Is it just my house that believes in the Recycling Fairy??? It's part of the eco-lifestyle, but falls into the repetitive/thankless/invisible work that I seem to have so much to do and so little help. Despite all those well-intentioned Earth Day lectures at school, the kids have no interest in taking on this chore, which usually becomes a frantic race with the recycling truck in the early morning. Bob has adopted the really sloppy not well-sorted tactic which results in the shaming notices and outright refusal from the (apparently) all-powerful recycling guys. It's a cost of competency (mine) and a payoff to the obtuse (his) but somehow it's my job and it sneaks up on me, every time.
We had the motherlode of recycling yesterday, partly because I was out of town for the last one, and since my Dad is visiting we have an awful lot of beer bottles underfoot. It was a truly impressive pile that screams "Intervention!", right from the curb. Charming.
Too bad it didn't stay at the curb.
I was leaving for work and all of the sudden this gust of wind comes up and sends plastic bottles and aluminum cans bouncing merrily down our street. A chase ensues. The air is blue with swearing as I track down every last item. I stack the piles again, with more thought to ballast and loft than previously.
En route to work I was spaced out and late - not a good combo for driving - and then I find my usual trusty route 94 is in fact closed for construction. So I find an alternate route, less familiar. I take the one way street by the onramp, and notice it's a one way WRONG WAY and go flying into an alley just in time. Brain is not functioning, and I left my coffee on the counter where it's doing me no good whatsoever.
I'm muttering about the crappy start to my day when I look up at a railroad overpass which did not have the usual configurations of box cars etc. There were these long, tapered giant white metal shapes on extra-long rail cars and I'm confused at first. And then I get it: blades for wind turbines.
The windy start of my day looks more fortuitous in the big picture.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Lost
It's been a bizarre week of unbelievably tragic things, touching folks I know and care about. It's brought me full circle, afraid to pick up the phone. Since it's been the domino effect, I haven't had time to process anything, much less be supportive to others who are suffering.
On Monday my friend's ex-laws were in an auto accident; she died instantly, he was seriously injured. These were folks that I sort of knew, one circle removed, for more than 10 years. The funeral was Friday. My friend still hasn't been able to tell her son. I don't know how she can hold it together.
On Wednesday I found out that my childhood friend was discovered dead - allegedly murdered by her husband. Incredibly sad, surreal - and given what a tough life she had, especially since marrying the creep. It's bizarre to see a picture of your home-away-from-home, where all your memories live, surrounded by crime tape. Ceil was my mom's friend, Connie was my sister's and my friend; we'd take many day trips together, always up for an adventure. My earliest memories are of swinging with Connie, in her back yard, making up songs about her new puppy. Since they contained quite a bit of potty humor, I'm guessing I was around 4. We were in girl scouts together. We went to different schools so drifted away a bit. It also became apparent that Connie herself was different - not just because she had health problems and her parents were a tad eccentric. She was always socially awkward and tried too hard. Today she'd probably be diagnosed with Asperger's and some sensory integration deficits. I wish I could say I was the kid who stood up for her when the neighborhood bullies came a'callin. I wasn't.
It became awkward to be friends with Connie by middle school, but we'd still hang out on occasion. I was the Eddy Haskell friend, and all parents loved it when I came visiting. I always liked Ceil - her outrageous sense of humor and unapologetic laugh. She would say - out loud - that she wished Connie were more like me. It was inexplicably sad and uncomfortable so I just stayed away more and more. She and Mom took some amazing trips together, continuing the joint family tradition of adventures.
I saw Connie once after I had moved to Mpls. My trips home were rare but I was always kept in the loop of what was going on in the neighborhood. By then I had heard lots of stories about Steve, her husband, who was controlling, systematically alienating her friends and family. We had a pretty good talk that day, and I remember how she would both validate and discount the fears and concerns we had. It was effortless for her, years of practice of apologizing and appeasing. I wanted so much to believe her that even when I finally met Steve- he walked down to our house to retrieve Connie, with barely a grunt at the introductions - I didn't follow up with my well-intentioned promise to stay connected. I wonder if it would have made a difference.
