Sick days are one of the things the modern world has done best. There is little sweeter then exchanging the drudgery of work for old movies, pajamas, and maybe a trip to the gas station down the street for beer and frozen pizza. The couple blocks to the gas station are a decidedly more pleasant commute then a scorching 100 degree Austin bike ride, or a 45 minute Seattle bus ride at 7:00 am in the pouring rain. I have always relished sick days, in particular the ones I took not actually because I was ill, but because I knew I needed to pause, and take better care of myself for a day.
At the moment, I do not have a job where I can call in sick easily, as retail and customer service comes with no real structure to support the tired, sick, or burnt out employee. That said, I was immensely tickled by an email that a co-worker sent out several weeks ago, in which she described a dream wherein she called in sick with "a case of the muppets." In her dream, she called our boss and told him she could not come into work that day, because she had begun acting like a muppet AND COULD NOT STOP.
I love this! Why had I not realized this was an affliction up until now! I've had this disease since I was about 4 years old.
While I am an intensely practical person, and fully value the necessity of work to pay bills and make rent, I think in my heart I am a dillettante. I would rather read Billy Collins and admire my folk music collection all day then punch into the clock for 8 hours. I would rather practice making Foccacia bread then grade another teacher's spelling quizzes.
I think this mix of pragmatism combined with the ability to spend hours leisurely staring at blades of grass comes directly from my folks. My Pops retired this week, after 32 years of working for the Department of Transportation. When I was little he would bring home treasures he found while working on the freeway in Seattle: stickers, dining room table chairs, even his favorite pair of loafers. He woke up at 4:00 am every morning, and was usually home by the time we were getting off the school bus. He and my Mom supported the family through our childhood and adolescence, and I have so much respect for the sacrifices he made, and the dedication with which they raised us. In the evenings he would walk the dog, listen to Dylan, or The Allman Brother's Eat a Peach, play guitar, sit on the porch, spend time with his kids. Now that his retirement is official and the endless weekend has begun, he tells us his plans are the same.
Pa- "Walk the dog, go on E-bay, play guitar."
Ma- "Is that really your plan for the next twenty years?"
Pa- "Yes."
I am so thankful that my father has this opportunity now- to read, watch the crows flying through suburbs, road trip to Austin, have his life be his own again.
In terms of my own relationship with work, it was enlightening to realize that the time had come to make a change. The bare truth is that many parts of our lives- work, the place we live, relationships, and especially old patterns, serve their purpose. There is a time and place for them, but many of us (myself included) have troubling knowing when the time has come to move on. (For more inspiration, please see Tom Petty's album Wildflowers.)
On a deeper level, there are times when these old habits of fearing change, and the unknown, become detrimental. We get stuck- at a job, in a city, a relationship, a way of being. We must still be responsible- recklessness is different then risk taking. That said, there are times when we have a case of the muppets, and instead of ignoring it, we must listen.
I quit my grocery store job this week, and will soon be in search of other work. For a few short weeks, however, I will eat rice and beans, and weed the garden for hours. I will finally get around to reading East of Eden and Lonesome Dove, and enjoy the last few weeks of summer.
I imagined calling my boss, and yelling over the phone- "I can't come in. I got a nose job and changed my name to Gonzo! I'm wearing a bear suit and I decided to become a stand up comedian! OR My boyfriend turned into a frog. We bought a Studebaker and are setting off to see America!"
A mentor of mine once told me that our great work is to follow our heart, not our fear. When we realize we are putting ourselves in situations that compromise our basic needs for sleep, exercise, and overall health, this is a sign that we haven't heeded the call. Fear helps us stay put, it's logical and powerful. Heart is trickier- it might be just a whisper at first, and we may want to quiet the voice, since listening means throwing ourselves back into uncertainty, or towards a path that is rarely filled with light. Rather, it is shrouded in both mystery and possibility.
Next week I am headed to New Mexico to do a little soul searching (and camping) with Steven. Looking forward to Santa Fe sunsets, a friend's place in Taos, maybe some banjo playing along the way. We'll be looking for that giant fork in the road, and I hope we find it.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Morning Poem
This morning I walked miles of trails in the South Austin woods, through thicket and tall grass. Clouds brought cover as the dog and I sought out trails in the mid-morning haze. My boyfriend and I are house sitting this week for a good family friend- the garage apartment is like a little cottage, soft bed and solid wood ceiling, curved upward like the ribs of a barn. Guthrie and the little dog Bouta played this morning, I drank coffee from a borrowed cup and relaxed in the backyard, marveling at the quiet, the trees standing at attention along the fence line, the much needed break in the routine of the last few months. I picked up a book of poems from The Writer's Almanac, and found this.
In Texas
by May Sarton
In Texas the lid blew off the sky a long time ago
So there's nothing to keep the wind from blowing
And it blows all the time. Everywhere is far to go
So there's no hurry at all, no reason for going.
In Texas there's so much space words have a way
Of getting lost in the silence before they're spoken
So people hang on a long time to what they have to say;
And when they say it the silence is not broken,
But it absorbs the words and slowly gives them
Over to miles of white-gold plains and gray-green hills,
And they are part of the silence that outlives them.
Nothing moves fast in Texas except windmills
And the hawk that rises up with a clatter of wings.
(Nothing more startling here then sudden motion,
Everything is so still.) But the earth slowly swings
In time like a great swelling never-ending ocean,
And the houses that ride the tawny waves get smaller
As you get near them because you see them then
Under the whole sky, and the whole sky is so much taller
With the lid off than a million towers built by men.
After a while you can only see what's at horizon's edge,
And you are stretched with looking so far instead of near,
So you jump, you are startled by a blown piece of sedge;
You feel wide-eyed and ruminative as a ponderous steer.
In Texas you look at America with a patient eye.
You want everything to be sure and slow and set in relation
To immense skies and earth that never ends. You wonder why
People must talk and strain so much about a nation
That lives in spaces vaster than a man's dream and can go
Five hundred miles through wilderness, meeting only the hawk
And the dead rabbit in the road. What happens must be slow,
Must go deeper even than hand's work or tongue's talk,
Must rise out of the flesh like sweat after a hard day,
Must come slowly, in its own time, in its own way.
