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Five Things Friday

The painting continues.  I continue to be a bit discombulated by the upending of my routines and the constant shifting and reshifting of things about the house.

1. But I love the newly painted rooms, both the colors, which aren't actually radically different from what was here before, but also the shifting patterns of light on the walls.

2. Even the gray that I had before, (elephant gray) looks more beautiful in a better quality of paint, with a soft sheen. I think you can get a small sense of that comparing the gray around the doorframe in the top picture, which has not yet been painted, although that wall will be the same shade of gray, with the wall around the vanity (left) shown above. I may have to take another version of the first picture above, once that wall is finished, just for the sake of comparison.

3. The temperatures are to drop to very close to the frost line tonight, or, actually, in the wee hours of tomorrow morning. I harvested a good sized bowl of habaneros today in preparation, and will be making salsa or jam. It has been a good summer for peppers, and the plant is still laden with green unripe fruit, which may well be lost, But I do not want to bring the pepper plant indoors at this point, and I probably have more habanero peppers than I would otherwise have ever used.

4. I suppose this may be the end of the rose blossoms as well, but perhaps not. They are pretty much the only things left blooming in my yard. The sprinkler system has been shut down for the season, And aside from watering some new fall plantings I am not inclined to water. The ground is so dry that it is like concrete.   I am planning on moving some laurels that are in a spot that is far too sunny for them. I have new shrubs to put in their place, but the dislocated shrubs may just be temporarily relocated into the flower beds until it after the rains, whenever they come.

5. I just finished reading Eimear McBride's A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing and it was a both deeply beautiful and deeply unsettling book. Although the structure of the novel itself is in fact fairly conventional and linear, the language is anything but expected or conventional. There are few coherent sentences, and yet the story itself has a coherent flow if you allow the words their own space and their own musicality. I suppose one might think it the author was attempting to write in a stream of consciousness mode, but that is not exactly it. More likely the language seems to be attempting to explore that indistinct bridging between the inner primitive instinctual reaction and conscious thought. The language of the novel seems to float in shifting sands between the rawness of instinct and the music of poetry. In fact I would say this novel is far easier to read if you approach it as it was an epic poem. Then the language can capture something elusive, and beautiful, in the story, even though the story itself is tragic. Another point, even though one feels one knows the main character here, this too is an just an impression. We read, and think we know the narrator's thoughts, but just as we ourselves are more than just our instinctual selves, so too this narrator, but we never really see her fully, just as we are never told anything about the physical being of any of the characters.   It is a haunting novel of pain and suffering and love, but also of knowing and not-knowing, and as such, I think it will remain with me for a long time.

November 11, 2016
A Little Chaos (May Be A Good Thing)

The painters started work on Friday. Of course it was expected. This was the impetus behind my mad cleaning of closets, the final incentive to set up my sewing and craft studio, the elimination of stuff for stuff's sake. And now, having moved everything in my house around at least once in the last month or two, I get to do it all again as every wall in every room and closet in this house is painted (and one ceiling).

It is well past time. The builder's paint job was not very good, and the flat paint is difficult to clean. The master bedroom still carries scars from where the "Oxygen" warning signs were taped to the walls. In fact it probably should have been done before now, except that I was perhaps not ready. I'm not fully certain that I am ready now, or more exactly I am both ready for new paint and yet plagued by trepidation about change, about letting go. It strikes me as odd that I can be fearless about bigger changes and yet filled with doubt about something so small and simple.

I never intended that the entire house would be one color exclusively. I wanted several colors, but the builder did not agree, and I had decided to work within the framework of the builder's options, knowing full well I could change things as needed later on. Besides, I never expected that this first painting would be quality work, and I was not mistaken. But life did not go as planned, and the paint remained.

All of this is a rather long-winded way of saying that although I knew I was ready to paint the house, and although I knew that I needed and wanted to change the colors of at least some rooms, the process of choosing paint colors proved to be far more daunting than I had anticipated. This surprised me, especially because, as stated before, I had happily anticipated painting the house in several colors when I first moved in. But when I made that first paint selection I lived in New York, and I was choosing paint for a house in Tennessee. I knew the light would be different. And although I chose a color that has become one of my favorite colors, a color I might use wherever I might live due to its versatility within my own palette of the colors I chose to surround myself with, I also knew that each house has its own personality, its own interaction with its family and its locale. I knew I wouldn't know what colors to chose until I lived in the house.

So why was it so hard to chose colors? I honestly don't know. I do however have suspicions. My time living in this house has been a time of much change, and although I have rearranged the furniture, purchased art, reupholstered furniture, given up old furniture, bought new furniture, and generally settled into a new life, the walls of this house had not changed. The color, like the scars on the walls were a testament to a history, a history that still exercised a pull on me even though it was time to let go.

