Stunning poetry

Many of you know that a man named Vance Gilbert is one of my favorite performers ever. Apparently, while I've been doing my Walden-thing, he has come out with both a DVD and a new CD. Daniel was a great brother and got me both for Christmas, plus he downloaded a CD of one of Vance's concerts at Schuba's that both of us apparently missed. At two previous concerts that he and I attended, I was reduced to tears by the utter poetry of the song "Unfamiliar Moon." For awhile, he did not record it, because he was trying to get a pop singer to buy it. Therefore, when he sang it at concerts, I could not sing along in my head and got to be struck by the words as fresh and new. While the version on the new album is lovely, it is missing the stark simplicity of the live version, which is just voice and guitar and performance, which always brings out nuances of emotion, especially at a Vance concert. As he says on the live disc, "A Vance Gilbert concert is like the elusive butterfly of love. Good luck." I thought I'd share the words with you.

Unfamiliar Moon
from Unfamilliar Moon
Unfamiliar moon
Stars are out of place
Everything is new
Everything is changed
Like a baby child
Just has to cry
When he sees it for the first time
And he don't understand
Now that there's no you
Everything is new
Like this unfamiliar moon

That can't be our song
Those aren't the words I know
The melody's all wrong
But the DJ says
"That's just how it goes"
Like a child has to learn
On his own
You get too close to a bird
And she'll be gone
Now that there's no you
Everything is new
Like this unfamiliar moon

This can't be my house
How can this be home?
I don't recognize it
Anymore
Each step to the front door
Is higher than I've known
It's like climbing up a mountain
'Cause now I climb alone
Now that there's no you
Everything is new
Like this unfamiliar moon

What do you do for fun around here?

Being in retail positions, I have recently been fielding a lot of questions from people around my age that are visiting the island about what it is like to live on the island. I find this to be a lot of fun. I usually give them a brief run-down of my personal history with the island that goes something like this, "Before I say anything, let me first explain that I moved here about four months ago from the suburbs of Chicago." And they say, "Chicago! How did you get here from Chicago?!?" So, I do a little explaining about the anonymous suburbs and needing a change and falling in love with the island after visiting because of it's really dominant sense of community, plus, it's just incredibly gorgeous around here. Then, I answer questions about what's different here than other places because I have that neat newcomer perspective. Often, the conversation comes around to the opening question. The answer, as clichéd as it may seem, is that we make our own fun, especially in the winter. People create events. I thought that for my own sake and for yours, I might list the events that I've attended so far, starting with the most recent.

-Orcas Choral Society Concert featuring Vivaldi's Gloria
-Potluck soul food dinner at Charles's apartment. Charles runs the take-out Asian food place, so soul food made everyone stretch a little. I took cornbread.
-Artisan's Faire
-Happy Birthday Holly and yea-for-you Rhonda potluck dance party at The Grange
-Happy Birthday Bridget and porch-warming. I sang all of the words to Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" around that campfire, leaving the poseurs behind in my lyrical dust.
-Thanksgiving potluck
-Good-Bye Malcolm party at Alan's
-Rachel's baby shower
-Community Halloween Dance at the Oddfellows Hall
-Pre-Halloween party at Callalloo with reggae-funky band
-Various Sauna Nights at Alan's

Meteorology

It's interesting to look at several works of art from the same person and to find recurring themes or types of characters or colors or moves. Once this happens, a signature is created and that person's personality becomes a part of the art. Think of Bob Fosse, chairs and well-placed sequins or Hemingway's barely-there use of language. On Aaron Sorkin's two TV shows, The West Wing and Sports Night, one can see some obvious passions that sneak through like powerful women, nerdy but cute guys, and people walking while they talk. He has also written a character in each who is fascinated by the weather: Sam Seaborn to some extent and Jeremy Goodwin to an extremely dorky extent. I would be interested in speaking with one of them now so that they could explain this freaky weather that exists here on the island.