Monday, July 2, 2012
June Bug
"I tie knots in the strings of my spirit to remember."
- Jack Gilbert
It's been a rough month. Colorado is burning, the land hurricane has wiped out power and felled trees from Illinois to the mid-atlantic, and the AC in my boyfriend's truck is broken. It was 104 for a few days last week, and I spent most of my day off laying on my bed with the fan on, Guthrie on the floor, reading a book. Summers here are like winters in most other places. I stay inside, watch Friday Nights Lights for hours, pile paperbacks next to my bed, and generally lament the state of affairs. It's like inverse seasonal depression.
Austin has a strangely sexy appeal in summer, though. It's the season the city does best. The patios are brimming with folks holding sweaty glasses of cheap Texas beer, Barton Springs is packed with tattooed fellas and the occasional topless lady, paddle boards abound on the damned up Colorado, known here as Town Lake. It's a time for late night bike rides, a reason to make swimming the sole focus of one's day, a reason to break bread with neighbors and sweat it out with the rest of the city. The grasshoppers die by the dozens every night, especially downtown, trapped in by the concrete, and in my neighborhood the cicadas cries are like a symphony you cannot shake.
I resisted writing for the last few weeks because I was thinking a lot about death, and I didn't know what to write. I sat on my couch at 1 am, after riding my bike home from work through the darkened streets, and cried as I read about the shootings that occurred in Seattle, about the grief and fear that rose from those awful few weeks. I heard about the death of the daughter of my Mom's friend, killed in a bicycle accident in Boston, where she was studying for her Master's in teaching. I thought about her a lot although I never met her, tried in vain to find a sense of solace in death that comes so unexpectedly. My filter is growing thinner as I grow older- I am careful about the movies I watch and the books I read, and I am struck again and again by our lack of control. I still don't have the right words for all this, but I know it as a lot to do with the power and purpose of grief, the way that we move though loss, and the way that we, in turn, choose to live.
To cope with all these big, gaping thoughts, I started cooking. My friend Will, fabulous writer and friend, introduced to some ladies who have kept me company these last few weeks. The first is Molly Wizenberg, author of the book "A Homemade Life," and creator of the blog Orangette. Her writing is so crisp, so descriptive, and her recipes so tied to memory, and family, and connection. On the same trip to the bookstore I also came across a hardback copy of Deborah Madison's "Vegatarian Cooking for Everyone," for five dollars! I have some ideas in the works- Molly's Ginger Chocolate Banana Bread, Deborah's Rosemary Foccacia. I found a recipe for a Turkish shrimp dish in the stellar magazine Edible Austin, and there is a bottle of wine from Walla Walla that Steven gave me on Valentine's day that still needs drinking. (The Washington wine came with a bundle of Texas Bluebonnet seeds!)
I haven't cooked much lately, relying more on the cheap, easy option of expired sandwiches from work, cold pizza, and the occasional leftover salad. Thrifty, yes, but soul nourishing, no. If I eat one more sad turkey sandwich on dry Carroway bread, I might punch a tomato. A popular and powerful truth is that food connects us to something far greater then our stomachs. I felt like I was losing touch with my power to create, and I was grasping for a connection to something nostalgic and comforting. Last week I made zucchini cakes, with feta and green onion, fried in a pan of oil on the stove. I have never been able to replicate the first magical time I ate them- late at night in the Methow Valley, with my friend Samm and Aunt Michelle, zucchinis fresh from her garden, the radio on softly as the stars came to greet the night in droves.
That didn't seem like enough nostalgia, so the next day I made yam enchiladas, first inspired by a dish at the Boundary Bay Brewery in Bellingham, Washington. Try their salmon chowder, it's mind blowing. Also, once I went there after hours with my friend Gabi so she could flirt with the bartender. (This place was in our college town.) He poured me one too many Oatmeal Stouts while he made googly eyes at my pal, then I proceeded to yak in the parking lot. It was a hilarious night! Needles to say, Yam enchiladas were perfected at 3911 Wallingford Ave, in the old kitchen with the yellow paint, while we listened to the rain outside, or Danny Schmidt, and built our friendships that are more like family then anything else.
Lastly, there was my first attempt at Sangria, white wine and sparkling lemonade, orange slices and big pieces of lemons and limes, in the glass watermelon jug I bought for $2 at Goodwill. From my overgrown yard I procured a few handfuls of ripe green tomatoes, which my roommate and I fried up and ate while watching the movie of the same name. (Goddamn that is a great film- I think I cried at least 5 times!)
Suffice to say, I am on a roll, and although I am also on a budget, I plan to be cooking a little more.
Alongside all of these heavy, brooding thoughts about the nature of our existence, I've been having a grand old time, too.
Steven and I have spent many afternoons drinking Ruby Red Grapefruit beer, listening to the radio, driving with the windows opens, and swimming in the cold water that is blissfully easy to access in scorching Austin. We rode bikes to a free concert at Zilker park, where we saw Ben Kweller play, laid out on the grass and ate a bag on Santa Fe Barbeque rice chips. So good! We jumped in Barton Springs that night with a hundred other concert go-ers, and people started whooping and hollering in the darkness, before the life guards kicked everyone out. (Good call, lifeguards, it was actually pretty overwhelming.)
Steven and I have spent many afternoons drinking Ruby Red Grapefruit beer, listening to the radio, driving with the windows opens, and swimming in the cold water that is blissfully easy to access in scorching Austin. We rode bikes to a free concert at Zilker park, where we saw Ben Kweller play, laid out on the grass and ate a bag on Santa Fe Barbeque rice chips. So good! We jumped in Barton Springs that night with a hundred other concert go-ers, and people started whooping and hollering in the darkness, before the life guards kicked everyone out. (Good call, lifeguards, it was actually pretty overwhelming.)
And the icing on the proverbial summer cake was a concert with the classy duo of Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings, outdoors at Stubbs in downtown Austin. I met up with some friends as the sun was starting to tire of the daylight, and grabbed a spot near the front of the crowd. They played for hours, just the two of them onstage with their guitars and banjos and secret looks, their old timey charm and voices that seem to reach straight to that place that you can never quite find without their help. She played a song for the dearly departed Doc Watson, one that he taught her, and they finished with a song about heaven, about leaving the world, that left me crying as everyone joined in the simple chorus together.
