Accomplishments

When I was a budding feminist, I researched and wrote a paper about female education in the old old days.  I think I read one book and summarized the major tenets; which were that in the 1800's (and possibly 1700's), girls' education needn't go further than the basics of reading and writing and a little math, as long as they also gather a few "accomplishments" to show off to suitors.   These seemed to center around music and needlework, and maybe a little riding.

This book must have been instrumental in my formation, because even though I managed to complete a fair number of years of serious education, I have also tried to keep up on a flurry of hobbies and talents to impress the judges.  Way after the competition is over, I am still practicing my music, art, and sundry athletic pursuits, as if I might audition at any time in a competition for the best all-round girl.

Thus, I have a strange combination of goal directed behavior, sabotaged by a simultaneous need to cover all bases.  The goal fixation was apparent in our recent trip to Kings Canyon National Park.  Planning from afar, we mapped a five day backpack trip that would take us into the High Sierras.  However, before we even arrived, the weather report was forecasting a serious chance of snow in the middle of the trip's timeline.  Despite this chill, I refused to accept that the weather report would turn out correct so we went ahead with our plans.  Unfortunately, the predictions came to pass and we were forced to beat a hasty retreat, hiking out sixteen miles in one day to beat the snow.  From then on we sheltered in the fancy lodge at Sequoia and contented ourselves with day hikes.  But still, I regret we didn't complete our journey as planned.  I hate to give up, even as I hedge all my bets. 

Dark Clouds

 
Although the internet gives us the ability to know virtually anything we want,  I stay away from specific areas where I don't think I can handle the information.  I am afraid that if I knew the true state of certain things, I couldn't go on making my little plans, celebrating my little successes.  Instead,  I would be paralyzed with depression or consumed by anger.  Those unknown facts are sensed to be things that I have very little chance of changing, yet are horrible.  One of those subject areas for me is "fracking."

 Fracking is not a clever way of writing the other "f-word."  It is shorthand for a terrible way we are tearing up this country in a gold rush for natural gas.  Seduced by good reviews, I watched the movie "Gasland," a documentary about this topic.  Although a well-made movie,  I am now consumed with rage over our political indifference to the plight of citizens and the land itself, against the thuggery of corporations.  But I'm not even going to get into it.  If you are interested see the movie or google fracking.  Enough said.

In another sad tale, I must report that I once again have gone around the block of dissatisfaction with the organization that employs me.  It seems like businesses are exactly like families in the way they can repeat the same argument over and over, without anything new being said.  If there were not outside forces pulling us this way and that, we wouldn't be able to change at all.  I only have myself to blame of course, for not finding either a way out or another way through the points of contention.  But like the topic above, it seems like something I have little control over, and hence the unhappiness it causes.

Perhaps it is just the weather affecting me.  Today was the first real rain in about two months.  This signals the end of summer and the beginning of our very wet winter.  You would think I would have found peace with the changing seasons, but I hate to see the warm weather go.

       

Beachy

I grew up on the beach and if sand isn't in my veins, it is at least metaphorically in my hair.  So I was happy to score a beach house for Labor Day weekend, and hopeful that the Oregon coast would come through with at least a couple of sunny days while we were there.  Amazingly, the sun was out most of the time, and on Saturday a hot east wind made it reasonable to immerse briefly in the ice cold ocean and then lay out on the sand, soaking up the heat.

Oregon actually has a relatively high rate of skin cancer, because of moments like this.  With so many cloudy days this summer, an opportunity to bare skin is a religious moment for some of us.  I lay down on a towel and dug my fingers into the warm silky sand, remembering all the childhood days when I did the same thing, loving the surf filling up my ears with sound.  I actually fell asleep for a little while, which is rare indeed. Later I took a walk after sunset and engaged in another childhood pleasure-- walking with my eyes closed.  As far as I know, the beach is the only safe place to do this.  

