plot developments ...

It was a long night. Just as evening descended, she found herself suddenly in the center of a hay fever storm. Pawing at burning eyes with one hand and applying endless stream of tissues to staunch nasal flooding, she lurched through the hours before bedtime. Then she snatched at the battered and probably out-dated box of grocery store brand allergy medicine, searching fogged memory to recall if it ever had been effective in the past.

"Your nose is really red," observed the astute Girl Child. Still, she soldiered on with bedtime reading interspersed with nose blowing and open-mouthed gulping of air. 

Lying her left side with hopes of freeing a clogged right nostril, she drifted to sleep only to wake up to a slow, steady trickle of cooled snot inching its way towards the pillow. The only thing worse than snot running down the face is rolling over and finding one's cheek resting in a freshly formed puddle.

There was a midnight panic to open the blister packaging surrounded ineffective pill which, when finally freed from its plastic cell, crumbled before she could get it into her mouth. Frantic but ever-hopeful, she swiped moistened finger across the bathroom counter and sucked the crumbs of medicine from her finger and stumbled back to bed and an anything-but-restful sleep.

Let's add hormones to this story ...

I seem to have a voice-over narration playing in my head, one which discusses me as a character in a developing novel. Overwhelmed by life, yet tenacious and determine, she is unable to tackle cleaning up her life so she documents it. 

Yes, I am contemplating a series: breakfast dishes/365.  

She then retreats to the shower where she huddles under the steamy spray waiting for a thaw to occur.

Today it was handfuls of Dr. Bronner's Peppermint soap repeatedly pour over my chest.  The label reads Magic Soap and magic seems to be the only option available to her right now.

The thing is, don't we all at some level perceive ourselves as characters in a story?  Donning roles, living out archetypes, feeling trapped by character descriptions? Am I playing the victim or heroine? Or underdog? Tragically flawed or comically inclined? Am I seeking meaning? Redemption? Or is this an Absurdist's play with all bets off? 

Yet if I am a character, then who is the author of this Donna Quixote story? It may be my saving grace - or my fatal flaw - but I do believe part of my business of this lifetime is to create meaning out of the raw materials handed to me. Which I suppose includes me as semi-raw material. Once in a workshop I was asked "Who are you?" To which I cheekily replied "Whoever I choose to be."  

And that is my work at the moment: deciding who I choose to be at this stage in my life. 

It's not easy.  A dear friend just wrote to me about how the tide seems to have turned in her life with clarity and flow appearing on her horizon.  That is not my current plot development.  I had a moment of dizzying darkness when that truth flashed upon me.  

I do not know where I am going, who I am becoming, or what I am called to do. Now is not a time for action or forward movement as much as I am wired and yearning for something to do.  Now is a time to sink deeper into the truth of living, which apparently means time for me to grapple with the truth that duality just doesn't cut it for me anymore. Life or death? Purpose or purposelessness? Meaning or Mystery?  I sense my place is to found in between or perhaps embracing it all. 

Every day I head outside to make my prayers, yet I admit I haven't a clue as to what I want to say. HA! I was about to write "suppose to"  ... and that is the issue.  Weeding out  "ought to"  and "suppose to" in order to find the driving truth within my life, my story.  So I pray to be able to discern the messages of my heart; to speak and act in harmony with love and flow with the spirit of the Universe, of Life. I pray to know my truth and to be brave enough to trust and follow it. I pray for ease within this darkness and I give thanks for the many bright lights that provide cheer and hope.  

Most of all, I pray to stay the course.  There is something I've been circling all my life and now is the time to go in deeper. I don't believe it is something to be understood but to be experienced, lived through. It feels like rite of passage, an initiation to be experienced and rather than me integrating it into myself, I am the one being woven into something larger, broader and more elemental. 

I don't know what to do because there is nothing to be done ...

sigh. and so the story continues to unfold ...

... and dishes continue to stack up as our dishwasher broke and the new one died after just two loads ...

distracted (paying attention)

Spring draws me outdoors and thankfully, out of my self.  More precisely, the activities of spring distract me from habitual pursuits of navel-gazing. 