When Ceil died of melanoma, Connie inherited the house. She and Steve lived there for the past 7 years. She worked part-time at the library and he worked for a bank. They let the place go - no more minimum maintenance even, much less the exhuberant gardening of the Ceil dynasty. Apparently there was some lawsuit over paying for the 2nd mortgage, and the house was auctioned in a foreclosure on May 6th, Connies' 42nd birthday. On May 19th, she was found with her throat slit. I can't get my head around it - too big, horrible to sink in.
It's been bittersweet, all the reminiscience with friends and family. A helluva way to reconnect with your childhood. Makes you want to go hug everyone, doesn't it? I'll wait here.
Just to round out the week: two clients quit, I completely spaced on my parent help day at school, and X was "lost" for 20 minutes on the playground at preschool. He tried to assure me that he wasn't that scared: "I wasn't alone, Mommy. There was a pigeon."
Good Lord save us. And I mean that more literally than I usually do.
Over all of this, apply a thin veneer of barely-contained rage, illness, exhaustion. My dad is visiting. His hearing aid isn't working and he's difficult to talk with under the best of circumstances. And after yelling at someone repeatedly just to make yourself heard, you really start to feel like yelling. All of the time.
Really, this is all too much. If I'm supposed to learn from these life events, can I not have the Cliff Notes version? Too much all at once and I can't even connect with the basics.
Tune in next week. Perhaps I'll be back to putting window-dressings on this mad, mad world.
On Monday my friend's ex-laws were in an auto accident; she died instantly, he was seriously injured. These were folks that I sort of knew, one circle removed, for more than 10 years. The funeral was Friday. My friend still hasn't been able to tell her son. I don't know how she can hold it together.
On Wednesday I found out that my childhood friend was discovered dead - allegedly murdered by her husband. Incredibly sad, surreal - and given what a tough life she had, especially since marrying the creep. It's bizarre to see a picture of your home-away-from-home, where all your memories live, surrounded by crime tape. Ceil was my mom's friend, Connie was my sister's and my friend; we'd take many day trips together, always up for an adventure. My earliest memories are of swinging with Connie, in her back yard, making up songs about her new puppy. Since they contained quite a bit of potty humor, I'm guessing I was around 4. We were in girl scouts together. We went to different schools so drifted away a bit. It also became apparent that Connie herself was different - not just because she had health problems and her parents were a tad eccentric. She was always socially awkward and tried too hard. Today she'd probably be diagnosed with Asperger's and some sensory integration deficits. I wish I could say I was the kid who stood up for her when the neighborhood bullies came a'callin. I wasn't.
It became awkward to be friends with Connie by middle school, but we'd still hang out on occasion. I was the Eddy Haskell friend, and all parents loved it when I came visiting. I always liked Ceil - her outrageous sense of humor and unapologetic laugh. She would say - out loud - that she wished Connie were more like me. It was inexplicably sad and uncomfortable so I just stayed away more and more. She and Mom took some amazing trips together, continuing the joint family tradition of adventures.
I saw Connie once after I had moved to Mpls. My trips home were rare but I was always kept in the loop of what was going on in the neighborhood. By then I had heard lots of stories about Steve, her husband, who was controlling, systematically alienating her friends and family. We had a pretty good talk that day, and I remember how she would both validate and discount the fears and concerns we had. It was effortless for her, years of practice of apologizing and appeasing. I wanted so much to believe her that even when I finally met Steve- he walked down to our house to retrieve Connie, with barely a grunt at the introductions - I didn't follow up with my well-intentioned promise to stay connected. I wonder if it would have made a difference.
When Ceil died of melanoma, Connie inherited the house. She and Steve lived there for the past 7 years. She worked part-time at the library and he worked for a bank. They let the place go - no more minimum maintenance even, much less the exhuberant gardening of the Ceil dynasty. Apparently there was some lawsuit over paying for the 2nd mortgage, and the house was auctioned in a foreclosure on May 6th, Connies' 42nd birthday. On May 19th, she was found with her throat slit. I can't get my head around it - too big, horrible to sink in.
It's been bittersweet, all the reminiscience with friends and family. A helluva way to reconnect with your childhood. Makes you want to go hug everyone, doesn't it? I'll wait here.