It took me 16 samples of paint colors to settle on the colors I wanted this house to be. And truthfully those colors were at times incredibly bold, and although I am not generally afraid of color, this house told me early on that it was not a house for bold color, at least not in its relationship with me. Perhaps I then went too far to the other extreme, tending toward the exremely boring; luckily that trend was short lived. Eventually I found something that I hope is just right. At least I believed it was just right until the painters started working yesterday, and then I doubted myself all over again. But in the stillness of Friday evening, after the painters had left, I am once again calm. My choices are good, for this house, for this time, for me now. Nothing else is relevant.

Most of the house will be painted one of the four colors above. The photos show samples on foam board which I would move around the house to see the paint in different lights. Here they are out for garbage pickup this past week, their purpose having been fulfilled. In the early morning light, they are perhaps slightly cooler than they are in "real" life, but even that term is relative. Much of my house gets eastern and northern light; very little gets late afternoon light, and this has been one of the difficulties, finding colors that I loved in the rooms that I frequent at the time I frequent them. The color on the far right is the current color, Benjamin Moore's Elephant Gray. It is a color I love, and a color I am still using, but it is no longer the only color in the house. When people ask me what colors I am using, I usually say "4 shades of gray" but actually it is 3 shades of gray and a grayed-purple. From right to left they are, (all benjamin Moore, the first three grays) elephant gray, abalone, thundercloud gray, and sanctuary. I am happy with the colors. They play nicely with each other. They play nicely with the light in my house, they allow me to be bold with fabrics and furniture colors, something that suits me well.

It is only the sunroom that has given me constant trouble. In my imagination the word sunroom brings forth images of cheerful brightness. But that doesn't fit. The windows in the sunroom face east/north-east and get early morning light, a bit of incredibly intense late morning light that fades everything except the deepest colors into nothingness, and green, everywhere green. Right behind the sunroom is the steep hill behind the house. The impression is a wall of green, the light in that room, even with my rather purplish gray, is of green and green teals everywhere, a very cool green room. I happen to like that greenness, but when the light shifts in the late afternoon, that purple gray takes on a bit of a hint of the bruised and battered. Although I think a little bruising is a part of life, and don't mind a sense of the well-worn in my house, bruised shadows and sunrooms are incompatible.

Above are some paint swatches on the wall of the sunroom, taken at a fairly bright time of day. At the moment I am going for the pink at the top right. It feels bold, and I don't know if it will work, but as it is a color that exists in the carpet in that room, It may work gloriously. I was looking in the sunroom yesterday in the late morning, about 11:30 AM when the late morning light was making the current elephant gray, picking up the reflected green of the gardens through the windows, look almost silvery greenish-gray, like a savanah of silvery grass, and at first I thought "how can I change this?" But then I looked at that upper pink, and realized it looked less overtly pink and had taken on a comforting glow of honeyed pinky-peachiness, shining with a softness much like a warm embrace. At that moment the potential for outward-looking warmth was revealed, as opposed to the deeply inward gazing depths of a deeply forested glade, and I understood that it is not important whether that particular color is the right choice or not. It is important only to begin. Once the change has begun, everything will fall into place at its own pace. I suppose it is all a gamble, but, so is life, and paint is easily changed. In fact the change may come more easily, once I've loosened my grip

In the meantime my stuff has been scattered throughout four closets in four rooms, as I have asked that the master bedroom and bath be painted first so that I can reconfigure the master closet, and I feel profoundly unsettled. Perhaps this is good, this unsettledness, I suspect there is nothing like an upset in the routines of life to make one realize what is necessary, and what is not, and to see how comfort and complacency close in on themselves, when life is actually an act of opening up.

November 5, 2016
A Knitter’s Rug

In my house the main living area is fairly open, and although there are 4 bedrooms in the house, the master is front and center.

This was desirable when George was alive, partially because we moved from an open floor-plan house to this house, and partially because if he didn't see something it didn't exist and he worried. Of course the master bedroom is there, but separate. There is a door. I have no problem closing that door when privacy is needed, but I have also learned that, unless someone is using the room, I do not like having that door closed, even when entertaining. The positioning of that room and that door, almost at the spoke of the flow of the public areas seems like an affront, a negative energy flow. I have no trouble closing other doors, doors off hallways at the front of the house or upstairs, only this door.

As you might surmise, this posed a problem. On the one hand a bedroom is a private space: Cheryl Mendolson, in Home Comforts, calls it the Den of Nakedness; Martha Stewart, in her Homekeeping Handbook, says she eschews decoration in bedrooms. On the other hand, this bedroom is in a semi-public space, and I am uncomfortable both with the idea of it being too private, but also too public. What to do? What to do?