It's all a gift, a lot of it is, and although it doesn't ease the pain of losing, it helps us remember.
Well, I think you are all caught up now. I have a hound dog in need of a walk, some laundry in need of a line, and some swimming holes to explore. For those of you in Seattle, and those friends in far off places, know that I am wickedly homesick and counting down the days until I see your sweet faces. So go on and try to stay cool despite the fact that the weather is tearing everything up- cook a nice meal, read a good book, and keep tying those knots.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Pulling Weeds
My modest home in Austin has undergone a few changes, great and small, in the past month. The red and mustard paint was stripped from the living rooms walls, replaced by classy lookin' light blue. We've repainted the hallway and kitchen, though the handles haven't made it back on the drawers yet.
Last weekend we said goodbye to our roommate and house mama Emily, who set sail for Memphis in a budget van with her cat, her fiance, and a bouquet of purple flowers.
We waved her off with a few tears, the dogs looking bewildered with their noses pressed against the screen door, tails wagging.
Emily was one of the first people who Guthrie loved- he held court at her feet during the evening hours when I was at work, and every morning would rush to her side the minute she walked into the dining room for her morning cup of coffee.
This is of particular value to me seeing that he is slow to warm to most everyone- he has a small inner circle of humans that he trusts, the rest falling under the category of "unfamiliar and scary." There is much more I would like to say regarding the challenges my dog and I are facing, but I'll save that for another morning. Suffice to say, I am of the belief that there are times when the universe gives us what we can handle, though we may see it first as misfortune, rather then a chance to grow.
In the weeks leading up to Emily's departure I found myself itching to rearrange my furniture, rid myself of old clothes, and pull those weeds growing wild in the front yard.
We have a lovely garden complete with tomatoes, okra, a fig tree, and 8 foot high sunflowers. There are wooden beds with basil and other herbs, and bermuda grass attempting to reclaim the front yard. It's a bit of mess right now. A beautiful mess, but still one in need of some good old fashioned work.
My thumb isn't green, by the way, so I may be making some trips to the bookstore to buy a few gardening books, and logging numerous long distance calls to my Mom, brilliant gardener that she is. :)
I like the idea that pulling weeds, in a more metaphorical sense, serves many purposes. We need time to cleanse ourselves of scraps and bits of things we no longer need. It's like emptying out our emotional junk drawers. Also, weeding is a necessary part of growing a garden. I don't know what the next big step will be, and instead of forcing it, I can allow the uncertainty to exist, and do my best to be patient while I sit with all these little seeds that aren't quite ready to germinate. We want to skip right to the perfect yard full of gorgeous flowers, but we need the yard full of rocks and weeds, the dry beds, need to go through all the little steps before we are ready to grow a garden.
About a month ago my boyfriend and I went on a road trip to West Texas, to visit Big Bend National Park, and his twin brother who was living in the small town of Alpine. It was a 7 hour drive, on a long flat stretch of highway that seemed to go on forever. We saw wind farms, and decrepit towns, fields of bluebonnets, and plenty of old churches. We stopped for dinner in Junction, Texas, at Lums BBQ, for some rather tasty pulled pork sandwiches. The billboard outside the restaurant read (complete with spelling error), "We're glad your here. You go- we both lose!"
West Texas is sprawling- the area around Alpine is still in a severe drought, and we passed miles of scorched Earth and thirsty cows. The sky was enormous, and once we drove into Big Bend we were rewarded with craggy mountaintops and a gigantic thunderstorm that kept us napping in the truck instead of hiking Santa Elena canyon.
We stopped in the desert town of Terlingua, where we saw photos of a town goat that used to drink people's beer by tilting the bottle down his throat, and old stone houses on steep dirt roads. Some woman tried to give us a puppy, and we saw a handful of locals drinking beer at the corner store, ATV's parked outside, looking like they just stepped out of a Mad Max movie.
We also headed to Balmorhea, a gorgeous natural spring that had been closed that day (we didn't know til we got there) due to an overprotective parent calling the Austin office to complain that his sons had gotten a bad case of the "itchies" from being in the water. We drove through the town itself, which was rather run down, and saw only one resident in his yard, shooting a gun. Go figure.
The highlight of that day of driving was the Rattlesnake Museum, owned by a local character who has been collecting poisonous snakes and reptiles for over thirty years. It cost 3 bucks to get into the museum, and yes, the snakes were all alive, inside their aquariums. Steven thought it was awesome, and I spent the better part of the visit talking to the owner about how all the Yankees are moving into Austin.
Our last stop was Marfa, home of the fabulous Marfa Public radio station, if you get a chance to listen. Marfa has become a haven for Brooklynites, artists, and hipsters galore. Strange to go into a pizza place run by New Yorker's in the middle of nowhere. It was a strange dichotomy, poor and mostly Mexican, with some fixed gear bike riders and installation art galleries dotting the landscape.
All in all, a memorable and much needed respite from life in the big city. The weather is starting to heat up, though we have had some unusually cool nights that are just stunning out here in the Hill Country. There are no visitors on the horizon, no big trips planned for the next month, just lots of time to do some reflecting and keep up with various projects. In short, time to put on those gardening gloves, and get to work.
Last weekend we said goodbye to our roommate and house mama Emily, who set sail for Memphis in a budget van with her cat, her fiance, and a bouquet of purple flowers.
We waved her off with a few tears, the dogs looking bewildered with their noses pressed against the screen door, tails wagging.
Emily was one of the first people who Guthrie loved- he held court at her feet during the evening hours when I was at work, and every morning would rush to her side the minute she walked into the dining room for her morning cup of coffee.
This is of particular value to me seeing that he is slow to warm to most everyone- he has a small inner circle of humans that he trusts, the rest falling under the category of "unfamiliar and scary." There is much more I would like to say regarding the challenges my dog and I are facing, but I'll save that for another morning. Suffice to say, I am of the belief that there are times when the universe gives us what we can handle, though we may see it first as misfortune, rather then a chance to grow.
