Winter love affair

I am in love with winter.

Sure, the other seasons are nice. Summer is easy, with its barefoot strolls and cricket calls. Fall bombards the senses with colors and smells of burning leaves and wood stoves fired up after six months of dormancy. It's easy to love other seasons.

Winter is for quiet. Winter is for those who love solitude. Give me a cold day, the kind that keeps others indoors. It is then you'll find me among the icy shores.

Miles walking on the docks, frozen lake in the background

The best moments of my life have been outside. Nature has been where I have sought solace for as long as I can remember. But, right now, my body is in revolt. It is June, and nature's procreating like a dog in heat. Hot and horny, she is throwing her pollen into the air like so much snow, plant life fornicating wildly. I am reminded of one thing I can't stand about summer: allergies.

Some seek closeness with their Creator in a chapel. I feel closest to Him in a green cathedral

But my body is launching a full-fledged attack on the outside world. Or, rather, it is pulling out all the stops to build up a fortress against the outside world. A fortress of snot. Itchy, weepy eyes scream "keep out!" My sinuses, with their constant sneezing, shout "stay back!" We will have no plant fornication here!

Despite doses of extra strength 24 hour allergy medicine, I still sneeze. Yesterday, my 10-year-old daughter asked what happened to my eye; it was so irritated and stuffy and puffy, it looked as if I'd been socked.

It is probably not wise, then, that someone with these types of allergies live in the hay field that is the Ranch. It is so beautiful here. How can my body reject such beauty?

One of the apple trees silhouetted against a fantastic sunset at the Ranch

Others are happy for summer, I'm counting the days until fall!

Cracked

In the summer of 1996, when most people in their early 20's were partying or falling in love, I attended cadaver lab at the medical school nearby. Like "Henry," the nickname we gave the 58 year old man who had donated his body to science - and to us - the experience cracked me open.

Henry's last meal was corn. And, as we cut into the meaty area to remove and dissect his lungs, he exhaled. We had taken his last breath. Despite the sterile unemotional environment of cadaver lab, I couldn't abandon my poetic brain. I wanted to know his story. How did he die? How did he live? Did he love? Was he happy? Heartbroken? Angry? What kept him awake at night? Did his hands once embrace children and a wife?

Students aren't given any information about the cause of death in cadaver lab; that's part of the learning process: to discover how your cadaver passed from this life. We were only given very basic information: age, race, demographics.

I was struck immediately with how vulnerable and fragile we are when I learned how easily fascia, the thin fibrous connective tissue that surrounds muscle, tears away; I thought in metaphors. Fascia was like the finest linen, lungs like sponge. And yet, for all of our vulnerability, I marveled at our resilience as I learned Henry had survived open heart surgery, the staples still embedded in his chest.

One of my favorite lines in all of literature comes from the 18th and final chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses. It is often referred to as Molly Bloom's soliloquy. In the passage, among other things, Molly Bloom says "...and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes ..."

Sometimes, all we have to do is say a resounding "yes" to what we are offered to be transformed. 

I have been thinking a lot about Henry lately and the experiences I took away from cadaver lab because, now 17 years later, I have returned to that medical school. And once again, I feel cracked open. With gratitude.

After nearly two years of the highs and lows that have come with my unemployement journey, I applied and was offered a job via that same medical school.

The position is through an AmeriCorps grant funneled through the medical school. It is essentially a pipeline project to guide and encourage middle school and high school age students in rural communities toward careers in healthcare. This week was my first week.

During training, I sat in a room with physicians counselors and students discussing things like how to guide teens into lucrative areas of study, how to help them make decisions to avoid astronomical student loan debts, and the factors that affect the demographic who enters medical school.

This was a far cry from chicken marsala.

This is important work. Work I can believe in and be proud of. Meaningful work. Work that has the potential to shape future generations of physicians, surgeons, nurses and psychologists.

But, if I'm being honest, I would make more if I continued to dish out chicken marsala.

I entered college in 1992 as a biology major. In my second or third semester, I took organic chemistry and received a D. I decided then to switch my major to English and embrace who I was, who I had always been.

But, just because we are good with words and not with numbers does not mean we cannot shape and contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways. Just because we serve chicken marsala doesn't mean we cannot contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways.