Let me explain: both today and yesterday I have been walking around town wearing just a wool sweater and possibly a pashmina. That's all I really need for casual walking from place to place. There was a little spitting rain at times and some wind (they all seem to think it's a lot) but not enough that I needed my rain jacket. When I realized this, I started looking around and realized that almost all of the flowers still had blooms. Geraniums, daisies, even roses. Most of the plants have fall evidence, such as the ripening hips of the roses, in addition to the budding and blooming flowers but I walked by a lilac bush today and it looked like a spring bush with all new buds covering it. It's phenomenal. Now, of course, some days it's colder and I need to put on a jacket and certainly I want lots of layers if I'm going to be out for any extended amount of time but it hasn't frozen once here. Jeff is still harvesting kale from his garden. It certainly does not feel like Christmas is next week. Of course, it doesn't get light until after 8:00 in the morning and it's dark at around 4:00 in the afternoon. But, my boogers aren't freezing and I don't have to put on a hat, coat, scarf and gloves to get something out of the car. It's kind of neat.

Don't ask me why all this is like this. It has something to do with being in the rain shadow of a mountain and being surrounded by water, which warms the air. That's the extent of the explanation that I can offer you. If you want more, you'll have to turn to Sam or Jeremy.

Is this what the founders intended for the Grange hall?

This past weekend was the Artisan's Faire at the Oddfellows Hall here on the island. Basically, all of the local artists set up little funky booths (more artistic talent in their displays than in one of my thumbs) full of their stuff and so that islanders can shop locally for Christmas instead of giving their money to the great maws of Wal-Mart. I got to walk around, engaging in a little retail therapy and also getting ideas for what to make for my Christmas presents. (In all fairness to myself, I do try to buy examples of the ideas that I steal.) And, let me tell you, if there is anyone out there who has ever felt envious of my crafty ability and somewhat dexterous fingers, I'm not worth it. I am a rank amateur next to the talents that exist on this island. If I wanted to be fancy, I could call myself a dilettante, but even that word doesn't communicate the wealth of artistic training that I lack. So, I ended up with some beautiful hooks made by a guy that I didn't even know was a blacksmith but who I see at the Exchange all the time; some ceramic ornaments because I'm always a sucker for ceramics; a beautiful little pin that was hand-drawn by Maria, the partner of the guy who started the Exchange; the cool-beaner bookmark that is further building the desire within me to decoupage; a leather wristband from the same lady (she used the scraps from her hand-made books); and three way-cool magnets that Janine (pronounced Yuh-neen) gave me the secret how to make. Now, you'll just have to guess what's for whom. Last Wednesday, there was a porch-warming birthday party at Bridget's house that she built out of a gazebo kit. While there, we were invited to another party on Sunday night. That's the party that I started this blog to tell you about. (It was a similar party to the Halloween Dance, but I never got that one typed. Maybe I'll go ahead and give it to you out of order later.) Basically, two of the women that had booths at the Artisan Faire rented out the old Grange meeting hall (which is slowly being converted to a neat theater/dance hall and which I had visited earlier in my stay for a six-year-old ballet recital of international dances) and hired three DJ's to throw a Artisan's Faire blowout potluck dance party. It was Holly's birthday and Rhonda had just secured a 5-year lease with right of first refusal to renew on a prime piece of farmland where she is going to start a permaculture farm. The invitation flyers were all different with neat images and funky phrases, but lacked a time or date. Those were then spread by word of mouth. :-) They wanted to celebrate so they decorated the hall with tea lights, beaded plastic silver garland (as part of the tea light centerpieces), blue tincture glass bottles with wildflowers and mismatched vintage-like cloth tablecloths. I took the apple dip that my Aunt Janice taught me with six pounds of sliced apples in lemon juice. The last time I took that for someone's birthday at Glenbard, people ate the apples but not the dip because the dip seemed too unhealthy. Here, they loved all of it, which amazed me because it's one of those one-cup-of-everything housewife dips. Here, I guess those kind of Betty Crocker things are a novelty. They asked for $5 at the door, on your honor, provided Wizard of Oz stamps for you to prove your honor and everyone came. Almost all of the people that I am starting to get to know through Jeff were there and some new people whose faces I know from the stores, too. No one got babysitters and all generations were represented. After dinner, there was enough space on the hard-wood dance floor and even the 18-month-old understood that you just have to move to the music. It wasn't even incongruous that people sang along to the original "Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge / we're trying not to lose our heads / uh-huh, uh-huh, ha" since I bet that most of them learned it, like I did, from the Norton Anthology of African-American Literature or as a part of a study of Afro-Global music. The whole evening reinforced to me that this island IS the community I've been looking for.