Just to round out the week: two clients quit, I completely spaced on my parent help day at school, and X was "lost" for 20 minutes on the playground at preschool. He tried to assure me that he wasn't that scared: "I wasn't alone, Mommy. There was a pigeon."
Good Lord save us. And I mean that more literally than I usually do.
Over all of this, apply a thin veneer of barely-contained rage, illness, exhaustion. My dad is visiting. His hearing aid isn't working and he's difficult to talk with under the best of circumstances. And after yelling at someone repeatedly just to make yourself heard, you really start to feel like yelling. All of the time.
Really, this is all too much. If I'm supposed to learn from these life events, can I not have the Cliff Notes version? Too much all at once and I can't even connect with the basics.
Tune in next week. Perhaps I'll be back to putting window-dressings on this mad, mad world.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Bloom where you're planted
Big news in the Barnesyard: we’ve had the backyard re-landscaped, in that there was some previous attempt at gardening - but we got a total overhaul.
A bit of backstory, as usual.
When Bob bought this house in 1997, there was no garden to speak of. A couple of raised beds in the front.with nothing in them, and a line of hostas along the North side. I moved in spring 1998, and Bob and I have gradually added huge amounts of garden beds – including a boulevard garden. We found that gardening was one of the few interests we had in common (he is musical, I am more crafty, etc.) so we spent lots of time planting bulbs and a few perennials here and there. Neither of us were experienced in gardening in this pesky zone 4 (Zone Envy is a legitimate diagnosis here) or had the ability to hold on to a vision long enough to guide year-to-year efforts.
What resulted is a garden described by neighbors as “that’s um…. ambitious.” This is one of those patented Minnesota Polite TM phrases, much like “interesting” and “different” but not to be construed as a compliment.
Enter the life-altering children.
I tried to keep up with the garden at first. I even have one of those handy pop-up dome tents so our first born infant could nap outside, under the tree, while I weeded. In lieu of napping, she learned to roll over… and over and over, taking the tent with her, down the hill, across the sidewalk and toward the street. It was like Mummenschanz from Mother Hell. It’s one of her favorite stories, and recently became one of her writings at school – somewhat marred by referring to her “dumb tent” which sounds punitive.
That was when the garden went downhill too. Combined with a neighbor’s incredibly bad luck with trees, (presto – we’ve got a full sun garden!) and some tough winters, there was so much to address that we were paralyzed. Weeding and mulching lost their appeal, I couldn’t figure out what was surviving and where, and the daylilies, St. John’s Wort, and invasive campanula took over.
It’s terribly decadent to have experts design and install a new garden. Bob did a bunch of prep and bought the plants, we worked alongside for two days, and poof – we are looking at maintaining a lovely backyard full of edibles and perennials, designed to be low care and lovely throughout the seasons. Arctic kiwi, apples, chokecherry, Nanking cherry, raspberries, blueberries, serviceberries, strawberries, lupines, butterfly weed, lavender, flax, prairie sweetpea, and too many more to mention – it’s truly amazing.
Yes, we could have conceivably hired them to design and then did the installation ourselves. We are, technically, capable. But I know how difficult it would be to complete, we would have taken months of frustrated fumbling, half-ass attempts in between other tasks. They also have an amazing commitment to soil preparation – loads of compost, digging through the beds by hand, removing every last root they could find of invasives and pesky weeds. Once they were done, you could sink up to your calves in well-tended earth. It has allowed us to embrace the abundance of possibility without the flailing in decision-making. And hey – we supported a neighborhood business and didn’t buy a thing – as plants are consumables.
Yes, we cheated. And it was worth every penny.
I heartily recommend Elise and Thea at www.UrbanHomesteadGardening.com. Check them out. I’ll post pix of the gardens once we put in the last few plants.
A bit of backstory, as usual.
When Bob bought this house in 1997, there was no garden to speak of. A couple of raised beds in the front.with nothing in them, and a line of hostas along the North side. I moved in spring 1998, and Bob and I have gradually added huge amounts of garden beds – including a boulevard garden. We found that gardening was one of the few interests we had in common (he is musical, I am more crafty, etc.) so we spent lots of time planting bulbs and a few perennials here and there. Neither of us were experienced in gardening in this pesky zone 4 (Zone Envy is a legitimate diagnosis here) or had the ability to hold on to a vision long enough to guide year-to-year efforts.
