Compulsions

9.30.06

I came across the following excerpt while studying the curriculum I will be using with my bariatric (stomach stapling) clients for Kaiser. The idea that Geneen espouses here is not new to me, but rather a concise treatise on what I have long felt as the daughter of an alcoholic mother and dreamer father, sister to a former drug abuser and a reformed bulemic myself. As I approach the daunting task of trying to help these clients address the reasons why they have 100, 200, 300 pounds of extra weight, I of course must look at my own "compulsions."


Excerpt from “When Food is Love”
By Geneen Roth

"Love and compulsion cannot coexist.

Love is the willingness and ability to be affected by another human being and to allow that effect to make a difference in what you do, say and become.

Compulsion is the act of wrapping ourselves around an activity, a substance, or a person to survive, to tolerate and numb our experience for the moment.

Love is a state of connectedness, one that includes vulnerability, surrender, self-valuing, steadiness and a willingness to face rather than run from the worst of our selves.

Compulsion is a state of isolation, one that includes self-absorption, invulnerability, low self-esteem, unpredictability, and fear that if we faced our pain, it would destroy us.

Love expands, compulsion diminishes.

It is my belief that we become compulsive because of wounds from our past and the decisions we made at that time about our self worth – decisions about our capacity to love and whether we deserve to be loved.

As children we have no resources, no power to make choices about our situations. We will and do switch our pain to something less threatening: a compulsion.

As adults it becomes our task to examine the decisions we mad long ago about our self-worth, for it is from these decisions that many of our beliefs about compulsion and love take root.

It is impossible to be obsessed with food or anything else and be truly intimate with ourselves or anyone else; there is simply not enough room. Yet all of us want intimacy. We all want to love and be loved.

Once we had no choice; now we do."

Maureen Dowd in the NYTIMES today wrote about our delusional president, his compulsion to be in total denial of the facts around this dreadful war he started. I look at him, and me and think what would it take for us to look in the mirror and see what others see? My clients look at me as a thin person, but I share with them that I too crave sugar when sad, angry, tired lonely. I just have better control over my substance of choice, keep more in balance with exercise and good nutrition, my hobbies, my connections. And I at least know the "pain" I am trying to manage with my shredded wheat or Double Bubble gum attacks. At one class last week, clients were asked to write a letter to their "fat" and a few started crying, asked if it was okay to get so emotional. I thought to myself, and then shared later the awareness, that it is very hard to eat when you are crying or ranting or singing or laughing. When we are fully feeling our emotions they come out of us; we are not putting something in. I wonder if we were better able to express these wide ranging feelings in a safe and constructive way, would be be eating, drinking, smoking, etc.-ing less?

What would Bush do if he got a shot of truth serum? Would he have any idea what really motivates his actions? Could he connect his role in the Bush dynasty, his privilege, his crony-ism with his tunnel vision? He is a reformed alcoholic. Has he perhaps substituted messianic convictions for his Manhattans? Does he ever have self-doubt? I think it was Nietzche who said "Convictions are the greater enemy of truth than lies." I believe this man, (and many of us) would rather cling to our beliefs like our infantile blankies than open an eye long enough to see that the fabric is torn, riddled with holes, dirty from snot, tears and mildewed applesauce. Because once we accept that our compulsions have failed us in our quests to thrive, to lead vibrant, authentic lives we are left alone in the playpen. When the blankie is gone, what is left to hold on to?

A thumb may go in the mouth, a donut, a cigarette, a slot machine arm, a new lover, an old porno site, a Valium. When do we wake up and realize it is a touch, a kiss, a nod of recognition, a hand to hold, a shared dream to pursue that we really crave? And then once realized, how do we go about honoring those needs? Do we throw out the entire bathtub, baby and blankie in search of our goals? Or do dare sit still long enough, re-finish the enamel, watch the baby grow and toss the tired old flannel in favor of time, patience, insight and an attempt at unconditional love?

Traces

She leaves her little shoes
around the house
posed in plie turnout,
stacked in a corner,
tossed under a sofa.

They are pink and scuffed,
or white and strapped
with flowers, polka dots
or dangling plastic beads.

They prance and run and play
and trip and skip
and rarely rest,
these solid shoes.

They grow from year to year
and travel around the house
like skittish spiders
eschewing their proper home.

I stumble on them in the dark;
they can't be found at morning's break,
these wandering canvas and leather boats
sailing on their silent sea.

But I will miss them
when they're gone, their stomps
and romps and circumabulations;
these bookmarks of a life,
these footsteps through my own.

