It's a Smashing Pumpkins kind of week. The final chorus from 'Perfect' earworms through my head, accompanied by lyrics from 'Ava Adore':
"...and I'll pull your crooked teeth / you'll be perfect just like me..."
My kitchen table place mats are a bit shrunken since they first arrived as a wedding present 16 years ago, wrapped in an over-sized Crate & Barrel box. They are now so frequently spattered with ketchup, chocolate, barbeque and balsamic vinaigrette by the other members of the household (I confess the occasional coffee slosh) that I gave up on my drip-dry dreams in favor of weekly washings. The mats often arrive back on the table with dryer creases that won't lie quite flat and I'm positive that they were once a much warmer shade than taupe. Something more from the African savannah.
They are, however, precisely aligned with the edge of the table. Parallel, perpendicular and crumb-free for a few hours, they lie emptied of half-filled water glasses, rubber bracelets, dirty napkins and scissors. I draw them up just so to the waiting chairs, evenly spaced from each other like mutually repelling magnets, and flush with the wooden edge so that no casual passer-by can plop, put, forget or otherwise fill the serenity. It's a table-in-waiting, with sunshine illuminating the dust motes that surreptitiously drift back down after a good smacking with a damp towel or my bare hand.
Compulsive behavior is a real plus to the one charged with determining the household's standard. The symptoms of my suspected disorder benefit everyone in the house: those who appreciate a tidy space AND those who can't abide a disturbance in the force. Stasis is the status quo of a good housekeeper. The badge of honor. Touching, straightening and re-creating a space without actually living in it.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Dropping the Call
(01/13/2011)
For your consideration, a post begun mid-July 2010 and abandoned before I ever really got to my point. Was there a point? It would seem moot now, as I've already lived through most of the anticipated events and stress described below. This half-eaten post drove my blog to a grinding halt because, life's crazy left turns aside, I hate unfinished business. What can I say? I'm a procrastinating perfectionist and until I can figure out how to light a cleansing, digital bonfire I'll be stuck here, sitting in a heap of regret.
Well, enough friends started or renewed their own blogs this month to remind me that I have something to share, something to enjoy, something to get back to so that I can move forward. Here it is, in its original form with as quick an ending as would satisfy a raging perfectionist who desperately needs some lovely slop in her life..
.......
(07/29/2010)
Even as I gear up for the approaching school year with shopping and calendaring, I find myself clinging to shreds of summer ease. Nights without homework. Days without bus stop drama. Today's lazy morning under a cloudy, hiccuping sky. I'm not sure that recovering 7.5 hours of daily child-free time isn't somewhat (if not completely) offset by the barrage of fall-winter activities I know is coming down the pipeline.
Homework, violin practice and lessons, youth orchestra, karate, dinner and family time for two children are all squeezed into the 5 hours between bus and bed. Dance will take a knee this semester for the first time in six years - I hope that my daughter agrees. Bless my son for having zero interest in fall baseball. Festivals with their accompanying volunteer and attendance expectations come all too fast on the heels of the first day of school. Weekly shelving stints at the school library, battles with the room parents over food allergies, back-to-school nights, Halloween costumes, out-of-town visitors and the weeks-long barrage of winter holidays and school breaks all conspire to dictate the outcome of nearly every weekday through the end of the calendar year.
Small wonder, then, that I feel short of breath when I realize that fall also means the re-awakening of my church committee obligations, annual art show duties and further calls to service, usually at the leadership level. I could add in the details of my husband's busy life here, but suffice it to say that his current level of job responsibility leaves little time or energy for much more than a passing swipe at personal interests.
Stop. All of us know the answer to the mathematics chicken-scratched above. Take back your time. Cull activities down to what is realistic and fulfilling. Don't keep up with the Joneses. Learn to say no. We know it's true and effective and necessary to our survival and happiness to make changes when life isn't working. We know, or at least we are told, that giving things up isn't about giving up and giving in, i.e., defeat. It's about living to fight another day.
