Zen Summer

Of the four years that I spent as a teacher, there was only one summer that I didn’t either work or go to school. That was the Summer of the Jigsaw Puzzle. Living in a small town and having limited transportation available (meaning that the nearest shopping mall was over an hour’s drive away, and my car was a very unreliable 1965 Ford Galaxie with black leather interior and no air conditioning), I had to find ways to entertain myself that didn’t involve a lot of money or travel.

There was a small cadre of young teachers in Boardman, that summer. We had befriended each other during the school year, and so we naturally gravitated toward each other for company over the summer. Although there were a few evening hours spent at the local pub, weekly rotating dinners where we practiced our emerging skills in the kitchen, and the occasional party, mostly we needed something to do each day that would protect our reputations and stimulate our minds, on our very short purse-strings.

One day we took a group trip into the nearest town with a thrift store, which was 20 miles away. As we idly picked through the random items, not sure if we were even looking for something or just trying to get rid of another day of vacation, I came across a display of jigsaw puzzles. I started looking through them and became intrigued as I sorted through pictures of cherry blossoms, fall leaves against a forest floor, clouds against a sky so blue and so clear that the breeze could almost be felt off of the box top, and a 1000 piece monster that seemed simple: Cracker Jack pieces scattered and stacked, with the Cracker Jack logo placed discreetly in the corner.

I waved to my fellow shoppers and they saw what I was beginning to see: hours, days, and even weeks of cheap entertainment for low, low prices. We each chose two or three puzzles, and headed home. With no children, and many of us with no spouses to dine with, our dining tables quickly became piled with puzzle pieces, and puzzle pictures taking shape as time went on. We quickly, and a little obsessively, worked at our play.

As one puzzle would get completed, each of us would happily trade with another, so no one was ever without. Then, the Cracker Jack attacked. I will confess to being the one who purchased the dreaded candy-coated monster. Hour after hour was spent trying to match pieces that all had the same color scheme, and almost, but just not quite the same shape. Being foolish, I found all the pieces that had the logo first. This left approximately 950 pieces of nothing but caramel corn and peanuts. Instead of a day or two, maybe three or four for something like the cherry blossoms, this monster stretched into weeks, before it was finally finished. And when it was, there was only one thing to do: take it all apart and send it to the next person on the list. I hated to do both, but did. Every single member of the Round Robin Puzzlers hated that monster. I can’t say that they were too thrilled with me for buying it either, but I think it made for a great finale.

There was something about doing the puzzles that was healing for me that summer. It was the only time I had ever not worked or gone to school. Puzzling over the pieces and the pictures, imagining how the parts would become a whole, kept my mind working when I wasn’t. It’s soothing to do something productive, even when the end result isn’t something permanent. I imagine the Zen Buddhists that create sand Mandalas, only to brush them away when they are done. Life is transitory. That is what the Zen masters are demonstrating with their art. The jigsaw puzzle summer was fun, enlightening, and a perfect Zen experience.

It’s Always 3 a.m. In My Head

I am born worrier. I not only started young, but continued throughout my life, to find more ways to keep myself and others up all night with a multitude of anxiety producing ideas.

What if the monsters under my bed are not just real, but carnivorous? What if that’s what really happened to all those missing kids you hear about on TV (this, in answer to being told there are no monsters. Turns out at three, I was actually closer to the answer than I knew.)

I have worried about everything from those childhood fears, to bigger and bigger worries. Unfinished homework during my school years would loom large in the middle of the night, assuring me that 6th grade math would prevent my entering college, or even being released from elementary school. I had visions of driving to 6th grade, to continually face my math book.

Junior high was when I was sure I would remain 4 ½ feet tall and flat chested for the rest of my life. I was sure I could get through the rest of those years, if someone could just assure me that I would get taller and have boobs in a few years. I would like to go back and tell that self that there is more to worry about…and there are boobs in the future. I wouldn’t mention the height thing, probably.

My worries about love, acceptance, and achievement plagued me throughout high school and college, with fears of failure and a destiny of dateless single hood clutching at me in the middle of my nights. No way to reassure myself with report cards full of A’s and B’s or a busy social life. The 3 a.m. closing arguments of each day were always more convincing than any evidence I might try to present myself.