What resulted is a garden described by neighbors as “that’s um…. ambitious.” This is one of those patented Minnesota Polite TM phrases, much like “interesting” and “different” but not to be construed as a compliment.
Enter the life-altering children.
I tried to keep up with the garden at first. I even have one of those handy pop-up dome tents so our first born infant could nap outside, under the tree, while I weeded. In lieu of napping, she learned to roll over… and over and over, taking the tent with her, down the hill, across the sidewalk and toward the street. It was like Mummenschanz from Mother Hell. It’s one of her favorite stories, and recently became one of her writings at school – somewhat marred by referring to her “dumb tent” which sounds punitive.
That was when the garden went downhill too. Combined with a neighbor’s incredibly bad luck with trees, (presto – we’ve got a full sun garden!) and some tough winters, there was so much to address that we were paralyzed. Weeding and mulching lost their appeal, I couldn’t figure out what was surviving and where, and the daylilies, St. John’s Wort, and invasive campanula took over.
It’s terribly decadent to have experts design and install a new garden. Bob did a bunch of prep and bought the plants, we worked alongside for two days, and poof – we are looking at maintaining a lovely backyard full of edibles and perennials, designed to be low care and lovely throughout the seasons. Arctic kiwi, apples, chokecherry, Nanking cherry, raspberries, blueberries, serviceberries, strawberries, lupines, butterfly weed, lavender, flax, prairie sweetpea, and too many more to mention – it’s truly amazing.
Yes, we could have conceivably hired them to design and then did the installation ourselves. We are, technically, capable. But I know how difficult it would be to complete, we would have taken months of frustrated fumbling, half-ass attempts in between other tasks. They also have an amazing commitment to soil preparation – loads of compost, digging through the beds by hand, removing every last root they could find of invasives and pesky weeds. Once they were done, you could sink up to your calves in well-tended earth. It has allowed us to embrace the abundance of possibility without the flailing in decision-making. And hey – we supported a neighborhood business and didn’t buy a thing – as plants are consumables.
Yes, we cheated. And it was worth every penny.
I heartily recommend Elise and Thea at www.UrbanHomesteadGardening.com. Check them out. I’ll post pix of the gardens once we put in the last few plants.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Austhairity update...
Bizarre but I had several folks comment on my hair today - did I get it cut? sigh. No.
Even weirder was I got a call from some lady who said she had my number on her caller ID and was I needing to schedule a haircut??? Turns out that I had met her the nite before at the coffee shop when she borrowed my cell phone to make a call to her home. So we laughed and she offered me a haircut, her treat.
The universe works in mysterious ways, which I am free to ignore. Learning opportunities will continue to present themselves, until such time as I choose to learn from them. Rinse, repeat.
Even weirder was I got a call from some lady who said she had my number on her caller ID and was I needing to schedule a haircut??? Turns out that I had met her the nite before at the coffee shop when she borrowed my cell phone to make a call to her home. So we laughed and she offered me a haircut, her treat.
The universe works in mysterious ways, which I am free to ignore. Learning opportunities will continue to present themselves, until such time as I choose to learn from them. Rinse, repeat.
AustHAIRity Measures
A few weeks ago I saw an article in the local paper about salons that were offering unique deals on services: bring in your 401(k) statement and they'll give you a discount equal to the percentage in value you've lost, up to 50% off. It's both clever and concerning to me. Because I am one of the fallen, and it shows...
Two years ago I had my hair cut drastically, and was able to donate 13 inches to Locks for Love, an organization that supplies wigs for kids undergoing chemotherapy. It was somewhat noble and necessary: although my hair, in and of itself, is good hair - it's pretty unflattering. I can't even remember the last time I got a haircut and I'm too lazy to look thru last year's planner, but I'm thinking it was early spring '08. We have a great salon within walking distance, owned by a neighborhood lady, who just happens to have kids the same age as mine and nearly as warped a sense of humor. It's one of those posh-but-still-welcoming spaces, and they will offer you a glass of wine as a restorative. The easy sociability and instant community makes it feel like a barbershop, but with better lighting and aromatherapy.
