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  • Weekend Meanderings

    A few days ago, when I was writing my last blog post, my mind was filled with plans about what I would be reading next, I had neat stacks of materials at hand:  books, kindle, laptop.  The organized stacks still surround the bed, but somehow, even though there is less physical distinction between my week and my weekend, the weekend was spent in more frivolous pursuits.  Well, I did read some of the papers, but perhaps not in as much detail as I should.  Apparently I just let my mind wander, dabbling in pursuits as I felt so inclined, playing around on the computer, watching the play of light and shadow on the ceiling, dreaming of possibilities rather than fretting about the future. I enjoyed some time encouraging a friend's 5 year-old granddaughter in a bit of dress up play, had a lovely lunch with another friend, knit a little, but not really more than a row or two.  And here I am, on Monday morning, rambling along with nothing really to say. 

     

    I suppose some of my computer play was of a useful variety, searching out possibilities for a summer trip, but I actually spent a significant part of my time on various life-style websites, looking at pictures of food, reading recipes and dreaming of cooking again. I have always loved to cook and altthough I do cook for myself, of late it has been a very simple and utilitarian kind of cooking.  Food must be eaten, and I'm rather particular, so I'm much more inclined to cook than to just grab something. But sharing food with others brings a sense of nourishment that eating alone can't equal. So it may be a good sign, this interest in food.  Perhaps it means I want to be social again.  Perhaps my rekindled interest in cooking is a reflection of a rekindled desire to share.  Maybe I am ready to look at myself as sharing in the world instead of looking at myself and the world as separate entities, existing in bubbles that may touch each other but remain forever isolated.

     

    Or then again perhaps I just have been in bed too long.

     

    Or maybe this is all just part of the winnowing process.  Too much independence is not so good. Too much isolation is not so good.  I like having people around, I like companionship and conversation.  I don't have to shut the door.  But too much busyness is not so good either.  I do need that contemplative time.  I want to do everything and I know I can't.  I've always known that, but I've also always struggled with this inner whirling dervish that just wants to run toward whatever has captured my attention at the moment.  But too much spinning around makes me dizzy; I break down and everything stops.

     

    Patience.  It always comes back to patience and pacing.  They are related.  Why hasn't that truly sunk in before now?  

     

    The last time I was an independent person, with no one I was sharing my life with, no one I was sharing expectations with, I was in my 20s.  At that time in my life, early spring always seemed like a transformative period.  Perhaps the dreariness of winter would lead me to a period of introspection and spring would bring with it some sort of transformation or awakening to some new realization or understanding of myself in relation to the world.  Of course I was young and finding my way.  Now I am no longer young but am once again finidng my way. Spring and rebirth is a good metaphor for this ongoing process of renewal, as is Lent and Easter. To some extent its not the actual words that matter, although there are specific meanings and patterns in the traditional timing of feasts and fasts, of celebrations.  Intention however, does matter.  

     

    This year I gave up cursing at other drivers for Lent.  That may sound strange but it is a habit and not a good one.  I don't get made at people I know or see personally, but other drivers are just that — others — in another vehicle.  It is easy to dehumanize them and associate them with their vehicles, to not think of them as people. And I believe that even such a small step of dehumanization is an ugly trap.   I'm not a perfect driver either.  We all get distracted, we all have worries, we all just want to stop going and get someplace where we can just be.  I've been successful so far, I haven't cursed at a driver in weeks, but I'm not sure that this is due to any conscious effort on my part but just that when I was driving I was more focused on just driving and getting myself home safely and comfortably.  My focus was on the moment, and my main thoughts when they strayed from the road were more likely to be "please" as in "please just get me home".  Now this is more extreme than I would hope would be normal, but I am hoping it is the interruption in the normal chain of thought that is important here, that once interrupted, the old patterns will not so easily be resumed.

     

    I'm not in any bigger of a hurry than anyone else.  I'm not more important than any other driver on the road.  If I'm late, it is my own doing and I could change.  But it is easier to blame others, outside forces, easier to condemn others as a way of comforting ourselves. Buckminster Fuller said "God is a verb".  According to the Old Testament, God is "I AM".  Well so am I.  I am.  Perhaps it is true that I can never "be" in the fullest sense of that word; I probably cannot even imagine what pure being would entail.  But I also can't imagine what "I am" would be like if I let myself just be present and atuned to the world and people around me at all times.  It may be impossible.  But it seems that we humans have trouble with the present tense of life.  We remember the past, perhaps hold on to it a little too dearly, and we worry about the future way too much.  When I am cursing other drivers I am not really fully there in the moment, I am usually thinking of something else, thinking of where I am going, what tasks are on my "to do" list, fretting about having enough time.  Perhaps I just need to learn to relax. 