Grandma wins again

When I was eight, my Grandma Murphy tried to teach me to knit while we were on vacation at Sleepy Hollow in Michigan. We decided upon a sweater vest of alternating stripes of black and white. It was a perfect plan in that it was fairly simple but allowed for some creative input from me. Plus, since it was the Eighties, a sweater vest was not quite so dorky as it sounds now. Of course, my childhood lack of an ability to finish what I started unless it was a book (piano lessons, collecting erasers, cross-stitch of Grover, a complicated plan for keeping track of how many times I had seen movies such as Star Wars and Caddyshack) interfered. I still have the remnants of that project in a plastic shopping bag hanging from a doorknob in my bedroom. The black and white acrylic balls of yarn and a 12 inch by 18 inch square of stripes are all that remain. When it bacame obvious that I wouldn't complete the sweater, Grandma asked for the needles back.

New topic: For as long as I can remember, Grandma has stated that when Grandpa died, she was going back to the Lutheran Church. She always insisted that she only attended the Presbyterian church for his sake. Plus, she would remind us occasionally that the Lutheran cemetary would always welcome her when the time came. The fact that after anyone sings the first line, "A migh-ty for-or-tress i-is our god," any Murphy can sing, "A bul-wark ne-ver fa-ay-ail-ing" is testament to the tenacity of her belief. That song (words and music by Martin Luther) is her only request for her funeral. However, my grandfather died last New Year's and Grandma, to the best of my knowledge, has yet to darken the doors of the Danville Lutheran Church.

So, what's your point, Rebecca?

I have begun knitting a hat and have joined the Lutheran Church here on Orcas Island.

Coasting

Things here are at coasting level. I'm sleeping in much later than I want to because the light stays dawn-y most of the day when it's rainy, which it is quite a bit. I suppose I could set an alarm, but where would the fun be in that? I was yucky sick last week, which actually worked out for the good because it made me stop freaking out so much that I need to fill all my time with meaningful experiences. I HAD to just sit and do nothing much for the better part of a week. Now, Jeff is sick and I spend a lot of time doing nothing much to keep him company. Of course, low and behold, some interesting things have happened over the last week and a half. I was involved in two committee meetings AND I'm planning (not much work actually) Thanksgiving with another girl out here. We're gathering up the loose ends without family for potluck T-day. One guy is bringing a leg of lamb, I'm bringing cookies and everyone else will bring various weird-o vegetarian side dishes. I hope they use lots of cheese. We'll also bring our own dishes and silverware. A new experience in itself. Back to the committee meetings. One was for the Orcas Center for Performing Arts Youth in Theatre committee and one was for the Exchange. I'll be attending my first show sometime this weekend as the kids will be doing a production of The Last Flower. I have no idea what it's about but I wish my head wouldn't think, "Maybe I can get a script for Speech out of it." I'm thinking a little bit about auditioning for Romeo and Juliet but I'm not sure I'm ready to commit that much time to something. I've already volunteered to help coach people to really understand their lines and to deliver them slowly. Maybe that will be enough. So, to summarize, illness has caused some of the angst to dissipate, leaving actual life in its place. Who would have thunk it.

Social Butterfly

So, I get invited to a baby shower, which I was very excited about. I was a little uncertain about what to bring since value systems are so different here and there isn't even the option to have a registry anywhere on the island. Also, I had already brought a onesie and matching hat and booties for Rachel when I first arrived because I was getting rid of that baby clothes collection I had been accumulating in the house in Westchester. Plus, I was invited by word of mouth, through Jeff, so that made me nervous that I didn't have all the information. But, I didn't want to go empty-handed and I didn't know if a plate of cookies would be welcome or not. So, I made some cutie little wire-wrapped dolls with wool clothes and acorn caps that look like the family.