(01/13/2011)
However, there is a real danger when we say no, that when we refuse to answer a call to service, we are losing something equally as precious as the time we gain. Connectedness. I wrote a large part of this just as I was "quitting" a volunteer job that I loved for the past 8-9 years, but which I knew could be my undoing this year. I see people less. People miss me more. I leave the house less and come across fewer social opportunities that naturally fall into the laps of those who regularly interact with others. All in the name of "me time." In the several months that followed the stoppage of my blog, the same months that followed my withdrawal from several volunteer efforts, I wondered why things that were so beneficial to others and to me also could be significant sources of stress. Where was the magic balance between volunteerism and private life? Was I picking the wrong situations to share my gifts? Was I making one gigantic commitment at a time versus several small ones?
I still don't have those answers and until I do I won't be throwing my precious (read: stress-free) time around to every comer. I only recently found a sort of answer to that lack of connectedness which completely ignores the question of whether an activity is charitable and instead looks at my ability and willingness to perform the activity. Intellect and skills and time are not the only requirements. What about joy? How can I give and give with joy when I find my own supply running low? Is the expectation to share one's talents for the greater good logical if one doesn't feel good? I know that some find their joy through giving but I see now that this usually has not been the case for me and I've decided not to feel guilty about it.
I now find joy through "volunteering" to help friends with their own businesses. By playing my violin as a valued member of a local Celtic group. By baking loaves of delicious sourdough bread weekly using a sponge first set in the 1700's. And I hope that those I interact with receive joy from me - whether it's a loaf, a tune or a spreadsheet. Or a bon mot.
For your consideration, a post begun mid-July 2010 and abandoned before I ever really got to my point. Was there a point? It would seem moot now, as I've already lived through most of the anticipated events and stress described below. This half-eaten post drove my blog to a grinding halt because, life's crazy left turns aside, I hate unfinished business. What can I say? I'm a procrastinating perfectionist and until I can figure out how to light a cleansing, digital bonfire I'll be stuck here, sitting in a heap of regret.
Well, enough friends started or renewed their own blogs this month to remind me that I have something to share, something to enjoy, something to get back to so that I can move forward. Here it is, in its original form with as quick an ending as would satisfy a raging perfectionist who desperately needs some lovely slop in her life..
.......
(07/29/2010)
Even as I gear up for the approaching school year with shopping and calendaring, I find myself clinging to shreds of summer ease. Nights without homework. Days without bus stop drama. Today's lazy morning under a cloudy, hiccuping sky. I'm not sure that recovering 7.5 hours of daily child-free time isn't somewhat (if not completely) offset by the barrage of fall-winter activities I know is coming down the pipeline.
Homework, violin practice and lessons, youth orchestra, karate, dinner and family time for two children are all squeezed into the 5 hours between bus and bed. Dance will take a knee this semester for the first time in six years - I hope that my daughter agrees. Bless my son for having zero interest in fall baseball. Festivals with their accompanying volunteer and attendance expectations come all too fast on the heels of the first day of school. Weekly shelving stints at the school library, battles with the room parents over food allergies, back-to-school nights, Halloween costumes, out-of-town visitors and the weeks-long barrage of winter holidays and school breaks all conspire to dictate the outcome of nearly every weekday through the end of the calendar year.
Small wonder, then, that I feel short of breath when I realize that fall also means the re-awakening of my church committee obligations, annual art show duties and further calls to service, usually at the leadership level. I could add in the details of my husband's busy life here, but suffice it to say that his current level of job responsibility leaves little time or energy for much more than a passing swipe at personal interests.
Stop. All of us know the answer to the mathematics chicken-scratched above. Take back your time. Cull activities down to what is realistic and fulfilling. Don't keep up with the Joneses. Learn to say no. We know it's true and effective and necessary to our survival and happiness to make changes when life isn't working. We know, or at least we are told, that giving things up isn't about giving up and giving in, i.e., defeat. It's about living to fight another day.