In the weeks leading up to Emily's departure I found myself itching to rearrange my furniture, rid myself of old clothes, and pull those weeds growing wild in the front yard.
We have a lovely garden complete with tomatoes, okra, a fig tree, and 8 foot high sunflowers. There are wooden beds with basil and other herbs, and bermuda grass attempting to reclaim the front yard. It's a bit of mess right now. A beautiful mess, but still one in need of some good old fashioned work.
My thumb isn't green, by the way, so I may be making some trips to the bookstore to buy a few gardening books, and logging numerous long distance calls to my Mom, brilliant gardener that she is. :)
I like the idea that pulling weeds, in a more metaphorical sense, serves many purposes. We need time to cleanse ourselves of scraps and bits of things we no longer need. It's like emptying out our emotional junk drawers. Also, weeding is a necessary part of growing a garden. I don't know what the next big step will be, and instead of forcing it, I can allow the uncertainty to exist, and do my best to be patient while I sit with all these little seeds that aren't quite ready to germinate. We want to skip right to the perfect yard full of gorgeous flowers, but we need the yard full of rocks and weeds, the dry beds, need to go through all the little steps before we are ready to grow a garden.
About a month ago my boyfriend and I went on a road trip to West Texas, to visit Big Bend National Park, and his twin brother who was living in the small town of Alpine. It was a 7 hour drive, on a long flat stretch of highway that seemed to go on forever. We saw wind farms, and decrepit towns, fields of bluebonnets, and plenty of old churches. We stopped for dinner in Junction, Texas, at Lums BBQ, for some rather tasty pulled pork sandwiches. The billboard outside the restaurant read (complete with spelling error), "We're glad your here. You go- we both lose!"
West Texas is sprawling- the area around Alpine is still in a severe drought, and we passed miles of scorched Earth and thirsty cows. The sky was enormous, and once we drove into Big Bend we were rewarded with craggy mountaintops and a gigantic thunderstorm that kept us napping in the truck instead of hiking Santa Elena canyon.
We stopped in the desert town of Terlingua, where we saw photos of a town goat that used to drink people's beer by tilting the bottle down his throat, and old stone houses on steep dirt roads. Some woman tried to give us a puppy, and we saw a handful of locals drinking beer at the corner store, ATV's parked outside, looking like they just stepped out of a Mad Max movie.
We also headed to Balmorhea, a gorgeous natural spring that had been closed that day (we didn't know til we got there) due to an overprotective parent calling the Austin office to complain that his sons had gotten a bad case of the "itchies" from being in the water. We drove through the town itself, which was rather run down, and saw only one resident in his yard, shooting a gun. Go figure.
The highlight of that day of driving was the Rattlesnake Museum, owned by a local character who has been collecting poisonous snakes and reptiles for over thirty years. It cost 3 bucks to get into the museum, and yes, the snakes were all alive, inside their aquariums. Steven thought it was awesome, and I spent the better part of the visit talking to the owner about how all the Yankees are moving into Austin.
Our last stop was Marfa, home of the fabulous Marfa Public radio station, if you get a chance to listen. Marfa has become a haven for Brooklynites, artists, and hipsters galore. Strange to go into a pizza place run by New Yorker's in the middle of nowhere. It was a strange dichotomy, poor and mostly Mexican, with some fixed gear bike riders and installation art galleries dotting the landscape.
All in all, a memorable and much needed respite from life in the big city. The weather is starting to heat up, though we have had some unusually cool nights that are just stunning out here in the Hill Country. There are no visitors on the horizon, no big trips planned for the next month, just lots of time to do some reflecting and keep up with various projects. In short, time to put on those gardening gloves, and get to work.
Monday, April 9, 2012
"Riding a horse by itself is hard enough."
30 years ago, my sweet red haired Mama and my dark haired Pa brought their first of three daughters into the world. They pulled my hair up into a pink bow on top of my head in my very first photo. I used to fit perfectly on my Papa's arm, head cradled in his hand, feet resting by his elbow.
I was the first grandchild on both sides of my family- after my greek Grandma passed I found a letter she had written me when I graduated college- she said that she had always loved babies, and that she remembered carrying me around when I was born, and how special I was to her.
Funny to imagine myself as a little peanut, sleeping away the days in the house in Seattle where my parents still live today. The backyard was the most magical place, full of tall grass and a large cottonwood tree, a garden to play in and two sisters to keep me company. I remember disliking Kindergarten, (which I only went to for half a day.) I was much more interested in eating slices of apple and cubes of cheese and lining up my stuffed animals on the bed so I could talk to them (mostly dogs and bears.)
My parents had chickens when I was an infant, in a coop behind the house. Apparently my father was tasked with picking out the brood- and when he returned with a box full of chicks he exclaimed proudly, "don't worry Karen, I kept all the big ones." He was a well meaning man from Brooklyn, but they ended up with a flock of roosters. Mom says it was a little crazy, their first baby and all those damn roosters running around, and a cat that could literally jump off the walls (which they named Kareem after Kareem Abdul Jabbar.) Needles to say, the roosters met with their bloody fate, and they had a big chicken dinner one night.
I could bore you for hours with tales of my upbringing- summer trips to Virginia, fishing on the pond and the old house on Oxford Road, sweltering nights at the apartment in Carnarise, where Bubby made turkey dinner and noodle pudding. I'll save the lengthier version for the book I'll write someday.
In essence, three decades passed, rife with the trials and tribulations of schooling and the arts, the formation of enduring friendships, naive and tender attempts at love, and the travels in-between.
I was looking through some pictures today, of the California coastline on summer road trips, portraits of friends that I've known since we were teenagers, photos of meals that I loved, old houses that I lived in during my twenties in Seattle.
I talked on the phone with my friend Carolina, who just kept repeating, "We're thirty. Lindsey, we're THIRTY!" Once, for a laugh, she climbed inside her duvet cover when we lived in the dorms, then ran around the room.
The other day I spoke with my Uncle Bill, who sent me the fabulous book of essays. "Pulphead," by John Jeremiah Sullivan, and had this to say about growing up.