It seemed to me that I needed a more intentional approach, and yes, a little decoration. Truthfully, I've always had some kind of decoration in bedrooms, a painting, a sculpture, a vase or vessel, for what is life without beauty. Art, craft, handwork, these are the human touches that, for me at least, bring a sense of comfort and security. But the bedroom was kind of a mishmash of things that worked, but didn't really "spark joy" to use another popular phrase. And so one of my summer projects has been to pull that bedroom together in such a way that I would be happy with the door open, but also happy with the door closed.

It has been an ongoing project, with each change or improvement sparking other ideas, other refinements. Yesterday the new rug arrived. It had been ordered long ago, and although I had tried to keep it in mind as I fiddled and moved things around, I fretted. Well, I'll always find something to fret about if given the chance.

First, the detail shot.

Hopefully you can see why I love this rug, I who knit, and sew and love handwork. I also love color and pattern, but sometimes color and pattern are too much, and this most certainly can be true in a bedroom. The rug is gray, but a gray that is neither warm nor cool; my photo can't capture the true color, although it is probably closest where the edges of shadow begin to blend into the light.

So which is it? Private space or public space, or a marriage of both? This photo is taken from the dining room looking in, although I am not likely to have all the lights on routinely when I am entertaining. Darkness and light can also define a space, perhaps as effectively as a door. It remains a work in progress. There are still some mismatched pieces, and I may not need both a bench and an ottoman. Or perhaps I do. I find that I love the play of shadows captured in this photograph. There are paint swatches on the wall, although neither of the colors shown in this photo will be the final color of this room. You see Tikka in her favorite spot. From this vantage point she can see and hear all comings and goings, inside and out. I suppose then, in its public aspect, this is Tikka's room.

September 8, 2016
Meandering Musings on a Thursday Morning

Right now, I have a low-grade headache and my eyes are just beginning to water. I am home, but I spent last night in a hotel, the same hotel to which Tikka and I will retreat this evening as well. And so, once again, my plans are more or less on track, but the path has shifted and even perhaps meandered a bit. I have a friend who always says the plans are "firm as jello". It is a phrase I have pretty much taken to heart, as it mirrors so closely my own approach to life. You can plan and plan, and then you just have to let it go.

So this post will be interrupted, and I've decided to go ahead and write it as such.

The flooring installation team will arrive in a few minutes to resume gluing down the new flooring in the master bedroom, the same engineered hardwood floor that matches the rest of the house. I had requested vinyl in that room when the house was built, knowing full well I would eventually need to replace it. But the process of aging can be rife with indignities and I was tired of scrubbing grout and carpet, and far too aware of the tendency of liquids to run between the floorboards. Perhaps wisdom comes with learning to accept the things you never wanted to know anyway, and then moving forward.

What I didn't anticipate was the fumes from the glue. It began when the vinyl was removed, but continued through the gluing of the floorboards.  Burning, watery eyes, draining sinuses and a growing headache told me that I would not be sleeping in the house, and so other plans were made. I had thought that I would use my retreat to write a blog post, perhaps read, or knit. Instead I found myself overwhelmed with exhaustion, ready to do nothing further than watch tv, let my mind decompress, and go to sleep. And so I slept, slept better than I had for a while, not because the hotel was more comfortable, but just because I was in a space outside of my own routines and obligations.

And here I am again, home, enduring the headache because, well, I have stuff to do here, stuff that I will do best here, at my own desk in my own space, with occasional breaks in the fresh air. I am here because I want to be here. Granted the heat and humidity don't make the fresh air all that inviting either, but then, no one ever promised me that the world would revolve around my wishes and preferences.

And I am excited about the floor. I am excited about the process of moving things back into the bedroom, even though most of that will wait until tomorrow. I am very aware that my ability to replace the floor, my ability to chose to escape to a hotel in the evening, even my ability to chose where and when I work are all privileges. They are privileges I have worked for, but they are privileges none the less.

"Firm as jello". Even privilege is a tenuous thing. You can work hard to achieve a certain place in the world, perhaps even come to it by accident. But despite all one's effort, the result is still a tenuous thing. Circumstances can, and often do, conspire against your will. You may never achieve your goals; even if you do, you can still lose it all. I am comfortably secure. And I can make good choices with the goal of maintaining my status, my privilege, if you will. But if I am wise, I also have to admit it is never all about me, or my work, or my choices. The world intrudes. The unexpected and unanticipated intrude, and sometimes they intrude in terrible ways for which we are not prepared, and we all have to adapt. Hopefully, learning to adapt, and learning to let go, come with age. Increasingly I think this is a significant part of what we call wisdom.

I am not really a particularly patient person. I know people who think otherwise about me, but this is simply because they only see one side of my personality. Like everyone I know, I want safety and security and simply to be happily ensconced in my own little safety zone. But I also realize that there is no such thing. I see it as an illusion; an illusion I may yearn for, but an illusion none-the-less. We have to change to survive. The world changes around us daily, and eventually we have to change or be overwhelmed.