More

9.23.06

More. A word connoting "additional." Pronounced differently it also means, a norm, or cultural expectation, a shared value of a group. I've been thinking of the idea of "more" as in desiring more than what one already has. When a child wants more toys or an adult wants more money or an elder seeks more enlightment. Do we ever stop wanting more? In working with morbidly obese people whose appetites seem never quenched I wonder what is the more that they want? After a certain volume of food, it can't be more taste or more fullness they want. Is it more numbness, more sensations that they don't get other than through their mouths, more distance from people as they put food first, more distraction from their woes and anxieties? As this culture seeks more hegemony is it merely economic power, control over scare resources, psychological control we seek? When do humans become satisfied? We have spent eternity, our entire evolution seeking more territory, more food, more water, more security, more access. Once one's food, shelter, social needs, psychological peace are attained why do we keep seeking more? Is this just the nature of our ever adaptive brains that once sated, seek another experience or sensation out of curiosity or simple boredome?

I have fallen prey to this idea of more. My beautiful new MAC gives me more style, more ease of computing, more flexibility and portability. My new phone gives me the options, should I choose to use them, to communicate via video, photos, text messaging, V-casts. My car gives me access to more places, my credit card more "stuff" and my language abilities more cultures to access. My intellectual interests propel me to study more, read more, reach out more for new ideas. My aging body craves more sensations, more physical outlets and my emotional appetite demands more connections.

I sit in my backyard and delight in this fall day with a moment of peace. I listen to the wind rustling the leaves of a neighbor's tree and watch as afternoon light changes, less brilliant than summer, but brighter than coming winter's shadows. If I stay long enough in this moment, my desires diminish. Is it as simple as this? Learning how to experience life as it happens without thinking ahead? Shutting out the memories of past times or wishing ahead for new ones? Is multi-tasking really such a good idea?

How much can we take in and sit with and truly enjoy before we're on to the next new thing? There are the seasons of the year and the seasons of one's life, the shifts of reality as we step in and out of our imaginations and our concrete lives. How to bridge the two and honor both, to live all of ourselves and truly breathe.

Intersections

9.19.06

A very alarming study was released by a cardiologist in Medscape recently citing that we are headed towards an adult population with 50% (65% of some minority groups) being eligilbe and in need of bariatric surgery (stomach stapling). Worse still this generation of children is being considered as candidates as well. This is horrifying. The most privileged, free society in the world is so out of control around we food that we may have to resort to surgery to keep us from eating ourselves to death? What the hell is going on here?

I sat back and thought about this news, although not new as I've been aware of the trends here, and sadly read how obesity and diabetes are striking the developing world as well, particularly India who has rising "sugar" as their economy improves. So much for Paul Ehlich's population bomb being difused by lack of food supplies around the world. This cogitation reminds me of my original career quest, population control and how ironic that since I have left that field, our world's citizenry has doubled and we are now eating ourselves to death. Today is my first day at a new job, attempting to help morbidly obese people shed enough pounds (10% of their body weight) to make their surgery safer and give Kaiser the chance that they might even forgoe this costly, ($25-30,000) and risky procedure once they learn how to manage food and physical activity more effectively.

I hold no great hopes of success in this position beyond gaining much desired teaching and group leadership skills. For I know how hard it is to shake an addiction. I will share with my "students" that I suffered bulimia for 20 years; I know what it is like to obsess about food. I also know what it is like to "swap" addictions as my recent aquaintance from the Y has experienced. In my own life I have used exercize, chronic gum chewing, cigarettes, alcohol, fantasy and most recently "rushing" as ways to not address pain, loss, fear, loneliness. When I look at these people huddled in their mantles of corpulence I see faces with whom I can relate. I have much better skills right now than they have; I have never been so out of touch with my body that it blew up to twice, three or four times its natural size. But I have shared every emotion I know they have felt and most likely still do. I have just been blesed with enough resources (financial, analytical and emotional) to make different choices in how to deal with them.

I sit here at 5am, having woken up at 4 with awareness and energy. This past year has been a long path with potholes, pebbles, broken glass, boulders to navigate as I deal with mortality, career, what it means to be a woman in this culture, relationships. I am aware of my complaints about America, how we don't take the time to live and breathe joyfully in our bodies, with our souls. And DING! I realize that this is my tendency as well. I rush from activity to task to hobby to work to play to friends to family and back again. Is this my new opiate? Or am I just at a place in life where the synapses are buzzing with ideas, with hope, with love, with lust? Is the rushing a way to keep from sitting with some of life's truths that are so hard to accept: that there is not enough time to accomplish all things, that we die, that love is painful, imperfect, that injustice and inequity is pervasive, that we are all ultimately alone?