     

    Perhaps what I am really doing is trying to spend less of my life worrying about who or what I will be or what I will do and more time just being present and aware in the moment. And this is where I get back to browsing the interweb, and pinning pictures of food, and clothing that inspires me and makes me want to sew.  That sounds all kind of aspirational doesn't it?  And it could be.  Once upon a time, not that long ago really, when I was not happy about the changes that were taking place in my life,  the internet was my escape valve, an avoidance technique.  I was looking for something that was missing in my life, but I wasn't willing to do the necessary work that would enable me to actually get anywhere. It was like standing under the lightpost looking for your keys even though you dropped them 50 feet away in the dark.

     

    This weekend, that was not the case.  There has been more connection and intention in my electronic meanderings. Yes I clipped, yes I pinned, tweeted and checked Facebook.  I sent a lot of emails. But I didn't dwell on it.  I accept more things.  I asked questions.  That looks good. Would I make it? Yes? No? Do I want to remember it?  Why? Do I care if I do it tomorrow or in 20 yeas or never?  Does looking at this picture make me happy, remind me of something important?  Or does this make me feel like I'm not enough, that I need to do or be something else? Does it let my imagination soar, or does it chain to false expectations? I do far less frittering on the internet than I used to, and I am far more intentional in my browsing, far more aware of the conversations I am having with myself. 

     

    And yes I did save recipes that I may or may not ever make.  I don't really care about that.  But I do like to look at the pictures, imagine tasting the dishes, knowing that someday what I've seen and imagined will materialize in something I do or make on that particular day, and that experience will be shared with others.  And I hope I am paying enough attention be present and enjoy it when it happens. 

  • Reading in Bed

    Here I am, propped up in bed today, with my computer on my lap, which means I can actually write something.  I'm going to have an epidural in a week, and am very much looking forward to it.  In the meantime, I am taking it easy, and reading a lot, well,  maybe not that much, but it is all I have at the moment.  Books are piled all around me, along with my laptop,  kindle, and my cell phone so I can talk to people and while away mindless hours playing games —  really there is nothing quite like a vacation filled with books and idle distractions.

    Here's a brief rundown of what I've read so far.  

    Hidden by Katherine McKenzie was a book I picked up as part of the Kindle First program.  I'm all for free reading, especially if I don't have to drive to the library to get it at the moment.   It is not a bad novel, and I enjoyed it, sort of.  It didn't really capture my interest and I found none of the characters compelling. The  story is about a man who dies suddenly, and the interlayering of his reminiscences with those of his wife and another woman with whom he has an intense relationship has a lot of potential.  The problem for me was that the individual voices didn't really seem that distinct, and the characters were not fully developed, although perhaps that was the point.  They all seemed like unrealized people who just happened into their lives through no fault of their own.  I felt no emotional connection to any of them. 

    Next up was The Voice of Silence by Oonagh Shanley Toffolo which I enjoyed.  It is a simple book, a simple story of a life, and nothing is fleshed out in great detail.  Yet it has a simple calmness and clarity about it, which I felt said a great deal.  I found it satisfying, perhaps more so than had it been more greatly mired in gritty detail or endless spiritual exploration.  

    After this I read The Shack by William Paul Young.  This is a book that came out a few years ago and apparently got some attention in Christian circles, but I was basically unaware of its existence. I read it because several people in a discussion group I participated in talked about it and how it helped them with some difficulties in their lives. Having read the book I now have a better sense of what they were saying.

    That said, I have to talk about this book on two levels. First of all the author is not a writer. It is not well written. The wording and phraseology is awkward and terribly clichéed.

    The novel is about a father who has lost his young daughter to a serial killer, is wrapped in grief, is seriously injured in a automobile accident, and has an encounter with God that restores his faith. It is clearly based on the principles that seem to shape some near-death experiences. It is also clearly written by someone who has struggled with loss and faith and is trying to share his story.

    I can in fact see how this book has angered many and also helped many, and I have no interest in getting involved in the discussion of Christianity, humanism, universalism, heresy etc. etc. that this book plays into. I felt the discussion of the Trinity was quite good, but there are many areas that are theologically weak, to say the least. It is thought provoking if one is inclined toward thinking about the topic of God and/or the meaning of life and the nature of forgiveness and restoration. It is also a work of fiction, not a work of theology. The author is telling a story, not telling people what they should believe. Strict adherence to truth is not the purpose of good fiction. Through story we are lead to open our minds, perhaps think, perhaps see the world a little differently. If the story helps some people with their own issues surrounding faith, so be it. They will perhaps move on and seek out further sources. If the story makes you recoil in anger and frustration it may still be a success if it forces you to face your anger and define your frustrations. Some of the books that have had had the strongest impact on me have been books which elicited strong feelings of anger and frustration.

