Focus & Forgive

Focus.  Forgive.  Let go and move on.
We are all so much stronger and braver than we imagine - we just don't always know it - or as a friend recently shared with me - whatever doesn't kill me had better start running.

Focus.
If we're fortunate, there'll be someone near and dear to point this out to us.  No matter how troubled the time, no matter how deep the wound, life does go on and we do mend - maybe not today or tomorrow, maybe not next week or even next year - but healing comes to all of us.  It's in our nature to survive and do all sorts of things we never dreamed possible.  There's always a choice to be made, always a chance to stop, look both ways, and change direction.   Sometimes I wonder if the first step isn't to stop looking in the mirror and look into the eyes of a friend instead.  Get a new perspective and see what they see rather than what you've come to expect or what you imagine you are.  Even if you don't agree, it'll give you something to think about, to practice, to focus on.  Learn to stay focused and time will pass, things will get better.

Forgive.
Start with yourself.  Dollars to doughnuts, you're your own worst critic and you likely deserve a break.  But for mistakes, we wouldn't learn much "sliding down the razor blade of life" as Tom Lehrer so inelegantly sings in one of his satires.  Go easy, pay attention to what you demand of yourself, be sure it's reasonable.  Give others the same consideration.  Don't judge too lightly, too harshly or too quickly.  Be fair, be patient, be generous, be kind and when you fall short, give yourself a little slack.  Time will pass, things will get better.

Let go and move on.
There's a lot of territory to cover between surrender and acceptance, a whole lot of ups and downs and uneven ground to navigate.  We all hold on a little tighter and a little longer at the prospect of unhappiness or loneliness or suffering.  We resist change for no better reason than the uncertainty and disruption it may or may not bring into our lives.  We deny and bargain, fight and make up, step forward and step back, and dance away, all to maintain position and keep chaos at a secure distance.  We treasure the illusion of control, never seeing that it's a magic trick, a little emotional sleight of hand designed to make us feel grounded and more or less safe.  We're afraid of losing our footing and falling - we forget that when we fall, instinct takes over and we get up, as many times as it takes.  Let go of the bad stuff.  Leave it behind and move on, time will pass and things will get better.

Truth is stranger than friction ~ Jimmy Durante

Fast Food & Relatives

My friend, Michael, who owns and operates his modeling business from his home, calls me and is sputtering with indignation and nearly incoherent - he is in his dressing room preparing for an interview with a prospective client when he notices a battered old car pull into his driveway.  Four young black people loudly emerge, a full two hours early - they are dressed for lawn work and each carries a crumpled paper sack of fast food and a grubby plastic container of soda.  They slouch their way to his front door and lean on the doorbell and he swears he can smell the obnoxious odor of fried fish and cooking grease all the way on the second floor.
This offends his senses and he descends the stairs, in his dressing gown and with no make up, and throws open the heavy front door, fully prepared to evict this low rent trash from his property.  When they tell him they are there for an appointment, he is overcome with surprise and shock and makes no attempt to hide his distaste, although he assures me, he is gracious - in his way - pointing out that anyone who arrives two hours early and has the effrontery to bring his whole ragtag family, cannot be welcomed and further, that as this is clearly his HOME and he has not asked them to lunch, he CANNOT BELIEVE they would have the indecency to imagine that he would allow them to bring their nasty, fried food inside and further, even if it weren't his home, HOW STUPID DO YOU HAVE TO BE to think he would see them under such circumstances.

They protest that no one told them they couldn't bring family or food and he coldly informs them that THIS IS AN INTERVIEW NOT A GODDAMN PICNIC and with a grimace, orders them gone.  They linger, trying to argue and sway him but he stands firm.  WE WILL NOT GET ALONG, he tells them and gathers his silk robe around him with a dignified swirl.  BEGONE BEFORE I SET THE DOGS ON YOU.

I am in tears at this sad tale, laughing so hard I can't speak, and he gives me his best imperial glare and demands to know what sort of person comes to an interview in unclean clothes and brings fast food and relatives and what has the world come to and finally WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY.

This only makes me laugh harder.

The world is a hard place for people with high expectations.

Dark-Thirty

Now and again I feel the need to hibernate, to lock the door and unplug the telephone and simply wallow in sleep.  Long weekends are perfect to indulge this small sin - to retreat and thoroughly shut out the world for a few days - to give all my time and attention to my little ones and have absolutely no routine or rules to follow. 
It's wanton idleness in its grandest form and I revel in it, though of course it wouldn't do for every day.

