Ritual

Caroline Casey often says, create ritual or live melodrama. I'm sure she says it in relation to some planetary influence but I don't remember which or why. It's just always made sense to me. I've had rituals in my life connected to spiritual practice and I've found then comforting. Usually at some point they become rote and start to feel restrictive. But there is something about performing small acts of reverence that feels like ceremony. And ceremony feels like drama is a (somewhat) controlled sense.
With that in mind I wanted to create a daily ritual once I'd settled into the nest. Seemed like a simple thing to do. I wanted to find a way to formalize my gratitude and also do yoga. But I am rarely simple.
It felt like I should start the day with my new ritual but I have to eat pretty much first thing. If I don't I get wicked stomach aches, don't want to eat and then at some point in the afternoon become insatiable. Protein works best. I eat eggs pretty much every day. In San Francisco I walked from the bed to the computer, also turned on the radio, stopped long enough to make breakfast and take it back to the computer. There were days when I didn't get dressed until noon. Now I live on a main street with a wall of floor to ceiling windows. If the light is shining a certain way and if you happen to look up it's like I live in a diorama. People really don't seem to look. And my pajamas aren't particularly revealing. I'm not overly worried about being seen. I could keep the blinds drawn if I were. But Monday through Friday I get up, take a shower and get dressed before I make breakfast. On the weekends there are some news shows on radio and television that I like so my shower comes later. I also wanted to get away from being in front of the screen all day every day. Now I eat at my table or on my butcher block and delay getting to the desk.
Well.
Of course.
To be honest.
I check email and Facebook on my phone first thing every day.
Heh.
And I still turn the radio on first thing with rare exception.
TV on the weekends.
These tiny little shifts in behavior are fun but they are not a formal, reverent, ritual. But OK. I get through all that and then ... a ritual. Right?
I have always wanted an I Ching. I specifically wanted someone to give me one. I took advantage of  a gift certificate from Kristina to get one a few months ago. The Ching is not easy for me. It took me awhile to decide to use pennies instead of looking for special Ching coins. I had to read how to do the casting and I'm not at all sure I'm doing it correctly. Then there was Mom's visit and my trip to North Carolina and wanting to recover from all that by burying myself in a Sims coma. And finally this morning, a Monday morning, the start of a new week morning I decided to try to do my ritual.
First I shower, poach some eggs, feed Benedict, turn on the computer.
And then I toss the coins. My hexagram? Shing: Pushing Upward.
Seriously?
Further reading talked about success with effort. By then I was having an energy crash that I sometimes have in the late morning and I needed to lay down and close my eyes, which I find hysterical.
I had a battle with my elevator door awhile back and I lost. I ended up on the cement floor of the parking garage. I pulled myself up a few steps. The whole thing hurt my shoulders in some muscle straining way. Even small movements can be painful. This too will pass but no yoga for now.
The hexagram talks about heaping up small things and bringing small offerings. All very encouraging.Lots of "no blame." And so I will not count this morning as the beginning of a new ritual but as a small offering toward that idea.
I'll keep pushing upward but verrrrry slowly.    

Home

Weird thing happened when I returned from NC. When I walked into the nest I didn't feel a sense of being home. I'm not even sure what I mean by that. I haven't lived here that long and there are ways in which I haven't fully internalized the fact that this is my home. It was days later when I stood up, turned toward the kitchen, took in the sight of my cookbook corner and smiled.
I've had the thought that so much of what makes a place home is about habits. It's about the sound of the radio when you're taking a shower and making breakfast. The lights that you turn on when the sun starts to set. It's about the smell of the hand soap.
I think for people in relationships, or with pets it's about hugs and kisses. Maybe. I don't know.

I've been in state of gratitude since I first walked into the nest. Grateful just to be here. Grateful for the people who helped me get here. Grateful for every house warming gift. Grateful every time I do laundry. It's been a long time since I've experienced such spontaneous, sustained gratitude.

Maybe the opposite of gratitude is resentment and I have plenty of that. I have a deep well of resentment. I can tap into it at any moment. But I tap less often. 

If you tell me to look at the positive, I'll tell you to learn to be able to endure the negative. I get very cranky, very quickly when people are all about the positive thing. I have made, I try to make effort to be authentic. And sometimes I am not authentically... positive. It's not about making that OK. It just is.
There's something about wholeness. Something that requires acceptance. Mara tempts and assaults and is always there. Should we ignore Mara? Be entertained? Who knows? But what I feel is that these emotions and experiences and embarrassments are not to be denied. 