    I am inclined to say that I believe it is not my place to tell anyone what they should believe, that we humans have a very spotty record when it comes to judging, and we should therefore best avoid it. Sometimes we find enlightenment and understanding in the strangest places, in the least expected places, even in wrong-headed places. This is one of the gifts of humanity. All I can say about that this book is, if one is thoughtfully or spiritually inclined, and capable of getting past the many short-comings of this book, there are quite a few profound insights that may make you think and reflect and question what it means to be a better person. And I suppose I believe, that for me, those insights transcend all the other failings of the book.

    Lastly, for this post at least, I read Dr. J: The Autobiography, by Julius Erving which I found to be gripping and fascinating.  The book is written in an almost stream-of-consciousness style with each chapter of his life existing in the present tense, which can be confusing, except that I find that Erving's voice, and his thoughtfulness is really emphasized by this style.  It seems like an honest and thoughtful reflection by a man who has lived a life defined by extremes in some sense, a man who is prone to thoughtfulness, and who has managed to stay true to himself, admitting to both his strengths and his flaws.   

    And that is enough for now.  Expect more. 

  • A lark Contemplates the Inconveniences of Life

    On Saturday, Lisa, over at Privilege put up a post about being a morning person.  I am a morning person.  I wake up before the dawn, really not so hard in Tennessee where the sun seems to rise so late.  It is in the early moring that I miss NY the most, those 6 AM walks in my garden, cup of coffee in hand…. but I digress.

     

    At least I am basically, by nature a  morning person.  I awake early.  I jump out of bed with a glad cry.  And by mid afternoon I am already beginning to fade.  When George was alive, I called myself a nap person.  Naps were  my way of coping, of bridging the gap between my inner lark and his inner owl.  I thanked heaven that my working day usually ended earlier, that I had time for a brief nap between the business of work and the business of home, but still, more often than I care to recall, I fell asleep on the sofa my head on his shoulder or chest —  safe.

     

    But that is not that my point either.  My mind wanders. The problem now is that I am but a shadow of a lark, a morning person wanna-be.  I awaken early.  Such is my nature.  I lie in my comfortable bed, I stretch, I imagine the world as it should be, full of promise.  Then I try to stand and my world is shattered. We think I have a problem at S1, a herniation really.  My doctor probably knows by now but I do not.  I had an MRI last week, but I won't know the results before Wednesday.  We anticipated that I will have a cortisone injection and once I can manage the pain I can begin to heal.  My life is never without back problems, it has not been so since I was 10 years old and was diagnosed with scoliosis.  I am grateful for my life.  I have done well, I have been blessed. But this is different from anything I have experienced so far.  Yet I know I will survive it.

     

    Please remind me of that statement early in the morning when I am struggling to cross the kitchen floor.  Suddenly, I am not a morning person…. or I am a morning person imprisoned.  My brain and my soul rejoice in the morning yet my body is not convinced.  I lie in bed dreading that first step… will I scream in pain?  Will the 20 feet or so to the kitchen, the cat bowls, and a new ice pack, the symbiosis of drugs that help me cope, that maintain the myth that I can actually function, be hell on earth, or merely tolerable disomfort?  It is  not my nature to worry so.  For the last two weeks, a normal morning means that it will take me 2 hours just to contemplate being able to stand long enough to take a shower. There I am, mentally wide awake and ready to dance around the earth welcoming the dawn (even thought technically dawn isn't even awake yet) and my body is still clinging to the bed.  And yet I know there are people who are worse off.  I have a new appreciation for pain, for the things pain can drive people to do. I can even understand the horrible choices that people are sometimes driven to make.   

     

    For my morning-person self the worst part is the evening.  My brain is beginning to shut down, my inner worry-wart is slowly rearing his ugly head, and my body, which took so long to wake up in the morning, is not yet ready to get comfortable for the night.  It doesn't matter if I was up, or if I spent the day resting….the body is not ready to wind down, even though my brain is fading and is begging for respite.  So I lie awake praying for pain free sleep. 

     

    Who knew this could happen?  Surely not I?

     

    This is not actually a complaint.  It is just what it is.  Here I am writing this post, late at night, late for me anyway, although I will post it in the morning, living a life that is me and yet simultaneously is not me.  What am I to do?  I have been blessed in my life in so many ways, although I admit I have not always seen it as such.  I am blessed now.  People are willing to help me.  I have hope.  I cannot imagine not having hope, and yet such is the life so many must endure. I drove someone to church on Sunday, even though I was initially unsure as to whether I would be able to walk into the same service.  I delivered a meal.  These small things bring grace, and make everything worthwhile.   Today I am able to sit.  I am able to type this post.  I haven't yet figured out a way to write when I am flat on my back, but if that were my only option I am sure I would find a way.  So much of how I understand who I am depends on my ability to write it down.  

