get is some chickens, so I agreed Mark could give him mine as a closing gift this Monday. That said, perhaps sending some chickens to an unknown family in a third world country will make Christmas morning special for me, I’ll have that symbolic exchange of both my chickens and those overseas to make the omelet I eat that morning a reminder of all there is to celebrate this year.
That leaves me 3.00 under budget. I can find some jar on a restaurant counter for a children’s stocking fund for that. No prob.
Yesterday, I got a letter from Meaza Zergaw (above). She’s the girl I’ve been sponsoring for several years through ChildFund, international. She is my replacement child, you see, because after 12 years of sending money to a boy named Malukin, he one day disappeared out of the system. No explanation or warning. Just the picture of a new kid in my mailbox one day. Never sat well with me, but I turned my attention and donations to Meaza regardless. Maybe it’s better I not know the fate of my old friend Muluken. But I think of him often, wondering.
Meaza’s father writes me whenever I’m slacking off (which is always, I’m a dismal failure as an overseas sponsor correspondent, sad but true) to gently remind me how important it is for her to receive letters. I’m overdue, so this morning I wrote her the news of America and I’m sending it with some brochures from my studio. Not that she can read them, but she likes receiving pictures and I figure she’ll show the brochures off to her friends. I tried to explain what yoga is in the letter. Considering how simplistic I try to keep descriptions, due to cultural differences and respect to her narrow life options, I really struggled. It was sort of funny.
She has already received my Christmas gift, which comes in the form of a check. That money will be dispersed in such a way that she will get a little something personal, but the family will get the rest, and in some cases, a portion is given to the village. Yes, I’d like to send her something frivolous and indulgent, like a doll or an I-pod, but that is not allowed, and all it would do is show how clueless we spoiled middleclass Americans are about the real life issues of those unfortunate enough to be born into hardship and difficult environmental, cultural and political climates. I believe she is prouder and more grateful for my donation of life necessities than she would ever be of a brightly wrapped personal toy. That is why I think about her so much – she reminds me that life for everyone is a box and the boxes come in all sizes. I shouldn’t be so hung up on the limitations of mine – because the truth is, I’ve been blessed with a pretty roomy box.
So, today, I’m “buying my ticket into heaven” as Mark so aptly puts it. (And he also once added that because he decided to marry me, he has earned a ticket into the pearly gates too – he doesn’t need to be a do-gooder, you see, because I’m the family bleeding heart representative and I do enough for us all. Harrumph. Talk about riding someone’s coat tails.)
Since Christmas is the theme today, and Mark is working, working, working, I think I will drag Neva and her friend to the studio to put up decorations to make the place festive. I’ll get creative and come up with some kind of yoga themed tree – now if that isn’t a challange what is? I’ll listen to all our new-agey Christmas music as we putter and pick some selections for yoga classes. That will make going to work rather fun for the next month.
It will be a productive day, but an easygoing, upbeat one at the same time. I like days like that. And then, I’ll come home because today is the day I cook. I’m going to make a cheesecake this morning for Mark’s mom (her ultimate favorite) because I’m feeling guilty that I won’t be here to cook on Thanksgiving, and later I will just throw in a ham (keeping it simple) because this also gives Teddy a seriously fun bone later – and yes, I’m still feeling bad that I let him get hit by a car . (He is fine, by the way). Then I’ll make homemade Mac and Cheese (Neva’s favorite) and a fancy salad (For Mark) and some buttery homemade bread (for Kent) and veggies and whatever else might catch my fancy when I start thumbing through my gigantic “one of these days I’m going to make” receipe collection.
By then, I’ll be ready to relax and enjoy the fruits of my labors. And I’ll feel good knowing I made the day count. Which reminds me – I need to put a fresh bottle of wine in the fridge to cool.
You don’t believe I really just think of other people all the time do you? Get real!I
I’m a selfish prig, I just don’t blog about it.
I’ve mentioned more than once to Mark that I should probably sell the horses before winter sets in, not because I want to, but because we don’t really know how long we will be living here, and finding them a wonderful home is very serious business to me. The house has had some close calls regarding selling, and we are now listing the entire 50 acres, sort of giving up the back up plan of selling the house on only 12 acres. At any time, with little notice, we might just have to pack up and vacate. Anyway, I’d hate to put off attending to the inevitable problem of finding a home for my beloved horses until my options are limited. That would kill me ten times over, so, I’ve priced them at 1/3 what they are worth, hoping a serious horse lover will surface without me having to pass them on to just anyone, and this will help me live with the heartbreak. When Mark told me a friend from work was interested and would be stopping by this weekend to take a look I decided I should go spend some time with them. Partially to clean them up (They are remarkably dirty from the fall rain and mud ) and partially because I will miss them dreadfully and I just wanted to spend this beautiful day with them.
Yesterday, I taught what was supposed to be my last class for ten days. The studio closes for the holidays, so I’m getting some time off. I even canceled Yoga for the week. I’m going to Florida for a visit next week, but first I will enjoy spending a few days at home, sans responsibility.
Meanwhile Denver, God love her, decided to plan an impromptu rehearsal for some of the students to practice a parade step (a marching dance to the FLEX song). She made arrangements for us to dance down Main Street the Saturday after Thanksgiving at the big light up Blue Ridge festival, you see. I appreciate her enthusiasm, so when she called me last minute to come help, I couldn’t refuse. And in I go to the studio on Friday, my sacred day off.
Denver teaches the march and I putter on the computer out front, working on the studio newsletter. Then we decide to take the kids outside to practice around the parking lot with me driving the van with the music cranked as high as it can go. Old school. The problem is, these kids have never been exposed to a dancing parade, and so they don’t quite get basic elements like how to keep formation or remember the steps or pace themselves. We have a rather long haul in front of us if we ever want to train real dancers. Now it is a matter of getting by and not being embarrassed by a handful of stark beginners.
We decide someone needs to dance in front of the group, and Denver suggests we let Jason (her boyfriend) drive so the two of us can work the group. OK, that means I’ll help and actually do the parade. I haven’t had to actually dance in the parade in about 20 years. I’ve always been the chief honcho on the float waving to the crowd while Mark and other teachers handled our 100 plus dancers stretching out like a FLEX kite tail from the float. The good news is, this is a very short parade distance – perhaps 20 minutes of dancing unlike the 3 mile one hour dancing we had to do in Sarasota. I can handle that.
Then, I come up with a brilliant idea. What we need is Santa leading the pack to make this fun – that way no one will notice how “unseasoned” these dancers are. And I just so happen to have a new, wooly Santa mascot costume that I bought ‘Just in case” we wanted to do a holiday performance with our young kids.
Denver says, “Don’t look at me. I have to run around the dancers to make sure we don’t lose any of the little kids and to make sure the dancers stay paced. “
“OK, then I’ll do it.”
Denver says, “Mom, you can’t dance in that costume for the entire parade route. You’ll afixiate!”
I was thinking I’d be much more comfortable dancing with my face hidden underneath this costume, not taking myself seriously, than leading the pack like some figurehead thinking she was all that. I insist I can do it and climb into the costume.