So why haven't I gone? I walk past on occasion, and am concerned that the business doesn't look all that busy. I certainly could use a little upkeep. I half-heartedly joke about waiting for the Ambush Makeover people to find me. I actually did write a pathetic letter trying to gain access to Oprah's "Help! I've really let myself go!" promotion a couple of years ago. I'm so low-maintenance at this point that the occasional lipstick is more a cry for help than anything else. My hair is now in the Unfortunate Ponytail Phase that for some reason reminds me of George Washington, although sans the wooden teeth - yet! It's too long for a flattering bob but too short to be well-behaved enough to stay off my face. And I've never been able to vaguely approximate a sleek chignon, whatever the hell that is.
Spending $$$ on a cut, color, eyebrow wax, and pedicure sounds hugely indulgent right now. Technically, it's an allowable expense and goes to support a small business in our neighborhood. And if I'm going to have a professional job I should at least put a bit of effort into my appearance... but I am reluctant to sign up. My dad is going to be visiting this week so maybe I'll take advantage of his babysitting skills (!) and sneak away for a little pampering.
But a nap sounds just as restorative, with a lot less upkeep.
Have I taken the vanity in this vanity project to heart? Apparently so. Or it could be a side effect of turning 40. That and I can't win FreeCell anymore and am afraid to try Suduko. Motherhood isn't for wimps, but I'm not sure which I miss most - my brain cells or waistline. Maybe I can do crossword puzzles and crunches at the same time. Or I can just sit quietly until the self-improvement urge passes.
Two years ago I had my hair cut drastically, and was able to donate 13 inches to Locks for Love, an organization that supplies wigs for kids undergoing chemotherapy. It was somewhat noble and necessary: although my hair, in and of itself, is good hair - it's pretty unflattering. I can't even remember the last time I got a haircut and I'm too lazy to look thru last year's planner, but I'm thinking it was early spring '08. We have a great salon within walking distance, owned by a neighborhood lady, who just happens to have kids the same age as mine and nearly as warped a sense of humor. It's one of those posh-but-still-welcoming spaces, and they will offer you a glass of wine as a restorative. The easy sociability and instant community makes it feel like a barbershop, but with better lighting and aromatherapy.
So why haven't I gone? I walk past on occasion, and am concerned that the business doesn't look all that busy. I certainly could use a little upkeep. I half-heartedly joke about waiting for the Ambush Makeover people to find me. I actually did write a pathetic letter trying to gain access to Oprah's "Help! I've really let myself go!" promotion a couple of years ago. I'm so low-maintenance at this point that the occasional lipstick is more a cry for help than anything else. My hair is now in the Unfortunate Ponytail Phase that for some reason reminds me of George Washington, although sans the wooden teeth - yet! It's too long for a flattering bob but too short to be well-behaved enough to stay off my face. And I've never been able to vaguely approximate a sleek chignon, whatever the hell that is.
Spending $$$ on a cut, color, eyebrow wax, and pedicure sounds hugely indulgent right now. Technically, it's an allowable expense and goes to support a small business in our neighborhood. And if I'm going to have a professional job I should at least put a bit of effort into my appearance... but I am reluctant to sign up. My dad is going to be visiting this week so maybe I'll take advantage of his babysitting skills (!) and sneak away for a little pampering.
But a nap sounds just as restorative, with a lot less upkeep.
Have I taken the vanity in this vanity project to heart? Apparently so. Or it could be a side effect of turning 40. That and I can't win FreeCell anymore and am afraid to try Suduko. Motherhood isn't for wimps, but I'm not sure which I miss most - my brain cells or waistline. Maybe I can do crossword puzzles and crunches at the same time. Or I can just sit quietly until the self-improvement urge passes.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Birthday Bash
Yours truly hit the big 4-0 this week and it has been a whirlwind of celebration. It started out with a 16 person bicycle with a keg and a crazy tour of the neighborhood and pubs. I haven't laughed that hard in ages, and it was a blessing to have so many fabulous friends to celebrate my declining years. Check it out at www.pedalpub.com.