"Basically in life you come, and you go, and the rest is what we have in between. We don't remember the coming, and none of us knows we we will go. The best thing to do is enjoy your life in the present."
This is echoed by Henry Miller, who wrote this at the beginning of his essay "On Turning Eighty," in the book Sextet.
"If at eighty you're not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and should get down on your hands and knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin' and keepin' power.
If you are young in years but already weary in spirit, already on your way to becoming an automaton, it may do you good to say to your boss- under your breath, of course- 'fuck you, Jack! You don't own me.' If you can whistle up your ass, if you can be turned on by a fetching bottom or a lovely pair of teats, if you can fall in love again and again, if you can forgive your parents for the crime of bringing you into this world, if you are content to get nowhere, just take each day as it comes, if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical, man you've got it half licked."
The other wonderful quote that I came across this week was in the book Long Quiet Highway, written by Natalie Goldberg, about her journey with writing, and Buddhism.
"Suzuki Roshi once said about questioning our life, our purpose, 'It's like putting a horse on top of a horse and then climbing on it and trying to ride. Riding a horse by itself is hard enough. Why add another horse? Then it's impossible!' We add that extra horse when we constantly question ourselves rather then just live out our lives, and be who we are at every moment."
I find some humor in the fact that while most of my close friends are becoming more educated, I seem to be becoming more under-employed. I am tickled that almost unknowingly, I stumbled into a life I always wanted. I live in sunny house, with a new coat of paint in the living room that left my roommate and I drinking wine and running around the house at 2 am in excitement. I have a dog and a boyfriend, parents and sisters I adore, and dear friends in many corners of the country.
On my birthday last monday, my sisters and I made a stack of sandwiches and headed out to Hamilton Pool with my boyfriend Steven, all crammed in his beloved purple truck. We drank club soda and munched on chips, and spent the afternoon swimming in a gorgeous natural swimming hole about 30 minutes outside of Austin, a dome-like pool with a collapsed ceiling, where you can lie under streams of water that fall from the cliff above. We ate BBQ and pecan pie with ice cream and some Shiner beer for dinner, then finished off the night at my house, with homemade carrot cake and a backyard bonfire, and company of roommates and a few friends.
It was, in fact, a pretty perfect way to start a new decade.
Both of my younger sisters were here to visit, Shelley via airplane, and Melissa in her car, en route to a new job at a farm in Culpeper, Virginia, about 45 minutes from my Grandpa in Charlottesville. There was something very comforting about waking up with them in the house, Guthrie trying to spoon with Shelley on my bed, Melissa asleep on the couch.
I felt an equal degree of sadness and excitement as Shelley and I watched Melissa drive away a few days after my birthday. Seems like a long time ago that my parents first held me in their arms, a long time since we were just little girls. I felt nostalgic for old memories we share, and grateful that we have all (my parents too) grown so much in the past few years. It seems that finally, blessedly, we are ready for what comes next, ready to grow up.
I think my goal for this week is to not stack horses on top of each other. Less questioning of the self, and the path, and more riding for the sake of the wind through the trees, and the sight of a fetching bottom to enjoy.
With that, I wish you all a happy birthday, and promise to write again soon.
I was the first grandchild on both sides of my family- after my greek Grandma passed I found a letter she had written me when I graduated college- she said that she had always loved babies, and that she remembered carrying me around when I was born, and how special I was to her.
Funny to imagine myself as a little peanut, sleeping away the days in the house in Seattle where my parents still live today. The backyard was the most magical place, full of tall grass and a large cottonwood tree, a garden to play in and two sisters to keep me company. I remember disliking Kindergarten, (which I only went to for half a day.) I was much more interested in eating slices of apple and cubes of cheese and lining up my stuffed animals on the bed so I could talk to them (mostly dogs and bears.)
My parents had chickens when I was an infant, in a coop behind the house. Apparently my father was tasked with picking out the brood- and when he returned with a box full of chicks he exclaimed proudly, "don't worry Karen, I kept all the big ones." He was a well meaning man from Brooklyn, but they ended up with a flock of roosters. Mom says it was a little crazy, their first baby and all those damn roosters running around, and a cat that could literally jump off the walls (which they named Kareem after Kareem Abdul Jabbar.) Needles to say, the roosters met with their bloody fate, and they had a big chicken dinner one night.
I could bore you for hours with tales of my upbringing- summer trips to Virginia, fishing on the pond and the old house on Oxford Road, sweltering nights at the apartment in Carnarise, where Bubby made turkey dinner and noodle pudding. I'll save the lengthier version for the book I'll write someday.
In essence, three decades passed, rife with the trials and tribulations of schooling and the arts, the formation of enduring friendships, naive and tender attempts at love, and the travels in-between.
I was looking through some pictures today, of the California coastline on summer road trips, portraits of friends that I've known since we were teenagers, photos of meals that I loved, old houses that I lived in during my twenties in Seattle.
I talked on the phone with my friend Carolina, who just kept repeating, "We're thirty. Lindsey, we're THIRTY!" Once, for a laugh, she climbed inside her duvet cover when we lived in the dorms, then ran around the room.
The other day I spoke with my Uncle Bill, who sent me the fabulous book of essays. "Pulphead," by John Jeremiah Sullivan, and had this to say about growing up.
"Basically in life you come, and you go, and the rest is what we have in between. We don't remember the coming, and none of us knows we we will go. The best thing to do is enjoy your life in the present."
This is echoed by Henry Miller, who wrote this at the beginning of his essay "On Turning Eighty," in the book Sextet.
"If at eighty you're not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and should get down on your hands and knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin' and keepin' power.
If you are young in years but already weary in spirit, already on your way to becoming an automaton, it may do you good to say to your boss- under your breath, of course- 'fuck you, Jack! You don't own me.' If you can whistle up your ass, if you can be turned on by a fetching bottom or a lovely pair of teats, if you can fall in love again and again, if you can forgive your parents for the crime of bringing you into this world, if you are content to get nowhere, just take each day as it comes, if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical, man you've got it half licked."