(01/13/2011)
However, there is a real danger when we say no, that when we refuse to answer a call to service, we are losing something equally as precious as the time we gain. Connectedness. I wrote a large part of this just as I was "quitting" a volunteer job that I loved for the past 8-9 years, but which I knew could be my undoing this year. I see people less. People miss me more. I leave the house less and come across fewer social opportunities that naturally fall into the laps of those who regularly interact with others. All in the name of "me time." In the several months that followed the stoppage of my blog, the same months that followed my withdrawal from several volunteer efforts, I wondered why things that were so beneficial to others and to me also could be significant sources of stress. Where was the magic balance between volunteerism and private life? Was I picking the wrong situations to share my gifts? Was I making one gigantic commitment at a time versus several small ones?
I still don't have those answers and until I do I won't be throwing my precious (read: stress-free) time around to every comer. I only recently found a sort of answer to that lack of connectedness which completely ignores the question of whether an activity is charitable and instead looks at my ability and willingness to perform the activity. Intellect and skills and time are not the only requirements. What about joy? How can I give and give with joy when I find my own supply running low? Is the expectation to share one's talents for the greater good logical if one doesn't feel good? I know that some find their joy through giving but I see now that this usually has not been the case for me and I've decided not to feel guilty about it.
I now find joy through "volunteering" to help friends with their own businesses. By playing my violin as a valued member of a local Celtic group. By baking loaves of delicious sourdough bread weekly using a sponge first set in the 1700's. And I hope that those I interact with receive joy from me - whether it's a loaf, a tune or a spreadsheet. Or a bon mot.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Space Garbage
Last week, a friend and I discussed our personal efforts to deal with life crises and chronic failings in terms of talking/not talking with others for support. This led to a comparison of male and female tendencies to clam up or to spew forth (stereotypically or not.) I thought about it and decided that I probably clam up just a bit too long in some kind of effort to be private or to pull myself up by my own bootstraps. Eventually, however, I blow the airlock on the garbage room and send my unwanted neural rinds out into the universe.
I found this analogy somewhat funny because it called up images of a raging tantrum or throwing everything out the window. I thought about the space movies where people cling to the edges of an open airlock, trying to climb back in, and all you can think is, "You should already be dead. Your eyeballs should have already burst out of your head from the lack of external pressure." The potential bystanders of an interstellar purge are often the only ones with the wherewithal to close the doors and suggest new OSHA guidelines for refuse handling. (I'd love to see their purge schedule.)
The week prior to this conversation, after many, many days of restless thoughts and resulting low emotional defenses, I'd had a long space garbage talk with someone. It felt overdue, not because it would actually solve a problem or make me feel significantly better about a problem, but because the little space commander on my bridge cannot ever keep her own counsel, despite an admiration for Jean-Luc Picard. Everything has to be run by Number One and entered into the ship's log and broadcast on all frequencies, just in case. It would be dishonest and disrespectful to the mission to do otherwise.
And there's the rub. Most space garbage is not appropriate for all frequencies and some is not acceptable on any. Toxic topics require hazmat permits and even the management of special recycling centers glove up in triplicate when a load arrives outside their bays. Blowing the airlock puts all involved at risk - invasion of privacy, hurt feelings, embarrassment, offensiveness, helplessness, repulsion. But the garbage can't sit unattended for long. There's room for another 3 week's worth but those chicken papers in the 2nd layer are starting to reek. Big time. I might never get the smell out of my hair and I'm not sure the crew will be willing to hose out the bay next time if maggots have already hatched.
Sometimes counter-actions like a night out or a day of distracting chores can reset the smell-o-meter with no peril to the mission. I often suspect that the meter is hyper-sensitive anyway, but it's a custom part so there's no use hoping for a newer model to come along. The needle always seems to creep right back up at a steady pace until the big red button is pushed, and however small an amount of accumulated crud clings to the walls, it's finally sucked out.