We all have the ability to give, contribute, guide and transform when we are willing to dig deep, be true to ourselves and give a resounding "Yes!" to what we are offered.

I have been cracked open once again. I've learned during this period how vulnerable I can be, but also how resilient. I might not make much money. But I am so thankful for who I am and for being true to myself. I am thankful for parents who allowed me to not fit into the box, who celebrated who I was and continue to be for all of my quirky idiosyncrasies.

I have to believe that, if I continue to say "Yes!" the world will provide the rest.

Reinventing oneself in an uncertain economy: gratitude and grace with aside of biscuits and gravy

I've just accepted a second waitressing job.

Evolution is a powerful thing. Just a few months ago, I wrote about my job as a server with a certain amount of shame. I made sure to tell at least one of my tables on any given night that I was just "in transition" - that I had a master's degree and years of professional experience.

As if that means anything.

Our silly little egos. We must soothe them. We tell ourselves what we need to in order to make ourselves feel better.

The truth is, who am I not to be grateful for what I am, or what I have been, or what I have been given?

I've been a lot of things that might surprise you. I was once a telemarketer for a very large portrait studio chain. It was my first job. I called people, usually interrupting their dinner, to try to persuade them to buy portrait packages. I was 14. From then, a long line of job titles evolved, and not all of the titles are impressive: dishwasher, camp counselor, horse trainer, camel handler, zoo keeper, camp cook, landscaper, marketing associate, dog sled handler/guide, cashier, waitress, tutor, substitute teacher, adjunct professor, health educator, research associate, communications specialist, addiction and tobacco treatment specialist, and now...freelance writer/photographer/waitress.

I have lamented my fate in the job market over the last year, becoming more and more despondent  with each rejection letter. I've taken them personally even though I know in my heart those letters were simple form letters and not personal in any way. I've spent sleepless nights asking myself what am I doing wrong? I've read books on cover letter and resume writing, blogs on job market and interviewing skills, felt jealousy and anger at others who have comfortable, predictable salaries and savings accounts. I've scoured job search engines all over the Midwest, crafted cover letters that were conventional and not-so-much-so. I've cried, prayed and wished upon stars.

And all the while, I didn't realize a transformation was taking place inside of me.

I started becoming better at what I do best: following my creative heart. I started reinventing myself. I started saying thank you. I started to enjoy being a waitress almost as much as being a writer or photographer. Once, the two jobs intersected. I was called to photograph beautiful food at my friend's restaurant, and, the next thing I knew, I was waiting tables and serving IPA beers behind her bar!

A "Farmhand Burger" at the Farm Girls Pub & Grub in Alliance, Ohio

Cheryl Strayed said in Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar: “You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt with. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding and my dear one, you and I have been granted a mighty generous one.”

I have been waiting: for the right time, the right job, the right moment when things will miraculously open up for me.  I've been sacrificing now waiting to relive then. Suddenly my mind has shifted, like a "forest for the trees." All we have is now. And, right now, I am a waitress. I am a writer. I am a photographer. And not one of those things is shameful or less important than the others. The best thing we can do in this life is to play the cards we are dealt.

And, to again quote Cheryl Strayed, “The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherf*%king shit out of it.”

Indeed.

Quiet or, the twelve year goodbye

It happened again today. 

A friend wrote me an email to ask why I'd been so quiet lately. Another friend did the same thing about a month ago. 

I have been quiet lately. I don't like to put things out there that are draining or depressing, and that's what I feel lately. If I'm being honest, I am quiet because I am processing a lot of sad emotions.

But tonight, some thoughts surfaced. Maybe they are worth offering.

Twelve years is a long time.

Chris and I had our first "date" on June 29, 2001. Both musicians, we decided to go to see live music. We ended up stumbling onto the scene of an obnoxiously loud punk band that hurt our ears. I went to the bathroom for some tissue to stuff into my ears, and brought him some too.

Before long, we were on our fifth date. He came to play music with me at a homey little bar called the Luna Grille during a time when I was regularly playing drums. He made me laugh until my sides hurt. He was talented, seemed gentle and compassionate, and although he had a job as a reporter making just a couple bucks above minimum wage, I took a chance. We were married on September 12, 2003.