I know many people at this time of life and love evaluating what they want, what they feel they need to be who they really want to be. Mid-life crisis or whatever you want to call it; the awareness after 9-11 that any moment your world could end. The pervasive suggestiveness of our media that things could be much, or even a little, better if you just consumed more. The lure of the easy fix. The fear of anonymity, of insignificance, of imperfection.

My students are at intersections in their lives; my friends are considering new careers, new partners, new houses, new bodies. And it's all about trying to find ourselves inside. No one gets a road map at birth, although I think children are wired effeciently well enough to learn navigation themselves; we just screw them up along the way. We are constantly offered forks in the road, opportunities to be real, to feel life fully. Some of us choose the familiar ones, as misleading as they may be. Others dare to take one less known, one whose endpoint is unclear but which proffers the hope, the scintillating idea of something truer to one's self. We find ourselves at these junctions in life without a map or a compass or sextant or perhaps even the stars to guide us. Who will take the first step? Who will take off the familiar shoes and stretch their legs, put down their tender feet and take that first step? And then the next? And the next?

Swapping

9.17.06

In attempting to use my new found techonology to speak with my good friend in Tanzania, I was unable to connect and opted instead to invite a man at the Y to tell me his story about getting his stomach stapled. Turns out we had met about this time last year in a park with our kids and remembered each other. I mentioned that I was starting a new job and the conversation began. His experience was that the surgery was a breeze, but he ended up substituting drugs and alcohol for food, regained all but 30 pounds of his original weight loss. He's now in AA and wishes he had known about Overeaters Anonymous, because he realizes he just swapped one addiction for another.

I am prepared for "failure" in this job ahead. I know that about only about 1/5 of the patients who attend my class will achieve the desired loss of 10% of their body weight before their surgery and that 35% will probably gain their weight back over time. So I remind myself of why I am doing what I do and realize that what I hope to get out of this work experience (aside from health benefits etc.) are the skills to teach, to lead groups in gaining skills to help themselves. If I have a beneficial effect on anyone, all the better, but I don't believe taking classes in new life skills without the psychological help so many need, will have much difference in the long run. The process of "teaching" will be valuable in and of itself, that group experience as people get to know each other, learn to trust others and themselves to be real if they so choose. This is what I hope to facilitate.

I am dancing again. Playing cello again. Dusting off my passions instead of reading Depth Psychology. I have "swapped" my PC for MAC and it feels symbolic of using new machines for old ends. I look at my new phone and know that all it's high tech gadjets won't get me through the Tanzanian cloud cover or rusty copper wires. I was hoping my ability to I-chat would afford me the opportunity to re-kindle a relationship with my sister, but she is too wounded to join me in the ethernet. I was going to pick up another degree in the hopes of better connecting to the collective unconscious, but realize I have my own collective at home to attend to in person. I swap contact lenses for glasses, "all the better to see you my dear", fishnets for pantyhose, cigarettes for chocolate, one side of the counselor's couch for another. And yet, I remain the same inside, no matter which side of the bed I roll out of.

The question for these patients, and for myself, is who will you find underneath the 200 extra pounds of avoirdupois? Who are you without the cigarettes and wine (hmm, a question for my mother)? Who are you when you proffer your naked body to a loved one with all the lights on? Who are you when you sit back and clear your ears and truly listen to a friend for the first time? Who are they?

This will be an interesting journey. The man with a new stomach had to almost die before he could attend to what he said he finally discovered was his issue: fear. We didn't get the chance to discuss what that meant for him, but it caught my attention. Ironically, Hanah quoted some author shortly thereafter about there being nothing to fear but fear itself.

Fear of abandonment. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Fear of banality, of our limitations, of death. So many things to create trembling in our souls. And so many "vices' with which to soothe the quaking. How do we trust our innate strengths and wisdom enough to know we can thrive, we can survive, we can remain alive in every moment with our own imperfect minds, bodies and souls? How could I possibly help people find that within themselves, when it's so hard to do myself?

When all else fails, act. Just do it. Creating a smile has been shown to increase oxytocin levels. So does a kiss, a hug, a caress. Try on a new behaviour and practise it long enough and it becomes your own. Like doing scales, practising your redobles, remembering to ask about your spouse's day. Like a child learning to walk, we can learn to swap old destructive habits for new constructive ones. We can staple stomaches, but unless we find something else to fill up that hole, we will only stretch it again, opening up the chasm that food will never fill. I wonder if Kaiser would allow hug training? Reaching for one instead of a hamburger, might, in time prove cheaper and more effective.