[Okay, the analogy falters here because "blowing" the airlock is, in fact, exposing the interior of the craft to the space vacuum. I have no idea how to work with this - I like being on the verb end of things and not the object. Stick with me, despite our obvious failure to achieve exit velocity.]
Whether constant emotional/informational purging is another symptom of late-onset OCD, indicates poor personal boundaries, or is the inevitable result of an overburdened, aging system, there's no choice. The commander must press the button and hope for the best. Hope that no one on her crew is sucked out or quits in protest. Hope that no fellow commanders call the Federation behind her back or, worse, stop taking her calls. Hope that this stubborn wad of blackened gum eventually comes free. Even if it's just for my gal on the bridge to know there's someone/something out there in the void with a larger garbage can and better charcoal filters, the button will be pushed.
I found this analogy somewhat funny because it called up images of a raging tantrum or throwing everything out the window. I thought about the space movies where people cling to the edges of an open airlock, trying to climb back in, and all you can think is, "You should already be dead. Your eyeballs should have already burst out of your head from the lack of external pressure." The potential bystanders of an interstellar purge are often the only ones with the wherewithal to close the doors and suggest new OSHA guidelines for refuse handling. (I'd love to see their purge schedule.)
The week prior to this conversation, after many, many days of restless thoughts and resulting low emotional defenses, I'd had a long space garbage talk with someone. It felt overdue, not because it would actually solve a problem or make me feel significantly better about a problem, but because the little space commander on my bridge cannot ever keep her own counsel, despite an admiration for Jean-Luc Picard. Everything has to be run by Number One and entered into the ship's log and broadcast on all frequencies, just in case. It would be dishonest and disrespectful to the mission to do otherwise.
And there's the rub. Most space garbage is not appropriate for all frequencies and some is not acceptable on any. Toxic topics require hazmat permits and even the management of special recycling centers glove up in triplicate when a load arrives outside their bays. Blowing the airlock puts all involved at risk - invasion of privacy, hurt feelings, embarrassment, offensiveness, helplessness, repulsion. But the garbage can't sit unattended for long. There's room for another 3 week's worth but those chicken papers in the 2nd layer are starting to reek. Big time. I might never get the smell out of my hair and I'm not sure the crew will be willing to hose out the bay next time if maggots have already hatched.
Sometimes counter-actions like a night out or a day of distracting chores can reset the smell-o-meter with no peril to the mission. I often suspect that the meter is hyper-sensitive anyway, but it's a custom part so there's no use hoping for a newer model to come along. The needle always seems to creep right back up at a steady pace until the big red button is pushed, and however small an amount of accumulated crud clings to the walls, it's finally sucked out.
[Okay, the analogy falters here because "blowing" the airlock is, in fact, exposing the interior of the craft to the space vacuum. I have no idea how to work with this - I like being on the verb end of things and not the object. Stick with me, despite our obvious failure to achieve exit velocity.]
Whether constant emotional/informational purging is another symptom of late-onset OCD, indicates poor personal boundaries, or is the inevitable result of an overburdened, aging system, there's no choice. The commander must press the button and hope for the best. Hope that no one on her crew is sucked out or quits in protest. Hope that no fellow commanders call the Federation behind her back or, worse, stop taking her calls. Hope that this stubborn wad of blackened gum eventually comes free. Even if it's just for my gal on the bridge to know there's someone/something out there in the void with a larger garbage can and better charcoal filters, the button will be pushed.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Down the Booby Hatch
Today I meet with a local surgical group about excising a small benign mass in my left breast. A week ago this appointment seemed like a horrible step onto one of two paths: unnecessary surgery that would ease the medical community's mind, resulting in more pain and scarring, not to mention infection risk and emotional trauma; or surgery that would find cancer, thus requiring additional small (or large or monumental) surgeries and other treatments in the name of preventing my untimely death.