So, I'm all set. I'm going to spend time with just girls. Jeff is nice and all but he's not a girl and sometimes boys just won't cut it for social satisfaction. It's a totally different conversation when it's just girls. So, I figure this will be my chance to charm the women of the island and actually get to know them with an identity as something other than Jeff's girlfriend. Of course, though, there must be some dramatic irony involved because it's my life.

I lose my voice that morning.

I am relegated to waiting for them to show interest in me and then answering questions about complex social histories and belief systems succintly with the most simple words that can be lip-read. So goes my life.

I was lucky in that they did ask good questions and since they were women, they could infer a lot. I couldn't charm them with my witty observations during the present-opening ceremony, but the lesson of today's story is that my illness probably saved me from myself in that area because those social contributions would have probably been conterproductive to charming most women since I have a 55-year-old, somewhat brash sense of humor, which can rub people the wrong way because it just doesn't come off as age-appropriate when people don't know me. (I'm sure that comes as a shock to most of you.) It was a beautiful day in a beautiful setting, with great food. Girls! Yea!

Verisimilitude

I lay in bed, still unable to sleep and think that if it weren’t for phone calls and emails, I could easily believe that my life before moving out here never existed. I mean, was I really that girl with the long hair, pulled back on top with a barrette, wearing jumpers and colored socks with European shoes? Did that first year of my marriage, when everything was full of potential and we wrestled on the couch while he tried to pick my nose or touch my teeth and we had people over to play games in the basement, did I actually live that year? That girl and that life could so easily be stories told to me. But here I am, in a house alone, a woman with short hair, in an extra-large T-shirt and my underwear, trying to fall asleep with a profound sense of disconnection all around me. I have done this before. The walls here are blue. They have been white with orange curtains when the same sense of wrongness kept me from sleeping. For as much as I have sought to have a life without roommates, I am not really supposed to be by myself. There should be someone else in the other room, at least. Nothing was more natural than sharing a room – my life – with Susan, with Dennis, with my family. Madeline L’Engle writes in her published journal about continuing to be every age that one has ever been, all at the same time. Of course, Esperanza in her House on Mango Street says the same thing. But I can’t be. How could that innocence possibly be something that applied to me? I have short hair. I can barely even remember my fierce homesickness of two weeks ago, much less creating rules to games with Daniel, of winning a speech tournament or the thrill of captivating teenagers with, of all things, facts and ideas. Calling Daniel from my bedroom while Dennis waited downstairs to tell him that Dennis wasn’t sure he wanted to be married to me. Waiting on the front steps with a glass of orange juice for Jennifer to come over after Dennis didn’t stay - just one more night, because we’re friends - like I asked him to. Telling my parents when they came home from vacation. All of these things seem to have happened to someone else. That girl with the long hair and big beads. When did I have the courage to tell my coach that those 10-year-old girls were making fun of me and that he needed to stop them? It didn’t seem like courage then. It just needed to be done. When did I have to audacity to berate Malcolm for allowing a football game that was boys-only? It didn’t seem like audacity, either. All of those are just stories I tell: memories of emotions and situations captured in words. They are too removed from the actual experience to be real or true. I could go on like this, sleeping or not sleeping, here in this empty trailer, forever. Stasis. Fugue state. Whatever you want to call it. There is nothing I want. I am not afraid of the consequences of my actions nor do I look forward to them. There is immediacy to my identity? life? experience? consciousness? that is missing all awareness of the past and focuses simply on the moment. All sorts of philosophies and religions point to that as a good thing but I hate it. I speak in the past perfect tense. I have been a writer. I have been married. I have been a bead artist. I have been a singer. I have been a teacher. I want to be all of those girls that I have been. I don’t want to be this woman who doesn’t know what she wants, where she’s going, what she believes or even that belief makes a difference. I am a woman who doesn’t have any hobbies, for God’s sake, only skills. I have no passion – for anything. That is not the Rebecca that everyone knows. If I’m not Rebecca . . .


