It's About Time

We homeschooled, my boys and I, through some of the primary school years. The reasons were varied.  I wanted to spend time with my children, to ensure that their individual needs were being met, and to have some control over the information and ideas they were exposed to at such an impressionable age.  But the biggest reason was I wanted freedom. Being told what to do and when to do it was oppressive to me; an affront to living our lives.  The intent was to be in sync with our natural rhythms and impulses.  Not to avoid doing work, but to do it when we were in the best state to be successful.  Just like when I would try to get up and exercise at 5:30am I couldn’t do as many repetitions with the weights as I could a few hours later.  Sometimes math is easy, and sometimes it looks like arbitrary unintelligible symbols.  At times ideas would flow for stories or art projects, other times the conditions were better for an excursion in the garden. Wearing pajamas we snuggled up on my bed with history books, retaining the information as if it were the plots of our favorite bedtime stories.

Five years ago with a divorce impending, I had to send my children to school and I accepted a job in a call center.  A position that required that every minute of my shift to be planned and accounted for, down to the time you can get up to go to the bathroom.  It was a difficult transition for all of us.  But I needed a job, newly single and a recession starting. Not long after, I was promoted to the person in charge of the schedules.  The person who hates being told what to do and when to do it, now creates the schedules for over a hundred people and monitors the results in real time.

The upside is I've learned the value of a schedule; learned that most of the world runs better if there are people where they are supposed to be and engaged in the tasks that are expected of them.  But these times still need to be bookended in freedom.  Openended time where we are living in the moment and following the path that we are drawn to. Playing, exploring new interests and talents.  I'm looking forward to the day when I'm completely in control of my schedule again.  Making the most of my time as I see fit.

Rushing

With an invisible guitar on my lap, I tried to move the fingers of my left hand as quickly as possible. It was only a minute before I felt my muscles start to cramp and fatigue.  Then I looked at down at the stage where Alex Lifeson of Rush, at age 59 had been moving his hands even faster...for almost 3 hours. Not only were his fingers moving ridiculously fast, but they were also landing exactly where they needed to be. And although he is capable of that, perhaps the most interesting part of his playing is that he can also use restraint and pauses. Musical negative space. Behind him was his band mate Neil Peart, nesting in metallic ring of percussion instruments. Neil didn't appear to be playing the instruments; rather he was a part of them. There was something in his eyes that made it look like he was in an alternate reality, experiencing the music in a private way disassociated from the thousands of people watching. Conversely, Geddy Lee was ever-present. Big smiles, peering out over tinted oval glasses, connecting with the crowd.  Moving all around the stage and hitting impossibly high notes.   

There is nothing like watching mastery—in anything really. I had a similar feeling a few weeks ago while at an air show. The Thunderbirds were performing. In machines whose very existence is a tremendous human accomplishment, the pilots push the limits even farther. In close formation, rushing at top speed, the six F-16s move as one. Their lives depend on it. Some people had earplugs in, but to me the sound of the jets added to the experience.  The noise and the vibrations reverberated through our bodies as the Thunderbirds made their passes, reinforcing the power that these pilots were harnessing. Creating beauty in this great feat of strength, endurance and timing.

More In Tune

“So I keep waiting for a glowing review of my waiting room,” said my son’s guitar teacher referring to the relatively dismal description of the old waiting room from the post In Tune.  (However I will take this opportunity to admit that I don’t believe that post adequately conveyed the fact that I think that a bleak waiting room actually is appropriate for the whole starving-artist-being-true-to-their-vision vibe.  So I may have mistakenly given the impression that I didn’t like it there.  I did.)  He was kidding, since it’s not so much a waiting room as a cozy corner of his studio.  I think of a waiting room as a place where you are just trying to find ways to pass the time while you…wait.  Whether it is the dentist office, the DMV, a courthouse--they usually all have bad art, a funky smell, magazines you would never subscribe to and stale air.  But the truth is instead of a place where you are waiting for time to pass, the waiting area for my son’s guitar lessons is now a place where I can sit and enjoy just being.  On the coffee table are magazines that I have spent my hard-earned money on, yet I don’t need to look at them since there is so much else to take in.  If I could ask a genie for one wish it would be to add 4 more hours to each day, I dole out my time jealously, yet I don’t consider the 30 minutes in this studio a waste of my time. 