The head of this thing is like a gigantic pillow, hot and stuffy and the stuffing covers your mouth like a gag. It is lovely to be able to breathe while exercising, but right now I’m thinking I can stand to go san’s air for a mile or so…. All in the name of making this first exposure of the school to the local crowd memorable, of course.
So I try dancing first in the studio, then behind the van for one round of the FLEX song. About die. I’m wheezing and sweating and thinking that if I don’t take off the head and gasp some air into my lungs, I’m going to puke. But I keep dancing. Heck, I’ve accomplished harder things than this.
When we finish, Denver looks at me and says, “Well?”
“No prob.” I lie. “Piece of cake.”
Man, what I won’t do to make things fun for friends.
So, I’m dancing in the Blue Ridge Christmas parade next week. I figure I’m bound to loose 5 pounds if I don’t pass out. I’m going to have to gear up for it, do some serious running this week and practice some efficient breathing if I don’t want to crash half way through. But hey, you are never too old for a challenge, and I kind of like being put to the test if it makes the event more fun.
Meanwhile the kids are saying, “You’re not fat enough . . .you need more stuffing to be a decent Santa!”
“Stuff this . . “ I want to say, but instead I smile and say “A dancing Santa is supposed to be lean. Besides which, this costume is huge. I look big enough . . “
What counts is that the kids were laughing and having fun, which is exactly the feelings I want them to associate to dance and this new studio.
We are a serious school of course. If you don’t believe me, check out this photo of Kent two minutes after he came into dance class with some of his buddies one night. Yep, I run a classy place. But everyone will agree, it just wouldn’t be a FLEX without the playfulness.
Monday, I went to visit Asha, a rather prestigious school of massage therapy in Atlanta. Actually, the Atlanta School of Massage is considered one of the best in the country, so it would be nice to go to that institution, but there are two reasons I don’t think the school would work for me considering my goals. One, it’s core approach is rather clinical and less inclined to lean towards organic and holistic health practices, therefore it is less an extension of yoga philosophy (and I want to incorporate massage into my vision for a future holistic yoga center, not just change my career to working in a clinic or spa,) and two, because that school only offers full time programs, day or evening, and I live so far away that it would be impossible to attend and continue being involved in my new business. Asha, on the other hand, has a solid, technically based program but additional electives that lean much more towards new-agey approaches. Seems a nice fit for a yoga teacher. And it offers a special part time program on weekends. I could work all week and still go to school. Takes energy, but I have enough of that.
The school was smaller than I expected, but well equipped with four lecture/lab areas, 7 massage rooms for the required practicums, and a nice library. I had an interview with one of the administrators and she answered all my questions, and as you can imagine, there were quite a few. She showed me the textbooks all filled with anatomy and hands on technique, a few history books, and we discussed what therapist make in Georgia (50-80$ an hour- not bad for a side job in my opinion).This was important information, because the practical side of my personality has to crunch the numbers, don’t ya know, to determine how much effort it will take to pay off the training. (And thankfully, this works out to be reasonable.) I think the biggest drawback is that I can’t do massage and have long tapered nails. No, it will be short stubs for me. Drat. Everything else seems fairly positive.
A few classes in the program are devoted to spa techniques and things like aromatherapy, and I confessed that I have no sense of smell and therefore I might fail in these areas. She assured me I could learn about aromatherapy in an academic way and get by, with or without my nose. That was comforting. We discussed the state exams and she told me 95% of their students pass the first time.
“And it certainly won’t be a problem for someone with all your degrees. We love professional students here,” she said.
I about choked. First of all, I don’t’ have “all those degrees”. I have one BA and one MFA. That is not unusual in today’s world, but since many people choose massage as a vocational school in lue of more formal education, I guess this makes me a rare case for enrollment. Second, I don’t consider myself a professional student – just someone who spent her middle years making up for lost time after devoting her youth to dancing in New York. I didn’t go the traditional course and get a formal education, like every friend I went to school with did, and I hated feeling uneducated as result. I graduated from High School after my junior year (I hated school and wanted out so I could get on with my dancing life) but it never sat well with me that I didn’t know anything except dance. Religion, politics, economics, environmental studies, and business – I was clueless about all of it – clueless about how the world worked. So at 35, I thought it was time to correct that flaw and get educated. I’m hardly someone who makes going to college a career, despite evidence to the contrary. Actually I consider my schooling as “retraining”. – A necessity for someone who dared dance for the first half of life rather than do something practical.
My BA was so I could run a business properly and evolve from a dancer to a studio owner successfully. I would have much preferred to go to school to study English or literature (my passion), but I went for Business for practical reasons. It turned out to be a very good decision, because it did open my eyes to all kinds of information about how the world works. There was a life outside of dance. Who knew?
The MFA, well that was just a gift for myself – the latent dream that you hold in your heart when you think, “If I ever had the time and money I would .. .” Well, I made a lot of money and decided to follow through on the “If I only could” scenario. Dang glad I did, too. Changed my perception of the world and myself.
But one door opens another if you dare to open doors, and now my mind is wandering to physical arts and totally new mediums of health and wellness. Must be a middle age thing. Dance and admitting I was getting older and wanting to do so gracefully led to retiring from my business, and that led to yoga, which led to massage. It makes sense when you see the entire picture on one life map.
Becoming a certified massage therapist seems a very smart thing to do if I plan to continue on my path as the director of a yoga studio, but while I like the idea, I’m not convinced the time or place to pursue massage training is right, so I am struggling a bit with this decision. As someone who usually doesn’t pause when she decides to leap into something new, I can’t help but think my reluctance is intuition telling me to hold off. So, I’m taking this decision slow, considering every downside.
Nevertheless, in my reluctance I’ve looked into massage programs elsewhere, considered all possibilities for training, and still Asha seems most practical considering my current life position. The problem is, the program I am able to attend is on weekends, and this special “weekend only” system only begins once every 6 months, and of course it just so happens that a new program is starting this January – thus pressure to make a decision soon. Once I commit, I’m stuck devoting my weekends to this pursuit for a full 17 months (well, I get one weekend off every 5 –that is something for my sanity, at least.) Can’t transfer the credits to another program and it would be cost prohibitive to just walk away after paying for the full course. Since my life seems to shift and change without notice (for example, I didn’t know I’d open a dance studio until one month before I actually did. It was a total curve ball) 17 months seems like a really long commitment, yet I know that once I begin, life will sort of unfold as it always does, and before you know it, I’ll be finished, with a new skill to add to my repertoire of talents. In that way, 17 months is nothing and getting certified would be a perfect activity for this transitional period of my life. The timing coordinates with the lease on my new school, and with Neva’s middle school years, and carting Kent off to college and getting him settled (one more down, one left to go) Just when I graduate from Asha, I’ll have a certain freedom. I’ll be free to make a choice about whether or not I want to plow forward with this new business and stay in Georgia, or give up trying to make it work and move. That said, perhaps now is a perfect time to enroll at Asha.
rning massage will be interesting. I adore touching people, love the intimate connection that comes with helping others, like providing comfort and teaching people what they can do to be healthier and happier too. A friend the other day said, “But won’t you have to touch gross people, like naked old men with warts on their back and fat, old ladies with hairy backs and . . . “ I held up my hand to stop her. The truth is, I have empathy for people with physical problems and can’t imagine a single case where I would be put off by the human body. Fact.