As I write that, I am sobbing. It is possible that I am being affected by the fact that the sunlight is completely gone by 5:00 here. Seasonal affectation disorder is a medical reality. I haven’t really slept in two days, going on a third. As I go back and edit all of that, I am sniffling. The written communication of emotional irrationality that I am refining bothers me somewhat because I know it is contradictory within itself and also contradicts what I actually know is true. The reality is that this is a necessary stage of transition. I will find a purpose and I have chosen a good course to do so. All of this identity-searching is just so much angst. I like my short hair. The excitement of engaging high school students is terribly vivid; I just haven’t thought about it much while being out here; it’s out of context. Emerson says that consistency is the “hobgoblin” of little minds. I always thought that was bunk and somewhat indicative of laziness, but it’s not. We wouldn’t be human without the conflicting duality of what one’s head knows compared to what one’s heart is certain of. Communicating all parts of that human condition and doing it accurately, using aesthetically pleasing technique is an art to work towards. Whitman existed for that purpose. But I am not entirely comfortable with it. I would prefer that no hypocrisy go out into the world from my confessions. However, it is honest. I feel that extreme sometimes. As much as I want to belittle my sense of lost identity once I’m done crying, I did actually feel that way for a moment. That side of this adventure story deserves to be told alongside the inspirational revelations that are brought about as obstacles are overcome and nature is engaged. Otherwise, the narrative lacks verisimilitude. It would be a story where everyone conveniently ends up with someone to love and no one had to stop to go to the bathroom inconveniently on the entire quest.

I repeat, I did not die

Sunday, I went hiking with Jeff and hated almost every minute of it. I’ve been bugging Jeff to take me hiking because I have some sense that it is an essential part of this whole outdoor experience of living in the Northwest. So, we set out to reach the top of Mount Pickett, which sounds like we’re heading into a Shel Silverstein poem. It did not turn out to be a very long trip because Jeff wisely realized that we would need to start small. However, during the initial climb when my legs hurt, my heart raced and my lungs constricted, it seemed like we might be out there forever and that I would certainly die before we reached the end of the trip. But I kept trucking through the tunnel vision that was tucking itself into my brain because that is what one is supposed to do. Every story about the girl with 14 toes who finished the race 13 hours behind everyone else tells us that. Plus, I knew a little secret. I wouldn’t actually die.

When I was sixteen, I hiked into Canyon DeChelly (pronounced DeShay) with my youth group. I did not die then when I had to hike back out in New Mexican arid heat, wearing nothing on my feet but wigwam socks and yellow Converse with red laces. That time, my father and my brother Daniel talked me through the tougher moments to make sure that I did not die. Needless to say, all the pictures of that trip were taken at the beginning of the trip on the way DOWN.

Also, I did not die the one time I tried to swim across John’s Lake with the rest of my extended family. They did it every night of the week that we would spend at the Johansen’s lake house in Wisconsin. I don’t know how I ended up in a family of athletes. Two of my dad’s sisters maintain ridiculously high metabolisms and their children have inherited it. Once, when tubing down a lazy river (an activity that, by it’s very definition, requires relaxation) we ended up at the take-out point over an hour early because they got bored and decided to swim and run the muddy bottom instead of dawdling at the Turkey Run river’s speed, the speed of nature. At one point, Jake, the four-year-old, was pulling at least three adults, including my mother and I. So, when I foolhardily joined them in the swim across the lake, still, I did not die when that now familiar tunnel vision eliminated everything from my field of vision but the Boston Terrier, Dinkens, and my parents encouraging me and piloting the rescue boat behind me while I did the backstroke. I did, however, require a ride back to the other side of the lake. Although I did reach the far side of the lake rather than giving up in the middle, I think that rather than having been inspired by the 14 digits of the aforementioned little girl, I was more daunted by the idea of getting my body up into the boat without something from which to push off.

So, even when I started to cry on the middle of the trail up, I had a legacy of not dying behind me to keep me going.