And.
I feel more positive things than I have in years. Every color on a wall. Every book on a shelf. Every plant in window. All my stuff. It's all here and all unpacked and I look at it all with new eyes.
But I didn't feel immediately at home. It doesn't worry me. It's just curious. It's like wearing a new outfit and not being sure of the fit, or the style.
I actually think it's a very good thing. The radio I listen to now is OPB, which is NPR with Oregon content. The lights I turn on are all linked to one switch, which makes me smile for no particular reason. The smell of the hand soap is the same but the water gets warm faster. I haven't established habits. Or at least none to which I cling. It's really hard for me to imagine a time when living here won't feel like an amazing reality that I did not see coming.
Maybe that's the way home feels.   

The Mommy is Napping

What to do? What to do? There are so many things I feel I would do if I didn't need to be aware of her and now I have this time and ... what to do?
Mom doesn't require a lot of care but she does like being cared for and this year I notice more and more that she just wants me to help her. I have my own experience of wanting and needing help so I get it. I do what I can. Try not to be impatient or frustrated. Try to be kind. Try. Fail. Try harder.
I've lived alone for most of my adult life. Sharing space for any length of time always stretches me. With mom there are layers. There's the problems of our relationship. The problems of her aging process. The problems of my aging problems. The problems of ... you know...life. It's a lot to parse.
There's always something to cook, or something to clean. There's football on the TV. The volume is always on high.
So she's asleep. What to do?
At night when I'm trying to get to sleep I start thinking about blog posts I could write. Can't remember any of them now. I could read. I could watch one of the shows she won't watch. I can't really turn off the TV because she'll wake up if I do. I could take my own nap.
There's a line in a Joni song. There's always a line in a Joni song. "Now I am returning to myself the things you and I suppress." I imagine it's about a romantic relationship but it's something I feel after these long times with Mom. I put the jewelry back in my nose and call back all the parts of myself that I have not needed around her.
I feel like I'm changing. In ways I can't quite articulate. I have felt that way for most of the year. It's probably in part about living in a new town. The changes of habit. Something is shifting. Good. Bad. Both. Neither.
I never had my own children but I spent lots of time with other people's kids. I remember that feeling when they fall asleep and you know you are free but you're also exhausted. You do something mindless or silly just because you need to not be ... on.
Now I'm starting to worry because she's slept a lot today. Is she sick? Is she slipping away?
What to do?
It's almost time to start the soup.

Is It Safe?

Years ago I had a friend who had seen the movie Marathon Man and used the "is it safe" question as his own method of torture. He would look all glittery eyed and ask the question for no particular reason. We were, at that time, all trying to believe that the universe was going to take care of us in all ways if we had enough faith. We wanted it to be safe. But we weren't really sure it was.
Last week I noticed a post from the Hood River News on Facebook. There had been a bank robbery and schools were in lock down. I got an email from a friend with the heading: Don't go outside! I hadn't really been planning on it so I wasn't too worried.
A little while later I got email from the HOA guy saying that a homeless guy had entered our building somehow and tried to get into one of the units. He's a known homeless guy. I've seen him from my window. He seems harmless but it would be disconcerting to have him walk in the door.  
All this while the news from Colorado became increasingly grim. The news about Syria became increasingly confusing. The news. The news. The news.
The day felt weird. It wasn't that I felt like the robbers and homeless people of the world were on their way to me with mal intent. I wasn't even really worried. But I was something. Disconcerted? Maybe.
I've been trying to get a non drivers ID from the state of Oregon. I went on line for the paper work and filled it out. I brought two non driver IDs from the state of Colorado. I brought my long expired passport. I brought the xerox copy of my state issued birth certificate. None of that was enough. I need a specific state issued birth certificate. I talked to Mom. She sent my birth certificate. I went back. Not good enough. It was issued by the hospital. Not the state.
It's the death of common sense.
Since I have two state issued non driver IDs there must have been a time when the things I have were enough. But not now. And here's why it's pissing me off. There are states requiring state issued IDs before you can vote. I'm not entirely sure if that's true here but when I went on line to register it asked for my Driver's licence number. And you hear people talking about how it's not that hard to get an ID.
Well.
I will eventually get what I need. Maybe the third time will be the charm. I'll get my ID. I'll register to vote.
The burglar was taken into custody the other day.
Haven't seen the homeless guy walking around.
Is it safe?  

Then what?