And there are side benefits. I’ll know 1001 ways to use massage oil, and everything there is to know about bringing relief and pleasure to others with my hands (get your mind out of the gutter.) Gotta admit that makes a girl have a touch of mystique. I’ll know Swedish massage, neuromuscular therapy, clinical sports massage, reflexology, Asian theory, polarity therapy, mind and body integration, anatomy and nutrition. I’m told I’ll be prepared to teach special seminars if I want to go that route, such as nutritian for health and wellness– a perfect addition to a yoga curriculum in my opinion, just as my journaling classes have proven to be. I’m really proud of that, by the way.
And here’s the best part, even if I never work as a serious massage therapist (or just do it on the side part time and put the income in a fund for world travel or something else frivolous and self indulgent) it will give me a wealth of knowledge for writing. Because in the end, that is what I want to do most in this life– experience the world in all it’s complexity and uniqueness, and use those experiences to write something worthy. You simply can’t write without having something to write about, and living a full, active life is the best path to uncovering the rich ore that leads to great books. Yes, I may seem to have interests that shift and sway, but at root, my dreams and ambitions are as solid and steady as they’ve always been. Live. Move. Write.
Sometimes I have to admit that my eclectic interests actually take time and attention away from writing – perhaps this is all just an elaborate avoidance on my part– the barn, the dance studio, yoga, cooking and growing things – these interests rob me of time and fill my world with so much to do that there isn’t time to pursue writing seriously. If you don’t get your butt in the chair and produce, you’ll never sell anything. I haven’t sent anything out to publishers in years and I even have an agent waiting for my revised book. Have I done what I should in that area, given it a chance? No. Other things have captured my attention lately. But I also feel there is a time and place for everything, and I’m storing this huge wellspring of experience and altered views of life in a bottomless well that I will draw upon for years once I turn my attention to writing the way I probably should. And will. In fact, I know this.
If there is one thing 50 years has taught me, it’s that I don’t give up on a dream. And writing – writing well – is a dream that is alive and kicking in my gut still. And it feels like the time is getting ripe to make a move in this direction.
So, this afternoon I am filling out an application to Asha, but not sending it. I am also filling out an application to pursue the master level of yoga training – another process that will take a year or so – might as well enhance my skills in that area too if I’m serious about going this route. But I’m also thinking about turning my attentions to writing for a time. Looking at all the unfinished projects and wondering what one might call to me strongest. So many choices . . . .
Eventually, all these life possibilities will come together and make sense, and I’ll see the slow, steady evolution that will have led to new horizons and a world that probably isn’t even a glimmer in my eye as yet. That seems to be how living works for me.
As the quote over my desk reads –
“There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn, whatever steps we take, the’re necessary to reach the places we’ve chosen to go.” – Richard Bach.
And that rest beneath an other quote –
“Every now and then go away . . for when you come back to your work your judgement will be surer.” -Leonardo da Vinci.
Words to trust.
Sunday the weather was beautiful, so I decided to take a run. No, that is a huge exaggeration. I decided to take a long walk along country roads with intermittent clumsy jogs interspersed so I could pretend I was out on a run. Yes, that is more accurate.
I am and always have been a terrible runner. It’s one thing I really like that I’m absolutely no good at, and despite effort, don’t seem to improve doing. When I lived in Florida I went through a period where I readbooks on running. I did speed drills and distance runs and every single day I tried to improve my performance. Still, I was average at best. Probably a bit bellow average. Hell, I sucked. This is partially because I have such terrible feet from years of dance and running. Every time I run for a few weeks I get plantar facilities. I can barely walk, yet I’ll still plod on – ignoring the pain. I think another reason I’m a lousy runner is that I can’t keep my mind on the task at hand. I start off wanting to run faster or longer, but before you know it I’m ruminating on something – dreams, relationships, personal goals, problems and if not this, I start writing fiction or letters to people in my head. I guess running is medatative to me, so the minute sweat starts to make even the subtlest appearance, my mind take off, and my body simply slows down and falls into that lumbering plodding rhythm that lacks any semblance of runner’s talent.
Ah well, at 50 how important is it to run fast or far anyway? The fact that I enjoy being outside and alone with my thoughts is what makes me love running. This is why I never run with anyone else. I’ve tried. I even had some lovely neighbors that ran everyone morning in Florida who always invited me to join them. I probably seemed like some anti-social creep because I always made an excuse to avoid joining them. My quiet time back then was just too precious and rare to give it up to be polite.
In Florida, I ran 3 miles a day, at least 5 days a week. I almost always ran at 5:30 in the morning – first because it was just too hot later in the day to run and it was the only time I could carve out for myself that wouldn’t be interrupted by daily responsibilities, but later because I love mornings and I adored watching the sun come up. It was just me and the sunrise and my thoughts.
Well, that isn’t exactly true either. It was me, the sunrise, my thoughts and Sam. Sam was my little dog and beloved running buddy.I pretended he was important for safety, you know they say a woman running alone out in the dark needs a dog for protection, but that wimpy mutt would roll over a cry if a squirrel looked at us funny, so the idea that he was protection was ludicrous. He was, however, enthusiastic company and a great inspiration. On days when I was feeling lazy and wanted to skip running, he would look at me with such disappointment and confusion that I simply had to get out the leash and take him out. I always thought, ‘I’ll make this a short one”, but once I got outside the adrenaline kicked in and I’d do my traditional route. Sam was my running muse.
Anyway, I tried running in Georgia, even did a race or two, but the hills and the fluctuating weather and the fact that we had long since lost Sam in the woods one day, all added up to killing my motivation. I bought a treadmill thinking I’d run and watch TV, but since being outside and alone with my thoughts was the real purpose of running, this too sort of fell by the wayside.
I became an ex-runner.
But I’ve been thinking about running a lot lately, missing it. It hit me just how much on a recent trip to Florida. I felt the balmy breeze in the early morning, looked at the long flat stretch of street and thought, “Running is what I miss most about living here.”
So when I got home, I kept thinking about running, and it occurred to me that when I was a regular runner I spent a week every summer in Boston and despite the hills, I always fit a few good runs in – so the fact that there are hills really shouldn’t be an excuse for me to stop. And the fact that Sam is gone shouldn’t count either. Change is a part of life, but that doesn’t mean your gut self has to change.
So, Sunday, when the weather was drop dead gorgeous and I was down at the barn with the horses, I looked down and noticed I had on some good (but muddy) running shoes and decided to just take off.
I walked down the long gravel road to the paved street that rolls along some fields. I have tried walking and running this stretch before, so I’ve clocked the three miles and figured I’d just do the route again and see how things felt. As I began, I noticed my two huge dogs lumbering along beside me, their long legs talking them a quarter mile ahead, then they would circle back, head into the trees and return to me. I yelled for them to return home, but they don’t listen to me. I thought of Sammy on his little leash ,always a foot or two away from my legs and thought, “Man, my life is different now. Everything is exaggerated, bigger, wilder and out of control…. Even my dogs.”