 I am hopeful for my new garden boxes.  This past weekend we filled them with tomato and pepper plants, a Japanese eggplant and lots of herbs: cilantro, basil, sage, rosemary, chive and prairie onion.  I've also filled pots with mint, lemon balm, and thyme.  Each year I marvel at my vast collection of terracotta pots and slowly fill them with geraniums in as many colors as I can find.  It is my garden center scavenger hunt.

Meanwhile, Cowgirl and I stay busy watching the progress of the two robins' nests situation on the drainpipe and outdoor lights of our neighbor's house.  (We have a nest of grackles tucked way up high under one of our roof lines.) 

 These baby birds keep us on our toes.

In recent months, I've become aware of the necessity of carrying my new(ish) reading glasses with me ... seems to be a trend towards smaller print these days.  A rare excursion to buy new shorts (I tend towards mail order ... never have to leave my house!) found me in a fitting room wondering about the poor quality of modern lighting (candlelight being much more soothing and energy efficient, don't you think?) ... those lumpy masses in the mirror couldn't be my legs?

It seems my eyes prefer spring-time sights.  Even my painting seems to be youth-oriented:

My handsome boy as he appears to me.  I'm certain I appear equally vibrant and bright-eyed to him.  

It isn't the dog days of summer just yet, but with school out (!) it is all I can do to keep tap dancing through my days.  Squeezing in time to write, paint, sew, and garden ...

while keeping one Cowgirl busy will either prove to be my secret youth serum or what brings me to my knees. 

Either way, I will have good company. 

(Moose has started therapy for low thyroid function and has moments of perkiness!  There is still some issue with his bloodwork,  but x-rays did not reveal anything "too awful" according to our Vet who is mildly concerned.  Of course, I tend towards the anxious end of the spectrum, but am following my boy's lead and attempting to chillax.)

why i don't own a smartphone (and probably never will)

Hello, my name is Lisa and I am a Luddite.

I do not own a smartphone.  My cellphone is actually my husband's cast off and I reluctantly took it when my cellphone provider would no longer service my beloved flip phone. (Remember those?  It was like a communicator from Star Trek.) I'm not totally tech-phobic ... I love my laptop (which stays at home) and I made the switch from film camera to digital (but I cherish my Polaroid SX-70).

In all honesty, I don't have a smartphone because I am cheap.  I cannot stomach the notion of the monthly fees.  Even with the best bundled simply-everything-plus-really-complete package plan (did you see that episode of Portlandia?) I cannot justify the expense.  (And by-the-way, I don't pay for texting ... so please don't text me because that costs me.)

Okay, so perhaps I should say "Hello, my name is Lisa and I am a pathological cheap-skate."  

But in fairness, I choose to allocate my resources for things I deem valuable: travel, art supplies, books, film (for Luddite camera), good food, handmade products, online courses.  So we make different choices and that is the beauty of variety and choice. I honor your choice to put your hard earned money towards your smartphone (with that sexy new skin) but the pressure to conform has been intensifying and I feel the need to call out some unsavory developments that are worth considering.

If you dare ... read on ...

When I was traveling abroad I admit I was feeling vulnerable moving outside of the range of my pathetic Fischer-Price phone.  What if I needed to contact someone?  What if I ran into delays - how would I procure information?  Then it struck me that I would do what I did in the paleolithic age before cell-phones and smartphones (and ipads - of course I don't own one of those either!  Kindle - nope. Nook - pas de): I would ask for assistance.  I would approach a stranger and trust in their kindness and willingness to help me out.

One argument for a smartphone is the GPS system.  Well, I like reading maps.  I am excited to know Cowgirl is learning how to read a map in school (it gives me hope that maps may continue into the 21st century).  Yes, I get confused and lost and here again I fall back upon a trusty skill: asking for help.  Or better yet: I turn getting lost into an opportunity to explore, risking discovery of places unexpected, sharpening skills of observation and navigation.  I look around, I pay attention to where I am and where I am going.  