Having obtained a few second opinions and done our own research regarding this particular pathology, my husband and I are perfectly comfortable choosing the monitoring route even before we talk to the surgeon. We'll see if there's a new spin after this afternoon. However, our relief is already palpable - we are in control over what needs to be done, not the person on the other end of the phone line. There is no rush, no urgency, and no wondering what parts of our lives might be forever altered, probably for the worse. Even a bad diagnosis still can be dealt with a piece at a time.
So, before I get all maudlin and thoughtful again, I'll just pass along another small bit of the humor that helped me to communicate each part of my news to the world without scaring anyone or myself. I used it to express what was probably anger over feeling smashed and railroaded through an imperfect process versus any real fear about cancer. During all the mammograms, ultrasounds and needles, I would occasionally remember this untouched blog, named for a Tori Amos lyric that I like to say to myself but only sometimes feels true for me now.
I decided that, based on my minor and relatively short experience, I might change the name to "Everybody Else's Boobs." They certainly felt that way.
Having obtained a few second opinions and done our own research regarding this particular pathology, my husband and I are perfectly comfortable choosing the monitoring route even before we talk to the surgeon. We'll see if there's a new spin after this afternoon. However, our relief is already palpable - we are in control over what needs to be done, not the person on the other end of the phone line. There is no rush, no urgency, and no wondering what parts of our lives might be forever altered, probably for the worse. Even a bad diagnosis still can be dealt with a piece at a time.
So, before I get all maudlin and thoughtful again, I'll just pass along another small bit of the humor that helped me to communicate each part of my news to the world without scaring anyone or myself. I used it to express what was probably anger over feeling smashed and railroaded through an imperfect process versus any real fear about cancer. During all the mammograms, ultrasounds and needles, I would occasionally remember this untouched blog, named for a Tori Amos lyric that I like to say to myself but only sometimes feels true for me now.
I decided that, based on my minor and relatively short experience, I might change the name to "Everybody Else's Boobs." They certainly felt that way.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Amplitude - Life at 40
It's technically still Monday, which is when I promised my first post. It will be the very last time I pre-book a post, as chronic procrastinators without working knowledge of Blogger have no business trying to meet deliverables. This is for Erin who probably is not not my biggest fan, but is the only one who heard that I'd claimed a piece of blog acreage and didn't let me forget it.
Today I turn 40 and there are no wry observations about wrinkles, time lost or the "new 30" which I believe enough to make my own. Instead, I note that the very best and the very worst things that have happened in my life occurred during the last ten years. I also believe that this statement is most likely true were it to be applied retroactively to my 30-, 20- or 10-year old selves. One always thinks that the last best thing was the absolute best and the latest worst thing the most unbearable. It is a failure to imagine greater greats and deeper sorrows in the future, for the superlative nature of the present defies change.
Instead of deeming my own observation the evidence of a mind with less hope than hubris, or a life inevitably slanted toward entropy, I find it wondrous proof that my life swings in ever greater arcs as I grow. And, if it thus follows that my next wound will cut deeper or take more time to heal, so be it. My next heart-bursting joy will spread like a contagion until I am dizzy from the upswing, looking down at a world of my choosing.
Today I turn 40 and there are no wry observations about wrinkles, time lost or the "new 30" which I believe enough to make my own. Instead, I note that the very best and the very worst things that have happened in my life occurred during the last ten years. I also believe that this statement is most likely true were it to be applied retroactively to my 30-, 20- or 10-year old selves. One always thinks that the last best thing was the absolute best and the latest worst thing the most unbearable. It is a failure to imagine greater greats and deeper sorrows in the future, for the superlative nature of the present defies change.
Instead of deeming my own observation the evidence of a mind with less hope than hubris, or a life inevitably slanted toward entropy, I find it wondrous proof that my life swings in ever greater arcs as I grow. And, if it thus follows that my next wound will cut deeper or take more time to heal, so be it. My next heart-bursting joy will spread like a contagion until I am dizzy from the upswing, looking down at a world of my choosing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)