I have two huge dogs. One I absolutely adore who is the perfect dog – respectful, protective, adorable, (Teddy) and one who is a great big pain. She is clumsy, demands attention, is too smart for her own good, and always getting into trouble doing things she darn knows she isn’t allowed to do.
I was uncomfortable with the dogs roaming so erratically around me, but they are used to being free on 50 acres and have no understanding of good behavior in public. The few times I tried putting them on a leash for a run, but the attempt resulted in more a drag than a run and we didn’t make it a mile before I just gave up and took them home.
After I was about a mile out I decided to turn around. As I said, I’m out of shape so I decided two miles would be enough of a start forday one. I crossed the street (BIG mistake) so I would be headed towards incoming traffic. There aren’t many cars on that long stretch, but when they do come along, they barrel by like they are in a speed derby. It’s a country thing.
There is a horse that lives alone in a huge pasture out there. When I ran this route before, I always stopped to talk to him. Horses are herd animals and shouldn’t be left alone, and I always feel sorry for this one, especially since he runs to the fence when he sees me and whinnies, then runs back and forth along the fence as I jog by.
No sooner did I pause to talk to the horse, than I noticed my beloved dog (the good one) Teddy’s eyes turn to me as if he was thinking, “She stopped. She must need me.” And at a hundred miles an hour he came charging towards me. Across the street. Oh shit.
I look up and sure enough there is a truck zooming along r
ight at us. I look up and see the dog, then over to the truck and it is as if everything is going in slow motion. I yell – I guess I was yelling at the dog and the truck at once, God too, but no one slowed down. This is a long open stretch of road, so that truck could damn well have slowed down, and it should have considering there were dogs on both sides of the road, but it didn’t. And ofcourse, my yelling made Teddy want to get to me sooner, so he just sped up.
And I stood there in horror as I watched the truck slam into my dog.
I guess another woman might have screamed or cried or something. I just stood there and said “Shit. “ then I said “shit” again. And again, and again, and again. I couldn’t believe how stupid that driver was, and the dog, and ME for crossing the street and pausing to talk to the horse. I should have know the good dog would follow as soon as he noticed me pause.
A 17-year-old country boy was driving the truck. He got out to check his fender. Meanwhile my dog is screeching in pain, yapping and dragging his backside to the grass by the road, his eyes filled with confusion and pain.
“My dog is dying and he’s checking his fender.” I said to no one in particular. Sometimes my sarcasm leaks out despite how I try to keep it in check. Redhead thing.
The kid heard me, blushed and came and apologized. He kept saying, “I didn’t hit him on purpose.”
“Of course you didn’t. No one would run over a dog on purpose. But couldn’t you see him running straight across the street?”
“Well, yea, but I thought he’d stop. When he didn’t, I tried to avoid hitting him.”
He saw the dog? It took everything in me not to call him a dumb countryjackass – but really what good would it do? The kid felt bad. The dog was already hit. My anger wouldn’t have helped this situation in any way.
The kid just stood there watching me muttering, “shit” under my breath as I tried to check how injured Teddy was. He seemed in such pain, but there was no blood. He couldn’t stand, however.
I asked the kid if he could help me put the dog in the back of the truck so I could at least get him home. I only lived a mile down the road. The kid was quick to help. I didn’t know if we should pick uphe dog, but together we lifted him up. Teddy let out such a pitiful cry I almost cried myself. (Instead I muttered “shit” again. Seemed the perfect expression of my frustration at the time – a description of my life this day.)
We drove Teddy home and amazingly; he stood up slowly once when we got into the driveway. This was good, it meant he didn’t’ have a broken leg or pelvis or anything, but he was still in pain and couldn’t get out of the truck. When we tired to lift him, he cried again. Finally, we placed him on the ground, and the dog slunk to the bushes by the front door and lay down.
“Nice house,” the kid said.
“Want to buy it?”
“You and me both, buddy.”
“You have a pool table?”
“What to sell it?”
“I will when the house goes.”
“Maybe I’ll drive over one of these days when I have cash and you can sell it to me.”
“Yea, and you can see how my dog is doing too.”
“Oh yea. Sorry about that, ya know.”
So the kid drove away and I tried to attend to the dog. It was late on a Sunday now, and the vet was closed, so I decided to observe the animal and wait for Mark to get home to discuss what I should do. I’m guilty of this – waiting to see how bad something is before acting. I NEVER go to the doctor, never take my kids to the doctor, and rarely run animals to the vet. I trust nature and good sense to repair physical problems. My kids always say someone has to be dying to get medical attention around here, and it’s true. I’m just not an alarmist, even when I probably should be. Anyway, Sunday is the day I cook for family so once the dog was settled I went inside. I rummaged all over to find some pain pills that I thought we had from when our other dog was fixed, but couldn’t find them, so I took the dog water and gave him some love then went to prepare dinner.
It was hard to keep my mind on cooking. I made a mediterianian flavored cous cous with shrimp, sautéed scallops in a light orange sauce and grilled a big London broil (for those that don’t like fish) thinking I’d have leftovers for the dog. I made potatoes and honey & lime glazed carrots,ratoutee and a gourmet salad (salad is now my specialty having done a recent study of the art of making a decent salad.) I made a custard with blackberries and raspberries for dessert, but it was like I was on autopilot in the kitchen,and I didn’t enjoy the process. I kept going outside to check on Teddy, thinking he might be dead from internal bleeding or something, but he would wag his tale and look at me with warm eyes. Still, he was hurt because he didn’t get up.
That night I lay in bed wondering if my dog would be alive in the morning. What if he had internal bleeding or something? I then got a call that my brother was in the hospital and getting triple bypass surgery in the morning. Any thought I had that I might take the dog to the vet in the morning sort of disappeared because now I was going to drive to Atlanta to see my brother.
In the morning the dog was fine. Sore, but walking. He winced (yes a dog with as expressive a face as Teddy can do that) if he moved much, but he did get around, and even ate some food. (A good sign).
It’s been three days now, and the dog is moving a bit more.I’m amazed he survived, much less has rebounded so quickly. The damn truck hit him hard, knocked him ten feet.
But my dog is indestructible, it seems. And still loving and responsive and wags his tale whenever he sees me. I bet if I took off for a run, he’d be trying his best to follow. Amazing a dog can love you without reservations like that. Wish it was that way with people – ha, don’t we all.
I want to continue running again. I feel my body, heart and mind needs that challenge right now– the sweat and solitude. But you can be darn sure I’m not going to do it around here where my dogs will follow. I could take what happened as a sign that I really just shouldn’t run in Georgia. I could decide to avoid running altogether because a thing isn’t worth doing if it means hurting the ones who love me, but I’ve decided no more excuses. Maybe I’ll head up to the Ocoee Whitewater center where there are long, beautiful trails along the river. This means getting in a car and driving before I run, which is rather premeditative for me. I’m much more a “lace the shoes and go on the spur of the moment” sort of girl. But you do what you have to do sometimes, like it or not.
So perhaps I’ll share stories of upcoming runs. But I’m afraid they won’t be with the dog. One thing about Georgia that I’ve discover again and again. I’m really on my own here more often than not. That above all else has been the biggest adjustment of all.