Letting Go

9.16.06

Our video guru at 20/20 looked a little less than himself today. I haven't been there in a long time so hadn't noticed the change but when I asked he admitted to having lost weight. Turns out his family has a history of heart attacks and one night as he sat smoking and drinking a beer he felt a pain in his shoulder and and his heart flip flop. He vowed that if this went away he would quit everything. And it did. And he did. Changed his diet, his routines, instead of smoking at night, went out running. He feels much better, has more energy and looks great. I'm always interested in people's success stories and what spurs them to decide to take care of themselves. Letting go of old habits is hard to do and most people try a few times before succeeding.

We humans learn by repetition and I guess we have to unlearn that way as well. Some people do go cold turkey with various addictions, but most need to find replacement activities to use when dealing with whatever triggers their needs to soothe anxiety, loneliness, boredom. And sadly our culture does not proffer meditation, taking a deep breathe, slowing down, listening to music, dancing, playing, getting naked or beating one's chest in anger or pride as constructive ways to cope. Nothing to sell there.

On our way back from the store, the kids decided to stop into a furniture display room. Hanah found an angora covered bean bag which she sank into like a peach in quick sand. A perferct place to park one's patootie. Then Noah had to try all the sofas, beds and chairs, lounging like James Bond in a 60's, 70's or 50's bachelor's pad depending on the style. Hanah found a series of suede swatches, which were lovely to touch and I found a cork covered pillow and a bead covered one as well. Wonderful new textures I wouldn't have thought of for resting against. A pony hair chair, an alpaca rug, smooth fabrics and nubby ones all invited fingers to touch and skin to sink against. Sitting in the various settings made me want to raise a martini and discuss detente, play backgammon or listen to a pianist entertaining the guests. Wonderful little escape from a daily routine, all prompted by a different setting, a child's curiosity.

These are the moments which fill me with gratitude for the time to experience something new. I had been feeling losses lately and this mental meandering reminded me that we can create new worlds at any time, retrieve lost moments, find new friends, re-kindle old connections and make fresh ones. On the way back, we met a poor dog who had been beaten by his breeder. The kids patiently waited to pet him, as he trembled from memories of being terrorized. It's these moments when we can connect to our fellow planet mates, animals and humans alike, that I feel most grounded and reminded of how when a door closes in one place another opens someplace else.

I wonder if we could find more of these moments if we wouldnt' be driven to our excesses, if we could more easily let go of them knowing that we had these safety nets to fall into. We are born with them, but I guess many of us have them taken away or trampled on, torn in the chaos of familial dissaray or national upheaval or natural disaster. Rend the nets often enough and we leak through the holes and spend the rest of our lives trying to mop ourselves up again into a coherent whole. So, our video guy has let go of some of himself, his crutches and is mending his nets. I wish him and all of us, sturdy twine and strong needles with which to patch these feathery, fluid, and airy fabrics, that hold our hearts and our souls.

Connections

9.15.06

In upgrading my cellphone today I opted for one with all the bells & whistles, camera, video, MP3 player, cappucino maker. Not because I intend to use those functions; I don't. But because the keys are big enough to read without my glasses and it feels good in the hand. It is almost as slim as a credit card and has a lovely red V symbol on the screen, which reminds me of valentines, venture, vivacity, veracity, vigor. It is symbolic of staying in touch, of mobility and now, if I choose, of video connections. All this in a packet of wires, lcd's and metal.

Olu, the Nigerian born salesman who walked me through the sale (and bumped me up to a Bluetooth, which I have no interest in wearing as an accessory, but will use as hands free option in the car on my long commutes) smiled at me at 9 am, the beginning of his day, when I asked him how he liked America and he said he has no complaints. Wow. I'll remember that. He used to live in New York but prefers the slower pace out here. However, he keeps connected to that city's energy through the NYTIMES and in touch with his family online and Nigeria's papers as well. He's now planning on using cyberspace to resume chess games with his brother and I was reminded of how all this techonology keeps us connected in a world where airplanes have replaced the horse and carriage.

I sit on the floor of a hotel room nnear my home because I wanted to be un-connected for a few hours, free from outside inputs and the temptation to mop floors and attend to mundane tasks. I need to make a decision about school and career paths and it seemed the only way to clear my head was to isolate long enough for some clarity to present itself. That has lasted about 2 1/2 hours and the clarity parted long enough to send me out for coffee and chocolate. Lying on a foreign bed with my I-Ching, horoscopes, Psychology reader, laptop, screenplay, notepad, Insight candle, personality test results, school syllabus and an open mind as hints I find that it was the latter, once freed, which had the answer.

So much stimulus. So many messages from wihtout and within. The circadian rhythms, hormonal waves, the ancient familial tapes, the current familial demands, the chemical stimuli, the pull of the past, fear of the future, deire for the unkown all factor into the daily decisions of life. It is so easy to get distracted by what we think we know about ourselves; so hard to listen to our heartbeat and the music it plays.