Luckily, Jeff heard that my heaving intakes of breath had changed rhythm and become ragged. He’s so good. He stopped and held me and didn’t ask me to explain myself, even though the only way I could verbalize my despair was to wail, “I want to go home!” before I dissolved into weeping. I’m not sure why my sense of imminent death prompted my homesickness to surface. I think my emotion logic went a little like this:
- I’m going to die while hiking.
- OK, I’m not actually going to die while hiking.
- So, it must be that I’m not actually enjoying myself while hiking.
- If I’m not enjoying myself while hiking, then I must not be cut out for life in the Northwest.
- If I’m not cut out for life in the Northwest, what in the hell else am I supposed to do?
- I don’t know.
- I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I have no purpose to fulfill yet.
- So, if I'm not here to fulfill my life's purpose, I might as well be where people love me.
- I want to go home!
Of course, I know that life at home in Chicago where people know me and like me anyway is less likely to reveal a long-term plan that will ultimately satisfy me. I know that the challenge of a different culture is the water that I waded into so God could trouble my water. That is why I moved out here after all. So, I knew that my little scene was inspired by the stress created whenever one is faced with the potential of meeting Death (without the chess game).

So, after the tears and snot slowed to simple seepage, I removed a layer of fleece to cool down, drank some water and walked in front for a little while so Jeff could keep an eye on me. It was still hard, but we rested more often and it got a little better. I actually began ignoring my physical heart as Jeff suggested and started looking around me. Here is what I saw:
- Two pine trees that looked like something out of The X-Files. Sap ran down the outside like icicles from lots of little holes. Each stream was a separate color, from shades of whites to different ambers. The overall effect looked a little like the stalagmites in caves. I did touch one and had sticky fingers for the rest of the hike that Jeff dodged successfully.
- A fallen log looked like it had tiny little holes drilled into it and then someone put tiny twigs that were smaller than the holes into the empty space like flowers in a vase with that absorbent foam at the bottom to keep the flowers from leaning against the sides.
- A stream coming down the mountain that disappeared. We went off the trail to investigate and it seemed to just sink into the ground at some point and then come out later on down the way. It was like the Red Line as it goes under State Street.
- Another stream that was so lovely that I drank out of it, so I could say that I had drunk straight from a mountain stream, just like the characters in my books. This was despite Jeff’s warnings of Djardia, which seemed to me grossly unfounded.

Then, of course, just as everyone expected, I was taken aback (literally, I stepped back) when we broke out of the forest to a clearing near the top and I could see what seemed to be all of that side of the island, with little farms and the quilt of their lands plus the ocean and Cypress Island and the Peapods, which are all islands that I see when we go kayaking. We sat and ate some apples and it was beautiful. This is where I learned my lesson. This is the moment like the Mysteries of the ancient Greeks when I came out of the tunnel into light and attained understanding of why people hike. Because it IS hard and there IS a pay-off. One does not find much more satisfying than that, especially when you don't die in the process.

When you look good, you feel good.

Today, I look like I live in the Northwest. My mother has attempted to assuage her grief at my absence by buying me things, especially outdoorsy things from the Sierra Trading Post. (That’s an unfair assessment of my mother for the sake of a catchy opening. I’m sorry, Mom.) For my birthday, she sent me a Marmot brand Pre-Cip rain jacket. It has all sorts of features that used to sound like gibberish to me such as taped seams, pit zips and Dri-Clime chin guards. However, now that I’ve lived near the ocean (which creates wetter wind than Chicago) where it rains while you’re doing things other than getting in and out of cars and buildings (umbrellas not so convenient), I have found that all of the neat features of the jacket are actually applicable. It’s fun. Plus, it’s a nifty “margarita” green that matches my wardrobe color scheme. So, I’ve been wearing that everywhere. Then, today, my boots arrived! I actually asked for these because I have rain boots and I have gym shoes but I don’t have shoes for, again, extended time spent somewhere other than in a covered structure while it’s wet. So, I searched the Sierra Trading Post website because Dad likes their corporate commitment to Christ AND they have great deals so both parents win. I found the perfect water-proof nubuck hiking boots from The North Face and my mom added them to my birthday present. So, today I am wearing my tan suede boots with soft grey and blue highlights, my faded Gap Long and Lean jeans that I bought for $20 this summer (which, by the way, my brother Daniel covets), a grey wool cardigan sweater from the Exchange that is that perfect type of shapelessness that looks so effortless on fashionable people but that I have never been able to achieve on my own, my dark spring green pashmina scarf that Mom brought me from Italy wrapped several times around my neck loosely and over it all, my margarita jacket. If I had a pair of dangly silver and semi-precious stone earrings, I would have been mistaken for a native. But, my ears get infected easily, so, I have to settle for horseshoes and hand-grenades.

