Better

The word for today is BETTER, as in I feel BETTER, or this book, movie, recipe is better than that one. BETTER involves a comparison in which one thing or person is assigned more value than another.

I've been thinking about this word because I've been thinking about relationships, about whether any of my romantic relationships have been BETTER, more satisfying, than others. What I came up with, what I focused on, was that the last relationship in which I felt truly loved, was oddly enough, one in which I thought I was BETTER than the other person, BETTER than my partner.

I thought I was BETTER than he was because I had a steady professional job and he didn't; I had a car and he didn't; I rented a little house and he rented a room; I had credit with a bank and he had credit at the corner store.

For all these reasons, and because of my education and my upbringing, I thought I was BETTER than this man. I don't know how he dealt with it; I don't know how or why he put up with my attitude. I was mistaken; I still had so much to learn.

During my formative years, I was indoctrinated with the idea that I was BETTER. At college I learned that my classmates would do great things--we would be leaders in science, industry, academics, culture and government. I learned that I was different from other people, I was above them, I was BETTER.

Sometimes it seems as though I have spent the last twenty-five years losing everything. I have not actually lost everything, but I have lost a lot of my preconceived notions, a lot of the rigid ideas I had about myself and about other people.

The idea that I was BETTER kept me safe, kept me insulated. I had a reason to be separate; I had a reason to be apart. I had a reason not to open myself, not to be vulnerable to the myriad of people and conditions in the world.

Now, I don't measure myself by my job (I don't have one) or my house (I don't own one) or my car (I am grateful for my 10-year-old Honda Civic). I don't have a partner; I don't have children. All I have are my heart and mind and soul and a little bit of integrity. I have a small community of friends and neighbors and a family who, though they may be frustrated and bewildered by me, have never forsaken me.

None of these things make me BETTER than anyone else. They just make me feel a little BETTER so I can get on with my life and share whatever gifts I have with the world.

Foible

The word for today is FOIBLE. A FOIBLE is a moral weakness or failing. It is also the part of a sword between the middle and the point of the blade; the part that bends and gives, as opposed to the forte, the part between the hilt (handle) and the middle, which is considerably stronger. The FOIBLE of a sword is like the branch of a tree that can bend and sway, until the wind is too strong, and then the branch is struck down, while the trunk and roots remain. Have you seen the trees with new branches growing from a cut or struck down trunk? These are foibles that will not die.

I heard the word FOIBLE when I was speaking with a friend, trying to describe what I had just done. I was certain that I had created a fiasco, another in a long line of humiliating failures. As Hemingway says in his memoir, A Moveable Feast, I was stupid. I was searching for a word to describe a part of myself that I hated. I thought that this particular problem behavior was part of my past. I did not know how to say that I had done something so ill-advised yet again, that I had gone out onto the social battlefield, and that I had failed.

This is one of your foibles, my friend said. And because my friend is a gentle man (and I suppose a gentleman as well), the word FOIBLE did not sound as harsh as the fiasco I was sure I had created. The word FOIBLE did not make me want to stick the point of the sword into myself and hurt myself even more than I was hurting already.

Everyone has foibles. It's okay that I have them too. A FOIBLE is a weakness, but it is just part of me. It's part of that same sword that contains my forte or strength as well. I have to have a handle on things, I have to hold on. I have to bend and I have to give. I have to learn to get out of the way when the wind blows too hard or my resistance is too weak. Given what I am learning, I know that my foibles are not the measure of my mettle, my courage or my fortitude.

As many an artist has said, well at least I got a song out of it. My You Tube is working again. Enjoy today's song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c0JvWVbxOkQ&feature=related

Trepidation

The word for today is TREPIDATION. Actually, it has been the word for the past few days, but I have not sat down at the computer to write. Was that due to TREPIDATION? I don't know; I just know I have been holding onto the word. TREPIDATION is not something I want to hold on to.

TREPIDATION is panic, agitation or in its most basic form, fear. There is nothing to fear but....

Oddly, I like the sound of the word. The first two syllables sound like something I might trip over, or the act of tripping over--TREPI. I'm not sure, but I think "ation" means the state of. So TREPIDATION would mean being in the state of tripping over something, being in the state of being tripped up by one's own fear.