On the fourth day, I decide it's time to at least make an effort at being productive.  At dark-thirty, somewhere around 4am, I throw off the covers and trail the animals into the kitchen.  I drink a bottle of chocolate milk, light a cigarette, and begin filling food bowls.  The dogs and I step outside into the darkness - chilly and very quiet at 4am - and while they wander the yard, I plan my day, making a mental list of what's to be done before I can return to my snug, little nest in the sunroom.   After three days of solitude and total inactivity, it's more difficult than I imagine to wake up and plug in my motivation.  

This, I tell the little dashchund, is how it starts.  One day you're a productive, tax paying citizen and the next you're living under a bridge.

He yawns.

It takes until noon to get things in order.  Litter boxes changed, laundry done, dishes washed and put away, a quick dusting and even quicker vacuuming, all done with a certain half heartedness, just a means to an end.  I realize, only a little sadly, that I've had enough solitude - exactly enough to be ready and almost (not quite but almost) anxious to rejoin the world and go back to work.  Aside from the television, I haven't heard the sound of a human voice in four full days.  It's been a good rest.

The sun goes down, the streetlights come on and the dogs and I curl up on the couch for a final nap.  All's well that ends well.

Thanksgiving, 2012

Another Thanksgiving is just a few days away - I get my usual share of invitations and turn them down as gracefully as possible, thankful for the offers and not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings, but anxious to sleep late and spend a peaceful, solitary day with my animals and maybe a memory or three.

Even after all these years, I'm no fan of family and  certainly not one of family holidays.  As a child, they were to be endured if not feared and as an adult - in the suffocating embrace of a supposedly intact and openly loving family - I thought I might be strangled.   In hindsight, both extremes seemed as equally unhealthy as they were different.  In one, I tried to manage and deny the emotions. In the other, I tried to copy and manufacture them.  I've found it's far easier on my peace of mind to have to do neither.  Truth is, that without my camera to shield me, even a small crowd gets on my nerves and makes me want to seek a quiet and out of the way corner.  After an initial smile and hug, I'd rather not be noticed at all.  When a friend recently told me that what she liked most about my photographing her was not being aware I was even there, I took it as high praise.

There's something to be said for family traditions, I suppose, but honoring and keeping them alive when you'd rather be somewhere (anywhere!) else is hypocrisy.  So while I thank everyone who so kindly invited me into their homes, I'll keep to my own traditions - sleeping in with the little ones and enjoying a day off to myself, a day when I don't have to follow a routine or even get dressed and have to leave home.

It won't be the day I remember at my grandmother's with the white linened table set for nine and tiny sherry glasses of apple or tomato juice at each setting.  

It won't be the elegant restaurants where we went when she was too old and too weary to cook.

It won't be the sunny and exquisitely formal dining room with my first husband's family, all silver candlesticks and servants gliding in and out from the kitchen.

It won't be the shaky card tables at my mother's lake front cottage with store bought everything.

But it will be mine.

And just as as afterthought......as needless as it is, I can't help but be a little grateful for the primal if slightly comical urge that my married friends have to worry over and feed single women on these kind of holidays.   That at least is a tradition I can accept.

Pretend With Me

Since The Cat Who Lived in the Garage has moved on - perversely, I  miss her - I find myself worrying about the remaining felines who prowl the neighborhood.  It's 40 degrees and there's a light covering of frost on the grass but they're out and about anyway.  If they mind the cold, they don't show it much.

Mostly they're non-approachable, long and lean, wary and suspicious of humans, gradually turning feral.  A few of my neighbors regularly leave food out for them, some try and trap them, but on the whole their presence is accepted and ignored, just a small, sad part of the city landscape.  Like the poor, they are always with us, throwaway animals that survive the traffic, the weather, the hunger, and even the owners who turn them out or leave them behind.  If I could, I would feed, shelter and love them all - they've done nothing to be treated so cruelly.