The other wonderful quote that I came across this week was in the book Long Quiet Highway, written by Natalie Goldberg, about her journey with writing, and Buddhism.
"Suzuki Roshi once said about questioning our life, our purpose, 'It's like putting a horse on top of a horse and then climbing on it and trying to ride. Riding a horse by itself is hard enough. Why add another horse? Then it's impossible!' We add that extra horse when we constantly question ourselves rather then just live out our lives, and be who we are at every moment."
I find some humor in the fact that while most of my close friends are becoming more educated, I seem to be becoming more under-employed. I am tickled that almost unknowingly, I stumbled into a life I always wanted. I live in sunny house, with a new coat of paint in the living room that left my roommate and I drinking wine and running around the house at 2 am in excitement. I have a dog and a boyfriend, parents and sisters I adore, and dear friends in many corners of the country.
On my birthday last monday, my sisters and I made a stack of sandwiches and headed out to Hamilton Pool with my boyfriend Steven, all crammed in his beloved purple truck. We drank club soda and munched on chips, and spent the afternoon swimming in a gorgeous natural swimming hole about 30 minutes outside of Austin, a dome-like pool with a collapsed ceiling, where you can lie under streams of water that fall from the cliff above. We ate BBQ and pecan pie with ice cream and some Shiner beer for dinner, then finished off the night at my house, with homemade carrot cake and a backyard bonfire, and company of roommates and a few friends.
It was, in fact, a pretty perfect way to start a new decade.
Both of my younger sisters were here to visit, Shelley via airplane, and Melissa in her car, en route to a new job at a farm in Culpeper, Virginia, about 45 minutes from my Grandpa in Charlottesville. There was something very comforting about waking up with them in the house, Guthrie trying to spoon with Shelley on my bed, Melissa asleep on the couch.
I felt an equal degree of sadness and excitement as Shelley and I watched Melissa drive away a few days after my birthday. Seems like a long time ago that my parents first held me in their arms, a long time since we were just little girls. I felt nostalgic for old memories we share, and grateful that we have all (my parents too) grown so much in the past few years. It seems that finally, blessedly, we are ready for what comes next, ready to grow up.
I think my goal for this week is to not stack horses on top of each other. Less questioning of the self, and the path, and more riding for the sake of the wind through the trees, and the sight of a fetching bottom to enjoy.
With that, I wish you all a happy birthday, and promise to write again soon.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Three Things
I am eating Turkish figs on the one year anniversary of my move to Austin, TX.
I am drinking Washington wine while my 60 lb southern hound dog snores on my bed.
He just turned a year old. Funny to me that a few days before I boarded a plane with 2 bags and a guitar (so wonderfully cliche, I know!) a dog mama somewhere was panting and squeezing out a litter of pups, including the shy little guy who would one day end up in my life.
As it turns out, my dog and I were well matched. We both eat quickly, sleepy easily, and are nervous around men we don't know.
I made pancakes this morning, put on a pair of jorts and a t-shirt, and went for a long walk with the pup.
I let myself bask in the glow of January sunshine, felt that cool breeze a blowin' and did a bit of thinking on the past year.
Texas has given me the big space I needed, and I feel like I am in the middle of a wide prairie, not yet able to see the horizon, or what might come next.
There is momentum to my inner life, and also lots of uncertainty, which is difficult for me to sit with.
Over the holidays I was lamenting to one of my friends my feelings about grief, and loss, and my tendency to attempt to prepare for these cannonballs, or stave off what I see as inevitable sadness. She gently reminded me that this is what life is- sadness and joy exist together, and in truth all these things WILL come to pass. In other words, the cold prickly's and the warm fuzzy's live in one big house together, and they are just fine with the arrangement. She asked if there was some kind of motto I could say to myself that might remind me of this.
I imagined myself walking around the pond by my house, all of a sudden yelling, "This is all going to end! Yep! Everything is going to end!"
Might as well get myself an evangelical sign and park myself outside a grocery store.
But the more I thought about my motto, the more it rang true.
I started thinking about Mary Oliver, how I read her poems in the White Mountains of California almost ten years ago, waking to the sunrise over the Sierras, and feeling like I was home.
I thought about Billy Collins, how I think of his poem "Dharma" when I look at Guthrie, how I buzz around the house on espresso early in the mornings, during that sacred time when I eat yogurt and sing along to Gillian Welch or Neko Case, and let my hair stay uncombed.
I remembered Annie Dilliard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," how I read it on the subway in Manhattan, and it felt more like a morning prayer then anything else.
I thought about these poets of mine, that so many of us love, who help us to hit that high note of sorrow or makes some sense of the big mystery before us.
I thought about how it's all going to end, and how maybe that isn't such a bad thing. It's just a thing. It doesn't mean it is easy, or simple.
I went and read Mary Oliver's poem "In Blackwater Woods," and found these lines, which I have known by heart for several years.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
I'm gonna keep working on the third thing.
And in the meantime, I promise to tell you more stories of alligator fish and drunken italian waiters, Polish boyfriends and vegan donuts, and everything else that Texas has to offer as we stride along into year number two.
I am drinking Washington wine while my 60 lb southern hound dog snores on my bed.
He just turned a year old. Funny to me that a few days before I boarded a plane with 2 bags and a guitar (so wonderfully cliche, I know!) a dog mama somewhere was panting and squeezing out a litter of pups, including the shy little guy who would one day end up in my life.
As it turns out, my dog and I were well matched. We both eat quickly, sleepy easily, and are nervous around men we don't know.
I made pancakes this morning, put on a pair of jorts and a t-shirt, and went for a long walk with the pup.
I let myself bask in the glow of January sunshine, felt that cool breeze a blowin' and did a bit of thinking on the past year.
Texas has given me the big space I needed, and I feel like I am in the middle of a wide prairie, not yet able to see the horizon, or what might come next.
There is momentum to my inner life, and also lots of uncertainty, which is difficult for me to sit with.
Over the holidays I was lamenting to one of my friends my feelings about grief, and loss, and my tendency to attempt to prepare for these cannonballs, or stave off what I see as inevitable sadness. She gently reminded me that this is what life is- sadness and joy exist together, and in truth all these things WILL come to pass. In other words, the cold prickly's and the warm fuzzy's live in one big house together, and they are just fine with the arrangement. She asked if there was some kind of motto I could say to myself that might remind me of this.