The weather was beautiful today, the sun shining bold and clear, the air boasting just a hint of impending fall. The temperature outside was like water when it comes directly from the tap, neutral yet refreshing. I teach Yoga on Saturday mornings and then I have the rest of the day to myself. I love starting the weekend by leading others in a positive early morning exercise experience, and I have a particular fondness for the people who take time from their weekend to attend. Yoga wakes up the heart, like a jump start to the internal motor, and it attracts people who tend to be intellectual, sensitive, health conscious, and lead interesting lives, so I enjoy getting to know every one of my students. When the class is finished and people disperse, my Saturday stretches out like a long roll of banner paper inviting me to finger-paint; I can be messy or creative or just dabble for fun. Yes, Saturday’s lately have been good for my soul.
Yoga classes unfold with certain properties, or at least mine do. In case you haven’t taken a yoga class, or at least not one of mine, I’ll describe it. I begin by asking everyone to lie in a supine position on the floor and I proceed to give a guided relaxation meditation. This aids the centering process and helps transition the students’ mind from their busy day to the internal place where yoga thrives. Students then sit cross-legged to begin some breathing exercises and a gentle warm-up. No one opens his or her eyes. I keep my voice meditative and smooth, trying to use words and a tone that will stroke them into relaxation. Once warmed up, everyone shifts to knees for a transitional warm up and I try to touch everyone, my hands gentle on their backs and ribs, or the back the neck. This exercise pushes into downward dog where we experiment with gravitational pull and circulation and I usually do some talking (I teach a great deal about yoga while guiding the class– I never just run through the paces) Finally, I maneuver everyone to a standing position (Tadasana) and we begin sun salutations to create internal heat. This leads to a more rigorous asana practice (the physical poses and movements most people associate with yoga.) An hour later, we end up back on the floor for Savasana, which is 5-8 minutes of deep relaxation in a reclining position. I share a reading, usually a poem or short paragraph from literature about nature or personal truth. I tend to offer readings from Mary Olivier or Rumi fairly often, but I try to mix it up. I’m guilty of having favorites, and usually the reading is reflective of my mood unless someone has said something to me in conversation that touches me, in which case I’ll choose a reading I hope will be poignant for them.
Anyway,during these 5-8 minutes I always pause to watch my students. I like witnessing their bodies melt into the floor in total stillness, embracing rest so willingly after an hour of physical effort (and unlike many yoga classes, my class never stops moving and I continue to transition students from one pose to the next without ever dropping energy, so it is quite a workout.) As I was saying, I like watching their bellies rise and fall as they breathe deeply and the sound made in the room from their oo-jai breathing (sort of like the sound you hear when you put your ear to a seashell). It is calming & peaceful.People fall into such a deep state of relaxation and the stillness is so great, it’s like the room fell under a spell casting everyone into a meditative slumber. Everyone but me, of course, and there is something neat about being the one person wakeful and aware in a room filled with passive consciousness. I eventually reintroduce movement with three light rings on Tibetan chimes. Everyone sits up with his or her eyes still closed and I lead the group in pranyana exercises, (deep yoga breathing techniques.) The class concludes with a small bow and we say “Namaste.”
I don’t do many “om’s” or chanting, at least not at this time, because I’m careful to keep my classes “laymen” friendly. That probably sounds funny or wimpy, but I want to make yoga an enriching, soothing experience even for the skeptical and/or yoga-novice, and so I don’t do anything that will jar people from their trance-like state with thoughts like, “How weird is that?” But when my student’s get more comfortable with basic yoga practice, I’ll begin adding oral sound and short discussions of philosophy now and again.
Anyway, sometimes while my students are lying still, my eyes shift around the room and land on something abstract. My mind wanders.Today, I stared at my peacock feathers arranged in a jar like a flower bouquet in each of the three windowsills. I also have two large arrangements of feathers at the front of the room by shelves where I place more lit candles and my poetry books and chimes – it’s sort of an alter, though I hate to call it that, because the term dredges up thoughts of religion or worship. This artful setup is really just a defined front of the room and a station from which to teach.
The room is lit with small pin spots that shine on the cream colored walls and highlight some small, thought-provoking framed messages –words like, “Balance”, “Calm”, “Peace” and “Nature” – corny, I know, but very pretty all the same. A neat area of shelves is set up in a window inset on both sides of the room, one filled with over 30 Mexican blankets, the other filled with yoga mats, blocks,straps, sandbags, satin eye bags, bolsters and other props for students to use– all in purple of course (a tribute to my FLEX history). Across the front of the room is a long, natural wooden banister (because the yoga loft is actually just a balcony over the studio lobby.) Colorful, abstract art suggestive of bodies in motion is hung high on a wall opposite from the balcony and spotlights are aimed at these too, so students focusing ahead while balancing and/or maintaining yoga positions gaze off into beautiful images that almost float beyond reach, subtle enough in context that they don’t actually stir thought, but they keep the mind focused in a way a blank wall would not. It’s quite a lovely environment, if I say so myself.
In morning classes, light streams in through the bamboo shades over the windows, highlighting the iridescent colors of the peacock feathers. Today, the fans were on and all the hair-like feather wisps beneath the round eyes of the feather stalks rippled in the same way wheat sways in an open field. I was mesmerized. I adore my peacock feathers because they are not something I just went out an bought for decoration, but something I collected from my very own, beloved pet, Elmer (named so he will stick around, unlike my last male peacock, the traitor who took off the first chance he had). The peacock feathers are symbolic of my choosing an interesting life, or at least, trying– go ahead and laugh, that is my romantic view of them. They always bring to mind the striking pet I have so enjoyed raising and observing. He wanders naturally around our land but always returns to roost at night and when he sees me drive in to feed the poultry, he runs, his gate awkward and stiff like the roadrunner in cartoons. Love that. His cry is piercing and dramatic, a sound that seemed so odd when I first heard it, but now will forever be a part of me, just as the vibrato in a good friend’s voice – a sound that brings you pleasure, even if all you are hearing is a short “hello”.
Today, I actually counted how many peacock feather eyes I could see from where I sat and noted 53. I smiled remembering that as a middle schooler, I had two peacock feathers in my room that I bought at Spenser Gifts. I thought they were so cool that I couldn’t resist allocating a chunk of babysitting money to buy them and those feathers became my prized possession. For years I kept them in a prominent place in my room, believing they added elegance and whimsy to my dullchild-like surroundings. When I was a teen, I remember giving my boyfriend a backrub and ending it by stroking his skin with those feathers (Ha, even then I was a sensation monger who loved to share. If my mother only knew.) What would I have thought back then if someone whispered in my ear “You will have all the peacocks feathers a girl could want and then some when you are 50.” In my wildest youthful dreams, I’d not have guessed how or why. But I would have thought it dang cool.
I have a huge bouquet of peacock feathers in my office at home now too, and they blend perfectly with my muted green walls and shelves loaded with eclectic books. I’ve given single feathers to friends as a memento of a visit, and recently sent a handful with Denver to the yoga school where we both received training. A few ended in Mark’s art & craft supply room for future projects.