What came through all the mental gymnastics was clear: the need to stay connected with friends, family, life. And that requires time: time to listen, time to work, time to play, to dance and sing and sit quietly, laugh loudly, love deeply and attentively, to create and rejoice. And time is only here now, in this very minute and it can never be recaptured. Time gets lost to fear and hope and distraction. And the only proof of time well spent is in the connections we make to self, others and the universe.

So I may forgo school now in order to have time for what I truly value the most: family, friends, my passions, learning new skills at work (fishnets are a good compromise to pantyhose, by the way), travel. I will take advantage of the bells and whistles, the cyber tethers and postage stamps and ethernets and hands held and moments of shared silence and time apart and time together. Especially as these precious children grow and still want a mother to walk them into a classroom every now and then. For these are the only moments they will have and know me as a mother who was there.

Now if I can just figure out how to get my phone to foam up a latte, I too will have "no complaints."

Caught

9.13.06

She swoops down on him like a brown feathered hawk narrowing in on a robins baby blue egg and I wince, wishing I could telepathically warn him to sit up, put his notes away, pretend to be paying attention. But no, she the Human Resources watchdog has closed in and from the back of the room where I stand stretching my legs, I can see her inspecting his crouched back, his mis-laid attention. She exchanges a word or two and suddenly escorts him and his paperwork out of the room. My friend the rebel, the will-be sailor nurse, is out on his butt for not paying absolute rapt attention to our HIPAA compliance lecture, most likely not even allowed to re-attend this New Employee Orientation, deemed unfit for this small intransigence. His table mate had been reprimanded earlier in the morning for speaking with him during the Infectious Disease talk and I was admonished for taking and spending too long a time on a personal call. We were threatened with having to repeat this absolutely mind numbing 36 hours of rules and regulations, policies and procedures, values, visions and quality control. Wrist slaps; next time the principals office.

The irony is that we had just been lectured on diversity and how we should embrace everyone's differences and this man had revealed yesterday that he never takes notes because he is an auditory learner. He digests things better when multi-tasking, which today he was doing by reviewing his class notes for school while listening to the lecture. The guy next to me, however, was sitting upright, looking for all the world like he was riveted by the speaker, yet was sound asleep. Others were doodling, I was day dreaming, and who knows what the rest of us were thinking. Was he singled out because he refused to don "casual" professional attire? (Today wore one of those short sleeved button up Cuban style shirts, light blue with white embroidery; yesterday the forbidden jeans) Or because she caught him a second time?

Now, this I can understand. He had been warned once, so perhaps this rebel didn't really want the job, the overhead and paperwork, the P&P manuals he'd have to follow. Maybe he'll get a second chance at the training, who knows. But the whole thing made me think about the fallacy of democracy, when only a certain set of rules allow you to join the game. When only the privileged (by virute of money, education or connections) truly enjoy the cornucopia our society offers. If we have to don uncomfortable attire (pantyhose and ties, instruments of torture) and fill out every request for a pencil in triplicate and sit at attention to receive information, are we really free? I understand corporate perogatives and have freely chosen to join a certain set thereof for the moment, but I am reminded of how much import we put on appearances. Another new employee, Hispanic with a pony-tail, in the Housekeeping department, was a model attendee, the perfect example of the immigrant success story I imagine. He gets to keep his job, or at least start it, because he played the part. The other man, a caucasian ER tech, gets booted because he just learns and looks differently. Reverse affirmative action based on...posture?

How many morbidly obese heads of corporations are there? How many "ugly" women get news anchor jobs? How many short people become President? Who dares wear a purple hat to an interview? And when we knowingly tempt the disapproval of our superiors or colleagues by pushing some envelope of proper dress or conduct, what are we looking for? To stand out in the crowd, thumb our nose at authority or get caught in our true desire to not really be there at all? When we choose not to fit in rather than are born apart, when and why do we decide to express that individuality and when do we tame it? I wore fishnets today instead of pantyhose in my own minor extension of the middle finger. But will that feel like enough? If I were "caught" in violation of dress code, what would I do?

We were told during the Excellence in Care section, to treat all member with CUT (Care Understanding and Take Action) and that people read us 7% from our words, 38% from our tone and %55 from our body language. Perhaps the rebel was using his body to say what his spirit could not yet, that he didn't really want to be there after all. I hope he finds his cause, if not at Kaiser, someplace where he can be himself and plant and nurture the seeds of his dream. On the open waters, nobody cares what you wear; no wonder he's half way there.

Pockets

9.13.06

There is silt in his pants pockets

deep, dark and gritty.

It colors the bills he keeps there,

the loose threads from his seams,

and the tiny crevices on a coin's edge.