And it is this part of me, this part of me that sees change as constant, this part of me which is a corollary to the "firm as jello" part of me, that gets frustrated and sometimes impatient. I do get impatient with people who dig in and refuse to change, especially when they see the need intellectually but can't bring themselves to venture out of their comfort zone, especially when they say they want change and yet can't, or won't, take the necessary steps. I get impatient but not angry. This is one of the reasons I am not a person who has a natural gift of healing or soothing others. I can be good at seeking compromise, at moderating, but I am not a healer. I am far too impatient.

What people don't see is that I am just as impatient with myself. I get frustrated with others, but I get equally, if not more, frustrated with myself.  I find self-forgiveness far harder than forgiving others. I don't hate other people, but there was a time in my life when I hated myself, and I do know how difficult it is to let go of that self-hatred. I do know that I often fall victim to the same pigheaded determination to be right and to be safe as any other person I know. It seems I am constantly learning about new blind spots. Each blind spot I overcome seems to reveal two more. I hope this is the path to something or someplace better, because it sure is a rocky road. I get frustrated, not because I think I am better, but because I am well aware of how treacherous the road can be, of the boulders lurking around the corner, and because I don't want anyone to fall by the wayside.

August 25, 2016
Five Things Friday

1. The dressers I dismantled and reassembled so that they were all the same height were moved into the master bedroom closet.

Now all my clothes are in one place, in a room where there is light and they can actually be seen. It is both wonderful and overwhelming. Even though my closet is by no means full, my first reaction on seeing everything together is "I have too many clothes". But I have already edited my closet down considerably, eliminating things that fit a previous life, that didn't fit, or were the wrong colors. The problem is that I have a wall of fabric I want to make into clothes while at the simultaneously feeling that there are things I need (there are indeed) and I have too much. The challenge is finding the perfect meeting of these all too human impulses, realizing as I do so that contradiction is an essential part of human nature. Our passage through life is a process of growth and also of editing or refinement. I think somewhere along the line my journey the balance between making and editing will take on a more curatorial process. Or I could just be saying that to make myself feel better.

2. Last November I brought a silver chest home from Texas. It was made by my grandfather and contained assorted sets and remnants of my grandmother's silver. The silver simply needed polishing, but the chest needed refinishing and relining with silver cloth. It went off to be refinished and restored, along with a small chest of drawers I had salvaged many years previously when someone left it out on one of the designated curbside pickup days. Both chests came back home in mid July.

My grandmother's silver has been returned to the upper chest, where it is used every day. The lower chest, which I suspect was originally meant to store papers, now holds placemats, napkins and assorted small pieces. The drawer bottoms are very thin, hand planed at about 1/8 or 3/16 inch thickness and were bowed and split to the point that I couldn't use most of the drawers. They have been flattened and restored and are now usable. This little chest is one of my most treasured objects, and using both of these pieces, my hands opening drawers made by previous hands, knowing that they were saved from the ignomy of a landfill somewhere to find new life and use, brings its own kind of joy.

3. A couple of times this summer, I've cracked an egg in the morning to find double yolks:

I always get a little thrill somehow, but it is a thrill tinged with sadness and knowledge of the fragility of life. You know of course that twin chicks do not survive. If embryos even develop, they rarely survive to hatching, and then cannot get themselves out of the shell, not having either enough room or enough strength to survive. A chick that cannot get itself out of its own shell does not have the strength to live, despite all the best, and most-well-intentioned efforts of kind-hearted humans. Food for thought.

4. A process that started with reassembling dressers (above) has taken on a life of its own and I find myself in the middle of an extended nesting phase. Even in terms of decorating or home improvement, it seems I am all in or all out. Wallpaper was put up in my office, turning it into a little jewel box that I hardly want to leave, which may be a good thing as I am involved in several outside projects as well, with a few more on the horizon.

There are two paint swatches on the gray wall in the hall. One is actually the same shade of gray that is currently on the wall, but it appears slightly darker. it could simply be the difference of using a higher quality paint and a different base than the one used by the builder, although the actual color formula is supposed to be the same. I am not knowledgeable enough about paint to say. The lower swatch is slightly lighter with a slightly more obvious lavender cast. A decision has not yet been made, but I have learned that I am very comfortable with gray.

5. It has been a long time since I've posted any kind of garden photos. Truthfully it was hot and dry in July and the unrelenting heat was not encouraging. But the small creeping sedum I planted in the bare area of the front bed, at the base of the magnolia has done very well, and is blooming. Sometimes great beauty comes in very small packages.

August 19, 2016
Old Wool

I bought a carpet for the sun room. I am still entranced at how such a simple addition changes and enhances the room. It seems simultaneously larger and cozier, and a bit brighter as well. I keep wandering by, stopping, and sitting down for a bit just to experience the space.