The Husband (who does own a smartphone and a Kindle, although he is considering reverting back to an "old-fashioned" - what Cowgirl calls antique items) tries to press upon me the Suggestion feature on his phone for restaurants and activities for when we are vacationing.  Maybe we are doing something wrong, but honestly - have you ever gotten a decent recommendation from your phone?  Is it too threatening to - gasp! - talk to a local shop keeper or resident and ask for their suggestions?  What has happened to our ability to engage in small talk and niceties?

Because what I see is everyone walking/driving around with phones bonded to the side of their heads.  Or worse - in a tractor-beam lock with head perpetually tilted down towards phone, fingers madly texting (will we eventually shed one vertebra to accommodate this lifestyle habit?) We are not engaging with each other, with our community, the environment or the world around us.  A friend gave a talk to a group of high school students and she asked them "Can you tell me the color of your best friend's eyes?"  She said the teens squirmed uncomfortably in their seats.

Many of my friends - appealing to my love of photography -  talk about the ease and convenience of their phones for capturing the fleeting and golden moments of their day and how wonderful it is for sharing those memories with friends and family.  I agree - I see more of my nieces and nephews lives due to the convenience of Facebook and emails with those instant photos downloaded and available for instant access. I will confess though, given the overwhelming glut of images, I tend to look and see less and less.  In the past, a picture may have been worth a more than a thousand words but in the absence of meaningful discourse, I would rather hear the stories rather than be inundated by the barrage of images. (Oh, I own my contribution to that sea of images!)  

In college we had a visiting artist from China come to speak to our art history class.  He told us how he once rode his bike a hundred miles to visit a friend who had a postcard image of a Monet painting.  One hundred miles to see a postcard!  Is more really better?  I cherish the one album of photos from my mother's childhood, pouring over the sharp black and white images for any clues, any details into her life.  Given all that is available to us, do we invest any quality time looking, talking, thinking?

The other issue I have with all the iphone (and digital in general) images is the false sense of certainty that these images will be seen and cherished by future generations.  Most people I know rarely print any pictures out and have the files stored on CDs or hard drives which may not be accessible in the future without proper archival care.  Can you tell me where your pictures from summer vacation 2009 reside?  (If nothing else ... I hope I convince a few of you to make photo books ... they are true treasures and a way to cull through those thousands of images to find the ones that tell the story you want to remember and share.)

All our modern devices seem to offer this allure of certainty and connectedness.  But what exactly are we connected to?  Whom are we reaching?  What is the depth and value of those connections?  All the options of texting, cellphones, email, facebook, twitter present an illusion of being in touch and plugged in, but my experience is clear communication is utterly absent.  If you doubt me, try organizing a child's birthday party.  Despite giving people multiple options to respond, I still end up - in vain! - trying to contact people for a answer.  Now, it may be a trend of obtuseness (which morphs into "rudeness") but I think the root of the problem lies in the false of sense of instantaneous connection. I know I can reach you in any number of ways in any given time, so I put it off.  And then I forget because I am swimming in an overload of information, messages, images, and stimulation.

It's not that these devices are inherently bad, but the behaviors they encourage are cause for alarm.  The Husband does not remember anything outside of what his Google calendar tells him in a pop-up reminder on his phone and in email; Cowgirl finds it impossibly boring to sit through a restaurant meal without dad's phone for entertainment.  We cave in; but I am remembering the stories I would hear as a child while listening to the adult conversation.  If I had had a smartphone, I would never have known about my demure aunt running around with a wild crowd, stealing a chicken and having her mother fry it up and feeding it to her friends. I would not know my father's stories from the Navy during World War II nor would I have known the fuller picture of life during the era in which I grew up if I hadn't been present for dinner time conversations with other families and friends.  I would have missed the clues to a larger life outside of the one contained in that small rectangular box. 