As it happens, The Cat Who Lived in the Garage has not gone terribly far - the little dachshund is an intrepid escape artist and if I'm not watching carefully, will tunnel under the fence or squeeze through an impossibly small opening - as he did this afternoon when I turned my back to unload the washing machine.  I tracked him to the adjoining yard and discovered him exploring my neighbor's back porch while a familiar grey and white cat observed him, unnoticed, from the safety of the back fence.  She gave me a careless glance then without a sound, gracefully descended onto the yard and indifferently strolled past both of us and into the neighbor's utility shed. The little dachshund never had a clue and when I called, he trotted right to me, perfectly willing to give up his temporary adventure in favor of the promise of an early supper - he likes to escape and explore but shows no interest in wandering very far - even so, I scold him gently before blocking off his latest escape route.  He pretends not to notice what I'm doing and I pretend that he won't do it again.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” 
 Kurt Vonnegut 

  

Random Acts of Friendship

I've never asked for or accepted charity in my whole life and always thought it was a blessing.  I suppose I like to think that I can overcome things with patience and time and sheer stubbornness but now I find that a savings account would be far more practical.  I'm ashamed to admit that this latest round of disasters has me too depressed to think clearly.  I can't even seem to get angry.

If ever there was a time for faith and internal fortitude, this is it but I don't seem to be able to find much of either.   This too shall pass, I tell myself, and One day at a time and a regular litany of other clever, little trite but true sayings that rattle around in my head.  I remind myself that there are people without enough to eat, without water or shelter or jobs, without a computer to categorize and complain about their misfortunes.  And I wait for that small voice to kick in and tell me to be grateful, to trust, to persevere, but lately that voice has been as silent and useless as the broken central heat and air.

Or, as I discover later in the same day, maybe I haven't been listening hard enough.

Help arrives first in the offer of a loan for a new central heat and air system.  I am so stunned by this generosity that I'm caught between being speechless and in tears.

Secondly, friends arrive and within an hour of my being home, the latest electrical crisis is resolved and the gas fireplace is working in the event of another loss of power or heat.  I don't know how to thank them, not just for the repairs, but for the kindness.  

Thirdly, a musician friend asks that I let her organize a benefit to help cover some of the substantial debt. I very nearly choke on my own pride at this generosity but manage to swallow hard and accept the offer.

Asking for help comes hard to me.  I value my independence and am accustomed to solving my own problems.
But there are times when the wall you're up against won't budge and the rock is pushing so hard it curls your toes.  That's when you discover the true meaning and blessing of friendships.  I'm not sure I deserve it or that I will ever be able to repay these kindnesses, these random acts of friendship.  But I'll try.

Nana's Table

Once a week or so during the sweet summers we spent on the island, Nana would pack the old Lincoln with empty paper bags and an apple basket or two, and we would drive just a little ways up island to Lily Smith's farm for fresh vegetables - tomatoes right off the vines, cucumbers, curvy squashes and sleek onions, new potatoes and peas and best of all, Lily's finest sweet corn.  Supper would be an extravaganza.

We shelled and husked all afternoon while waiting for the boats to come in and never once thought of it as work.  When the sun began to go down, she would give me a quarter or fifty cents and a few pages of old newspaper and send me to meet the incoming boats where the fishermen would wrap up fresh scallops or a piece of haddock or even a couple of lobsters.  I carried these delicate prizes proudly and carefully, never giving in to the temptation to hurry or run, even though the live lobsters rustling and waving their pincers  scared me half to death.  I didn't like to think about that part of it - it had been a shock to discover that they were alive when Nana dropped them into the oversized kettle of boiling water and I still felt guilty.  It was, to my child's mind, an enormous sacrifice and a fearful way to die although I always managed to overlook their suffering by the time I took my place at the table.

The meal would be leisurely, lengthy and country elegant - Nana would never allow a butter substitute or store bought bread, frozen berries were forbidden when we had a strawberry field and a blackberry patch just outside the door, and the thought of artificial whipped cream made her cringe.  My grandmother set a real table with real ingredients and no short cuts were allowed.  The sun would be down by the time we finished and  left the table, staggering and groaning through the clean up, wanting nothing more than to collapse into soft chairs and sleep, but Nana had never left dirty dishes overnight in her entire life and she never listened to a word of protest.  We wrapped leftovers, washed and dried the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, reset the table for breakfast, stoked the old stove - and only when she was satisfied did we drag ourselves off to quiet corners to recover.

Personally, if you can't toss it into the microwave or pick it up at the deli, I'm not inclined to take the time or trouble - odd, considering where I come from and how I was raised but there it is. 

We all set our own table, choose who will sit at it and what to serve.  It's a feast - if we want it to be - no matter who's in the kitchen.  Don't forget to say grace.

