I think I've reached a certain sweet spot in life. I've got the hang of a lot of things by now. I hardly ever cut myself when slicing vegetables or fruit, and may be at my top speed. I've practiced things like that a lot -- over 50 years, I suppose. And I'm not yet wobbly in a dangerous way. That's not so far off, I know. There will come a time, should I be lucky enough to live that long, when I am as unsure with a knife as when I was four.
Right now, though, this is a great place to be.
It's small things. I rarely misbutton my shirts, something that used to happen pretty often in the early days, when you think about it. You get to the bottom of the shirt, and ah geez, you're off by one button. Not in your 50s, my friend. We are Competent. Also, you learn to gloss over the times when these things do happen. They just blend in with the many more times when you have buttoned successfully over the years, and at long last the ratio has become overwhelmingly in favor of a positive buttoning experience.
I'm savoring this era. You know stuff. Like how to pull the hose around a corner without hurting the hosta. How to install shades. How to flick gunk off a pan, right into the sink. How to repair a broken cup, or to recognize when it's truly a goner. Come to think of it, a lot of the competency of this life phase has to do with knowing when something is a goner and when it might be saved once more. The cup, the gizmo, the roof, the favorite shirt. I know exactly when to give up on a strand of floss and take another.
How often do you get to sit at a sweet spot? For me, hardly ever. I generally tip one way or another. Watching the Olympics last night I noticed I couldn't make my way to that particular sweet spot where you care enough about the competition to make it exciting to watch but don't care so much that you feel anxious. I just tipped straight into anxiety. For all of the athletes. And their parents! Oh my god. There were some shots of parents watching their kids do gymnastics, and it was agonizing to watch their agony. That one mom looked like she was going to birth an alien right there in the bleachers.
No thanks to that kind of excitement. But today we were watching some other competition, when suddenly the crowd, and Laura, cheered wildly. "What happened?" I asked Laura. "That guy just scored!" I had moved so far from the sweet spot that I had forgotten to care what was happening. It became as sports events generally are for me -- like watching a fish tank. It's kind of relaxing, but you forget to notice when someone scores, or wins. If you start to really pay attention, you worry about everyone and how badly they want to win, how hard they are trying. There is no sweet spot for me in the wide world of sports.
So I have to focus on my own fleeting experience of an existential sweet spot. I know how to do most of what I need to know how to do, and I either don't screw it up or the screw up gets absorbed into the much larger database of "I've got this" experiences. It's not forever, but it's here now. How sweet is that?
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
forgiveness lesson
It's high time I let Laura out of the public stocks o' shame I put her in when she poisoned the garden. You remember.
We decided to let the soil Rest In Peace, back in the immediate aftermath of the accident. We pulled out and tossed the poisoned plants and stirred lots of compost into the soil, since compost breaks down the poison, we were told. We bought some hay and covered the beds. We all but played "Taps" and kept a flag at half-mast. The garden looked pathetic all empty and covered, and somehow that felt right.
That lasted a few days, and the empty beds just looked so grim out there. We decided to keep the somber look for most of the beds, but planted colorful flowers in the beds closest to the house. We waited to see if these non-edible plants would tolerate the poisoned soil. They did.
And then, well, you know what's in our compost? Tomato seeds, cucumber seeds, zucchini seeds, cantaloupe seeds. For awhile we just pulled out the little volunteers that kept sprouting through the hay, in an attempt to put them and us out of our misery. We assumed we couldn't eat them even if they did manage to squeeze out a poisoned fruit or two.
But life wants life, you know. It loves itself and just can't help it. The plants just kept coming.
I called a master gardener and explained our situation. She, it turns out, once had sprayed much of her own garden with the same poison the week before it was featured on her town's garden tour. Sure, she hadn't poisoned edible plants, but she empathized, deeply. She said not to feel too badly about it; that these things happen to everyone. My scrawny heart shrank a bit not to have her snort with me over Laura's mistake. I felt very small, very scrawny about that.
She also said the volunteer plants are perfectly safe to eat. The poison was gone after we had pulled the original plants and had had a good rain.
We aren't even entirely sure about some of the plants that are coming, but they're coming. Will this one be a cantaloupe or a cuke? Here is a shot of a bit of the impending bounty, randomly spaced in the hay, and groping its way toward more and more life.
And here is the larger spiritual message I am taking away from all this:
We decided to let the soil Rest In Peace, back in the immediate aftermath of the accident. We pulled out and tossed the poisoned plants and stirred lots of compost into the soil, since compost breaks down the poison, we were told. We bought some hay and covered the beds. We all but played "Taps" and kept a flag at half-mast. The garden looked pathetic all empty and covered, and somehow that felt right.
That lasted a few days, and the empty beds just looked so grim out there. We decided to keep the somber look for most of the beds, but planted colorful flowers in the beds closest to the house. We waited to see if these non-edible plants would tolerate the poisoned soil. They did.