One of the many slogans or acronyms I retain from recovery is FEAR = False Expectations Appearing Real. But what about Real Expectations Appearing Real? What about when we can't push fear aside or push it to the REAR?

Another slogan I recall is Feel the Fear but Do it Anyway. I have learned to feel my feelings, but not get stuck in them. I have learned that my emotional process is not stuck in the mud or clogged like a drain. It flows. My feelings flow, my body flows, (yes, at age 50 my g__damn menstrual cycle still flows and flows and flows), my life flows. My emotions are like the clouds in the sky, like the weather--if I am patient, if I wait, they will change. Those who know me know how much I love language, and yet every one of these slogans, trite as they may sound, means something to me. I do not resent them. I believe, for instance, in the saying, this too shall pass.

Technology in itself is not very lyrical, but today, after a period of interruption, the music from my IPOD is flowing through my stereo speakers--Chopin, Mendelsohn, Bach,--what incredible pleasure I am capable of receiving. Also, my neighbor has fixed the sound from my computer so I once again have access to the YouTube videos and audio. My frustration was temporary.

But I was writing about fear, about TREPIDATION. My employment situation is precarious (ah, a word for another day), to say the least. On Wednesday, my Census crew leader told our team that we had almost completed our work. Apparently the government had "misunderestimated" the length of our assignment by 6 weeks! A month and a half of decent income-whooosh, gone. I felt fear.

Today I am meeting someone whom I have never met before. We have spoken extensively on the telephone--but that is different. I am meeting this person "in the flesh" as they say. I move from glorious anticipation to trepidation. I move back and forth and that is okay.

I have been thinking about another word--INTREPID. I did not know the word INTREPID until I learned about the battleship that is now permanently docked in Manhattan as a museum.
I love the word; I want to be INTREPID.

A brief history lesson for the day--with due credit to Wikipedia. The USS Intrepid is a WWII aircraft carrier that serves as a museum ship. In 1978, Zachary Fisher, a Manhattan real estate developer and philanthropist, saved the ship from being put to scrap. The museum ship served as the FBI's temporary headquarters after the destruction of the World Trade Centers on September 11, 2001. A scheduled renovation, in 2006, was delayed because one of the ship's propellers got stuck in the mud in Hudson River. Eventually, the ship was dredged out of the mud and floated to Staten Island where renovations took place. The ship museum is back in Manhattan and reopened in November 2008.

Next time I am in Manhattan, I am going to see the USS Intrepid. In the meantime, I think I will just be intrepid myself!

Love

The word for today is LOVE. Why would I take on such a "preposterous" topic? I LOVE this blog more than any thing I can think of. And I was at risk of not writing in it at all.

When it comes to LOVE, I guess we do things we wouldn't otherwise do. I LOVE this blog so I will get up early, get out of bed, and sit down at the computer. (Actually, I got out of bed because the dogs I'm boarding were barking.) Really, I LOVE this blog, because I LOVE myself, it is part of my commitment to myself, to being open, to being heard.

So, if I work from this place, a place that combines heart and mind--LOVE is about being open, love is about being who you are, LOVE is about being able to share that with someone else. Sometimes, people will ask have I ever been in LOVE? I don't quite understand what they are asking. Have I ever been in a daze, have I ever been crazed, have I ever been in awe, have I ever felt passion? LOVE is selfless, love is blind? No, no.....I don't think it works that way.

I keep seeing the film clip of Barack Obama's victory speech on the election night 2008. He says, "Sasha and Malia, I LOVE you more than you can imagine." Then he tells them that they will get a dog. That works for me, because to me dogs equal LOVE, the unconditional kind.

But a couple of other things strike me as well. The look on his face after the statement. It is the purest, purest look that I can imagine. It is quite simply the truth. His expression is solid, a rock that his daughters can always hold onto. Yet I also notice that he chose the word imagine instead of know. He did not say, as my mind expected him to say, that he loves them more than they can know; instead he says he loves them more than they can imagine. Does this mean love is more of the imagination than of the mind or the rational intellect?

I will leave that question to your imagination. And I hope I will come back to the word, the idea, and the feeling of LOVE another day.

Propitious

The word for today is PROPITIOUS. I like the way the word sounds. It sounds like something my grandmother would say--either a traditional Yiddishism or one of her potty-mouth variations.