     

    Here it is, late at night, and I realize that there is no point to what I am writing.  I have no conclusion, no denoument as it were.  So I will say it again.  I am blessed.  I have friends.  Long ago when I lived in NY I was in the hospital for a week and no one wrote me or emailed me, no one called, no one came by.  I was not particularly ill, and although I was there for a reason, it was mostly for obsevation.  No one wanted to bother me.  Here people email.  People call.  I am lucky to have found this place, these friends, friends I wouldn't have thought possible.  Perhaps I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. So this is what I ask.  Pray for all those people who don't have people who email or call.  Pray for those people who don't feel loved, who don't feel hope.  If you don't believe in prayer or God, think of them anyway; they need your thoughts, your psychic karma.  In the end it doesn't matter if you are laid low by chronic pain or a hangnail, if you can't walk to the freezer, or if your boyfriend forgot to call.  We all suffer.  We all need love.  Share the love. 

     

     

     

  • Ender: Fear, Manipulation, Responsibility

    MV5BMjAzMzI5OTgzMl5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMTU5MTAwMDE@._V1_SX214_This weekend I finally watched Ender's Game.  I had been waiting to see it, having missed it in theaters, because I wanted to read the book, a book about which I had previously been, perhaps blissfully, unaware. 

     

    I'll start by saying that I don't think I would have enjoyed the movie more if I hadn't read the book.  Although the movie stays remarkable close to the story, it really just skims the surface and for good reason. In summary, the world is in dire straits and the only solution is to use computer games to train brilliant children to become commanders in a new army and thereby save the human race.  And yet the movie falls flat.  The special effects are somehow not special enough.  Asa Butterfield is too old to fully capture the power, and the horror, of Ender Wiggin, who should be much younger.  But then the abuse and struggles that 6-year old Ender Wiggin faces would not make a popular film and neither would the thought of a 10-year old destroying an entire species.  The film's Ender is a kinder person than the book's, but his affect is also more flat.  We do not see the struggles that makes him who he becomes.  He makes friends too easily.  The adults argue that they can't afford to be soft, but there they are, hovering over every scene.  Even the shock of the ending, the revelation that they were fighting a real war, that Ender just annihilated a civilization, doesn't have the weight it should because the audience has never had the opportunity to feel what the characters supposedly feel.  We just watch.  "No!. The way you win matters!" Ender cries.  But he could be any adolescent, crying about any unfair battle.

     

    375802Of course, this is part of the appeal of the book to its primarily adolescent and young adult audience.  I can remember that feeling of being misunderstood and manipulated.  Ender is the innocent who is tortured and despised despite his innocence; he is despised for who he is.  No one seems to care, no one protects him. The adults let the bullies get away with bullying. He takes action, and he is absolved of all responsibility for his actions.  In this scenario, the fact that Ender is mistreated is evidence of his goodness and his gifts.  And in the end he overcomes all obstacles and is blameless.  How can this not appeal to the rough world of adolescent angst?  And yet this is precisely the problem with Ender's Game.  Its morality is a stunted, juvenile morality.  

     

    Ender is a highly gifted child.  He is also horrendously abused.  His parents are negligent.  His older brother, who shows all signs of being a psychopath, tortures him relentlessly.  He is bullied at school.  He is chosen to go to a military school that seems to function with the sole purpose of pushing children until they break.  Ender is the child they have been looking for, a child with tremendous empathy, but also a child with an overwhelming survival instinct. Colonel Graff's mission is to push Ender to breaking point after breaking point, until the survival instinct drives all his actions, to the point that he will destroy before he risks being hurt.

     

    The basic premise is laid out at the  beginning of the novel.  Ender was chosen, protected, wearing a monitor.  The monitor was removed and along with it his protection, leaving him open to the school bullies.  In the ensuing fight, Ender moves beyond merely beating his opponent, Stillson, to brutalizing him.  Later when Colonel Graff asks him to explain his actions, Ender replies:

    "Knocking him down won the first fight.  I wanted to win all the next ones, too.  So they'd leave me alone."

    This, of course, is the answer Graff is looking for.  Ender had to beat Stillson to a pulp because it is the best strategy in the only world Ender knows, a world where violence is the only recourse.  At the tender age of 6 Ender has no faith in rescue.  He has a brother who tortures him, who will torture him again, and parents who seem oddly unconcerned.  He does not see a world in which anyone will protect him because no one has protected him this far.

     

    And of course, this view of the world is shared by the Space Command.  Colonel Graff want to shape a young mind to pulverize the enemy without conscience.  The military command is still functioning on a rather childish, dualistic, level.  They were almost destroyed by an alien species.  They see their only option as destroying the enemy before it can come back to destroy them, and they are going out of their way to do just that, to perform the interplanetary version of beating the bully to a pulp so he could never hurt them again.  They do not question the fact that the enemy has not returned.  It never occurs to anyone that the "buggers" might have made a mistake.  That they might not have originally realized that humans were intelligent, or that, having made that discovery, they might not attack again.