Audience Participation

I just found a really kooky suggestion in the blogger site that I think I'd like to try with you all. (This is a little like my college radio show when I had no idea that anyone at all was listening except for my father when I sent him the tapes.) It said to ask my readers for three pictures of things that they would most like to see. However, I don't have a digital camera, so that won't really work. (The picture of me as a barrista is courtesy of David Ludwig, Jeff's dad.)

So, because I'm getting a little tired of reading my own ruminations, I'd love to get some input from you about what you would like to know about what it's like to live on an island in the Northwest. Or what it's like to be doing something totally new. Or what it's like being away from my family and friends. Or what it's like to live in a trailer. Or what it's like to live so close to the ocean. You get the idea. No question is too mundane.

Post the questions here on this site by using the comments option on this or any of my previous entries. I'll be more likely to respond in a timely way. Then, comment on the comments if you want to. We'll start a [french accent] salon of sorts. It'll be fun!

I am officially a barrista. It's like Daniel and I switched lives! He's doing his student teaching and I'm making coffee. Ha ha. 

What, are you dumb?

So, I'm a little impatient. Big deal. So, I expected to start this new type of life right away. What's so wrong with that?

Well, as usual, my emotional logic lost out. I was starting to feel all uptight and antsy because I was homesick. I started complaining to myself and to Jeff that life was not interesting enough. I spent too much time at home. I'm not doing anything here that I couldn't do in Chicago - with my friends and family nearby. (Did you catch that? That was the give-away that I'm just crazy-talking. This might be coincidental, but Jeff's parents were just here to visit from Glen Ellyn.) I mean, working retail, going to church and setting up an apartment: what could be more mundane than that? There is nothing distinctly Northwestern about that. Plant a couple of fir trees and hang a couple of Native American totems randomly in Lombard and we're set. They don't even have a funny accent here.

OK, cut it out with the sarcastic tone. I'm stupid. All of the previous statements are ridiculous and I'm fully aware of that. But a few days ago I wasn't. So, I'm sharing the progression of thoughts with you.

Number one: of course it feels like I'm just doing what I've always done with no new experiences. I'm doing what I've always done. But, the part that I forget is that now I'm doing them by myself, which I haven't ever done before. For instance, I'm cooking for myself. Yes, some meals are macaroni and cheese but tonight I made soup. I meant to make navy bean soup, which is my favorite but was missing some vital elements so ended up with this funky Italian tomato pinto bean soup. MMMmmmm. The other day I made my very first apple pie with local apples picked from someone’s backyard. I used Grandma’s recipe but put lard back in where she has switched to Crisco. Also, mmmmm. Not bad for a girl who lost all of the cooking supplies in the divorce. But, I'm not totally alone. Jeff taught me how to light my stove so that it actually created warmth and not just smoke. He also reassures me that the noise my car is making is just fine and that I'll be able to fill the tires with air by myself just fine. When I feed him some of the soup tomorrow, he'll tell me it's good, regardless of the truth. He ate most of the pie. He takes me to do things that are distinctly non-Chicago, which leads me to point two.