It is a new carpet but it is made from old wool. Apparently the person who manufactures these carpets buys up the stock from old factories and uses it to make new rugs. So the wool is old wool, dyed using antiquated techniques. This changes the color. For the better to my mind. Apparently the wool for this carpet was dyed in the 1920's in all likelihood. That makes me smile, as in my dream vision I would live in a 1920s or 1930s house, not my contemporary new construction house. So I have a bit of the 20's in my room in spirit anyway. It makes me happy, as does the thought of making something new from something old and salvaging something that would otherwise have gone to waste.

Here's to new rugs from old wool.

Here's what I see in this picture. I am sitting on a large sectional unit which occupies two walls of the room. I love the carpet and the colors, which look different here than they did in the photograph I saw originally, and in the decorator's showroom, where I first saw the rug in person. I loved it, although perhaps in slightly different ways in each setting, which I suppose means I will love it anew in any new settings it might find itself in my life. I am looking at the Wassily chair that George bought me for one of my birthdays, I forget which one. I had admired a Wassily chair somewhere, one that was in the more commonly seen black leather, but had said I did not want black leather. George ordered the chair, took a day off work, drove to Long island to pick it up, and kept it hidden in his big suburban, the one with the plow attached, so that he could sneak it upstairs on the morning of my birthday. This leather shows the stains of time, but although they may be imperfections, they are also the signs of a life well-lived. There are drink rings on the arms, remnants of many cocktail parties and Christmas Eve dinners, and untold other celebrations. There is the stain on the back of the chair where George would come in still wet from the pool, or more likely hot and sweaty from mowing the lawn and sit, drink in hand. In his later, dementia addled years, he would curse the person who sat bare-backed in "his" chair and ruined it, and I couldn't tell him that he had done it himself. Now I look at it and see George. Someday I may change the leather, when there are future stories to be built, but not yet. It is too alive with history and history is what is to be savored.

I also look at the lamp and the cockeyed lampshade and think that is something I need to address soon. I didn't realize it bothered me so much until I looked at this photo. Those lamps were one of my early purchases from a craft fair. The original shades were broader, but were badly damaged when we had a leak through the roof our old house. The current shades were purchased here and they do not fit well. I need to change them. I have an idea in my head of something I want to create. It may or may not work, but the process is important; perhaps it is not more important than the final result, but it is at least equally important. I don't yet know how it will evolve. But that is the key: past, present, future.

July 28, 2016
Monday Miscellany… No Wait, It’s Tuesday! How Did That Happen.

The heat is getting to me about now. We may have had a long and cool spring, but we have certainly made up for it since.  I try not to grumble, and there are days when the heat bothers me less than others, but there have been few of those days lately. Strange, as I had thought that getting my hair cut would help at least a little bit.

(just walked out of the Salon to my car selfie)

But although my hair is no longer limp, I am no cooler.   It is not even August yet and I have August lawn, and weeds growing in the flower beds because I could care less about going outside to weed them. There is only so much. that can be accomplished in the hour, or if I'm lucky two, before the heat chases me indoors. I may be a born and bred Texan, but you wouldn't know it.

At least the entire flower bed is green, even if some plants are tired. Others are fine. thriving in the heat. The limelight hydrangeas and the crape myrtles are lush, and the roses are blooming pretty regularly as well, including this petite beauty, just planted this spring.  In fact, just looking at the hydrangeas makes me feel cooler, at least for a moment or two. Even Tikka, who usually loves lying in the grass is reluctant. She waits until she must go out, runs out the door, and runs right back in. At least we are agreed, my puppy-girl and I.

The blueberries are also doing well. My two blueberry bushes are still quite small, but they are still putting out berries, even if I only harvest a few small bites a day. There was one big flush of fruit early last week though, after a week of rainstorms, and I managed to restrain myself from eating the berries as I picked them long enough to save some up, and make some blueberry barbecue sauce. I was inspired by an article in Local Palate magazine, as well as a recipe in Saveur, a recipe that I used as only a very rough guide. I used Korean red chili flakes (gochugaru) because I have a lot on hand, and local honey instead of sugar, in completely different proportions. The resulting sauce is quite good and not as sweet as many barbecue sauces, which suits my palate. I think I could do something more interesting with the layering of heat however and next time, which may well be next summer, and I may try using some guajillo chilis. I think there is potential for a Mexican/Korean fusion thing as filtered through my own Texan/New York/Tennessee tastes.

I used the barbecue sauce on a chicken, which I roasted slowly outside on the grill.   I ate part of the chicken with my neighbor's tomatoes, as he has more sun than I. I love my location at the end of the street, but if and when I move, one thing I want is the ability to grow some kind of vegetables, although at the moment I am the happy recipient of neighbor's and friend's excesses.

I had planned various indoor entertainments for the weekend, including catching Star Trek Beyond, but instead I started taking apart furniture and the weekend got a little out of hand with projects. Interesting how that happens sometimes.