Parenthood is no cure for a worrier. It’s like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. Not only did I have the Encyclopedia of concerns to refer to from my lifetime of anxiety, but also now had an easy quick-reference version at hand every moment of every day, from the moment that the test came back positive from my first pregnancy. Did I conceive before or after that party I went to for a friend, where I had a few drinks? Had I used paint in a closed room during that time period? The fumes had been pretty strong. Medications? Foods? Illnesses? What about family diseases that might be a risk for the baby? Should I have amnio? Ultrasound? Lamaze? And this was all just the day the test turned pink. Or blue. Or whatever. It only gets worse after birth, worrying about what you do, they do, others do…I don’t think I’ve slept for 16 years now.

But now it has actually gotten worse. There is only one thing worse for a worrier than, well, living. And that is having a child…with a driver’s license. I thought it would be a blessing, to finally have this child that I have had to chauffer around for 16 years finally able to drive herself around. It was very exciting for the first 2 minutes after she got her license and to watch her enjoy feeling grown up. Then she left the house with my car, and without me. I don’t think I have taken a breath since. There are so many things to worry about, all so very real, and some so deeply horrifying I can’t even write them down. It’s not even a trust issue, since she is bright and conservative, not given to speeding, racing, unsafe actions, drinking, or other things that I could worry about. But she is inexperienced, which is just a fact of life, and out on the roads with a bunch of idiots, who are given to speeding, racing, drinking, and unsafe actions. I would go on, but I’m having trouble breathing. Every time she leaves the house, my heart and respirations stop until she returns. The longer her outings, the more I worry for her safety, and possibly my own survival.

I have had people share so many tips and tricks for how to handle worry, I could write a book about it myself. I have prayed about it. I’ve been medicated for it. In the end though, I think there are people who are serene and accepting without need for advice or prescriptions in order to handle the roller coaster twists and turns that are life’s ride. And others are likely to be screaming and gripping the safety bar, even if they are only on a kiddie ride. I’m a gripping screamer. Whether or not my life is a coaster or kiddie ride is hard to know, perhaps until the end. But every 3 a.m. I’m prepared for the possibility that there is terror around the next corner, even if the only monster under my bed is one I’ve put there myself.

Blissed Out

Ignorance is bliss, so it is said...or was said by someone...or is just one of those things "they" say. I hope this is so, because I am studiously working toward being pretty darn blissful. This isn't to say that I want to be unintelligent or uninformed, but rather just remain blissfully ignorant of so much of what seems to pass as important information today.

In the age of Facebook, Twitter, I-Phones with an app-for-everything and a website for everything else, I am slipping further and further behind every day in the communication super-overload that passes for interaction and entertainment. I haven't checked my Facebook page in so long, it is very possible that my friends have set up one of those creepy e-memorials, mourning my passing. Some days, it feels like they should.

I don't Google anything. I have teenagers to meet all of my internet needs, and their sole purpose seems to be to You-Tube and Wiki and Ask.com all the questions I need answered. Without them, I might just go to the library and look up what I need in an encyclopedia. Do we still have those?

Music is something I listen to on the radio, locally not by satellite, or on CD's that get scratched and lost and taken by ex's. I would almost go vinyl, but can't afford the fancy new record players that are being sold now to feed the "retro" minded music masses. I rather prefer the radio anyway, with it's questionable sound quality, limited variety (in Idaho anyway) and the fact that I am totally dependent on the DJ (if there is one anymore; I carefully avoid the people-free stations that just crank out the pre-programmed playlists and pause only for a station break, and where the only human input is from commercials.)

Decision time is coming, regarding my lack of participation in this Human Race...soon I will either have to get up and run with the rest, or forever be left so far behind that I cannot catch up. Not that I much want to compete for first place, but I suppose I don't want to be standing on the sidelines and realize that the last of the runners has gone by, and there is no one left to cheer on, either. I may try out the MP3 player that my daughter gave me, from when she upgraded to a better model (although hah, the new one has already broken and is barely usable, hence my argument with technology rushing ahead of itself faster than it can keep up), or I might update my Facebook status (something like, "Not dead. Now quit arguing over who gets my stuff"). Or maybe I will just surf the 'Net a little bit, and check out some of the websites that are causing such a stir. I hear you can buy a lot of interesting things on this new E-Bay they have...