For all the access to a wider world, it feels like we have become increasingly self-obsessed.  The Husband points out that Facebook feels more like "Look at Me!" and less about dialogue, inquiry and the process of self-identification and understanding.  Remember when we identified our Tribe by the music we listened to? I knew my friends interests and tastes, I knew about their dreams, desires and secrets.  Do I really know much about any of my purported -yikes! -372 Facebook friends?  Honestly, I need to purge so I can focus upon the people that do matter.  I think that may be the deeper and honest truth: that we may have access to more, but it is impossible for our brains to process all that data, never mind engaging with it in any rich and meaningful way. We cannot commit because we are too busy contemplating the vast array of options, life streaming by faster and faster like the chocolates on the conveyor belt in the infamous Chocolate Factory episode from   I Love Lucy.  

I don't want to shove life into my mouth.  I want to be present for it. I want to talk to you about your life, your thoughts.  I want to make the time to hear the stories and to understand the narrative that is playing out in my life.  

And now ... step away from the laptop Lisa ...

Closing the lid and turning my gaze to the very full world waiting for me right here in my kitchen. 

Fumbling my way through ...

It is unbearably hot and strong, furnace-like winds have melted away any ambitions beyond reaching for a popsicle and making our way to the swimming pool after Cowgirl gets home from school.

My drying rack is handling heavy duty laundry as the Husband just returned from a 5 week adventure away from home to make an independent film.  Didn't you hear me bitchin' about all the yard work, double-shift parenting and dog walking duties?  I think I was too exhausted to complain. It's good to have him home ... although I may need a second drying rack ... laundry hanging being a wonderful opportunity to shift through some more brain lint ...

I just heard what sounded like banjo music coming from our bachelor neighbor's backyard.  For a brief moment I thought "He must be learning to play!"  I don't know why such an idea sent a frisson of excitement through me ... perhaps it is my own ukulele ambitions and the notion of neighborly support or a local folk band forming.

I play a mean "You Are My Sunshine" and "Puff the Magic Dragon" ...

Yes, well.

What struck me today was the fact that my work - MY WORK - as such appears to have settled into writing.  Which I find fascinating and amusing in an ironic sort of way because any writing assignment for college or grad school had me parked close by the toilet; the anxiety impacting my digestive system along with my nervous system (I had a little bout of Trichotillomania - the irresistible urge to pull one's hair out - while writing my master's thesis; a river stone in the palm of my hand became my self-soothing device.)  Although I found writing term papers draining, I was always exhilarated by the end result of gathering up the muddle that is my mind and formulating some sort of coherent perspective.  I was often surprised to realize "I know all that?"  

I think that is what the poet David Whyte means when he talks about the creative process as coming to the edge of our understanding about oneself and the world, and taking the courageous step into uncharted territory.   He talks about the call to commit to  the necessary, central conversation which involves voluntarily stepping into the space of our unknown, dropping the armor of identity and risking the discovery that who we are is not what we know - not a static being - but one that is constantly evolving, growing, shedding, dissolving and re-forming as we engage in the conversation of living.
This is what brings me back to writing - and at other times in my cycle, painting or photography or art journaling.  As taxing as this process is - wandering through my thoughts and words and fragments of ideas - each time I willingly take this journey, I find myself inhabiting new ground.  The process of shifting through ideas, feelings and beliefs and seeing where the internal meanderings leads me is exciting beyond description.  It is akin to a rollercoaster ride that lifts me up, drops me down and when I am least ready for it, spins me upside down.  Maybe that is my way - needing to be shaken up to allow what has been buried or hidden to rise to the surface.  

For as much as I seem to like using lots of words, writer is not how I identify myself. (Just as someone who eats a lot of cookies isn't a baker.)  Creative Explorer or Adventurer may be more accurate; perhaps I need to watch Bear Grylls for some vital tips and inspiration?

(I am riding waves of excitement as I shift through material for my upcoming offering The Gift of Practice.  I hate self promotion, but  each day I sit down to wrestle with the material and my experiences, I finish feeling more enthusiastic and committed to the practice of showing up for my life and my creative self. I have been busying recording interviews with some of my favorite people and am steeping myself in the richness of those conversations.  While my bank account may not be flush, I am feeling very full and rich with such inspiration fueling me onwards. If you feel curious or called to commit to yourself in a vital way, I hope you will consider joining the virtual gathering.  Further information and details can be found here.)