Phonetically, PROPITIOUS (the second syllable is pronounced pish) makes me think of the saying--he didn't even have a pot to piss in or the disgust with which my grandmother might have responded to news of somebody else's supposed accomplishment--pish, who does he think he is anyway.

PROPITIOUS means that something is a good sign or omen; it describes something advantageous or helpful. When I told my father how much I like working for the Census, he said, it sure was PROPITIOUS that I saw the sign for the test. That's the way we speak in my family. My relatives use big words like PROPITIOUS even though they don't believe in signs or omens.

I have often talked about being raised not to believe in anything, being raised without faith. It's not quite accurate to say I was raised not to believe in anything. I was raised to believe in the value of hard work, honesty, and a pure heart (even when it was hard to have one). I was raised to believe in the value of loyalty and intelligence. I was raised to have a spine of strong integrity. I was also raised to believe that it was good to be like the people who raised me--even though I wasn't.

I was raised to be a professional. My ancestors had been bakers, bookbinders, tailors, factory workers. Wasn't it better to work with one's mind than one's hands? Wasn't it better to have a skill, such as being a doctor, lawyer, accountant or engineer, that would bring social recognition and financial security.

After spending the vast majority of my life learning from books or working in an office in front of a computer--I can't do it anymore. I realized that for the last year and a half I've worked outside, with the mailmen and women, the UPS and FedEx deliverers, the utility and construction workers, the lawn and garden service people. Sometimes it's cold and I feel a chill in my bones, sometimes it's windy and tears fall from eyes, sometimes I need to find a coffee shop so I can run in and use the bathroom, but I don't have that awful restlessness, that caged in feeling I had all those years when I worked in an office.

Meeting my friend Becky on the street a few years ago was PROPITIOUS. She hired me as a dogwalker, and now I board dogs at my house as a side business. Seeing the sign for the Census test at the Evanston Civic Center was PROPITIOUS, because I may have found something in which I can think ( just a little) and be outside and talk to people all at the same time.

When all is said and done--though I do not know where I belong, though I take part neither in a Passover seder or an Easter dinner, I do have faith. I have faith that PROPITIOUS things will happen in my life. Like meeting the job coach who dared me to start this blog. Now that was very PROPITIOUS!

Down

The word for today is DOWN. Actually, it was the word for yesterday, but I didn't get to sit DOWN at the computer and write it DOWN. Since I've been working eight hours a day for the Census, I don't have as much DOWN time.

But don't worry. I am neither DOWN nor out. Neither have I been to Paris or London recently (acknowledgments due to Mr. Orwell). I do worry though that I may be coming DOWN with something.

I do miss the long, soft and slow hours I indulged with my hotel quality DOWN pillow and my DOWN comforter. I do resent that I have to get up and out by a certain time. On the whole though, I love the independence of working for the Census. I love being outdoors. I love the feel of the ground DOWN below me and the sight of the sky above. You could say I'm DOWN with the job.

In the dictionary the phrase DOWN East is defined as referring to the entire state of Maine. but if you're from Maine you're more likely to know the more specific nature of the term as provided by Down East, The Magazine of Maine : "When ships sailed from Boston to ports in Maine (which were to the east of Boston), the wind was at their backs, so they were sailing downwind, hence the term 'Down East.' And it follows that when they returned to Boston they were sailing upwind; many Mainers still speak of going 'up to Boston,' despite the fact that the city lies approximately 50 miles to the south of Maine’s southern border." The ships were often sailing to ports in Hancock and Washington counties, the Downeast coast of Maine. I used to love driving DOWN the long slender peninsulas along the coast or going DOWN to the rocky seashore.

As an adult, I'll play with kids and roll DOWN hills or get DOWN on the floor to play. I'm just more of a DOWN to earth kind of person.

I do have a special song for DOWN. It makes me feel better when I'm DOWN or blue, or just feeling plain rotten or out of sorts. It asks "How Can You Laugh When You Know I'm DOWN." And the minute that line goes through my mind I start to whistle and then smile. Here's the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmsTT9bvWIg&feature=related

P.S. I was six in 1965 when the Beatles played at Shea Stadium....just a few miles from where I lived!!! Can anybody tell me the contemporary equivalent to the question who is/was your favorite Beatle? (Umm, Jonas Brother?)