     

    "We did not mean to murder.  When we understood, we never came again. We thought we were the only thinking beings in the universe, until we met you, but never did we dream that thought could arise from the lonely animals who cannot dream each other's dreams. How were we to know".

     

    So the military uses their own fears, to manipulate Ender, to play on his self-loathing, his fear of being destroyed.  They don't let Ender's innocence or good qualities surface and Card intensifies and plays up this dichotomy in ways that are unsettling.  They make him into a killer, but claim he is still pure, still good, because he did not know he killed.  

     

    This raises several rather profound questions, doesn't it? In fact I find the book tremendously unsettling and thought provoking. Although the book is not difficult, and I suspect it can be ready simply without extended reflection, it can draws upon many emotionally and ethically complex issues.   It is also an extremely powerful study of violence, of military conflict, of strategy, and the extent we can allow manipulation to run amok under the guise of military necessity.  It is a damning statement of the many ways we let our fears build walls which separate us from and dehumanizing those we see as "the other", and the way we use fear to justify our actions.  There are, after all, reasons we encourage soldiers to see the enemy as "gooks", "towelheads", or "buggers".  It is very difficult to kill Ali, the little boy who was in your scout troop and whose dad owned the deli down the street, but not so difficult to kill some anonymous "other" who is somehow less than yourself.  But just as Colonel Graff didn't care what happened to Ender once the war was won, we don't really worry ourselves too much about what happens to our soldiers after they've come home from war.

     

    When Ender learns that he has destroyed the buggers in reality, not in a game, he has a much more visceral reaction than the movie Ender:

    "I didn't want to kill them all.  I didn't want to kill anybody! I'm not a killer!  You didn't want me, you bastards, you wanted Peter, but you made me do it, you tricked me into it!" He was crying. He was out of control.

    "Of course we tricked you into it.  That's the whole point," said Graff.  "It had to be a trick or you couldn't have done it.  It's the bind we were in.  We had to have a commander with so much empathy that he would think like the buggers, understand them and anticipate them.  So much compassion that he could win the love of his underlings and work with them like a perfect machine, as perfect as the buggers.  But somebody with that much compassion could never be the killer we needed.  Could never go into battle willing to win at all costs.  If you knew you couldn't do it.  If you were the kind of person who would do it even if you knew, you could never have understood the buggers well enough."

    "And it had to be a child, Ender" said Mazer.  You were faster than me.  Better than me.  I was too old and cautious.  Any decent person who knows what warfare is can never go into battle with a whole heart.  But you didn't know.  You were reckless and brilliant and young."

     

    Do Ender's actions shape him and what he becomes?  Who is to blame? Is he innocent, as this passage seems to claim, or does he bear the responsibility for those he has killed?  Card seems to gloss over any sense of resolution Ender finds at the end.  Forgiveness is mentioned and with that forgiveness comes a renewed sense of responsibility.  But it seems the afterthought here, whereas for me, I would think it would be the primary focus. 

     

    Since I read Ender's Game in January, snippets of news, fragments of conversations, keep bringing me back to the many questions raised by the book.  I am sure that some of my ponderings may not have been intended by the author, but that is one of the reasons I consider this a good book, it makes the reader question, even beyond the intended scope of the book, or its intended message.

  • Surprise

    I received a treat on Saturday.

    IMG_8157

    Luscious bits of cocoa infused with cardamom, curry, and pimient d'Espelette.  

    IMG_8154

    I had actually ordered these back in December, supposedly for making some hot chocolate.  But I had completely forgotten them, forgotten that they were backordered, forgotten what my intention had been.  But for now they are an welcome treat.  One small chocolate bauble is enough to satisfy that late afternoon chocolate craving, or to provide a comforting indulgence when I am mentally beating myself up for pushing too hard and doing too much.  As if constant sciatic pain and numbness is not enough punishment; self-blame and recriminations not only do not help, but probably hinder the entire process of healing.  Savoring a small bit of chocolate interrupts my my all too human focus on blame and punishment and lets me instead focus on the pleasures of the moment.

     

  • Interlude

    I've overextended myself once again and am undergoing a forced period of repose.

     

    In lieu of words, I present you with some needlepoint:

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    It amazes me how a photograph will show flaws that my eyes cannot discern in normal light.  So be it.

  • A Fashion Inspired Trip Down Memory Lane

    M-82-2475-51196-2KXZuOgcySidAt some point over the weekend, when I was not willing to face whatever it was I was supposed to be working on and I was frittering away a few moments on the internet, I came across this photo of an outfit from the fall/winter 2014 Marc Jacobs collection.