Large hands never rest inside

longer than the task to retrieve

an object of necessity,

these hands which could sculpt

and caress and rain a

thousand blows of fury.

Fingers that sometimes play

and want to tickle,

trail tenderness in their wake.

But hands get tied

and pockets fill

and who will turn them

inside out?

A grocery list, a key

perhaps

but nothing mroe than space

can replace the shadow

dark within.

Dreamers

9.12.06

I met a man with a dream today. Of sailing around the world with his new career as a nurse. He does not have a sailboat. He does not yet "know how to sail". He does not even yet have his nurse's degree. But he has a wide open smile and bright eyes and broke the dress code at our New Hire orientation with jeans and a bell pepper red woven shirt. He is working while getting his nursing degree, looking towards actualizing his plans. We laughed about being rebels at this corporate "indoctrination" while at the same time counting our paid vacation days with glee and nodding sagely at the HIPAA compliance rules. In every crowd there are the renegades and the dreamers and it's always a delight to meet them.

The thing is, I believe we are all dreamers, even those of us in the oxford shoes and the wing-tips and the required pantyhose. We dream in utero of meeting that muffled voice of our mother, we dream when we are born of the waiting breast, we dream of super-heros and sky-scrapers and unicorns and of shaping the world in our interest. We dream of true love and vital work and nice things to own. We dream of the future and the past and ways to recreate them.

My father was a dreamer, fortunate enough to have been born into a family inheritance that allowed him to follow those desires in the form of building and sailing boats during his summers. My mother was a dreamer who left her straight laced mid-West family and found herself in 1950's Greenwich Village. My husband did the same leaving his small town life in the South for NY and I got myself over to Zaire with the fantasy of helping an entire continent contracept their way into stable population growth (ahem, what was I thinking?). My daugther, all 8 years old, dreams of getting into Harvard and my son of directing movies. I have friends who dream of renovating houses, of re-marrying well, of new jobs and fresher horizons and a better car. Our culture sells us dreams and the stuff they are made of.

But how many of us dare to live them, to risk what we think works for something that might work better? Who are the few who shrug off the "shoulds" and grab a "what if?" to wear? Are we happy to live out our dreams in the form of gargantuan cars that remind us of tanks or purport to take us hiking even when we don't own a pair of sturdy boots? Do our boob jobs and face lifts really make us feel youthful again? Do we keep dreaming of a greener pasture once we have aquired, nutured and harvested the one we have? Are we so stimulated these days with ideas and images of what could be that we are never content with what we have. Or do they really just play upon our core values: Nature, intimacy, vibrancy, vitality, creativity, procreativity, spirituality, connection. These are all the things we seek and Madison Avenue would have us believe we need products to ensure we get them.

And so, we don garter belts to get around the dress code, and wear our hair long or our secret body parts pierced, and visit prohibited chat rooms and read romance novels and find some small ways to fit those dreams into our lives, when we can't, or daren't take the risk of realizing them. We listen to and tell stories (in book, film, musical or art form) to be transported to those places we wish we could inhabit. How truly liberated we would be if we could live in those magical places without suggestion of where to find them, if they could come from our hearts, our pulsating souls. Perhaps then, we would not suffer in silence, in isolation, seeking solace in our vices, but rather find our joys, our peace, our vibrancy, our connections in a world we have managed to make real. Garter belts while swabbing the decks anyone?

Road Rage

9.10.06

Yep, finally get it, this growing, firey whirlwind inside that makes you want to plow your car through barricades that keep you from your destination, that makes you scream into the empty cavity of your vehicle, that radiates from your pores and seeks a way out as you seethe inside against unkown enemies. It's not the Sunday morning triatheletes, zipping painlessly by on their bicycles, or the patient, nodding traffic controllers, or the cars honking behind you as you try to figure your way out of this new box some well meaning charity has created by closing down streets to raise money for this or that cause. It's not even at yourself for not allowing more time to get where you need to go. It's the absolute awareness of one's powerlessness to change a situation over which one has no control. And the traffic jam, the un-announced street closing, the airhead who cuts you off, the pothole that surprises your chassie are all foils for this most basic human frailty and one that we never want to admit. It's that basic infantile cry for a breast or solace or warmth or fresh air that cannot be met. It's that reaching out in the dark to find no one is there. It's looking for a mirror and finding none, or only broken shards held together by a crooked frame.

So we drive around in these potential weapons and every now and then one of us, rather than turning on the radio to calm down or find a laugh with the Car Guys, goes ballistic and turns their inner pain outward. We do it in domestic violence, in spanking our children, in cheating our jobs, in waging war. We take these overwhelming feelings and either shut down in the face of their unkown origins or we lash out and inflict them on our poor bodies with various substance or mental abuse and mis-use, or on our friends and family, or poor mother nature or some handily constructed enemy in "the other."