Walking on the beach always gives me a chance to think expansively.  Perhaps the ocean stretching to the horizon pulls thoughts out and strings them together in long sentences that can be grasped better than when they run around the little tracks in my cranium.  But I came out of that weekend with a firm intention to focus my efforts on one interest at a time, instead of a dozen all at once.  Hence, I have gone back to an old project--getting all my poems in one virtual place, even if I have to type them all again, into this computer.  This task has been about two thirds done for about five years.  But until I have it all the way done, I can't decide what can be done with them, and what can be done next.   Tonight I opened up the box with all the pieces of paper with poems on them, sorting which are digitally preserved and which are not.  I still am filled with intention, and here is a poem from the collection.

Meditation

Air slips over sand, surf thumps
applauding each wave lipping the beach.

gulls butcher sandcrabs with a crunch
and garnish of seaweed

quartz runs fine like bathwater
through my fingers,

light stretches elastic across the sky
saturating sea and the dome behind my iris

each angle unbends toward the horizon
until I know nothing more.

The Limits of Being a Parent

  There comes a time in the life of every parent-child relationship, where you let go.   I have been accused of hovering, worrying and directing the life of my son way past any appropriate age.  Well, last night I think we finally passed a mutual test.  He called out for help, I wasn't there and he found another solution.   We are both proud and sad for each other.  So much so that he didn't even eat the pancake I made for him today, and I felt okay about eating it instead.  No hard feelings.

I realize the words above could have been written about any age after a child starts to eat real food.  The process of becoming an adult has so many transitions.  But the younger milestones are the stuff of children's books and parenting books galore.  Once you get over the first day you drop your kid at daycare, the first day of school, the first bike ride, the first time behind the wheel, you would think there would be easy sailing ahead.  The rest will just be a wonderful adult relationship with your begotten one, talking over interesting readings, joining me for concerts, hikes and vacations.  Well, of course not.  It is a constant pushing away, that takes decades.  Although he still  wants to be fed, we don't share any other common interests.  Even though somehow he has absorbed my political perspectives, he is loathe to admit any similarities.  Ah well, at least a paucity of employment has kept him around the home.

Yesterday evening Robert and I went to a community supper, put on by a local church. Although we had no connection to the religious aspect, I am happy to participate in any neighborhood gathering. I tried to convince my son to come along, but he refused and instead went off to water the vegetable garden at his father's house, several miles away.  Dad was gone traveling for a week and in the meantime his house was being reconstructed by a team of workmen.

After setting up the sprinklers, my son went into the house to see what might be offered by the contents of the refrigerator.  The house had new interior walls and would soon have new doors.  For now, they were all stacked up, leaning against the refrigerator, which was in the middle of the soon to be kitchen.  Somehow, the act of opening the refrigerator undid the delicate balance between the weight of the doors and opposing weight of the fridge.  As soon as Evan opened the door, the refrigerator started to fall, along with the wood doors leaning against it.  Although he was able to close the door, he was not able to right the fridge and doors.  If he managed to extract himself everything would crash to the ground, which would at least damage the new fridge and possibly trap some body part as he tried to get away.

So holding the fridge and doors against his back, Evan took out his phone and called his mother.  No answer.  This was not surprising since I rarely carry my cell phone on my body, and certainly didn't think to have it as I strolled two blocks to the church supper.  Then he tried Robert's phone.  Robert has a "smart phone' which is always with him, but he had turned the volume off in deference to the social occasion.  He did not notice the call.  So then Evan started calling his friends.  He found one close enough to come over and help.  But by the time we got back to the house and called Evan, his friend still had not arrived.  Evan had been applying his weight against the refrigerator for about 45 minutes.

So we called the friend and helped him find the house, but I could do nothing more than wait to find out whether my 21 year son would be crushed by a refrigerator or saved by his friend.   After about ten more minutes, we did find out that of course, he was saved.  My son who hates to ask for help, managed to reach out to his peers and and get what he needed, just in time.  I learned that I truly can't be there for him  every time he might need me, but I did promise myself I would learn to carry my cell phone.