I imagined myself walking around the pond by my house, all of a sudden yelling, "This is all going to end! Yep! Everything is going to end!"
Might as well get myself an evangelical sign and park myself outside a grocery store.
But the more I thought about my motto, the more it rang true.
I started thinking about Mary Oliver, how I read her poems in the White Mountains of California almost ten years ago, waking to the sunrise over the Sierras, and feeling like I was home.
I thought about Billy Collins, how I think of his poem "Dharma" when I look at Guthrie, how I buzz around the house on espresso early in the mornings, during that sacred time when I eat yogurt and sing along to Gillian Welch or Neko Case, and let my hair stay uncombed.
I remembered Annie Dilliard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," how I read it on the subway in Manhattan, and it felt more like a morning prayer then anything else.
I thought about these poets of mine, that so many of us love, who help us to hit that high note of sorrow or makes some sense of the big mystery before us.
I thought about how it's all going to end, and how maybe that isn't such a bad thing. It's just a thing. It doesn't mean it is easy, or simple.
I went and read Mary Oliver's poem "In Blackwater Woods," and found these lines, which I have known by heart for several years.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
I'm gonna keep working on the third thing.
And in the meantime, I promise to tell you more stories of alligator fish and drunken italian waiters, Polish boyfriends and vegan donuts, and everything else that Texas has to offer as we stride along into year number two.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Pleasanton: Birthplace of the Cowboy
Driving South on US Highway 281, just south of San Antonio, one may stumble upon the small town of Pleasanton, Texas. Their motto is, "filled with live oaks and friendly folks," and their town appeared to be filled with grocery stores, tex mex restaurants, old trees and big skies. Along the road, which skirted ranches and old farms, trailer parks and picnic areas, a signed loomed large on the horizon, declaring that this town of approx. 8,000 was the BIRTHPLACE OF THE COWBOY.
Texas is overwhelmingly filled with small towns such as Pleasanton, many of them ending in "ville", and none of them seeming like places a northern city gal like me would be likely to call home.
It had been rainy the morning I left, in the purple pick-up truck with Guthrie and Steven Markowski, who is a new and much adored character in this Texas novel I have been a writin' as of late. We stopped for coffee and a hamburger, and Guthrie watched us through the window of the truck, anxious to lay his head back on Steven's shoulder as we drove onward to historic Pleasanton, on an errand to procure a special christmas gift for his twin brother.
The past couple months have been rife with such adventures, exploring beautiful swimming holes, Mt. Bonnell in the wee hours of the morning, the little town of Rockdale where we posted up at the family land for a night, where we ate polish sausage and watched bad movies on television. Guthrie thought he had died and gone to heaven at the little Ranch House in Rockdale- while Steven and I were busy cutting down tiny christmas trees and letting me drive the farm truck through the woods, the dog ran so fast that he tripped on his paws and almost ate shit. He then proceeded to ACTUALLY eat shit, and promptly threw up.
We got a flat tire on the truck and Steven showed me how to fix it. Soon I will learn to drive stick, I swear!
I remember now my Uncle Glen, on his motorcycle visit through Austin with my Uncle Eric at the end of June, telling me gently that I never knew what good things might be just around the corner. Glen, I believe you were right.
I had the chance to visit my family in Charlottesville, Virginia (a "ville" I love dearly!) at the end of September. My Mom flew from Seattle, and I from Austin, and we spent a long weekend at my Grandfather's house, drinking weak coffee and going out to eat Southern meals with the rest of the family. I had a giant hamburger steak with greens beans and pinto beans, and then a slice of peanut butter pie. My dashing 21 year old cousin asked the young waitress if she had seen a particular television show, and she replied with a drawl- "honey, we don't get cable down in the holler."
We drove the Blue Ridge Parkway at sunset, and while the temperature dropped quickly we arranged ourselves for photos and watched the colors change over the Blue Ridge Mountains, those round peaks lookin' like a pretty picture in their fall dresses.
One night we sat around a campfire with my Grandpa, my Aunt Ellen and Uncle Glen, and two of their kids, shelling peanuts and telling stories with the country stars hanging low and bright above us. My Grandfather, despite the loss of Miss Alice, is still full of wit and charm, keeping himself busy with continental travels, pottery collecting, poetry writin' and tri-weekly trips to the gym. He parks his truck a mile and a half from the swimming pool at the University of Virginia and bikes the rest of the way. He is extremely fit, but his reasoning is more about saving money on parking then anything else. I appreciate the man's style. :)
More recently, I saw more of my extended family, these members being the chosen variety, plucked from the hilly streets of Seattle during the epic days of the Wallingford house. That's right folks, my christmas present this year was a visit from none other then Samm Mason, Kyle Hunter, and Maria Lewis! Samm arrived on a rainy 40 degree christmas eve that reminded me of home, and we exchanged panda presents around my little Rockdale tree, she nursing a cold, and both of us nursing a hot toddy. I ventured out on Christmas night to bring home take out thai food, and we sat curled on the couch with Guthrie, who was intent on being in the middle of whatever it was we were doing.
A few days later Kyle and Maria arrived, and blessedly, the sunshine came with them! The trip flowed together like one big trip down memory lane- every morning there was hours of sitting in the sun on the front porch, filling up the french press and making bloody mary's and big breakfasts of bacon and eggs. I walked the dog and we did the dishes, then hopped on bikes to explore the Greenbelt and tool around the city. We found ourselves with a thermos full of margaritas on the pedestrian bridge one night, looking out at Town Lake and the city skyline. I think I felt complete once more, with these friends in my home, draped over chairs and couches, reminiscing and gearing up for what will surely a big next few years. It's nice to feel grounded by close relationships, and it's important to remember who you are, around people who love you so freely and with such ease.
Our trip ended around New Year's, sitting in the big room above Royal Blue Grocery, wood floors and big windows looking out onto downtown.