Number two: I AM doing things that I couldn't do in Chicago. Why my very-smart brain thinks otherwise is more than my fancy degree in English can tell me. Yesterday, I went kayaking and we must have ended up in the ocean cafeteria. Bonaparte gulls were swirling and diving and when they dove a seal head would come out of the water and they would all fight. After awhile, four - count them - four eagles joined the swirling but they were much bigger. While this was going on, I happened to look down into the water on the other side of my boat and a baby seal came up from under me from way down deep, looking at me the whole time, to play with the eddies that my paddle was making. He just touched the top of the water with his nose and darted away. He was closer than any animal at the Shedd aquarium could ever be. After the kayak trip in the blustery weather was outdoor, swimsuit-optional hot tub and sauna with a gorgeous view of the ocean. It is a phenomenal experience to sit mostly bare in the cold fall wind off the ocean when your body temperature is enough to keep you warm. Not a lot of places to be naked outside in Chicago. (Grandma, forget you read that.) On a different note, I got paid 8 bucks plus labor for my Illinois license plates by a local artist. Actually, he handed me a ten-dollar bill and asked for change. He had promised me lunch at a local place, Chimayo's. I guess $8 was the equivalent. Finally, I sat watching a rerun of The West Wing that I had never seen before, eating slices of nectarines that I had bought a month ago in bulk at a fruit stand off the highway on the mainland. When they were ripe, I sliced them all up all by myself and loaded them into the dehydrator so they would keep. Candy was not sweeter than those round orange and red chewy fruits that I had preserved completed on my own. Although I’m not going on hikes and campouts and being invited to big hippie blow-out parties, I guess that the time that I’ve gained from working retail instead of a job that requires passion and the emotional energy that I can keep for myself instead of feeding it into kids is spent on these small new encounters. And that’s exactly right for a month and a half. Jeez.

Curves

So, I’ve just finished my first workout at the Curves knock-off on the island: PACE. I’m a little ashamed at betraying my loyalty, but it’s all there is. So, in case there were any doubts, let me reassure you, it sucks. Oh, I’ll keep going but it is vastly inferior. The machines offer less resistance and are harder to get in and out of. The staff have no training on how to instruct people, although they are very nice. No one made me stretch, the cue is set for 41 seconds, there is a stationary bike as one of the machines, every other rest and recovery station is a step aerobics step and THERE IS NO SQUAT MACHINE! I can barely feel my workout. Working on those feather machines is like the difference between a professional massage and having a friend who just pinches at the surface of your skin with his or her fingertips. No satisfaction. So, thanks Wendy, for making me a snob for a place that is well-run and focused. You’ve ruined me for anybody else. :-)

A pug's life

Daniel has a baby friend named Henry who is 18 months old but who looks like a three year old because he is so huge. Henry is one of those personable babies who loves everything he comes into contact with but does not necessarily have the fine motor skills to manipulate the world yet. It’s delightful to watch him stumble around with a huge grin on his face. In fact, sometimes he gets so happy that he forces the edges of his mouth out while sticking his lower jaw forward, which has the effect of making his neck tendons taut. Then, he pulls in air through his throat, leaving his vocal cords closed, making a sort of groaning zombie-like noise. This display indicates that he is super-happy and the sensation of it makes him smile so big that he has to stop doing it in order to laugh. I’ve been watching a video that my parents taped off of Channel 11 called A PUG’S LIFE and the sight of all of those pugs and their smitten owners has made me nearly as happy as Henry. But, I think it’s possible that I’m a little more emotional than I give myself credit for lately since the documentary has made me cry as well. Once, on the segment about the pug rescue organization, a new owner was discussing a dog that was “the saddest pug the organization had ever seen. She just sat in the corner of the room depressed all the time.” The new owner just wanted to try to make the dog happy. The idea of that pug being so sad just resonated with my own homesickness and I cried. So, I got up, turned off the TV and went down to the beach for a little while. Then, I needed to sort the socks, so I turned the tape back on. I was happy as Henry again as they showed the art gallery owner who admitted that he couldn’t get the dog to do more than sit, either. Also, the woman who said that pugs are completely loyal as long as you are feeding them. And then! They had a section on owners remembering their pugs that had died and I was gone again.

At some point. my life and my emotional status will be stable. Until then, you’ll find Henry and I sitting on the floor, playing with Retha, making crazy zombie noises and laughing while she tries to jump up and lick our faces.