I had been thinking about this project for some time.  Although I was perfectly happy with the Brix units that George and I had used as dressers and nightstands for a long time, recently they seemed a bit to cold and sterile to me. And yet I was not ready to let them go completely. Perhaps they could be repurposed.  As they are modular, they are also reconfigurable. In our original setup we had gray units and red units and one tall red/gray combination piece, all of different heights. I thought I wanted to make three units of the same height and move them. But first I had to figure out how to do it. I spent a good part of Friday taking the three smaller cabinets apart (I have one larger unit as well). Then I spent a good part of Saturday reassembling the pieces into three new units and moving them. The job remains incomplete. I can't move the larger unit by myself, but I should have some help with that later today.

So you would think that was enough for one weekend, wouldn't you? I would, normally. But apparently not this weekend. I reconfigured and moved furniture. I made blueberry barbecue sauce. I also made pickles, albeit simple pickles.

There were giant kohlrabi at the farmer's market, giant, 3 pound, kohlrabi. I bought one and decided to make pickles. I made two kinds. With half the kohlrabi, well perhaps slightly less than half, I made a simple vinegar pickle with a few Aji Amarillo peppers floating in the brine.   Then I also made a quick kimchi-style pickle with the other half of the kohlrabi.

So far, both are lovely, although my refrigerator is filling up with kimchi and sauerkraut and pickles. Once again it seems I am an all or nothing kind of person, the kind of person who is either all-in, or standing back, waiting. Am I the only person who does this? Do you manage to balance out your periods of rest and repose with your periods of enthusiastic involvement? Or do you go through lulls and periods of excess? I know I am inclined toward excess.   I tend to overdo, overindulge, over-whatever. Or I don't. At least, if I'm in I'm in with my whole heart, even if it is only pickles and reconfiguring furniture.

I no longer envy the more evenly paced, no longer wish to be different. It was almost as if I thought that if I could find perfect balance I would never feel pain or loss. Now I know that is not true. But I also know that the world needs people who live on an even keel, and people who don't, people who rock the boat, people of the quiet depths, of the intermediate waters, and of the explosive storms. Perhaps we each have a bit of all of these things hidden within us. Perhaps we feel them at different times in our lives. I don't live in the middle waters, but that doesn't mean that I don't want to find them, to bring the currents together to make something new.   As always, I am reminded of the mouth of the amazon, the meeting of the waters, where you can see the melding of fresh and salt, of massive bodies of water meeting and churning, and eventually becoming one.

July 26, 2016
Broken Windows

I remember reading once about the Broken Window Theory, and thinking it was an interesting idea, and one that I can actually see as being applicable in my own life. Basically the theory states that monitoring and maintaining an environment helps to prevent small crimes, such as vandalism, which in turn plays a role in preventing the encroachment of larger crimes. I interpreted this as meaning that a broken window shows a lack of care or concern, which encourages those who may already be predisposed to asocial behavior to assume that no one cares, and therefore to break in. One small break-in leads to great ter lawlessness.

I don't actually know anything about how effective this theory is in actual practice, at least in terms of large urban environments, but it makes sense to me as I can see it play out in my own small environments. People tell me I am organized. But I am organized only because the cost of disorganization is so high, and because it is easier to spend a few seconds putting something away than it is to spend hours cleaning up a larger mess. Perhaps this is simply because I am inclined, as my mom reminds me, to be lazy. I'm inclined to think that view is a bit simplistic.

Do you know the story of Mary and Martha? In the gospel of Luke, Mary sits at Jesus feet, listening to his words, while Martha hustles and bustles, serving everyone. Sometimes people think that, because I am organized, because I can get things done, I am a Martha. I am not. You who read this blog are privileged to see my Mary side. I am only as organized as I need to be, as organized as necessary to feed my own sense of balance and well-being, and indulge my Mary-ness. I have mostly learned that there is a level of disorganization, mess, and unruliness that increases my stress levels.  I suspect we all live on a spectrum of comfort with order/disorder and for most of us, there is some point where the disorder starts to engender stress and anxiety. I am only as organized as I need to be so that I do not have to be plagued by anxiety over what has not been done. I am only organized enough that I can sit back and enjoy. It is possible that I have a greater need for organization is than some others. It is also possible that my need to live without anxiety is also great I prefer stress to be a positive influence rather than a negative one. What is negative for me, may not be negative for someone else. I want to sit and listen. I love solving problems, but I want to solve the problem then sit back and enjoy the moment. I don't need to go looking for another problem to solve. I fully accept that are people, the Martha's, who more content to hustle and bustle. Both paths are valid and necessary. Both can be allowed to grow to extremes. Just as one can be disorganized to the point that it interferes with health and happiness, one can also be over-organized to the point that it interferes with health and happiness. Either path can be a crutch. Either path can be a tool.