Hunting Legislators

Actual Story per KTVB, 01/13/09:
Legislators have been getting hit by cars so frequently of late, that the speed limit around the Capitol Building in Boise, Idaho is being lowered in order to protect lawmakers, several of whom have been hit crossing the street in front of the Capitol, by speeding motorists.
Not so actual story, per my sick and overactive imagination who has since had its TV privileges temporarily suspended (dateline, unknown):
“Hey everybody, look! I caught me a good one this time!” Family, friends, and neighbors gather around to admire the congressman strapped to the bed of a pickup.
“That’s awesome, Bill! You got yourself a 21-pointer, there for sure.”
“Twenty-one pointer? Wassat?” asks the little neighbor, who has ridden up on her tricycle to find out what all the fuss is about.
“Oh, that someone who has been serving in the legislature for 21 years, making laws and stuff, honey.” Whispers her father, who has chased her for blocks; he told his wife he was “concerned about traffic” and other safety matters, what with their daughter out navigating the world alone on that “damn tricycle.” His wife buying none of his story, guessing that someone in the neighborhood had brought down another congressman or woman and figured she’d leave him to chase the story, and their daughter.
“Hey, I thought those guys had a thing for term limits or something,” chimes in a high school boy, thinking he has so much to teach the adults, instead of realizing he may still have so much yet to learn.
“Well, yeah,” responds one of the onlookers, sneaking the boy a beer from a nearby cooler. “They all want term limits, til they get into office. Then they end up voting themselves pay raises instead, don’t ya, big guy?” At this, he turns and stares into the eyes of the panicking man tied to the bed of the pickup, and winks at him, walking away, still muttering about term limits.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Will you let me go now?” The 21-pointer in the truck almost shrieks as he asks, “What are you going to do?”
“Shhhh” a calm voice can just be heard, over the shouts of the growing crowd in the neighborhood, some yelling about term limits, some drunken fools yelling “Kill, kill.” “No, we aren’t going to kill you.” The man who had brought him down in the first place is the owner of the calm, quiet voice.
“But, we aren’t going to exactly let you off the hook, either. You promised something to these people here.” He holds his beer bottle in his hand, as he points first to himself, and then to the still gathering, but now quieter crowd. “We are the people of your district, sir. Are you ready to listen to us now?” Of course, the 21-pointer nods his head eagerly, and only flinches a little as the hunting knives are unsheathed, and cut him loose.
The rest of the evening is spent with the legislator and the people of his district sharing beers, BBQ, and ideas about far more than just term limits, but how to get the congressmen and women back out to neighborhoods to share ideas with the people that elected them, without having to knock them down and out to do it. The wee hours of the morning give rise not just to the sun, but to the 21-pointer’s rededication to the ties he knew he had to his red necked friends and neighbors, and had tried to forget along the way to social climbing and fundraising.
A little sore, and a lot hung over in the morning, it’s worth the experience in the long run. He’s the only congressman, come election season, not to run for re-election, but he’s also the only one who had enough money and support to do it if he’d wanted. But when he throws his support behind another nominee, the man wins by a landslide; even though he had once run over a congressman outside the Capitol Building.