I never would have guessed how dense a peacock tail is until Elmer molted and I received his windfall gift. The feathers come in all lengths depending on what area of the tail they were originally positioned in. The center of the tail offers three-foot long straight stalks, but the sides developed shorter stalks with a natural curve. Some are just a foot long with a big,dramatic eye and a few stalks are crescent shaped with half an eye, a graceful arc that looks like a paisley print. Nature designed these variations to fill in the edges of the impressive bird’s display, and the accumulation of all these shapes and sizes makes for some awesome arrangements, I must say.
Elmer’s tail is now short; perhaps 12 inches, and thick with dozens of eyes spurting out like a closed fan close to his body. Each month the tail gets longer. I suppose by spring it will be trailing the ground behind him, ready to be spread like a fan for his ladylove. What, I wonder; will I do with next year’s feather harvest? Put peacock feathers on top of gifts in lue of a bow? Place a hundred loose stalks in a tall stand next to my yoga mats and other merchandise for sale so dreamy teens can buy some for their rooms? Perhaps I’ll just find a hundred friends to give them away to? Ebay? Maybe I should spread love in the form of peacock feathers everywhere I go, leave them like a signature for friends and strangers, kind of like Zorro did after he made an appearance. Ooooh, the possibilities are endless.
Years from now, when I am long gone from Georgia and Elmer is nothing but a memory of an interesting phase of life I went through during my midlife years, I suspect I’ll still have a collection of peacock feathers in my home. We are nothing more than the accumulation of our life experiences, and each of us has mementos that we carry forward as tangible evidence of a life well lived. Now, peacock feathers have become one of mine. They symbolize pets, and life adventure, and yoga, and how it is always possible to add elegance and beauty to your life, despite where or how you might be living in the moment.
A month ago, I bought myself this lovely large scarf that was green and the print if you looked up close, was simply a scattering of peacock feathers. I was thrilled to find it and I thought it suited me. When I recently went to Florida to choreograph a piece for a very respected and dear student, a dance I planned using a big scarf as a prop, I bought three others just for her. But at the last minute, I chose to give her the peacock scarf. I don’t suppose she thought anything of it or ever will. But it meant something to me. I watched her dance, so strong and passionate, marveling over my contribution to her talent and remembering my many years as her teacher, and for some reason, watching those peacock feathers fly through the air in her hands seemed just perfect. It was like watching the the most precious experiences of my life fuse together to create something striking and glorious.
Now, when I look at the feathers in the yoga loft, I think of dance students as well, and how we all pass on gifts in life, some obvious and others more subtle. And I think of the gifts I’m been fortunate to receive. From birds, from friends, and from simply embracing a rich and reflective life.
It has taken me 50 years, but I’m starting to learn how I operate and how certain elements of my personality trigger actions that resultin my life taking unexpected turns and twists. Curiosity. It rules me. It is like some sexy paramour slinking down dark alleys, looking over a shoulder and calling out “Yoo-hoo” in a breathless voice as it crooks a finger for me to follow. Intrigued, I can’t resist and I stumble down one road after another until I look up suddenly and think, ‘Where the hell am I and how did I get here.”
A few years ago, I was the director of a remarkably successful dance studio. I was living a traditional life all organized and secure and I had a future intact. Things were pretty good and a lot of people would have loved to change places with me. I now live in rural Georgia with peacocks and a donkey. I teach yoga and write. My future is uncertain and I couldn’t be more frustrated with how all these choices have impacted my personal life in not so ideal ways. Um… bet few people want to change places with me now. Need I say more?
The fact that I’m a slave to curiosity and that it motivates action (thus impacting my life), became very clear to me yesterday over a very minor event. A yoga student asked me if I was ever going to add Tai chi to the schedule. I’ve had this request several times, and I always answer, “No, but only because I don’t know a darn thing about it. If a teacher ever comes along, I’ll certainly consider it.”
But hearing that question again had me thinking . . . It’s like when we had our first summer camp for preschoolers at FLEX and a parent said, “This is so great, I wish you could do it year round. You should open a preschool. I’d signup. . “ A little bell went off in my brain, and damn if a year later I hadn’t jumped through red-tape hoops and written a business plan in my class at college and voila, opened the FLEX preschool of the arts. It just sort of happened because I was curious about the idea . . .
Anyway, an hour later, a teacher called and left a message on the phone that asked if I’d ever be interested in adding tai chi to the yoga schedule because she would be interested in teaching it. Hummm….. Interesting timing. I decided to call back and set up a future interview to discuss the possibilities.
Meanwhile, my mind started circling the idea. I really have no clue what the hell Tai chi is, so how do I know I want it in my school? And how will I know if this teacher is any good, considering I have no basis for judgment? Personally, I don’t want to offer any classes that aren’t the highest quality in a school I am directing. It’s not that I’m a control freak, but I have always believed building a reputation for quality instruction is far more important than letting just anyone teach who can attract a few students, even if it does fill empty space– I understand some people add classes to their program to chase a much needed buck, but for me being a responsible director of a school requires you keep your eye on the bigger picture – setting up a persona for the school and building customer trust in your product. Anyway, this attitude of putting quality at the helm of all decisions certainly worked to make the former FLEX the most successful dance studio I’ve ever come across. Why change my approach since I know it works in the long term (and creates a school I can be proud of)?
So, I decided some research on the subject of Tai Chi was in order. I started browsing the Internet. Denver asked me what I was doing. When I told her I was looking up training forTai chi and certification etc. she rolled her eyes and said, “I am NOT going to become a certified Tai –chi instructor.”
“Who asked you?” I said.
“Well, why are you looking all that up? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of becoming Tai chi certified? Good God, Mom.”
“Not necessarily. But I can’t very well interview a perspective teacher about a subject if I have no clue what questions to ask or what is involved. I need to understand certification levels and such to be impressed with any she might have.”
“Well, that makes sense.” Then she mumbled under her breath,“Actually, you are really smart when it comes to running a school”.
Well, nice to know I’m good for something, but as far as I’m concerned, its just common sense to know what you are talking about if you are gearing up for a discussion.
Anyway, I spent a few hours reading about Tai Chi on the internet, which for the record, sounds like a perfect combination of yoga philosophy and dance movement – it’s a martial arts form that is actually a moving meditation – totally focused on the spiritual, so it would blend perfectly with a yoga & meditation program.
I studied all the certifications – which are very minimal and undefined actually, unlike Yoga. Probably because there is no universal standard as yet – like dance. Anyone can hang a dance shingle and teach dance and it doesn’t matter if you are qualified or not, sad to say. Makes it hard for trusting clients to find quality training and that is what is wrong with dance education in America (fodder for another, passionate blog someday – don’t get me started).
The next thing I knew, I was thinking, “I could do this myself if I wanted too . . ..” I ordered 6 books from Amazon on Tai Chi history and philosophy just so I would have a clear understanding of the origins and depth of the art form. Then, I decided to order a 6-hour instructional program designed as a base for teacher’s training. I was thinking, Hey, it is so dance-like the movement part and technique will be a piece of cake and considering my yoga and meditation training, the core of the work will be easy to master.