The start of the New Year has been marred here in Austin by the death of a woman named Esme, who was killed by an unknown man during the wee hours of New Year's Eve. He attacked 2 other young women that night, and has not yet been found. She was a pillar of the community here- 29 years old, beautiful and good hearted, with a life full of music and friends and connecting with others. I did not know her, but feel shaken by her death. I do not know how to wrap my head around this kind of loss. It it frightening that this kind of sickness exists in the world, that there are people who have such darkness and horrible intent inside them. I am trying to put energy into keeping myself safe, and hoping that her family and friends will find a way to honor her, and grieve her loss, and heal.
And so, yet again, I am humbled by all that I do not understand. I hope for this new year some simple things for myself. Learn how to cook Polish food. Practice the banjo. Learn how to drive stick. Write more.
I was re-reading some books by Gail Caldwell, my favorite author as of late (and native Texan) and found this quote by George Eliot at the beginning of her memoir "Lets take the Long Way Home."
"The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone."
Let us hope we all find our Pleasanton in this life- some little place where we can sit under shady trees and feel content. In the meantime, be well, and be safe.
Texas is overwhelmingly filled with small towns such as Pleasanton, many of them ending in "ville", and none of them seeming like places a northern city gal like me would be likely to call home.
It had been rainy the morning I left, in the purple pick-up truck with Guthrie and Steven Markowski, who is a new and much adored character in this Texas novel I have been a writin' as of late. We stopped for coffee and a hamburger, and Guthrie watched us through the window of the truck, anxious to lay his head back on Steven's shoulder as we drove onward to historic Pleasanton, on an errand to procure a special christmas gift for his twin brother.
The past couple months have been rife with such adventures, exploring beautiful swimming holes, Mt. Bonnell in the wee hours of the morning, the little town of Rockdale where we posted up at the family land for a night, where we ate polish sausage and watched bad movies on television. Guthrie thought he had died and gone to heaven at the little Ranch House in Rockdale- while Steven and I were busy cutting down tiny christmas trees and letting me drive the farm truck through the woods, the dog ran so fast that he tripped on his paws and almost ate shit. He then proceeded to ACTUALLY eat shit, and promptly threw up.
We got a flat tire on the truck and Steven showed me how to fix it. Soon I will learn to drive stick, I swear!
I remember now my Uncle Glen, on his motorcycle visit through Austin with my Uncle Eric at the end of June, telling me gently that I never knew what good things might be just around the corner. Glen, I believe you were right.
I had the chance to visit my family in Charlottesville, Virginia (a "ville" I love dearly!) at the end of September. My Mom flew from Seattle, and I from Austin, and we spent a long weekend at my Grandfather's house, drinking weak coffee and going out to eat Southern meals with the rest of the family. I had a giant hamburger steak with greens beans and pinto beans, and then a slice of peanut butter pie. My dashing 21 year old cousin asked the young waitress if she had seen a particular television show, and she replied with a drawl- "honey, we don't get cable down in the holler."
We drove the Blue Ridge Parkway at sunset, and while the temperature dropped quickly we arranged ourselves for photos and watched the colors change over the Blue Ridge Mountains, those round peaks lookin' like a pretty picture in their fall dresses.
One night we sat around a campfire with my Grandpa, my Aunt Ellen and Uncle Glen, and two of their kids, shelling peanuts and telling stories with the country stars hanging low and bright above us. My Grandfather, despite the loss of Miss Alice, is still full of wit and charm, keeping himself busy with continental travels, pottery collecting, poetry writin' and tri-weekly trips to the gym. He parks his truck a mile and a half from the swimming pool at the University of Virginia and bikes the rest of the way. He is extremely fit, but his reasoning is more about saving money on parking then anything else. I appreciate the man's style. :)
More recently, I saw more of my extended family, these members being the chosen variety, plucked from the hilly streets of Seattle during the epic days of the Wallingford house. That's right folks, my christmas present this year was a visit from none other then Samm Mason, Kyle Hunter, and Maria Lewis! Samm arrived on a rainy 40 degree christmas eve that reminded me of home, and we exchanged panda presents around my little Rockdale tree, she nursing a cold, and both of us nursing a hot toddy. I ventured out on Christmas night to bring home take out thai food, and we sat curled on the couch with Guthrie, who was intent on being in the middle of whatever it was we were doing.
A few days later Kyle and Maria arrived, and blessedly, the sunshine came with them! The trip flowed together like one big trip down memory lane- every morning there was hours of sitting in the sun on the front porch, filling up the french press and making bloody mary's and big breakfasts of bacon and eggs. I walked the dog and we did the dishes, then hopped on bikes to explore the Greenbelt and tool around the city. We found ourselves with a thermos full of margaritas on the pedestrian bridge one night, looking out at Town Lake and the city skyline. I think I felt complete once more, with these friends in my home, draped over chairs and couches, reminiscing and gearing up for what will surely a big next few years. It's nice to feel grounded by close relationships, and it's important to remember who you are, around people who love you so freely and with such ease.
Our trip ended around New Year's, sitting in the big room above Royal Blue Grocery, wood floors and big windows looking out onto downtown.
The start of the New Year has been marred here in Austin by the death of a woman named Esme, who was killed by an unknown man during the wee hours of New Year's Eve. He attacked 2 other young women that night, and has not yet been found. She was a pillar of the community here- 29 years old, beautiful and good hearted, with a life full of music and friends and connecting with others. I did not know her, but feel shaken by her death. I do not know how to wrap my head around this kind of loss. It it frightening that this kind of sickness exists in the world, that there are people who have such darkness and horrible intent inside them. I am trying to put energy into keeping myself safe, and hoping that her family and friends will find a way to honor her, and grieve her loss, and heal.
And so, yet again, I am humbled by all that I do not understand. I hope for this new year some simple things for myself. Learn how to cook Polish food. Practice the banjo. Learn how to drive stick. Write more.
I was re-reading some books by Gail Caldwell, my favorite author as of late (and native Texan) and found this quote by George Eliot at the beginning of her memoir "Lets take the Long Way Home."
"The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone."
Let us hope we all find our Pleasanton in this life- some little place where we can sit under shady trees and feel content. In the meantime, be well, and be safe.
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