Our children are models of behaviour. They cry for attention, they smile in delight, they coo and charm and hit and play and explore and laugh and build and destroy and kiss and hug and run and shout. And then we slowly, over the years, take these impulses and instincts and either smother them or try to channel them into socially "acceptable" ways of conducting ourselves. We hunker down to the serious business of being grown ups and to fit into the norms and more's of our communities. The irony is that we live in this supposedly democratic, choice-laden, "permissive" culture, this land of opportunity and freedoms, yet we have managed to dis-associate ourselves from our true selves in so many ways, I often don't see the fruits of these privileges, but rather "dys-function" that leaks out through our aching pores, in the forms of obesity, alcoholism, alienation, road rage etc. And when I experience it personally, after years of years of therapy and whatever self-help kick I'm on, I truly wonder if we humans ever really do change.

But then, I sit on my front porch, studying in preparation for a possible new career, and watch people go by on our tourist trafficked street. The sun is lower in the sky as fall approaches and our crepe myrtle is having a second coming. My inner turmoil has long been dispelled through exercize, a long walk with my son, a few deep breathes in the sun and a nap. My readings give me of perspective. My constitution gives me pause. My heart gives me hope. My frosty cold iced coffee gives me a couple of slaps upside the cheek. My literary heritage gives me an outlet. And, there, parked at the curb in all her freshly washed glory, sits my vehicle, deceptive symbol of power, of freedom, of potential. I forgive you, dear chariot for all your dings, your gas guzzling appetite, your limited range, your lack of sex appeal, your girth, your drab grey veneer. You get me where I need to go, with room for 8 and a cello. Next time, if I need more, I'll just get out and walk.

La Luna Llena

9.7.06

Hay palabras que me encantan

y personas que me hechizan

en esta noche de la luna llena.

De donde viene esa musica tan suave?

Adonde van los ninos con sus sonrisas?

en esta noche de la luna llena.

Mire el gato en la calle

que grita por su leche

en esta noche de la luna llena.

Y los bebes que sucen a las tetas

de las mamas sonando del aire libre

mientras que las bibliotecas duermen

abrazando sus libros con carino

aquellos hojas guardan las historias

de fantasmas y amores y pasajeros

en esta noche de la luna llena.

Cuando crece una hierba o

la rosa humilde y nadie las reconoce

la luz se derrame sobre la tierra mojada

en esta noche de la luna llena.

Y lentamente las ombras se alargan

hasta que cubren las colinas

como una alfombra de terciopelo,

en esta noche tan oscura, tan silenciosa de la luna llena.

Small Joys

9.7.06

Feeling the sun and ocean air on my open legs as I eat lunch in a spring dress

The smiling, outstretched arms of a yellow fire hydrant

Toffee colored calves on a young woman in high heeled leather wedgies

The dormant oil pumps along side the road, crooked like crane's necks

Remembering a summer place in childhood and a whittling grandfather nearby

Don Quixote riding home on a crickety old bicycle, weaving down the street with plastic bags strapped to the handle bars

A slice of volkornbrot and a slab of chocolate for dessert

Mirabeau Bridge

Mirabeau Bridge by Guillaume Apollinaire, 1880-1918

Under the Mirageau Bridge there flows the Seine
Must I recall
Our loves recall how then
After each sorrow joy comes back again

Let night come on bells end the day
The days go by me still I stay

Hands joined and face to face let's stay just so
While underneath
The bridge of our arms shall go
Weary of endless looks the river's flow

Let night come on bells end the day
The days go by me still I stay

All love goes by as water to the sea
All love goes by
How slow life seems to me
How violent the hope of love can be

Let night come on bells end the day
The days go by me still I stay

The days the weeks pass by beyond our ken
Neither time past
Nor love comes back again
Under the MIrabeau Bridge there flows the Seine

Let night come on bells end the day
The days go by me still I stay

Labor Day

Just wanted to capture one of my favorite moments in time these days, playing with my friends on a Sunday afternoon. Anne (viola) & Martin Pierece (cello), I will boldy advertise, are furniture makers (see www.martinpierce.eu) a lovely couple from England who make incredible hand crafted pieces, one of which will soon be the kingsize bed for Muhammend Ali, and Gaudi-esque hardware. John Swanson, the violinist is an amazing artist (www.johnaugustswanson.com) who combines pointilism and firey colors to depict scenes blending his faith and Mexican roots. Albert DeRosiers, at 80- plays viola and violin, taught French and collects/represents' Johns' art as well as berber rugs, moroccan trays and tea services and kilims. And then there's me, go figure.