Sour Grapes

The morning after the election brings a number of wildly enthusiastic postings about the outcome and a vicious surge of hateful, toxic, right wing ones.  Quite a few republican friends seem to want to leave the country and I'm overwhelmed with an urge to help them pack.  I respect their right to disagree, even to be be bitter and poor losers, but to be labeled a "traitor" because you don't share their political agenda is offensive.  For the first time that I can remember, I block the worst of them - let them spew their poison and racism elsewhere - they're entitled to their opinions but I don't have to listen.  And the country will survive this hatred and snarling disrespect just as it always has, although it does make me yearn for the literacy and intellect and reasonableness of the north.  I sometimes think that my part of the country values hypocrisy and superficial courtesy more than it does tolerance or equality.

I drive to work with a sense of relief and celebration, passing the clutter of now irrelevant Romney/Ryan signs still stubbornly standing in the front yards of the mansioned streets.  Living in the south often feels lonely to me - in my heart, I suspect that there are still too many of us that have never completely gotten over the Civil War - but the votes are in and it's time we all began respecting the rules and the results and most of all, the rights of others.  Equality extends to all regardless of race, income, gender, sexual preference or political party.

If that doesn't suit you, you don't have to stay.  I really will help you pack.

Karma

It's always less trouble to take the low road, to smirk and say I told you so under the guise of understanding and self righteousness and call it karma.  But karma comes round, often under the guise of justice, and anyone could be its next victim.  Life has a habit of evening things out in the end and if we ignore those in the most need - because they have hurt our feelings or not lived up to expectations or shown themselves to be dangerously flawed - we may regret it.  To be sick is not to be evil and if you haven't lived another's life, you might want to think before you publicly condemn and name call.  Karma works both ways.

Out of jail, ashamed and repentant, ten days sober.  It's a rocky start and all I can do is pray that it's enough to build on and begin again.  Most everything that mattered to him is gone - home, job, music, friends - sadly, the odds are not in his favor and will diminish if he doesn't reach out so we keep him in our prayers and try to stay cautiously optimistic.  I think - I hope - that these things are not gone forever, that those he damaged might, in time, understand and forgive.  There is no logic or reason to addiction and in recovery, actions speak louder than words.  It's a tragic but certain reality that not all losses are reversible - some people will be hurt too deeply to ever again risk getting close.  Others will be too angry or offended or frightened or tired.
Some will simply not believe in redemption and some - those who jumped ship early and took such pains to warn those who didn't - well, they'll just keep their distance and smugly expect him to falter and fail.  And perhaps he will.  Or perhaps he'll be one of the fortunate ones, kick the habit and get his life back.  Either way, it will hurt none of us to be a little kinder.

I found comfort and courage
in bottles of whiskey
but let me tell you, friend,
that the life is pretty risky ~ Guy Clark

Willie & the Whiskey

After a brief stint as a bus boy on the mainland - by and large unsuccessful as he frightened the patrons with his crossed eyes and multi-colored, untamed hair - Willie came home again and reclaimed the ramshackle and neglected old house with it's caved in roof and broken windows.  He was so short and the grass was so tall that he could easily come and go without being seen, so no one noticed the discarded whiskey bottles and he slowly but surely drank himself into a near coma.  He slept during the day and at night danced naked by candle light or prowled around in the grass, singing snatches of dance hall tunes.  How he had gotten the whiskey remained a mystery but it was suspected that his sister Elizabeth, who was on friendly terms with several of the island bootleggers, kept him supplied.  No one dared ask in exchange for what, it was too frightful a prospect.  On the morning Old Hat discovered him asleep in her sheep pen, naked except for a pair of laceless old boots and a battered fedora, The Point woke to a shattering shotgun blast, then another and another, all before the factory whistle had blown.  Hattie chased him clear to The Old Road before she relented with one final and precisely aimed load of buckshot - by then Willie was howling and everyone from Uncle Shad's to Sparrow's was awake and watching.

My grandmother, caught in the act of removing a fresh batch of corn muffins from the ancient stove, was so startled she dropped the muffin tin.  What in heaven's name.....she began and then cursed colorfully as muffins scattered on the linoleum floor and the dogs arrived in tandem to snatch them up.  Was that a gun? she snapped, the muffins forgotten ( though there would be hell to pay later ) as she ran for the sunporch.
Jan, was that a gun?