It's funny that I took the initiative to celebrate in such style - normally I find birthdays distasteful to depressing, depending on the year. But this one, I had a plan. I was going to get a tattoo and go whale watching. I chickened out on the tattoo, mostly because I couldn't think of a place to put it that wouldn't eventually get saggy/wrinkly. And going to Boston seemed way too indulgent in these times of economic uncertainty. For some reason, the Pedal Pub seemed the prudent alternative - which goes to show you the higher functions of reasoning are the first to go with advanced age.
As if this wasn't festivity and frivolity wasn't self-indulgent enough - I went to Boston anyways. So I'm running around trying to catch up after a week of fun, and I don't have the brain for writing right now. More later.
It's funny that I took the initiative to celebrate in such style - normally I find birthdays distasteful to depressing, depending on the year. But this one, I had a plan. I was going to get a tattoo and go whale watching. I chickened out on the tattoo, mostly because I couldn't think of a place to put it that wouldn't eventually get saggy/wrinkly. And going to Boston seemed way too indulgent in these times of economic uncertainty. For some reason, the Pedal Pub seemed the prudent alternative - which goes to show you the higher functions of reasoning are the first to go with advanced age.
As if this wasn't festivity and frivolity wasn't self-indulgent enough - I went to Boston anyways. So I'm running around trying to catch up after a week of fun, and I don't have the brain for writing right now. More later.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Crackpot confessions
Last year's birthday found me and my gal pals at the Riverview Wine Bar, drinking my favorite Sobon Organic Zinfandel. Lots of it. We were very.... festive! One of my gifts was a lovely tall ceramic pot in the most amazing yellow gold (but not ochre, as that reminds me of baby poop) and I managed to put in a great flower arrangement and found just the right spot by our back stairs. It made me smile daily.
This year, Bob thoughtfully put all of the ceramic pots full of dirt on a cart, so I could wheel them from winter storage in the garage to the back yard, front steps, boulevard gardens - wherever. Slightly less thoughtful was the placement of the cart - too close to my car to get X buckled into his car seat. Completely thoughtless was when I was in a frustrated hurry and attempted to move said cart without checking to see exactly how precariously the load was balanced.
Guess which pot broke? Yup.
So I left it on the garage floor, stifled the urge to do a chalk crime scene outline, and got some crazy glue. But when I finally picked up the pieces (literally, as figuratively would require more time and talent for therapy than can reasonably be expected of me right now...) I realized how badly broken it was. Sighing with resignation, I put it in the garbage can. My next thought: is this something I can purchase guilt-free? Because I can't wait a year and it's doubtful anything so fabulous would be lurking at the thrift stores. And this hardly qualifies as a necessity.
"There's no such thing as needs (sic)." - from X, my Zen boy, ten seconds ago.
I know that children are especially intuitive, but sometimes it's just creepy.
I was at a garage sale yesterday (surprise, surprise) and as we were leaving I noticed a box of sample cabinet doors. I bought 4, $2 each. They make awesome backing for mosaics. And a magpie such as myself always has a few zillion colorful and shiny things begging to be made into a mosaic. Luckily garbage day is today, and I was able to rescue pieces of pot for a new life in some yet-to-be determined form.
But first they have to sit in the basement with the rest of my crafty crap for a few years, you know, to season.
This year, Bob thoughtfully put all of the ceramic pots full of dirt on a cart, so I could wheel them from winter storage in the garage to the back yard, front steps, boulevard gardens - wherever. Slightly less thoughtful was the placement of the cart - too close to my car to get X buckled into his car seat. Completely thoughtless was when I was in a frustrated hurry and attempted to move said cart without checking to see exactly how precariously the load was balanced.
Guess which pot broke? Yup.
So I left it on the garage floor, stifled the urge to do a chalk crime scene outline, and got some crazy glue. But when I finally picked up the pieces (literally, as figuratively would require more time and talent for therapy than can reasonably be expected of me right now...) I realized how badly broken it was. Sighing with resignation, I put it in the garbage can. My next thought: is this something I can purchase guilt-free? Because I can't wait a year and it's doubtful anything so fabulous would be lurking at the thrift stores. And this hardly qualifies as a necessity.