     

    I was transported back to the fall of 1972.  I was in the 9th grade.   Tunics over flared pants were in.  Wave patterns were in too, although I couldn't have afforded, or gotten away with, such a fancy fabric.    That year I made a tunic with matching bell-bottom pants from a fine wale corduroy print in HomeEc, which was required for all 9th grade girls. But I also had an outfit more like this one, in a matching gray and maroon swirl pattern knit.  Just like the model on the Marc Jacobs runway, my pants were long enough to drag on the ground, which was oh so cool in 1972; only now I respect how difficult it was for my mom to make those pants long enough that I could destroy perfectly good fabric by dragging it around in the dirt.  

     

    At any rate, I think I'll pass this time around although I appreciate the brief trip down memory lane. 

     

    Of course there are other differences between the 2014 version and the 1972 versions.  Aside from fabric (my outfit was polyester knit) my tunic did not have a wide boat neckline.  I don't actually remember if boat necklines were fashionable at that time; I only remember ovals and scoops.  My tunic had a rounded neckline and raglan sleeves.   I loved the outfit, but even then I hated raglan sleeves.  I hated the way they pulled when I moved and the way the garment seemed to shift in odd ways, but I also remember that my mom told me I should always wear raglan sleeves, told me they would look better with the shape of my shoulders and upper chest, told me they would be easier to fit.  Perhaps they were easier for her to sew for me, especially when I wore the Milwaukee Brace, but I never liked the way they felt on, and still don't like the way raglan sleeves look on me.  

     

    RES14-BLC_TWIST_hero_0Perhaps I started thinking about those sleeves because I was also looking at this coat from Mary Katrantzou over the weekend, virtually looking that is, and with no serious intent. I love the color palette.  I love the digintal print.  I love the idea of the coat more than the actual coat however.  I don't like the line across the bustline, whether that is part of the print or a seam; it would only be flattering on the most boyish of figures.  Most of all I don't like the raglan sleeves, even as I can appreciate that the raglan cut may have been easier, from both a design and manufacturing perspective, in maintainign the continuity of the print.  I  would think the raglan sleeves would make the coat more difficult to wear for anyone who wants to move around in their coat, but perhaps that is just because I have never bothered to make the effort to try and learn to properly fit a raglan sleeve.

     

    When I think back to the 70's, to my swirly tunic outfit, I think how cool wearing it made me feel but also how I would fidget over the way my clothes would scrunch about when I moved in ways I didn't see happening with the cool girls. I think back to those early raglan sleeves, especially in jackets and coats.  I think about the way I would allow my shoulders to roll forward, perhaps even more than was natural, to avoid the pulling of the seams against my shoulders and the back of my neck.  I would think about how the shoulder straps of my handbags always slipped off and I thought it was something about me.  I remember how, when I bought my first coat with fitted sleeves, I stood straighter, with my shoulders back and down, how the strap to my handbag stayed up without slipping.  What a revelation this was to me.  For the first time I started thinking about not just what I liked but why I liked it, and started questioning the idea of what I was supposed to like.  I started to recognize that if one was not comfortable with oneself, one could never be cool.  Not that I can claim to be cool, or whatever the modern equivalent is, to this day. I can at least claim coming far closer to my true self, and if not caring less about the idea of fashion itself, caring less about being in fashion.

     

    Mark Jacobs pantsuit, here.

    Mary Katrantzou coat, here.

  • Making the Right Choice Requires Asking the Right Questions

    There are some lessons that just seem not to stick, that I have to keep learning over and over again.  I seem to have relearned one of those lessons this week, and it revolved around that issue of a desk and a chair.  Such a simple thing isn't it? Or at least it should be.  It seems however, that for me at least, sometimes the biggest lessons are learned from the smallest things.

     

    I was looking for a desk through the eyes of I-as-part-of-a-we, or through the mindset of my former life.  I recall that during the first six months or so following George's death I was struggling with identity, and it was a puzzling experience for me.  I had thought that I knew who I was.  I had strong opinions about many things, and generally  knew what I liked and what I didn't.  Or so I believed.  

     

    In retrospect I see that it was not so simple really. I could see that during those years I was caring for George, I was also struggling with my own frustrations and, sometimes, animosity toward the role of caregiver. I was struggling with how to fit this new perception of my place in the world with my prior perceptions of myself as seen through my marriage, my career, and my role in the world prior to this great reversal. Although George and I shared a sense of the importance of steadfast responsibility and loyalty, there were times when I struggled with having to always be the strong one, the rock, the protector, the comforter.  I wanted to be protected again, to be comforted, to be understood, and there were days, weeks, months even, when the protection and comfort and understanding of God seemed far, far away. Yet although I craved comfort, I was afraid to be vulnerable, afraid that if I opened my heart I would fall apart and not be able to live up to the responsibilities that bound me.

     

    It is apparent, to anyone who has followed my blogs over the years, that during that time I was struggling to define and understand myself, and that I was not quite ready to accept the need to do so.  I was clinging to the known for fear of getting lost in the unknown. In retrospect, perhaps I was not asking the right questions. I was struggling from a position of "I want" and "I can't" rather than a position of "I can" combined with "I need".