And the next thing you know, I was checking out classes and programs in Atlanta, pulling up schedules and trying to figure out when and howI might go experience some strong Tai Chi classes to set a foundation for future learning.
And . . . well, you are getting the point. I am now deep in the throws of learning all about Tai chi and will probably be teaching it myself eventually, even though a day ago, I never considered the idea and I’ve never thad the slightest interest in martial arts. Meanwhile,I will meet with this possible teacher, but you can bet by the time she get shere, I’ll be armed with all kinds of information and I’ll know what to ask and how to access her background and credentials (if she has any) to determine if she is a good fit for the school. And she will have to be better at this subject than I might be if I put my mind to it before she can gain a position in this school.
kind of accidental curiosity is how I fell into yoga (and I’ll be forever grateful that I did) and how I seem to be swaying towards massage therapy (going to check out a school in Atlanta that is famed for it’s holistic health programs and massage training this Friday.) Life just keeps unfolding for me,taking me new directions. Dance is (was) my first love, but age has forced me to embrace and/or evolve to consider other movement and teaching avenues as well. Sometimes I feel so filled with experiences I might explode, though I must admit I’m grateful that the world remains a place of discovery for me. One thing is certain, my life is never boring. But other times I feel like an erratic jerk who can’t just sit still and be content with a good thing – as if my always stretching the envelop is what makes me fall into places where turmoil and uncertainty resides. If I could only be content with the status quo – be the kind of person who keeps the same job for 30 years and lives in the same house and eats pizza every Friday and only makes love on Wednesday nights and weekends, and knows where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing next year and in five years and ten and has my retirement all planned out and . . .. Well . . . I imagine that kind of certainty has many beautiful benefits. Sounds good some days.
But curiosity and me are having an affair, and it seems to be gaining momentum lately, rather than falling into more comfortable states of familiarity. What ya gonna do with a wicked lover like that?
But no more writing about this today, I’m off to teach yoga and to check the post office for books on Anias Nin (a writer known for her erotic stories, but actually one of the greatest journal writers of all time, and since I’m teaching journaling, I’m studying her with fascination and reading all her works again) Makes me accept and understand the dichotomy of my own writing interests (romance and literary are quite a clash, don’t ya know) too. Perhaps a few of my Tai Chi books will start showing up too today.
The table by my bed is trembling under the weight of books I plan to read ASAP– for all my life does seem to constantly revolve and change over time, that remains the same.
Tonight, I’ll teach the second class in my Journaling for
Deeper Awareness session. It’s a small class (5) because I scheduled the lesson
rather late in the evening, midweek, and people around here don’t stay out past sundown. Next time, (January) I’m offering a Friday
5:30 after work class, which more people have expressed an interest in
attending. Meanwhile, I’m now working with several lovely writing students who dared sign up for this first attempt to add writing to my Yoga program. The people enrolled
are reflective and open to self-discovery, and I couldn’t be happier or more grateful for their participation. Last week
a few people couldn’t make the first class, so tonight I will play catch up as
the group finally hits it’s stride (or so I hope). It is an absolute joy to finally be involved in writing as a
teacher, though I will admit I am somewhat conscientious due to this being a
new subject matter for me. I am normally so confident as a teacher, but
something about teaching and not moving makes this experience different.
Movement centers me and makes me feel strong. When I am sitting still and
depending on academic prowess, it feels like my every weakness is winding
around my leg like a boa constrictor and I have to be careful or I will trip at
But I plow forward, learning as I go. I wasn’t sure where I
wanted to hold the class at first, because the Yoga loft is such an inviting
environment – thought provoking and quiet, and the tranquility in the air is
inspirational for writing in my opinion, but I ended up setting up a round
table in an open space in the lobby near the tea station where I put out fruit
and nuts for everyone to enjoy. It just seemed a more traditional set up for a
writing class, so I bought some comfortable chairs (rather than my metal
folding chairs) and tried to create a more conference type of set –up. After
one lesson, I’m still not sure this is the best way to go, so I might
experiment and invite the students upstairs on longue on the yoga blankets for
some discussion and sharing tonight. That is one thing about teaching a class
for the first time that I hate– you have to experiment and feel your way
through – the necessary trial and error is bound to make the class less ideal
than future sessions when you’ve had time to fine tune your systems for
communicating information. Ah well, we all must start somewhere.
Last week, the group discussion centered on the value of
journal keeping, issues regarding privacy and writing honestly despite fear. We then addressed an overview of the broad spectrum of techniques available to
help a writer make sense of his or her life. I especially tried to emphasize
how important keeping a journal is, because while it may be a collection of
private meanderings, it still impacts the world. Keeping a journal changes the
way you perceive the world. It changes YOU and that means it impacts how you
react to others and make choices for yourself – thus it creates change. This is
the power of writing – it creates internal shifts that eventually leek out into
the external world. Yep, I totally believe in writing as a path to evolution.
Tonight we will begin with exercises to explore the seven
basic techniques used in journals to help develop self-awareness. (Ha – If you want to know what they are,
you have to sign up for my class). Anyway, rather than get too preachy here,
I’ll just say I am having fun and getting a grip on the subject matter.
The best thing about teaching is how it forces you to learn.
Organizing a class and teaching a subject that you feel passionate about brings
greater focus to the skill, forcing you to really consider and define what makes
an effective artist. I became a
much better dancer after I became a teacher. I then became a much better
teacher once I became a school director. Each level requires a deeper look into
the basic elements that unearth talent and unleash potential. Hopefully, the
same kind of thing will be a result of my writing classes. Already I feel
myself becoming a much more organized and effective journal writer. I’ve been
aware of certain journaling techniques for some time, but I didn’t really have the discipline or desire to try them. Now, I feel compelled to explore the
positive and negative fallout of writing lists, profiles, unsent letters,
dialogues, map of consciousness, and altered points of view etc…. Then I can
teach the methods with conviction. Meanwhile, my personal journal is not only a tool for clarifying my
thoughts and feelings; it’s become a deep pool of creative inspiration and
ideas. Can’t complain about that.
So, after a long stint of feeling too repressed by my
frustrating life to dare put words on paper, I am writing again, learning and
growing in my zest to become a better teacher. I think this is a good thing all
around – for me and for the students who trust me to lead them towards
opportunities to grow. I guess, time will tell, but I must say, it feels good
to let my fingers fly once again.
the entire world is obsessed with electronics. People barely relate on a
physical level anymore – it’s all through machines.
son has a girlfriend and they are always texting each other. They
facebook, e-mail, but rarely do they talk on the phone. And when they are
together, it is always a bit awkward and they don’t behave naturally. He can’t
really read her (or so he claims) and sometimes they make-out, but other times
he feels he should keep his distance, because he doesn’t always know if they
are on or off. I think that’s weird. What’s so hard about intimacy when
you’re face to face with someone you’re attracted to? Apparently a lot when
you’re from a generation that’s been trained to relate with this barrier of
electronic space between you and the object of your desire.