And then, well, you know what's in our compost? Tomato seeds, cucumber seeds, zucchini seeds, cantaloupe seeds. For awhile we just pulled out the little volunteers that kept sprouting through the hay, in an attempt to put them and us out of our misery. We assumed we couldn't eat them even if they did manage to squeeze out a poisoned fruit or two.
But life wants life, you know. It loves itself and just can't help it. The plants just kept coming.
I called a master gardener and explained our situation. She, it turns out, once had sprayed much of her own garden with the same poison the week before it was featured on her town's garden tour. Sure, she hadn't poisoned edible plants, but she empathized, deeply. She said not to feel too badly about it; that these things happen to everyone. My scrawny heart shrank a bit not to have her snort with me over Laura's mistake. I felt very small, very scrawny about that.
She also said the volunteer plants are perfectly safe to eat. The poison was gone after we had pulled the original plants and had had a good rain.
And here is the larger spiritual message I am taking away from all this:
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
my inner cutie
I write myself notes all the time in the bright light of an insight, a decision, a moment's clarity. I stick those notes some place clever: in the front of my calendar, under my ink blotter (whoa, I wonder if they've come up with a new name for that), between pages 135 and 136 of a book I may not finish, in the front pocket of the shorts I just washed. It's an imperfect system.
Today I came upon a piece of scrap paper with a wide range of notes to self. "Important," I wrote at some undetermined, unremembered point in the past. "Know that your internal experience is changeable." On the same scrap, near that great message - the essence of which I forget about a hundred times a day - is this: "When you have an unpleasant or fearful thought, think of a barking dog tied to a tree. Walk past it and say to the dog, 'thanks for sharing!'"
I have never once done this, but still think it's a great idea. I am going to begin by saying it to actual barking dogs, of which there are several along my daily walking loop.
The best thing about finding the scrap of paper, though, is this little scrawl, below. I imagine that when I wrote it, I meant to remind myself to "evaluate the value of my inner critic," meaning, I suppose, to question its assumed authority.
But today as I read my scrawl, I thought it said, "have you ever evaluated the value of your inner cutie?"
What? I thought. What does that mean?
Before I figured out what I really had written, I had time enough to think: why no! No, I haven't given enough time to evaluating the value of my inner cutie. But when I do, I can see that it's a much more useful part of me than my inner critic.
But hey, inner critic -- thanks for sharing!
Today I came upon a piece of scrap paper with a wide range of notes to self. "Important," I wrote at some undetermined, unremembered point in the past. "Know that your internal experience is changeable." On the same scrap, near that great message - the essence of which I forget about a hundred times a day - is this: "When you have an unpleasant or fearful thought, think of a barking dog tied to a tree. Walk past it and say to the dog, 'thanks for sharing!'"
I have never once done this, but still think it's a great idea. I am going to begin by saying it to actual barking dogs, of which there are several along my daily walking loop.
The best thing about finding the scrap of paper, though, is this little scrawl, below. I imagine that when I wrote it, I meant to remind myself to "evaluate the value of my inner critic," meaning, I suppose, to question its assumed authority.
But today as I read my scrawl, I thought it said, "have you ever evaluated the value of your inner cutie?"
What? I thought. What does that mean?
But hey, inner critic -- thanks for sharing!
Thursday, July 12, 2012
viva la revolucion
This week (and next) the School has kindly sprung for a hotel. Laura is living on food from the Applebee's that is adjacent to the Hampton Inn. She's bringing home her pile of plastic takeout containers so we can give them to the guy who uses them at his booth at Sunday's Farmer's Market. It seems the least we can do in a generally unecological situation.
I'm worrying more and more about our gigantic, collective ecological shoes. During the week I am bouncing around, quite literally, by myself in a house that was built for a family. We love this house, and keep thinking that it will someday be such a great place for our hypothetical grandchildren to visit. And on Thanksgiving when there are 17 or 18 warm bodies sprawled all over the house, Laura and I feel like we live in heaven. It's a little louder than heaven is usually depicted, and there's a lot of cooking and more dishes than you can shake a stick at (which really doesn't work at all), but still.
But I am not sure Thanksgiving is good enough justification to have so much space. I feel like maybe this lovely old home should be one of those places that a gang of revolutionaries take over, use as a center for their revolutionary activities. They storm in, shouting that it's too big for one person -- and they're right. But they toss around our books and break those clay figures the kids made when they were little. They neglect the plants, leave dishes everywhere, and replace my dad's paintings with graffiti. I just hate that. I wonder if they will let me keep my home office, or if they maybe think counseling is a sign of pre-revolutionary alienation and brainwashing.