Kristina came for a visit. That was a very good thing.
It seemed like once or twice a day we'd be talking and I say something about a post I was going to write. When she left I assumed I'd be writing up a storm.
But.
No.
I assumed I'd be writing because we'd had so many great conversations. And we'd met up with Marcia in Portland and had more great conversation. My brain was sparking. I can't really explain why I never got to the page.
Since I've been here my days have been filled with unpacking and general settling in activities. My back has knocked me down a few times. Not terribly surprising since for months I've been moving boxes around. Mostly boxes of books. I found a really wonderful chiropractor but her adjustments are somewhat different than Barbara's. It all added up and I spent so many days on an ice pack that I burned my skin. But I was reading a lot and that also usually stimulates writing.
I think there's a writing guru who says something about "butt in the chair" as a big part of writing. Maybe. But for me it's always been about words building up and repeating in my head. It's often a reaction. I often have a post written in my head long before I sit in the chair. And I did have a few. But they seem to flattened.
The nest is pretty close to settled. I've bought and been gifted a few things but most of the stuff is the same stuff I've been living with and yet it all looks new. Every book on a shelf. Every picture on the wall. I feel more and more ... at home.
I've been asking myself what I'll do when there's nothing left to unpack. It's going to be awhile before that's true.  

That'll do pig.

My living room makes me happy.
During the worst ten years of my life (that would be the last ten years) I began to wonder if I'd come to identify with being unhappy. I wondered if I was able to be happy. It wasn't that I liked being unhappy I just ...wasn't. I wanted to be able to feel my real emotion and tell the truth about it. Einstein said he thought well being and happiness shouldn't be an absolute aim. He compared such "moral aims" to the "ambitions of a pig." I took some kind of validation and comfort in that idea. I felt authentically unhappy. I wanted authenticity.
And now.
My living room makes me happy.

         

I am, generally speaking, happy these days. That doesn't mean I haven't had bad moments or bad days. 

For a few weeks unpacking got slowed way down. The nest was a vacation rental and full of furniture most of it was taken to a very nice consignment store before I arrived but there was a table, some chairs, a bed and some art. The very cool woman from the store had been busy and took awhile to come back. Once that stuff was out of here I could do some unpacking but I was also waiting for the guy who is helping me with things like repairing my desk and painting the walls and stuff. He got busy with other jobs and a vacation. I was set up enough to cook and sleep and watch TV and use my computer but I wanted things to be in place. So I've had some frustrated days. Some grouchy days. Some lonely days. But then he showed up and so much fell into place. I still have more books to shelve and stuff to put on the wall and more to do but the living room is in pretty good shape. It makes me happy. The kitchen is coming together as well. There are no more boxes in the hall way. 

It's not like I was never happy during the last ten years. I was. And it's always been true that I can fill up with happiness over really random things. Like books on a shelf. Or plants looking healthy. I've never been so far gone that I couldn't see beauty and feel sentiment. But it was harder. 

I'm almost as worried about this ... happiness... as I was worried about my lack of it. But it's not an absolute aim. 

Heh. 

Attention

Jeane was visiting me years ago. We'd been out to dinner. When we walked in we turned on the TV looking for a movie or something. On every channel there was live coverage of a car chase, a white Bronco. We turned it off. And that was how I dealt with the entire epic of the O.J. Simpson trial. I turned it off. I had no interest. I had no opinion. Until the day of the verdict. On that day I was glued to my television. It was so interesting to watch the variety of reactions. Heartbreaking in some cases. Confusing in others but so compelling.
My experience of the Zimmerman trial was slightly different. I watched bits of because it was always on MSNBC. I found it hard to watch and I usually didn't watch for long. On the day of the verdict I was again glued to the television until it was announced. My first thought was, "Not again." I was so angry I had to turn it off. I couldn't shake that anger for days. I haven't really shaken it yet.
The two trials don't have much in common but they were both a hyper public spectacle. I won't argue that we have a right to see what happens in the courtroom but I have mixed feelings. The courtroom is a theater space even when it's not on television. But it should be a pretty boring theater. It should be about flat narratives and details of legal structures. I think it is most of the time. But not this one. This one was about bad jokes and Twitter reactions and endless analysis and chunks of concrete. And a weary ending.    
At some point a friend changed her Facebook picture to the Trayvon icon seen now in so many places. I grabbed it myself. I'll probably change it soon.
I used to write more about issues of the day. I've stopped because I worry about the culture of opinion. I want to be sure that if I'm going to write something it's going to feel useful in some way and I'm not really sure it's useful for me to add my angst. But the aftermath of the trial has held my emotion. I'm not even sure what there is to hope for but it feels like there are reasons for hope. There is a conversation happening. There are people sitting in and marching and making demands. I think real change happens slowly and happens in heart and minds. Spectacles can be fodder for change.
I'm still nesting. It's slow going but steady. I get frustrated and then I get over it. Every day the nest feels more like mine. I'm still overwhelmed with gratitude.
There is a pub up the street. On weekends they often have bands. It's loud and goes on into the night. The night of the verdict there was a metal band. Lots of whooping and hollering. It grated on my nerves. I wanted quiet and reflection.
Some times.
Most times.
All I feel I have to offer is my attention.