Phone manners is an
ongoing debate around here – my insisting that talking on the phone or texting
others during dinner is rude. I make fun of my kids when we are out together
and I see them holding their phone at their side, texting friends subtly while
also holding a conversation with me. I say, “Hey, when you’re with me, be WITH
me. Live in the present.” And Denver says, “Mom, I’m so in the present
that I can be in two places at once. Really. I’m just saying Hi to Jason, but
I’m listening to you too.” Drives me crazy. But they can’t stop – they
are communication addicts and so is everyone else it seems. I’m the odd man out.
Mark is obsessed with his phone. We will go out to lunch and he will spend the
hour talking to someone else. Sometimes he actually gets up from the table to
go outside to give the caller his full attention. I eat alone; maybe have a
conversation with the cute waiter. This is a realtor thing and being available 24/7 is important to his
business, I understand – but still it bothers me. I can’t help but think, “Why
is every single deal, every single call, more important than spending just a
few minutes with someone you supposeably care about? Why can’t you just put the
distractions of life aside for a brief time each day – really, what is it that
can’t be put off just a single half hour?” But I don’t say anything. Nagging
doesn’t get a person anywhere really, it is just an annoyance and a bad way to
communicate. All you can do is voice your feelings, – if the people you’ve
voiced them to don’t react as you hoped they would, that’s just your tough
luck. Anyway, the family knows my
feelings, so Mark will text throughout the lunch as if that doesn’t count the
same as talking out loud . He will smile sheepishly and mumble, “Sorry,” but he
certainly won’t turn off the phone. And I just sit there wishing I could have
one solid conversation with someone, anyone, that isn’t interrupted. Of course,
I CAN have that – I just have to do it through texting, calling, or e-mailing people
I want to connect to. Face to face, people don’t build relationships anymore,
and no one even tries. I swear life now a days is like having
great sex and in the moment of extreme passion, having the phone ring and a
partner that chooses to PICK IT UP. You’re like, “You have GOT to be kidding.” Thunk
goes the libido. Personally, I think something special is lost when you live
I happen to be electronically challenged. It is not that I am helpless, far
from it, and I’m certainly smart enough to figure anything out if I want to.
The problem is, I really don’t want to struggle to learn something that, at
heart, I’m convinced makes the world a generic place. I guess this proves that
I’m getting old – my being crotchety about new fangled systems, but it seems
the moment you get a handle on something, a new invention makes it obsolete
My cell-phone talents are minimal. I have never texted in my life. Denver once
took my phone and texted Kent as a joke, and he called me, floored. He was like,
“Mom! You texted me? Have the body snatchers come and possessed your body?”
I said, “It was Denver.”
even remember to keep my phone with me most of the time. I leave it in the car
and the battery goes dead. The truth is, I don’t want people to be able to
reach me 24/7. I don’t’ think I should have to be assessable and at their
disposal all the time. This drives everybody else crazy, and perhaps it is
irresponsible, because others feel they have a right to know where I am so they
can demand my time and attention at will. But I get so tired of being at
everyone’s disposal. So I keep my phone more or less for emergencies – like if
I get a flat tire.
day, Kent picked up my phone and said, “Hey, you have 9 messages. Don’t you think
you should listen to them?” We listened. They were from September. He said, “How can anyone not listen to their
I pointed out that anyone that really wanted to speak to me would have called
back – the world didn’t come to an end because I ignored some mundane messages.
Everyone important in my world knows I don’t respond to my phone anyway, so they know
better than to leave a message and think it counts for anything. I do answer my phone when I think a
call might be important, of course, like if I am planning to hook up with Mark
for lunch and expect him to call as to when and where. Or if I’m at a theme
park with family and we’ve been separated. And when it comes to work related
business, I always use the home or business phone number where I always check
messages. I’m not a totally disfunctional, you see. You can bet if an agent
has my book, I’ll leave a number where I KNOW I’ll respond in a timely fashion.
friends accept this flaw of mine, and find ways to get around my being
“difficult” in regards to communication. People facebook Mark and tell him to
tell me to check my messages. The
third party system is the best way to reach me, because until a live person
looks me in the eyes to give me a message, I really don’t pay attention.
that my not embracing communication systems the way the rest of society does is a
real annoyance to those that are close to me – but somehow, I just can’t work
up the interest to turn my time and attention and privacy over to the world at
will. I feel more alive keeping it all real. And anyone reading this must admit,
I am proficient enough at e-mail and blogging to get by, so I’m not a total
wash out in regards to electronic communication. Though I certainly could be better with a computer and wish
more than anything that I was more talented at handling it.
In must admit, that in some ways, my resistance to electronics is a serious
detriment. For example, Mark put all our business accounting into a computer
system at FLEX, shutting me out just by the nature of my ignorance. I figured how
to view things eventually, but he then changed everything to a new system and
told me that because I didn’t know what I was doing, I kept messing our
accounting up and should stay out of there. Again – this kept me in the dark.
VERY frustrating when you want to stay engaged in the workings and
decisions of your business. But like I said, I’m not helpless. I recently took
a QuickBooks class so I can set up and retain control of the new FLEX –
partially because he wants no part of this business and is too busy with his
own projects to help me anyway, but also partially because I refuse to let
ignorance challenge my independence. But between you and me, I don’t like
facing this one bit. It’s a huge drag and I suck at it. But I’ll do it, and probably be thrilled
with the convenience and organization I have at my fingertips in the end. I do get that new inventions
are designed to make life easier. I’m just not convinced they actually do.
After twenty years of working with music in all forms, we have literally thousands
of CDs. Mark put all the music we have into a computer program, but can’t
manage to show me how to make copies of the material I need. Says it’s
complicated even for him. He also claims that if I try to download a song from
I-tunes, the entire library will be de-catalogued and ruined. He freaks if anyone messes with his music computer. Meanwhile he gets
very testy if I dare use the actual CDs we have accumulated because he claims I
will scratch them and so many are no longer in print. Once again, I’m shut out
and can’t function due to electronic ignorance. But I’m running a new school
now so I NEED access to the music. So now, I have to figure out how to copy all
the music we have once again onto a different computer to begin my own separate
library (because he doesn’t want me to mess with his carefully set up system)
and I have to buy an I-pod and figure out how to use it to get a working system
for classes, (actually I’ve had one for a year and just haven’t bothered to
work with it) and I have to figure out the best way to catalogue my music for
work etc… and I have to do this without help because Mark is too busy with the things that are important to his work life to make time for mine. I’m dreading the task
– but it’s something that must be done. So, I’ll do it. Don’t ask me how, but I will.
I guess what I loved most about my barn was that you couldn’t get a signal down
there, so cell phones didn’t work. People couldn’t call me there, and if they
visited, they couldn’t call others so they were just with me. And even when I’m alone, my donkey and peacocks always look into
my eyes when I’m talking to them and wouldn’t dream of looking away to give
their attention elsewhere, just in case something more interesting might be a
send button away. Yes, life felt simple and intimate at the barn, and I experienced moments of being totally connected and grounded and present there with electronics out of reach so nothing could shattering my thought process. It feels good to do one
thing at a time, to give your entire attention to a task or person. It feels good to listen when someone is
talking to you and to ponder their words, like an echo, even hours later when you are
driving home with a dead phone at the bottom of your purse.