Pussy Willow

The word for today is PUSSY WILLOW. Actually, it is two words that refer to one object, a shrub that has a soft, silky, sexless flower called a catkin.

I've been thinking about PUSSY WILLOWS because they remind me of my grandmother, and I think about my grandmother almost every day. I've been thinking about PUSSY WILLOWS because I've been wearing a pair of earrings that I bought for myself a few years ago (in remembrance of her) that are small freshwater pearls set in oxidized bronze. The jewelry designer offers a much better definition than any I found in the dictionary: "The PUSSY WILLOW'S soft, silky buds find their name catkin from the Dutch diminutive of cat, in reference to its resemblance to a kitten's tail. The tree is a deciduous North American variety." (Michael Michaud)

PUSSY WILLOWS are soft to the touch, like fur. When I was a toddler I lived in one of New York City's boroughs, both my parents were city kids. My knowledge of nature consisted of grass, leaves, sand and the ocean, and common flowers like daisies and black eyed Susans. I'd never seen a PUSSY WILLOW growing outside. I remember rubbing them in a hypnotic fashion after finding them in a vase at my grandmother's house. For all I knew they could have been stuck on sticks in factories.

My grandmother introduced me to the sensual world. She gave me bubble baths, patted me down with baby powder and gave me back rubs before tucking me in at night. When I was in my 20s, she liked to hold my hand as we rode in a taxi cab or walked down the street. At the time that humiliated me. Now, as a single middle-aged woman, I understand, and honor, her need for touch. She taught me how to squeeze and hug.

I also remember going clothes shopping with my parents and my sister every year before school started. There was a store in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Natan Borland's my father tells me, where they sold discount clothes. Even though I lived in a neighboring borough, Williamsburg seemed like another world to me. I've spent too much time this evening trying to research the neighborhood, before it became a site for artists and hipsters and real estate moguls. As a child, I saw imposing factory buildings, gated store fronts, and graffitti. I heard people speaking languages that I did not understand, Yiddish and Spanish. We found the doorway for Natan Borland's, maybe we had to walk up to a second floor entry, but once inside there were rows and rows of dresses and coats. I would look for the children's coats with the fake fur collars and "pet" them, then I'd find the thickest velvet dress that I could stroke. I didn't want leave when my mother said it was time to move to another rack of clothing.

Outside the building everything was dark and hard. I don't remember any sunshine in Williamsburg. My father's uncle owned a pastrami delicatessen in the neighborhood and maybe we went there for lunch. Maybe my father just pointed it out to us. I thought about the warehouses where racks of meat were smoked and spiced, and aged. We drove out of the neighborhood. My sister and I would wear the clothes we'd bought back on our sunny block, where our apartment had a terrace with geranium flower boxes and there were private houses with front lawns. I remember the light, thin feel of the geranium petals and the slightly thicker and waxier texture of a blade of grass.

When I moved to Maine I saw PUSSY WILLOWS in the "raw" for the first time. They grew on bushes near the bay. They grew on bushes near the beach roses, which are my favorite flower. The pussy willows did not have a scent, but the beach roses smelled fresh and light, and because my senses were developed inside, they reminded me of the scent of a lovely bath soap.

As many of you know, I live with my wunderdog, Rosie, and two aging kitties. They are all my PUSSY WILLOWS. They are soft to the touch, always there. I am never embarrassed to pet them. They are here waiting for me every day.

Yesterday, at TJ Maxx, I saw a hideous toy bunny rabbit, pasted with hundreds of pussy willows to make up its coat. It wasn't soft to the touch, it wasn't appealing to me in any way. I felt sad and angry that a factory worker had to paste those beautiful PUSSY WILLOWS on the rabbit shape.

Right now, my cat Charlotte, who is at least 18 years old, has jumped on the chair as I type on the keyboard. She rubs her soft face against the outside of my hand. In a minute, I will get up and pet my silky, spaniel Rosie, who is cuddled up on the couch. These creatures, who come from nature, have learned to live inside with me. I am so glad to have found them.