 

Retirement

My friends are retiring, as in, failing to go to work each day.  Some enter a frenetic world of unpaid labor, for which they get only thanks, what they were looking for in the first place.  Others wake later and later, and dissipate the hours in some combination of household tasks and electric aided entertainment that quickly causes the sun to set. (If you ever doubt how much electricity determines your activity, throw the breaker and see how quickly you become bored.)  I watch the transition with some envy and more despair.

I have always wanted to do more than I can possibly manage.  In theory, it is only the eight hours of paid labor I do each day that gets in the way of the incredible productivity I have in my mind.  But each weekend I disprove this fantasy, as I loaf and lounge and entertain my way through my free hours. I know that if my job disappeared, I would be no more likely to get to my long list of potential accomplishments as I am in the hours between work.  I think that we have a set point for purposeful activity, just like we do for calorie intake.

Recently my eighty year old mother visited me for two weeks and put real fear into me.  Although she has been busy and involved with many activities in her life, she is markedly slower in her physical self, and has become ridden with worry and a sense of fruitlessness that spoils any effort to engage in meaningful acts.  I realize that old age is a battle between your body and your mind.  Whichever is weaker pulls the other down and the spiral can be inexorable. 

I am sure I don't want to end up like that.  I don't want to have decades with no purpose.  Even though my job has its repetitive grind, it is still the most interesting part of most days.  I think most people retire because are sick unto death with the job they have, not because life without a job seems so compelling.   But I don't know.  Retirement is something you can't know until you get there.  I'm not there by a long shot.

Plums

I have just been preserving some plums from my two plum trees.  Luckily the trees are small and ridden with leaf eating insects, or else I would have a true crop surplus on my hands.  I hate to see even one piece of fruit go to waste.

Last year I made a batch of jam, and some sorbet with these plums, which are too juicy for drying.  But Robert has already filled the cupboard with strawberry and raspberry jam, added to the jars left from last year, so I don't think that is a good use of this luscious fruit. Without energy for fancy recipes, I just squeezed about thirty plums and added some sugar and brought them to a boil.  When cool, I will simple freeze the juice and hope I remember it is there for smoothies and to mix with club soda throughout the year.  I also experimented with pouring some vinegar on some whole plums stuffed in a jar, to see if plum vinegar could be produced. If so, I will add it to my strawberry and raspberry vinegars.  I am delighted to have these fruity vinegars for salad dressing, but my housemates are unimpressed with red vinegar, no matter what the flavor. 

I am feeling frugal, due to the fear of our impending default on the national debt.   Somehow I think the stupidity of this government is going to end up affecting my own bottom line, and I will be glad to have a cupboard full of jam and vinegar.   It is true that Legal Aid, who I work for, is primarily funded with federal dollars, so if the whole county goes topsy turvey, I will perhaps be out of a job. 

I can't eat plums without thinking of the poem by William Carlos Williams and wanting to create some homage of my own:

It is cruel to strangle each little plum by its pit,
Squeezing guts into a pan, tossing away the skin,
and then turning up the heat until there is roiling fuschia
but I could not leave such sweetness on the ground
for the raccoon to gather in his clawed fingers.
and suck into his pointed mouth.

Can't Sleep

I have been neglecting my writing, which means that I have been missing myself.  Tonight I went to bed, trying to feel tired, but couldn't get there.  Mostly, this is caused by the discomfort of having my mother visit for two weeks.  We are more than halfway through and I can see the light, but it is still tough.  Many women see their mother every day and they are used to all the slings and arrows of childhood being flung back and forth all life long.  I went three thousand miles away, as soon as I had the choice and it was perhaps the only clear decision of my life.  There was just no doubt that I wanted to be far away from my birthplace. 

I can't even say that there is anything wrong with my mother.  It's just that I hate to see all the ways I am just like her.  I just can't stand the similarities.  And I can't act like my normal adult being when she is in the house.  I run to work to relax into who I have become.   That is all worthy of endless therapy, but it is easier to keep a big country between us.

For right now, I am keeping a little list of the things I will do when I get normal life back.  Sorry, Mom.