I think my attitude toward organization, and life, is much like my attitude toward parties. I love having people over. I love feeding people. I love the anticipation, the process of planning, and preparing food and drink and preparing a setting. To me making food to feed people is an act of community, of love. It does not have to be perfect. Perfect is the enemy of good. But that love of cooking points to what I really love, spending time with people, not necessarily doing something, but just being with them.  Once the doorbell rings, I take off my apron and start to enjoy my guests. I want to enjoy my own party, and for me, that means sitting back and relaxing in the moment, in the conversations.   I am all for getting everything pulled together and set up in advance, because I am no Martha. Once the guests start to arrive, most of the work needs to be done, because I'm going to be sitting on the floor listening. Yes, I'll get drinks, or bring food to a table, minor things, but the real work has already been done and the time has come to simply enjoy.

That doesn't mean that I don't misjudge, don't make mistakes, don't mess up. I do. Last weekend I had to spend quite a few hours on Saturday cleaning the garage. The job was bigger than it should have been because I let things get out of hand. But it started simply. Like the broken window theory, one small act of neglect led to another, and another, and soon the thought of tackling the whole project became a source of stress and anxiety, stress and anxiety that could have been prevented.

It started in the fall. I ordered too many bulbs. I got carried away with dreams of gardening and forgot that I had committed myself to a couple of big projects that would eat up large portions of my time, preventing me from planting bulbs.  The bulbs were not all planted before winter set in and it grew too cold. I was pretty annoyed with myself.

I had read that if I refrigerated the bulbs I could plant them in the spring and they would still grow and bloom, and since I had a small dorm-sized refrigerator in the garage that I had used as a beverage refrigerator, I decided to try it out. I put the beverages inside in the kitchen refrigerator, and used the dorm refrigerator to store bulbs. So far so good. Order was maintained. I didn't have a place to chill or store beverages, but in the winter the garage is cool, and I just left them on the garage floor near the shelving.

Spring arrived and once again I had over-committed myself. But now my stress level was higher. I had spring tasks to attend to in the garden. I had commitments to fulfill, and I had a couple of hundred tulip bulbs occupying my garage refrigerator that needed to be planted, that should have been planted the previous fall. The very presence of the tulips created an undue burden. The garage was getting warmer but I couldn't use the refrigerator. The bulbs should have been planted already but there they were, still sitting there. I didn't have enough time, but I carried a heavy burden of expectation, my own expectation mind you, but expectation nonetheless.

Yes, the tulips got planted. Yes they grew and bloomed. But the garage grew worse. The refrigerator was filled with dirt from the bulbs and needed to be washed. Cases of soda and water were still on the floor of the garage and needed to be moved before I could wash the refrigerator. Because there was already stuff piled up on the floor, I let tiredness rule. I would come home, and instead of climbing over the boxes to put something away in the proper place on the shelf, I would simply add it to the pile. It became difficult to reach the shelves, so more things piled up on the floor, or in the closet behind a closed door. Every time I walked through the garage, which was daily, my stress level rose. Every day when I walked through the garage, my despair at the thought of having to clean it all out rose. At this point my anxiety over the garage took on a life of its own. Because my anxiety was great, I would try to shove it into a corner, to ignore it. I would do other things instead, things that made me feel better, even though I knew that I really needed to clean the garage.

We all do this you know, whether it be garages or work or relationships, we all do this. It starts innocently enough with one small accommodation, often because we are tired, or simply distracted. But one thing always leads to another. We let something slide, and then our anxiety over it grows to the point that we can no longer face it. So we avoid it. Sometimes we engage in activity meant to make ourselves feel better, but which actually makes the situation worse. Sometimes our anxiety and our fear, our fear of failure, of having hurt someone, our fear of not being good enough, of not being able to face the consequences, overwhelms us. Sometimes we need help to face the problem and get through it.

I didn't need help to clean the garage. I just needed to start in one corner and do it. I needed the refrigerator. My working refrigerator was filled with beer and soda and water and kimchi. I needed that small refrigerator, but I was pushed over the line when I couldn't find a drill bit. Now I've needed to organize the drill bits, and the tools in general for years. That was George's territory when he could still do it. George's system was to stack everything in piles, or in boxes, on his workbench. Wrenches to the left, hammers on the right. In theory at least. What we had was a three foot high pile of tools and boxes of miscellaneous screws and nails and drill bits. We didn't move the entire pile here, but we still didn't have a system. And then we were no longer a we. I don't have the patience to sort through boxes of things to find just the right single item. But I still left that mess intact because I suppose I wasn't ready to claim the title of "Mistress of the Tools" . Perhaps the entire garage had to go to hell before I could claim ownership of something as simple as a box of screws, or a box of drill bits.