I couldn't quite bring myself to post the Tom Jones version of "What's New Pussycat," though I'm sure my sister and I listened to him sing it on television. We spent lots of weekend nights with my grandmother watching variety shows on tv with all kinds of schmaltzy music. Mike Myers does a great version of this tune, with just the right touch of kitsch. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kH7p1Ftp3QI&feature=related

Homesick

The word for today is HOMESICK. Being HOMESICK, like being lovesick, indicates a state of longing, of yearning; it implies that this longing is a bad and unhealthy state. Instead of HOMESICK, I'd like to call the feeling homelove.

After years of great personal effort, and thanks to the support of many friends and colleagues, I have gotten over being lovesick. What is the best way to put it? I have conquered being lovesick, I have accepted it as a part of my essence, something that I do not have to struggle with, a longing that I can satisfy by focusing on and developing aspects of myself and my faith in something much larger.

Another way I have dealt with being lovesick is by changing my focus. I no longer fall in love with people, I fall in love with places. When I find a place that I cherish, it stays with me no matter where I am. For me places have personalities and moods, they can inspire my happiness or fuel my fulfillment, secure my safety. Places are very important to me.

It is now four years since I have moved from Maine to the Midwest. On most days, my intention is to be where I am, to experience and enjoy my surroundings, BUT I cannot get over being HOMESICK. During Census training I think about canvassing addresses in Maine, instead of Evanston and Rogers Park. I think about all the funky structures I used to see, the doublewides, the yurts, the barns, the lighthouses, the old mills--all of which serve as residences. I think about the gravel roads I'd walk down, the peninsulas with houses that are miles apart, hidden in the woods. Yes, this is nostalgic. There are new condominum developments and townhouses and group homes in Maine just like in the rest of the country. They are near rivers or bays or mountains or forests--and in my view that just makes them better.

Today, at lunchtime, I walked over to the new LL Bean store at the Old Orchard Mall in Skokie. I picked up an Outdoor Discovery Program catalogue thinking that there might be some local events in the Chicagoland area. All the events are either held in Freeport Maine or in Maryland. The catalogue is full of photographs of Casco Bay. I see Fort Gorges, which is located on a small island I could see every morning when Rosie and I walked the trail along Casco Bay. I see the view from Wolfe's Neck Farm and the islands off of Freeport. I had found the most beautiful place in the world, and then I left.

When it was time to leave Maine I knew I would miss the bay and the islands more than anything else. Even more than the precious, precious friends who nursed me through many a lovesick episode, who helped me become a fuller and deeper person. I remember saying goodbye to the view that last early spring. No more green rolling hill down to the bay, no more sailboats moored to their landings, no more islands spreading out to the horizon, no more forts, no more ferries and lighthouses. I remember this as well as I remember saying good bye to my best friend as she took the last few steps down my porch after helping me with my endless packing. I was sad, but excited to embark on a new adventure.

What would happen if I gave up my homesickness--either by returning to my beloved Maine, or embracing my life in Evanston/Chicago. I have tried to love the Midwest. I have driven through the rolling hills of southern Wisconsin, I have traveled across Illinois to see the mighty Mississippi, I have explored the southeastern shore of Lake Michigan, I have journeyed to the northern tip of Wisconsin to visit Door County, and also Lake Superior. It was only Lake Superior that truly spoke to me, only the very northern parts of Wisconsin and the western part of the Upper Peninsula that abuts it. These places reminded me of Maine, I could breathe some of the same chill and wildness.

If I gave up being HOMESICK I would have to make a decision. I would have to take action one way or another. I am not ready. My job coach dared me to start this blog--and I did. He also dared me to come up with a plan for returning East--and I have not.

Still, maybe I can use some of what I have learned about coping with lovesickness. What can I provide for myself that I have wanted from a loved one (or a loved place). How can I meet some of those unmet needs. While I'm in the Midwest, I need to take more roadtrips. I need to seek out elevation, I need to seek out large and wild bodies of water, national parks and forests, trails that go on for miles, places where the traffic is not powered by fossil fuels. I need to find places where I feel freedom and safety at the same time.

In the meantime, I'm going to a lecture on the geology of the Midwest. Maybe, just maybe I will learn to appreciate the flatness.

The song I offer for today is Simon and Garfunkel's "Homeward Bound."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwQYH-6quEE

Oh, and another song for my morning people friends. (Might not really be a morning song, but it sure is pretty.) Norah Jones' "Sunrise."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-vOSlwLyyg