     

    Although I did eventually let go and let vulnerability and faith back in, and I was beginning that process of transformation and rediscovery before George died last May, I was still very much in in a place in-between.  And yet I thought I was firmly established on a path toward my future self, even while still acknowledging that my life was in many ways a precarious balancing act between a past and a love that was rapidly fading into the mists and a future life that could not quite be achieved. I was not prepared for the way that George's death would plunge me even deeper into that act of questioning.  I was unaware that this one great loss could wrestle up from the depths all those past losses I thought I had resolved, but in fact had only shelved. I had not realzed that this questioning, this becoming, would force me to face my life and see how the world as I experienced it had shaped and altered that person who I was born to be into the person I had been. Nor had I realized that if I truly wanted to move forward, rather than opt out and rest upon some shady bank along the way, I needed to resolve and reintegrate these various aspects of self: the self I was born to be with the self I am in the world.

     

    So how does this affect the choice of a desk, you ask?

     

    Each thing we do in the world, each choice we make, even the choices we refuse to make are a reflection of the complex mapping of ourselves, our history, our place, and our time.  We exist in the world, and although we are unique, we are also complexly shaped by the world in which we live.  Of course, most of the time, we simply live in the world and do what we need to do with little angst.  But occasionally we stumble, and although sometimes we simply right ourselves and move on, sometimes we manage a glimpse of something more.

     

    My search for a desk helped guide me to a few basic realizations:

    • First I should not chose a desk because it was one my husband would have also liked, because it would have fit our life, our style, our place in the world.  
    • Nor of course should I take the reactionary "I always liked x, but he hated it" tack which I see as the foot-stamping, temper-tantrum induced I-want-what-I-want-and-no-one-can-change-it stage, a stage that is not necessarily true to the self but a reactionary, oppositional choice.
    • I had to address the WHY of my search for a desk, a question that proved far more complex than I had imagined, tied up as it proved to be with my own definition of who I am now.  After all, although my current desk is not ideal, I have been using it for several years. So the question was begging to be asked:  Why do I need a new desk?
    • When I was working with computer clients, going to grad school, and designing databases and computer systems I used a large desk that basically consisted of a door atop a couple of file cabinets.  I could spread out my books, printouts, and ages of materials perfectly happily.  But  although I loved that career, and at times I have struggled with wanting to update or refresh a few programming language skills or application skills, and although I've often considered looking into reinstating my IEEE and ACM memberships because I miss the connections and learning opportunities they provided, I realize they do not reflect a career path I wish to resume.  They are a part of who I am but they do not define where I am going.
    • When I first worked in medical billing, and even as an office manager, I had a very small desk, not much bigger than a student desk. It was too small.  I was surrounded by piles. When we moved the practice and I moved into a more comprehensive administrative role, I needed a larger desk.  But, once again, although I loved my work, loved learning new things and mastering skills I had not appreciated I possessed, I am done with medical practice administration.  I have no desire to go back.
    • I bought my current desk when I retired to care for my husband. In many ways it is a desk that seems like an afterthought, something I needed, but which did not warrant much space, or thought.  I needed a place to put a computer, to pay bills, to write. But although I had published a couple of poems in minor journals while I was in my twenties, and an essay around the same time; although I journaled extensively and wrote a couple of blogs,  I did not consider myself a writer

     

    It seems it has taken me this long to accept that this is who I am today, and that accepting who I am means accepting that I need a space that works for what I do.  I am a writer.  It may not be all that I am.  The majority of what I write may be only for myself but that doesn't matter.  I don't need external reassurance to prove that I am who I am.  I accept that I write.  I accept that if I don't give myself time to write I become grumpy and small and cannot be generous with other people because I cannot be generous with myself.  I need to accept that I will always spend a lot of time at my desk.  I need to accept that this is a part of who I am and it is deserving of attention.  

     

    So,I simply went out and bought a desk.  It will not be here for two weeks.  It is not either of the desks I showed you in that last post.  I could ask what I was I thinking, but it is apparent I was not thinking as myself.  

  • Books, Life, Meaning….

    213119Yesterday afternoon I ate my lunch outside.  As I sat basking in the warmth of the sun, I read, re-read actually, an essay from Mike Madison's Blithe Tomato, a book I read at the beginning of the year.  It is a book that surprised me.  I expected the short essays to be a little more frivolous perhaps, something you read once and toss, perhaps more strident in a my-way-is-better-than-your-way fashion, or perhaps I expected the over-educated kind of one-upmanship I find characteristic of writers like Bill Bryson, writers whose prose is so smart and so clever that they can't seem to help admiring how clever they are.  The book was none of those things, at least not to my reading, and it promises to be a book I will continue to pick up and delve into occasionally, with essays that are astute, often contemplative, but also kind and forgiving of human follies as well as short and easy to read.  I love the way the essays open a door that lets my thoughts wander down their own paths.