Shut My Mouth

Words are the medium by which I express…well…everything; my artistic side, emotions, intellect, personality, and so many other things. They all come through by way of my essays, blogs, or just simple conversation.
But when things aren’t going well, the first casualty is always the thing that is also my source of comfort: my words. If I’m angry or upset, I get quiet. It isn’t a purposeful silent treatment; rather, it just feels like I’ve swallowed all my words, and can’t spit any of them out again. They just sit in the pit of my stomach instead.
When times are tough, the written word won’t come to me at all. I don’t know if it’s that I don’t have anything to say, or if it’s that I have so much that it gets all jumbled together and can’t make it out of the traffic jam of my mind. Or maybe I just don’t want to examine the words that are trying to escape, since they aren’t ones that are as pleasant as what I’d like to imagine. I never want to write about bad stuff, and when things are going badly, that seems to be what takes over my mind and shuts my mouth.
When I’m struggling, I also tend to stop speaking to myself as well. Not that I am to be found wandering the streets, gesticulating wildly and shouting at myself. What I stop is the positive self-talk that I generally use to get through a challenge, or even just a day that needs some effort. The silent “Come on, you can do this…” or “Well, I’m sure there’s a good reason this is happening…” and “At least there will be friends/coffee/my dog waiting…” for encouragement, and to remind myself that indeed there usually is a good reason for things and that my dog is always waiting for me, these words are helpful and sometimes even powerful. But, times of stress and strain cause me to give myself the silent treatment, leaving me on my own, or worse: sighing silent messages of defeat.
I’d like to say that as a result of this awareness I’ve learned some valuable new approach to managing the down times. That now, I write, speak, call friends, or reach out in some way with the words that serve me so well during sunnier phases of life. But, it isn’t so. I have acknowledged my tendency to pull away from people, even from myself, and my words. I realize the frustration it causes for those who love me…including the frustration for myself…after all I love me too!
I do, however, believe there is a reason for things to be the way that they are, even my strange hermit-like ways. Although it’s no fun when my words leave me, and I leave everything and everyone else in turn, I find that when it passes, there have been lots of things collecting while I’ve been “away.” Then I enjoy the downpour of thoughts and ideas and new ways of looking at the world that were just waiting to burst forth, while I was waiting. Quietly.

If The Mayans Were Right…

Until just a few years ago, the only thing I knew about the Mayans was…well, I don’t know that I knew anything specific at all about them, now that I think about it. But I knew that they had existed a long long time ago, their culture had died out, and we had the broken pottery and crumbling architecture to prove it.

With recent movies, TV specials, and books on the subject, I now know that the big deal about the Mayans is that they predicted the end of the world would be in 2012. I don’t really know the details of the predictions or how they were communicated. For all I know someone found an ancient cave painting of a Mayan guy wearing a sandwich board that said “The end is near” and the number 2012 on it, and this gave us a movie starring John Cusack (for which I am truly grateful. If the world has to end next year for a few more movies to be made with John Cusack before we go, that is fine by me.)

Everyone seems to have a position now on the whole Mayan thing. The good news is, I really don’t. Apocalyptic predictions are pretty easy to come by, and I could spend my last few precious years, or decades, depending on who’s right, just digging through all the theories. Seems like an ironic waste of time to spend your life trying to figure out how it’s going to end.

But, for the sake of my having something to write about today, let’s say the Mayans’ sandwich board guy got it right and next year is it for all of us. I have been thinking a little about the things I will and will not miss, should we go the way of, well, the Mayans:

Will Not Miss:
The pits in avocados and mangoes. Great fruits, but the flesh to pit ratio is out of whack. Plus, by the time you try to free the mango from its pit, pretty much you could have just sliced up a peach, and settled.

Hair removal. The shaving, plucking, and dissolving with various chemicals is not only time consuming, but tedious. I find that there is always something, somewhere that gets missed. It’s the kind of thing that will distract me the rest of the evening once I see it…one tiny hair, and I can focus on it more intensely than any speech, movie, or dinner date that the hair removal was intended for in the first place.

Saying hi all day long in the hallway at work. Although I enjoy my colleagues immensely, am delighted to stop and chat whenever we pass each other, there should be a legal limit for how many times you have to say hi to the same person when you pass them in the hallway multiple times throughout the day. “Hi”, “How are you”, “How’s it going”, “Hey”, “Oh you again,” it becomes a little silly after a while. I would not miss this social ritual, were it to disappear tomorrow (or, let’s say, a year from now.)

Grocery store parking lots. This is a place where new cars go to become old cars. The dents and dings inflicted by runaway carts, doors flung open by cars parked too closely, bumpers dented by people who reverse first and look later, it is a danger to vehicles large and small, but the little guy really takes a beating. Suburban vs Kia: you know who is going to come out the winner in this bout.