A one room Cedar-shingled structure that fits right in with the rocky Maine landscape it sits on. Comfy furniture that isn’t fussy enough to have to worry about, an impressive array of guitars and audio equipment, windows letting in natural light, and photographs letting in memories.  And of course a fridge.  I liked this teacher when we were taking lessons at the other location, but I like him more now.  It makes sense.  When you see a Great Horned Owl soar over you through the trees or a seal poke his head out of the water in the surf, it is significantly more spectacular than seeing the same creatures in a zoo.  No matter how carefully the zoo was designed to mimic their homes.  Natural habitats give our true essence the space to come out and play.  To let people see what makes us feel happy and in tune with the life force.

Who Knows?

It was a disgusting feeling, something wet and slippery giving way under my foot as I was assessing potential damage to my garden.  From an upstairs window I had seen a mother turkey and her babies pecking at the ground around the sunflowers.  I ran downstairs to shoo them away into the nearby woods but when I got there I saw the mother retreating into the tree line.  But she wasn't happy.  She was making a racket and looking at me.  It was actually quite frighting.  I'm not comfortable with any beings that can't be reasoned with.  Which is why I prefer leading the teenagers in church and not the first graders.  Anyway, the wild turkey made me uneasy but I was fairly certain she wasn't willing to come back out into the open so I turned to see how much they had eaten.  That was when I made the very disturbing realization that the babies had not followed her and the wetness under my foot was one of them.  The others were balled up every few inches playing dead it seemed while its sibling didn't have to.  It appeared to be badly injured.

At first I was mad at the mother for leaving them in harm's way.  Then I was mad at myself for not seeing them.  I tried to see if there was anything I could do for the baby turkey as it raised its head and looked at me and then laid it back down.  Although horrible is was also an intimate moment.  This wild animal and I who normally would never look eye to eye in such close proximity.  I felt connected to him.  And I felt bad but not as traumatized as I would have been a few years ago.  Not from a lack of compassion toward animals.  In fact I haven't eaten a turkey or any other animal for about 14 years.   Do I think things happen for a reason?  I almost just wrote that I do.  But something stopped me.  I think that was what I thought.

Instead of things happening for a reason, I think they can be whatever reason we make from the lesson.  It makes me feel better to think that turkey was destined to meet this end, maybe to become someone's Power Animal.  Who knows.  There is a story that I don't know the origins of and too many people have blogged about it as it is but the repeating lines that a farmer states after good things and bad things happen is:  "Good luck, bad luck.  Who knows?"  Good things can happen for bad reasons, bad things can happen for good reasons.  We don't know if it is good or bad luck until it all plays out.  The best we can do is remain true to ourselves regardless of the good or bad events.  Or as George Carlin stated when speaking of something from his refrigerator:  "Maybe meat, maybe cake."  Who knows?  I wouldn't eat it either way.

First and Last Impressions

When trying to draw the contours of an object is it natural to make some mistakes--drawing things as you remember it to be rather than how it is.  To not take the time understand how the parts relate to each other in space.  It takes time and attention to observe the reality of the object.  Time and attention is hard to come by.  And when drawing or paiting it is very difficult to capture the life behind the lines; the energy inside of the contours.  The Impressionists tried to get around this by not worrying about details but capturing the tone or mood of the subject.

My friend Marjorie would have been a great subject for an impressionistic painting--she was colorful, frenetic and intelligent.  Marjorie recently suffered a massive stroke and was left unresponsive and I was glad that I was able to make it to her bedside in hospice to say goodbye.  It was after normal visiting hours and the halls were quiet and empty.  I was led into a room where a woman slept, at least I think she was sleeping.  Approaching the bed I really thought that it may be the wrong room.  This person did not resemble my friend at all.  I looked around the room for any evidence one way or the other, but there weren't any personal objects in the room.  Then off to the side I saw a little table with name tags on it from all of the organizations that Marjorie volunteered for.

Her hand was frail under mind, but I gently held it and closed my eyes.  In my mind her true nature came to visit.  A big, mischievous smile outlined in bright red lipstick greeted me.  Eyes sparkling under blue shadow; tilting her head back to peer at me through the glasses slipping down her nose.  Proud stance adorned with not quite matching patterned top and flowing skirt.  Cloth bags over her shoulders and a travel coffee mug held in her hand sloshed a little as she waved it around in animated conversation. 