I have always loved wood working; my father had a wood shop in his basement where he taught us how to use tools and fashion chess boards and whatever else he was working on. I was lucky in grammar school to have shop as well, which was made even more exciting by a ventilation shaft opening the older kids discovered made a perfect hideaway for making out. Getting to work with one's hands regularly is a gift and I loved teh smell of sawdust, the splinters we'd pick out of our fingers, the small crafts we would fashion out of a simple block.

Art is a more mixed bag for me as a seminal moment in high school turned me off forever when a crippled old bag of a teacher critiqued my very hard work (a full size pilgrim girl) one day by painting a huge red cross through it (had I saved it, I'm sure it would sell as some message on anti-colonialism). I will hand it to my mother who did protest on my behalf, but I never got over the shock of someone's vehement dismissal of my work. I never attempted anything artistic again, but did pick up the flute, which sailed me through many years until the dear cello slipped under my door in the form of a flyer from a nearby teacher.

So on this day of remembering our Labor Force, and I get prepared to take on a new job, I think of the importance of work that makes us feel vital, creative and engaged. Whether it's a music hobby or a full time career as a brain surgeon, we do need these moments of sheer human expression. Sharing it with friends only makes the experience richer and for this I am ever grateful. (It also helps when they bring figs and manchego as appetizers, and the chef makes grilled corn salad in buttermilk dressing, accompanying the pork with mango salsa, all of which adds a layer of oral pleasure to the aural.)

Screens

9.2.06

In John McPhee's wonderful essay, "Brigade de Cuisine", a delightful journey into the hearts, minds and kitchens of a chef and his wife, somewhere in New England, the closing paragraph provided a wonderful insight to relationships. The chef's wife tells the author, as they prepare to leave one kitchen or another: "You may have grasped this, but I don't know him [her husband] very well. If you're close to a screen you can't see through it. He doesn't know me, either. We're just together. People are unknowable. They show you what they want you to see." Yet this comes from a couple who seem to love each other dearly, who work closely together and combine their talents to create a passionate venture larger than their individual selves. He may crack an egg on her head in exasperation and she throw wineglasses in despair, but they both will then roll on the floor with their dog, egos mended and mess tended.

I see how her idea of screens, which can be seen through from a distance but not close up, could be a useful metaphor for how we view others. Standing back it's easier to see the whole picture, up close one can get tied up in the details. The closing paragraph to the story might seem out of place as it's largely about the chef, his past, his history in kitchens and how he prepares and shares food (along with some incredible menues and shopping lists). But in paying so much attention to the details, the ingredients of each plate, McPhee shows us the importance of what goes into something to create the larger whole. Taken separately, the spices, the textures, the flavors, the substances are one thing, just as when you list what you love or don't like about your partner; but put together, everything in their complimentarity creates something that can be truly exquisite (or awful) in an entirely new way.

I wonder if in this nation of specialists, individualized attention being paid to one thing at a time (despite multi-tasking) doesn't keep us from seeing the big picture. This administratino refuses to look at our enemies as anything but just that, and can't seem to see how we all fit into a bigger stew pot which is likely to scald all of us if it boils over. We don't seem to know how to fix our own cars, or negotiate a faucet without calling in the specialist. The chef in this story tells of a patron who had no idea where whipped cream comes from. If we grow up in a myopic environment we truly can't see how the pieces all fit together and where we belong.

A screen keeps the flies out and the cat in. It is made of wire, yet is soft and maleable to the touch. From afar it shades the view in dove grey; up close we are met with grids before our eyes as large as a prison cell. If we get too close to our loved ones, we're said to merge. Distancing can be helpful to see the context of screen doors, our friends and family. The key seems to be in recognizing when to open up, when to shut and when to leave a crack ajar. Slamming is never a good idea; it weakens the hinges and loosens the frame. Better to step back, sip a glass of Verdicchio and have some spiedino "slivers of prosciutto cotto and mozarella with capers and anchovy sauce in a casing of sauteed fragrant bread." I can think of very little that can't be mended by the sharing of a delicate, pink sheet of salty, succulent ham, the bite of a salty caper and a swallow of cold golden wine.

Windowpain

Shiny, clear glass

tosses you back in reflection,

while inviting you inside.

What do we see looking out?

Who sees us looking in?

Ever changing light on seasonal cue

casts mutable shadows

on our faces.

The cat sits on a sofa back

warming in her sun

while chasing a dandelion

in her mind.

Who dares to break the pane

which separates

us from them,

you from me,

here from there?

Will you crack open the glass

and let in the fresh air

scented with rosemary,

soft as a whisper,

alit with amber glow?