And one last item:
Ill fitting underwear. From the sag of the granny panty to the pinch of the thong, from chasing wayward bra straps to the gouging underwire from hell, there are myriad foundation garments that, should we all be launched into space by a giant explosion, better all be going with us.

The list could go on, but I want to mention some of the good in this world that would be missed as well. This includes:

Bubbles. Their simple, silent beauty, and the act of sitting on a porch blowing them from a wand with a small child giggling with you is a pretty darn good thing. Bubbles: missed.

Lipstick. Love the stuff. Even if I don’t have any makeup on, just some lipstick will give the illusion that I am “finished.” Magical. Wish there was a lipstick equivalent for one’s career.

New toothpaste. I like having that new tube that I haven’t squeezed so badly in the middle that half of the stuff is trapped at the bottom of the tube, and then have to work to get out. Those first few squeezes (from the middle) of a new tube are awesome.

Chocolate covered cherries. Perfect food: it’s candy, but fruit. Go with it, its fruit.

Puppy tummies. Puppies always have these really round, soft tummies that are awesome to cuddle. A dog tummy is ok, but not the same as puppy tummy.

John Cusack movies. You knew this was coming, but I wanted to make sure we covered this. “Serendipity,” “Say Anything,” “Martian Child,” I could go on and on…but I might not have time, if his “2012” movie is right.

Sleeping in. There is just not enough sleeping being done anymore. I don’t know what happened to the idea of the long, lazy morning at home in bed (maybe that was just my idea) but…well maybe I won’t miss it if we explode. Or implode. Or whatever…(maybe I need to read a book about this after all?) I imagine we just won’t be around to do the sleeping anyway. And I’ve heard Heaven is pretty relaxing…

If I had to pick one last thing to miss it would be…well, everything. Even though there are many days that I feel like the world is full of mango pits and granny panties, I will try to remind myself that it also has plenty of bubbles and puppy tummies to balance it all out.

Forget Me (Not)

It's the typical Murphy's Law, that anyone that I want to remember me doesn't, and therefore it stands to follow that the ones that do, are the ones that shouldn't. I don't mention this out of some pathetic social misfit moment, or a longing for a lost love that has moved on to curvier, or blonder, or more monied pastures. Rather, it is the reality of my mother's Alzheimer's disease that has me thinking of those that have forgotten me, and those that remember.

Now don't navigate away to a page that has pictures of cats in cute poses with ironic sayings just yet. This isn't some maudlin exploration of the tragedy of Alzheimer's. Granted, it is awful stuff, and I'm not too excited about what lies ahead for my mom, my family and me. I'd been working out a plan to go get her from the state she was living in (read that how you will) and move her in with me and my kids. It was just a matter of the timing, to get everything in order for her, them, and me. The added challenge being that as I have been calling her recently to tell her to get her things together, I've realized that each time it is a revelation to her that I am telling her that she's moving, as she's forgotten the last call, even if it's been only the day before. This has made planning even harder, as we have to go through all of the excitement, tears, questions, and planning anew each time. This assured me that whether she or I had everything prepared, I had to drive there right away and get her, for her own safety.

Thinking about mom, and how her mind works now, makes me wonder about my own. For her, of course, the present is a delicate curtain, that tears away at a moment, revealing the past so clearly that she can tell you the name of her first grade teacher and where she sat in his classroom. Conversations are perpetual motion machines, forever turning back on themselves, as she forgets where we began, and therefore end up where we started. But she can tell a story from beginning to end, as long as it took place 50 years ago. She remembers people from all the old chapters of her life, just not the ones that she sees today. The past is present for her in a way that the present cannot be anymore.

So this makes me think...which I probably shouldn't...what will I live out in my old age? What will be my present when my present has passed? I have lost so many people from my life, some on purpose, some just by life getting in the way. Will these people come back to me like my mother's old friends and family have to her? Do I want them to? Do I get to choose the memories that linger and those that are lost forever?

I love my mom, and it will be an honor to care for her at this time when she needs me most. But I have to be honest here: she scares me a little. I don't understand the world she is living in. I don't want to end up living behind that curtain someday. But, I guess if I do, I won't know it, right? That's a little scary, too. Ok, you can go check out those cats now, they're really pretty funny. We all probably need some of those.