June 25, 2016
Small Rebellions

During my absence, I've been doing a lot of things, and this is good. It has been a process of rediscovery of sorts. But I'm not writing about that today. You will have to wait.

Today is about unfinished business, or about the fact that I finally got my act together and figured out what to do with the planters my grandfather made. It meant rearranging the furniture on the screened porch. And somehow it took me a while to wrap my head around that. I also needed to change the cushions. The covers were in fine shape, but, despite having outdoor fabric over them, the cushions themselves were disintegrating. This may be something to address in the future. Or it may just be the price of using inexpensive cushions from Lowe's (the source of my porch furniture). Apparently there will be more research and decision making ahead. But not this summer, at least concerning cushions. Besides, without thought, learning, change and growth, what is the point of life? Is there life at all without these things?

But it is too early in the morning for questions without answers, or at least for contemplating same. Instead it is good to sit on the porch and enjoy the early morning air. By moving the seating to be on the diagonal, instead of lined up flush with the perimeter of the room, I can admire the garden from every seat. This of course, makes me want to sit on the porch even more: with morning coffee, curled up with a book enjoying the scent of honeysuckle or the perfume of daylilies, with a glass of wine in the evening, and if it is cool, a fire.

The irises out back have been blooming profusely. This is their first bloom, and I had feared that I had lost them after my neighbor, only attempting to help, weed-whacked the hill behind my house. The irises were in a defined bed, but I can see how the leaves look much like grass. He was worried about weeds in our lawns. I am not, still. Apparently I have no great interest in a perfect lawn. I had considered that the hill would make a lovely wildflower garden, but obviously those plans were also dashed. I now take a more considered approach, realizing that although my preference is toward a more informal look, I live in a neighborhood of formal and defined gardens and compromises must be made.

This year at least, I get to enjoy the irises. And there is clover in the lawn on the side of my house away from the neighbor. He keeps the lawn between us in perfect glory but I rather like the clover blossoms. I like them enough that even though keeping clover out of the flower beds is a bit of a pain, I still would rather deal with that than poison the heck out of my lawn, besides it is not, technically, my responsibility. Most of that lawn is common area. If the neighborhood associations cares enough to do something about it, they can. I choose not to. Every week the clover blooms, is mowed down, and blooms again. The blossoms make me happy.

May 28, 2016
Now I Get It.

A long time ago, when I was 16, I had back surgery for scoliosis. My scoliosis was very bad, and I am grateful, even though what was state-of-the-art 40 years ago might now be considered somewhat crude.

Following my recovery from that surgery, my surgeon told me that I must take 3 walks of about 1/2 mile every day for the rest of my life. I remember asking if I could take 1 longer walk instead, and he told me no, that the effects would not be the same. For a year or two I followed his directive. Then I started varying my walks and becoming inconsistent. Often I only took one long walk per day. When George became ill, I gradually stopped doing even that.

This year one of my goals has been to walk more. Mostly I simply want to be stronger, but I was also frustrated at not being able to manage some steep hiking in the fall, and I want to be able to do as much as I can. I'd like to be able to take at least short hikes on uneven and even steep terrain. I'd like to ride my bike again. Walking, on both paved and unpaved terrain seemed like a good start. I already had a fitbit and I started using it again. Through March and into early April I managed to average between 70,000 and 84,000 steps every week, but I did not manage 10k everyday. Each week there would be a day I simply was too stiff and sore and tired to move, but I didn't worry about it because my totals were good.

Then I realized that I needed to be more consistent, and perhaps also more moderate in my approach. In the last two weeks I have managed to walk 10k everyday. And although my weekly totals have been lower, I have actually felt better, and find myself doing more. I have also finally understood what Dr. Dixon meant 41 years ago, when he told me that three short walks were better than one long one. I don't mind a long walk. In fact I enjoy it. But I can't take one long hike in the morning, and then just do routine tasks and walking for the rest of the day, unless I am spending the day on my feet moving around (ie walking). 7k or 8k early and then only 2k – 3k later doesn't work. I can finesse an actual midday walk because I don't tend to sit for hours on end, but whatever I do, I must take a walk in the evening, after dinner, and that walk must be at least 1/2 mile but preferably more, which really is not all that long, but it is more than just down to the end of my street and back.

.

I suspect that these two things, a morning walk and an evening walk are the critical points, at least for me, and possibly for others in the bad back, aging or arthritic camps. The timing of walks may be even more critical than number of steps overall in that we all have days where we can do more and days where we can do less. In the meantime I'll keep up my steps and I am planning a few more ambitious walks/hikes. Once I feel more secure with that, I'll tackle the bike.

The small silver llama figurines were my grandmothes. They live on the shelf below my tv and make me smile, although I see that they need polishing again. And yes, it is worth having silver objects out where they can be seen, even if it means polishing them occasionally.

April 30, 2016