     

    Even though Mike Madison is a farmer and the book is marketed as containing essays about food and farming, this is not strictly true.  Yes the essays do revolve around farming, farmers markets, farmers, and people who shop at farmer's market, but their subject is not so narrowly defined. The essays are really about life and about humans with all their strengths and weaknesses, follies and foibles.  But the essays are written with compassion and humor and the author is able to turn that compassion and that humor on himself as well as upon others.  It is a book that needs to be savored slowly.  It is a fairly easy read, and the focus, for the most part is on the small, the routine, the everyday.  But small things can sometimes point us to something greater. I enjoy reading this book most when taken in small doses, as a bit of a of a pick-me-up during the day.  

     

    When read straight through, without time to reflect and savor the best parts, the essays tend to run together and turn into something less than the whole.  I don't mean that in a bad way, I mean to say that it is a book that should be enjoyed essay by essay, allowing time for reflection, much the same way a beautiful spring day is more memorable when one stops to smell the fresh air, soak up the sunshine, pause and reflect on the goodness of life.  When we rush onward without pause, too preoccupied to celebrate the small things, we too easily become stressed and overwhelmed, and the beautiful and the good seem to fade into the background, seeming, to our inundated neural pathways, to be less than they really are and perhaps too simple to be believed.

     

  • Dreary Monday and the Search for a Desk

    Well, truthfully I don't know if it is dreary yet as the sun is not yet up.  It may prove to be a glorious day.  But at the moment I feel dreary.  Yesterday was a busy day and I didn't drink enough water or go for a walk, opting instead to curl up on the sofa with a cat and my knitting.  This morning I have a fair amount of sciatic pain, am plagued with a mild cough, congestion and a sinus headache and am generally dragging myself around the house without enthusiasm.  This is the opposite of my normal state of early morning energy and efficiency. 

    So what measures can be taken to improve the situation? A hot shower is always a good start and gauranteed to open up the sinuses.  After that, I would say that I spent too much time at my desk last week, and I should be doing other things today.  

    What kind of things?

    A4ed59705a21957c560dc8199e9d113dWell, I could go buy a new desk chair, since the one I am using is uncomfortable and surely is not helping my back.  My Aeron chair moved upstairs for use at the sewing table, perhaps prematurely, as I am spending more time at my desk than at my sewing machine, and it is too heavy for me to move it back down.  The chair I am using is something I let a salesperson convince me would fit my back better, and it was significantly cheaper.  I suppose it is remarkable that the salesperson tried to sell me the cheaper chair, but it was a waste of money because I still have to go back and buy the Aeron, which is the best desk and sewing chair that I have ever owned.

    So, if I can run downtown and pick up a new chair, why haven't I done so?

    I was prepared to run right out and buy a chair in early January. But I also need a new desk.  My current desk is too small.  It is the perfect length for my use, but at a mere 18" depth, it does not quite offer enough surface space, especially on those occasions I must share my workspace with a feline companion.  

    Bddfdff1947ba5651b59101284ef2315Since I know the chair I need, it makes sense to buy it first and get a desk that works with the chair. But then I saw the Elizabeth Writing Desk by Redford House, which can be made in a tarnished silvery-gray color, and it occurred to me that a grey desk with a light grey Aeron chair would look lovely in my office, which has white bookcases on three walls.   

    This desk fits my requirements. It is exactly the right size.  It has drawers, which I am currently lacking.  And I like the cabriole legs, which will look pretty with the molding and trim in my office.  

    So I was stymied over the question of color.  Which color Aeron chair should I purchase?  Dark or Light? All would have been simple if I could purchase the Elizabeth Writing desk locally. But I can't. I would have to buy it online or through a decorator.  It will take time.  I don't know enough about furniture manufacturers. I can't see it or touch it first.

    So doubts began to set in. 

    5b5c6e492f25c11a64ab4d1cbab9535dThose doubts were confounded because I also like this desk by Julian Chichester, which I discovered last fall.  At that time I was thinking of putting my office in a larger room, and I thought it might be too dominant in the small office.  But it is available through a local store and I am more familiar with the manufacturer's other pieces (although I want the smaller version which will have to be ordered).  

    Plagued by indecision, I simply buried my head in other things and avoided the issue.

    Perhaps today I should go out and look at actual desks in local stores, to see if I find something that I like as well or better than either of these choices.  If not, I need to make a decision.

    Daylight. Time to get going. Procrastination gets me nowhere.

     

    photo credits:

    1. Aeron Chair from the Herman Miller Website: Here.

    2. Elizabeth Writing Desk. Redford House. Here.

    3. Julian Chichester Cortes Desk. Here.