I wish I would welcome the revolutionaries, but I'm so attached to my life as it is. Just terrible. I am trying to live in a way that makes me worthy of all my blessings, but I want my green smoothie and eat it, too. I am trying to use the car as little as possible. Last week I mapped out a 6-mile walk to Bed, Bath, and Beyond, where I needed to return a small rug for the bathroom I painted the moment Laura drove away. Finally I realized it would take me all day to walk to the store and back, and decided that perhaps the earth would forgive me if I drove there as long as I felt kind of bad about it. So I drove to return the mass-manufactured rug, and came home to search on Etsy to find a homemade, cotton rug. ¡Viva la revolucion! Viva la humble, ambivalent, imperfect revolution within me.
Monday, July 2, 2012
what happens when the mind is back in charge
Laura is getting her first acupuncture treatment, using a Groupon I bought her. She'll be home in about an hour, and I'm making summer leftover lunch for us. A dollop of homemade kidney bean hummus, some tomato and basil salad. The tomatoes look a little sad, but still edible.
I'm cutting up last night's grilled chicken.
Mm, that looks good. Maybe I'll take a little bite of one of the chunks I just made.
Nah. Resist the impulse.
That is all you have to do. Just resist the impulse.
Gee, every second, that's what we're doing, it seems like.
Maybe it's all about resisting impulse.
Resist the impulse.
Like we direct our own behavior, but doing that means working against so many impulses.
(I keep cutting up last night's chicken.)
"Resist the impulse to scream."
That's a phrase, right? Where did that come from?
Huh.
Resist the impulse to scream.
Interesting! The more you focus on that, the harder it is to do.
If you really focused on it, like really hard, eventually you'd almost have to scream.
I wonder if I could have a "resist the impulse to scream" bumper sticker made. Get everyone behind my car thinking about it.
Maybe someone would scream then, right there in their car.
Or maybe they'd think it's a political statement. Or sort of social commentary. Or just a goof.
Maybe people would talk about it. At a red light. There's a long silence while they wait for the light, and then the passenger says to the driver: "What do you think that bumpersticker means? 'Resist the Impulse to Scream.'" The driver says, "Huh. No idea. Maybe it's like...a thing."
I wonder if there is a "resist the impulse to scream" t-shirt.
Maybe I should make one for myself.
But then someone would steal the idea!
(Still cutting the chicken.)
Eh, but it's a great idea, so I should just put it out there. It's not good to be selfish with ideas.
But what about that for a book title? Resist the Impulse to Scream: short essays.
That sounds like all the essays will be desperate, shrill, dark. Or like a manifesto of some kind, where the author knows names and controversies and can sound culturally literate and informed. I can't muster a whole book of that.
What does Google say? "Resist the impulse to scream." Put it in quotes. Oh, that's interesting. You get lots and lots of these.
I wonder if i should TradeMark it. "Resist the Impulse to Scream"™.
Maybe I should save the domain name. Is it available?
ResistTheImpulseToScream.com Yes! Available. Only $12.99 a year.
Oh, that's funny. ResisttheImpulse2Scream.com is available, too.
Snort. Who would use that?
I'm cutting up last night's grilled chicken.
Mm, that looks good. Maybe I'll take a little bite of one of the chunks I just made.
Nah. Resist the impulse.
That is all you have to do. Just resist the impulse.
Gee, every second, that's what we're doing, it seems like.
Maybe it's all about resisting impulse.
Resist the impulse.
Like we direct our own behavior, but doing that means working against so many impulses.
(I keep cutting up last night's chicken.)
"Resist the impulse to scream."
That's a phrase, right? Where did that come from?
Huh.
Resist the impulse to scream.
Interesting! The more you focus on that, the harder it is to do.
If you really focused on it, like really hard, eventually you'd almost have to scream.
I wonder if I could have a "resist the impulse to scream" bumper sticker made. Get everyone behind my car thinking about it.
Maybe someone would scream then, right there in their car.
Or maybe they'd think it's a political statement. Or sort of social commentary. Or just a goof.
Maybe people would talk about it. At a red light. There's a long silence while they wait for the light, and then the passenger says to the driver: "What do you think that bumpersticker means? 'Resist the Impulse to Scream.'" The driver says, "Huh. No idea. Maybe it's like...a thing."
I wonder if there is a "resist the impulse to scream" t-shirt.
Maybe I should make one for myself.
But then someone would steal the idea!
(Still cutting the chicken.)
Eh, but it's a great idea, so I should just put it out there. It's not good to be selfish with ideas.
But what about that for a book title? Resist the Impulse to Scream: short essays.
That sounds like all the essays will be desperate, shrill, dark. Or like a manifesto of some kind, where the author knows names and controversies and can sound culturally literate and informed. I can't muster a whole book of that.
What does Google say? "Resist the impulse to scream." Put it in quotes. Oh, that's interesting. You get lots and lots of these.
I wonder if i should TradeMark it. "Resist the Impulse to Scream"™.
Maybe I should save the domain name. Is it available?
ResistTheImpulseToScream.com Yes! Available. Only $12.99 a year.
Oh, that's funny. ResisttheImpulse2Scream.com is available, too.
Snort. Who would use that?
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