"There's no such thing as needs (sic)." - from X, my Zen boy, ten seconds ago.
I know that children are especially intuitive, but sometimes it's just creepy.
I was at a garage sale yesterday (surprise, surprise) and as we were leaving I noticed a box of sample cabinet doors. I bought 4, $2 each. They make awesome backing for mosaics. And a magpie such as myself always has a few zillion colorful and shiny things begging to be made into a mosaic. Luckily garbage day is today, and I was able to rescue pieces of pot for a new life in some yet-to-be determined form.
But first they have to sit in the basement with the rest of my crafty crap for a few years, you know, to season.
This is a mosaic I did last fall, on a cabinet door. It features pieces of a handblown glass globe that shattered, bits of sea glass from our trip to Barcelona, and chunks from a destroyed bus shelter. It is the sole adornment in our sunny front room, and I like how the colors sparkle.
I didn't use the right kind of cement, so it's crackly.
Some people having a learning curve. Mine is more like a cliff.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Mindfulness
It's depressing, how much I operate on automatic pilot. This is made especially clear on fully-scheduled days, fraught with multitasking. Not particularly efficient, nor is it high on the quality of life scale. Some days/weeks get so jam-packed that I just put my head down and slog through.
Lots of missed opportunities, there. So absorbed in the to-do list I'm not even present - even if the task at hand is potentially fun. I feel the worst guilt about trudging through days just missing out the kids' discoveries and joy. The "under seige" mentality doesn't really encourage mindfulness or gratitude.
Yesterday I was cooking dinner, mentally rearranging schedules for some last-minute snafus, reminding myself to hang up the laundry, listing the phone calls I needed to make, etc. Then my 4 yr. old son walks in, stands behind me a bit, and starts talking to me in a silly voice - and I barely respond with a "yes, honey" but its like I'm not actually present and the sound takes so much longer to travel the distance to my faraway mind. Eventually I catch up, unscramble the Scooby-Doo syntax and the goofy voice to realize he's trying to give me something. I look down at his outstretched arms, over which is draped our incredibly tolerant and apparently boneless cat Spot. She implores me with her lovely green eyes to save her from so much loving, and when I pick her up she purrs contentedly in an instant. She doesn't hold grudges.
My kids are persistent. They have to be. I try to remind myself that if I listened better and acknowledged the first time, they wouldn't be repeating themselves so much they reach whining pitch - which is generally when my ears start bleeding. This is followed shortly thereafter by snakes springing out of my forehead. And then I start yelling for it all to stop, but my voice sounds more like the bark befitting the Hounds of Hell. Which is probably just as communicative as my spluttering/gesturing/yelling self. And what comes out of my mouth? "Why don't you just listen?"
Why indeed?
Lots of missed opportunities, there. So absorbed in the to-do list I'm not even present - even if the task at hand is potentially fun. I feel the worst guilt about trudging through days just missing out the kids' discoveries and joy. The "under seige" mentality doesn't really encourage mindfulness or gratitude.
Yesterday I was cooking dinner, mentally rearranging schedules for some last-minute snafus, reminding myself to hang up the laundry, listing the phone calls I needed to make, etc. Then my 4 yr. old son walks in, stands behind me a bit, and starts talking to me in a silly voice - and I barely respond with a "yes, honey" but its like I'm not actually present and the sound takes so much longer to travel the distance to my faraway mind. Eventually I catch up, unscramble the Scooby-Doo syntax and the goofy voice to realize he's trying to give me something. I look down at his outstretched arms, over which is draped our incredibly tolerant and apparently boneless cat Spot. She implores me with her lovely green eyes to save her from so much loving, and when I pick her up she purrs contentedly in an instant. She doesn't hold grudges.
My kids are persistent. They have to be. I try to remind myself that if I listened better and acknowledged the first time, they wouldn't be repeating themselves so much they reach whining pitch - which is generally when my ears start bleeding. This is followed shortly thereafter by snakes springing out of my forehead. And then I start yelling for it all to stop, but my voice sounds more like the bark befitting the Hounds of Hell. Which is probably just as communicative as my spluttering/gesturing/yelling self. And what comes out of my mouth? "Why don't you just listen?"
Why indeed?
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