Truthfully, she rarely stopped talking.  Once in a car ride she was quiet for two whole minutes.  She had just dozed off but woke with a jolt when I  panicked and yelled her name.  "You thought I was dead, didn't you!" she accused me.  And yes I had, so I responded "Well yes-- you've never stopped talking for that long before!"  Although her chatter was incessant, it was also intelligent, insightful and observant.  But unlike other people that talk non-stop she managed to listen and retain information as well.  Just when you thought she was completely self-absorbed she would pull out an obscure fact of information about you and sincerely ask about it.

In that quiet hospice room while I was having a moment with her in my mind, our breath fell into sync with each other.  It felt like I was breathing for her, willing her to be comfortable.  I opened my  eyes and thought that maybe I could see a little of her personality in the contours of her face after all.  I won't risk trying to draw a picture of her now that she has passed on and not around for me to double check the accuracy of the lines, but I can always close my eyes and remember the bold and beautiful impression of her spirit.

Power Tools and Pencil Marks

You may be wondering if I’d fallen off of the face of the Earth.  If you were to ask my children they would say we have and landed in the middle of the Boonies.  In reality it is an artsy thriving college town of about 20,000, filled with great restaurants and only 30 minutes from a good-sized city.  I'll let them have their gripes during the transition period if they aren't actively wallowing in self-pity.  In almost all categories, this move was a step up in our standard of living. That is not to say that there weren’t a few pangs of nostalgia even on my part. 

On the day of my final move-out inspection I returned to our "old" apartment for a few items I had left behind and to check that the cleaning person had done a sufficient job.  Regardless of all of the things that I did not like about living in that smallish apartment, I can't deny that my boys and I had grown a lot in those four years.  As for me, I learned how to really be independent.  At age 40, I worked through (although did not eradicate) my fear of the dark and my aversion to sleeping alone.  I learned how to ballroom dance, studied Shamanism and began to write again.  As I walked through the apartment, I saw the plethora of holes in the walls from my fledgling attempts at drilling screws into drywall to hang art, mirrors and drapes.  I remembered feeling empowered the day that I bought my drill and other tools.  As for the boys, two of them turned into young men, and their younger brother is no longer a little boy.

Their emotional strides are recorded in my memory.  Unfortunately, my memory records things much like an old LP complete with scratchy white noise and the occasional scratch that skips part of the track.  But enough remains for me to enjoy and to recount back to them when the time comes. Their physical growth was marked in pencil in the doorway to the kitchen.  Little lines with initials and dates.  The latest marks showing my oldest at 6 foot 3 and the youngest passing the height his other brother was 4 years ago.  Whenever they were called over for a height check they would exhibit the best posture ever--seemingly gaining inches in an instant, wanting the number to be an high as possible.  Straining to grow.  It was sad to walk away from that doorway.  I thought about taking a photograph of the writing, but I knew that it would not be the same.  The pencil marks hold little value without perspective of height from the ugly linoleum floor, without the fingerprinted refrigerator covered in magnets, without the sound of growing boys asking "What can I eat?" 

Scratch Where it Itches

Making scratch drawings is easy.  I did it often as a kid.  First you take crayons and using many different colors you entirely cover a piece of paper.  I normally swirled the colors but you could do blocks as well.  Then you cover the crayon with a layer of black tempura paint.  When it dries, you make an image by scratching through the black revealing some of the colors below.  Simple process but beautiful and interesting results.  It occurred to me during a retreat this weekend, that is what our lives are like.  We start in heaven or whatever your personal idea of the "beforelife" is.  When in this place outside of time our soul essences are gorgeous swirling masses of color.  We are then covered in darkness.  We forget everything.  On the surface we appear to be a blank slate.  Then the itches begin and we scratch them.

We itch to learn, and when we scratch that itch we reveal a part of ourselves.  We itch to love, we itch travel, and we itch to grow.  More of the blank blackness is scratched away and our true form is revealed.  You may be tired of reading the word "itch" and trust me--no one wants to forget about itching more than I do since I'm currently covered in red itchy welts.  Courtesy of Maine woods black flies.  As uncomfortable as I am, I'm not really complaining because I was biten for a good cause.  I was in a ceremony designed to be a challenge and was expected to keep on task.  Everyone in my group had a different experience because everyone needs different challenges for their own personal growth.  The spirits of the universe apparently thought that assaulting me with black flies was just the distraction I needed.  It was hard ignoring them and moving past the uncomfortableness, but in the end I felt that I had passed a test--even if no one but myself was grading my performance.  Sitting here scratching at my bites, I can see the image of the person I'm striving to be start to take form.