Like so many, the foundation of our marriage whittled away, buckling under the weight of parenting, responsibilities and financial stress. After I lost my job in 2008, I dove into writing again. Who knows what caused the beginning of the erosion, but during those quiet nights, as I tried to write, seven words floated up from some dark abyss despite my best efforts to muddy the waters and bury them deep. 

 
I don’t want to be married anymore. The words echoed in my mind, until the idea started to take hold. I don’t want to be married anymore. At first, I tried to block the words out. We hung on, trying to make it work for the kids, for the finances, for any number of reasons. We hung on until last summer. Then I could bear it no more. I initiated our separation, and in a short amount of time, Chris agreed. It was time to move on. We wanted different things. We had become different people. Our marriage was over.

But even though it was a mutual decision, and even though it's been, for the most part, amicable, there's still a certain amount of grief. There are still certain things that sting. When I said my vows, I meant them. I envisioned us as old fogies together and took refuge in the idea of "forever." I think often about how it is some people, like my parents, manage to weather changes and tough times and stay together. My parents just celebrated their 42nd anniversary.

Here's what I've come up with. And, if I could have a "do over," these are some things I would do differently.

Be Polite

1 Corinthians 13:4-7 - Love is patient, love is kind. One of the most quoted verses in weddings. But how many of us can actually say we are loving or kind to our partners on a daily basis? First, I have to say, I still believe in love. But enduring years intimately involved with another person takes more than love. It takes consideration and basic manners - the common courtesy you'd give your coworkers or a fellow passenger on the bus. If I could have a do over, I would try my best to always be polite. Say excuse me. Fill the toilet paper holder. Simple courtesy can go a long way.

Check your tongue

I won't lie: I'm all about peace, love and happiness until you cross me. Then, I brandish words like weapons. Chris and I have thrown some awful verbal barbs at each other in the last ten years. We're taught when growing up to apologize for our wrongs, as if two simple words "I'm sorry" can erase hurt. And while saying you're sorry is certainly a start, it doesn't undo the hurt caused by verbal sparring. If I could have a do over, I would zip it and not ever say crap I had to apologize for.

               Compassion is the guide star

This goes beyond being polite. When we need something (time, attention, help with a project, etc), it can be difficult to step outside of ourselves and remember that someone else may have had a crappy, long day at work, been chewed out by their boss, be tired or dealt with some other mishap or disappointment throughout the day. If I could have a do over, I would try to be more compassionate of my partner's needs and limitations, and realize when he had a bad day.

Take time to connect

It's easy to lose sight of this one. We get busy. We need time to unwind after a long day. We seal ourselves off from the world, and sometimes even our partners. Time slips away, and suddenly it's been years since we have done the things we used to do to connect. Shortly after the honeymoon, Chris and I stopped playing music together. We would make plans to spend time with friends, but never made spending time alone together a priority. Taking time to connect is vital. Otherwise, you're left with a disconnect that eventually cannot be repaired.

Humility

Have respect. Admit when you're wrong. Simple. We're human. We can get boastful or moody or otherwise act like jackasses. Having the humility to step outside of yourself and recognize when you are being a jackass takes skill. If I could have a do over, I'd recognize when I was being a jackass more readily and apologize sincerely.

Shut your mouth and open your ears (and heart)

In an argument, this is especially difficult. We get caught up in thinking of our point, what we're going to say next, that we don't shut up and listen to what our partner is saying. Even when we shut our mouths, our minds might still be preoccupied with our own concerns. Listening to another person's point of view/thoughts/feelings can go a long way. Telling that person you heard them can go even farther. If I could have a do over, I'd shut up. I'd invest in some Q-tips ®. And I would reflect back to my partner what I heard him saying, to let him know I was listening.

I am sure I will come up with more thoughts over the next few weeks. But if you are one of the people who has wondered why I am quiet lately, this is why. Healing, for me, takes patience, solitude, thoughtfulness and reflection. It's been a long process, but I think I'm finally rounding a corner. To those of you who have written with concerns, thank you. It means more than you know.

Namaste

Green

There is a long-held belief that our thoughts determine our lives. Shakespeare put this idea into literature long before The Secret, despite popular belief; in the 15th Century Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet: "there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so," (Act 2, Scene II).

In other words, if you think good things will happen, good things will happen. Conversely, if you think you are "doomed" or will have bad luck, you will.

For the last few months I have documented my unemployment journey, all the while, keeping in mind this quote. The Universe had to see my willingness, I reasoned, and willingness was everything, right?