My mother, still in her robe and slippers was casually smoking a cigarette.  Indeed it was, she said mildly, 
Hattie's after Willie again, Lord only knows why.

Well, don't just stand there!  Nana yelled, She's likely to kill him with that damn scattergun!

Not my affair, my mother said mildly, It'd just be one less village idiot.

My grandmother cursed again and ran out the porch door just in time to see Willie vault one handed over the guard rail and disappear down the treacherous incline.  Hattie stood defiantly, panting for breath with her smoking shotgun still sighted and I had an absurd image of ducks in a shooting gallery and began to laugh.

Hattie!  my grandmother yelled, What the hell are you doing?  Put that damn gun down!

Old Hat, all in black and as always reminding me of Mammy Yokum from Li'l Abner, slowly lowered the gun, spit    venomously and glared at my grandmother.

Missed the damn fool, she hollered back, Reckon my eyes ain't what they used to be...but the day's still young!

Hattie, you know you ain't supposed to be shootin' off that thing, Nana yelled impatiently, Somebody'll call the Mounties again!

By then I'd reached the guard rail and slipped over it but although I could see all the way to Gull Rock,there was no sign of Willie, dead or alive, naked or otherwise.  I did imagine that I could see a battered old fedora caught on a rock but it was a long way off and it might've been no more than a clump of dirt and twisted grass.
Old Hat and my grandmother were still in the midst of a somewhat spirited argument, but Nana seemed to be winning and after another minute or two, Hattie lowered her shotgun, shook off my grandmother's grip and headed back the way she had come, grumbling to herself with every step.

One of these days, Nana sighed, she really is goin' shoot him.  Right between those crossed eyes, I 'magine. You know, she's a much better shot than she lets on.  She gave me a stern look and a sterner still pat on the backside.  Fetch me a blanket from the cedar closet and we'll see iffen we can't find him 'fore he drowns and gets washed out with the tide.

With a little help from the Ryans, Willie was located, bruised and dirty and asleep in a dry docked rowboat, a half empty bottle of whiskey clutched in hand and naked as the proverbial jaybird.  The Ryans wrapped him in the sweet, cedar-y smelling blanket and volunteered to drive him home - Nana didn't even protest the loss of the blanket - although she did threaten to make short work of the dogs for the loss of the muffins and she banished them both for the rest of the day.

She didn't speak to my mother for two days.

Second Helpings

Always in search of a silver lining and the sun behind the clouds, I sign the second repair ticket for the furnace with a sigh - another $350 - and idly muse that I won't live long enough to pay it.  If so, at least I won't be here to feel ashamed or guilty.  Meanwhile, the temperatures have risen and the house is warm enough to be comfortable - not cozy, not snug, not toasty, but comfortable - before I go to bed I set the space heaters to 68, plug in the small brown dog's heating pad on my pillow, and remind myself it could be so much worse.  This is not how I envisioned this time in my life but it's what I have and I'm still grateful.  Mostly.

Before all this nonsense began, I found myself downtown on a mildly chilly Saturday afternoon, at a benefit for a local musician whose medical bills were threatening to force him into bankruptcy.  Late in the day, standing outside on the sidewalk, I noticed dozens and dozens of ragged people beginning to congregate in the vacant parking lot and cluster around the donated picnic tables.  They came in ones and twos, on crutches and in wheelchairs and walkers, carrying bundles and paper sacks, milling about aimlessly.  They were black and white, young and old, cheerful and downhearted, wearing or carrying everything they owned.  Two white vans pulled up and double parked, dislodging volunteers from Catholic Charities - a handful of young people began unloading plastic containers of food and coffee urns, paper plates and plastic cups.  They worked quickly and efficiently in the late afternoon light and soon the tables were filled with crock pots of red beans and rice, gumbo, loaves of bread, green vegetables and sweet rolls.  The homeless formed a crooked line and waited, joined hands and bowed heads for a brief prayer.  Then each took a steaming plate and found a place to sit.  There were a lot of smiles and good natured conversations and second helpings - each came with a blessing and a few encouraging words, an empathetic but by no means pitying hug.  It was an enduring memory, this stark collection of opposing images - happy yet sad, upbeat yet tragic, cold but heart warming.  Remembering it made me feel ashamed to have complained so mightily about a lack of money and a short lived lack of heat.

How foolish we can be not to see fortune when it's all around us.