Recently, like the protagonist Hamlet in the classic tragedy, I have found myself trapped in a prison of negative thinking. A friend wrote me an email the other day to ask why I've been so quiet. I have hesitated to write anything because I haven't felt like I've had much to offer. This has been such a profound period of grief and loss.

In an effort to quell my sad heart, I recently headed outside at midnight with a tripod and a camera and tiptoed quietly across the front pasture to the fields and tree line on this seven acres. My intent was to shoot fireflies. Stripes, my beautiful, green-eyed farm cat, had something else in mind.

It had stormed earlier in the afternoon. The grass was wet on my flip-flopped feet as I walked. Stripes led the way through the darkness. He reminded me of the lemurs I used to care for when I was a zookeeper: balancing carefully as he walked, his striped tail straight up and slightly rotund belly swaying underneath.  I set up my equipment and prepared for some long exposure shots.

Fireflies

I had been restless earlier in the evening. I sought balance in solitude and darkness.

As I pulled the trigger for a long, thirty-second exposure, Stripes weaved himself in and out of the legs of the tripod and my legs, rubbing each as he met it with his soft body and purring loudly.

I scooped him up into my arms, cradling him like a baby on his back.  

"Stop bumping my camera," I scolded him lovingly for bumping my tripod when my shutter was open. I wanted to capture the glowing orbs of fireflies, not have them blurred from accidental movement of the camera. 

He purred louder.

I am not a cat person typically. But Stripes picked my family. He was abandoned in a second-story duplex apartment next door to my old house when I lived in town. His previous family had left him without food or water and covered with fleas when they moved. The landlord emerged one day with Stripes in a pet carrier, plopping it down indifferently on my front lawn.

"Can you take this?" she asked, referring to the cat.

I said no, but she found this answer unacceptable. Turning on her heel, she said while walking away, "If you don't want him, take him to the pound." My daughter, Elise, who was about four at the time, greeted the cat with enthusiasm.

She named him Striped Fleas initially because he was so completely covered, we could hardly tell the stripes from the fleas. We bathed him and treated him. When the fleas fell away, the name Stripes stuck.

Elise and Stripes, May 25, 2012

A year later, we moved to the farm. Stripes flourished out here on these seven acres, with lots of new places, tall weeds and woods to explore. He made himself a little "door" in the screen of my bedroom window where my desk sits. Sometimes at night, when I'd be busily typing away, he'd emerge suddenly, his green eyes wide and pupils dilated. He'd sound a muffled meow through the dead mouse or other "present" he'd have in his mouth - a gift of loyalty to me.

Perhaps that's why Stripes endeared himself to me. He was loyal as a dog.

On this night, he, once again, demonstrated his loyalty to me, ignorant to the fact that it might ruin my photos. What use does a cat have for photos? He was blissfully unaware.

Or maybe I was the one who was blissfully unaware; perhaps Stripes knew far more than I.

I collected my equipment and went back into the house after about an hour. Stripes stayed outside, to hunt mice, I figured. 

The next morning, I found Stripes dead in the road.

I walked down the road to collect his body so Elise would not see.  I wanted so badly to come upon the hunched-up body lying in the road and discover it was not him. I hoped it was a neighbor's cat, or even a raccoon. He was still slightly warm and soft. It hadn't happened long before.

As I picked him up, great sobs pumped out of my chest. I cried unabashedly, walking down the middle of this country road at 7:30 a.m., not caring who saw my grief.

At first, I thought how awful and unfair. Such a loyal and loving life cut short by a vehicle speeding to work (I reasoned hypothetically) in the pre-dawn light of a Monday morning. I struggled to make sense of it. I longed to reverse time - to go back to our firefly photo session from the night before and, instead of leaving him outside to hunt, I would take him inside with me to sleep on my bed. He always slept on my bed. Why not that night? Why couldn't I take it back? Make it better? Damn!

But then, slowly, I remembered Shakespeare.

I like to think, now, that Stripes knew (somehow) that would be his last night on earth. I like to think he wanted to celebrate it in joy, playfully disturbing my photo session with his loving slalom in and out of the tripod legs.

Thank you, Stripes, for sharing your last wonderful night on earth with me in such a special way, and for picking us to share your life with. You will be greatly missed.