DANCING ON A WHITE FIELD

Wow. It's April 11th. The snow is falling lightly and the damp air is still cold. Hard to believe it has been 6 weeks since I wrote in my blog. Last time, I wrote about the beginnings of the signs of spring. That was the end of February. Moving toward the middle of April...the maple syrup is all in and bottled. The pussy willows are out and the goldfinches are sporting yellow. Today, I took Grace for a nice walk on the golf course during the gentle snow. There is something so inviting about a golf course dusted with snow. I don't know if it is the white field calling me to make my tracks across the greens or if writing is calling me to wake up and move across the field page of white...and express myself. I am slow to awaken. I come out of dreamland like a bear comes out of hibernation. Stephen went skiing yesterday for the last time...and upon returning home was all juiced up from seeing a large black bear lumbering across Right Stuff...one of our favorite trails. In my imagination, the trail is named Write Stuff. As he told his tale, the lumbering bear was awake and moving about Write Stuff. Some kind of sap moving in my veins started a delicious tickle in my heart. The frozen veins are melting. The bears I've been painting in my art class are speaking to me and showing up live on the ski trails and I am set to thinking as I make my way across the wide white field of the local golf course.

I had an epiphany as I walked. It came from chewing on thoughts like dogs chew on bone. I realized that all my life I have written notebooks full of the thoughts that drive me round and round. I have a closet filled with journals that go back to my early 20's. I took the time to read some of the old notes and realized that the same thoughts seem to arise at the same time of the year and with each passing year, I become more the master than the slave. That seems to be the wisdom aging offers as it's supreme gift. For the first time, it dawned on me that my life is NOT my thoughts. It seems elementary to realize this small truth...but in my case, the thought has been HUGE! WOW! I have a life that is separate from my thinkings. I can think all I want...but recording my thoughts is not the key to living my life. My life is not my thoughts. I can't tell you how freeing this one thought really is. It is not the thoughts themselves that are important to write...but the act of writing, of moving my pen across the page...the movement itself is my dance with the divine. And sometimes the music comes not from words. I reached a moment where I realized that words can be exhausting. I especially feel that when I go visit my Mom who is in a nursing home...she has a terrible time trying to communicate as she has a severe problem with word retrieval. Usually it is the last word of every sentence that she reaches into the mist trying to grab...a thread of thought that frequently escapes her. I become weary waiting for her to tell me what she is talking about and she becomes exhausted trying to tell me. Our visits have become hand holding moments of quiet reflection. After all...it is the being together that is important...not what we have to say to each other. The phrase "talk is cheap comes to mind. So...the past 6 weeks I have felt a quiet settle over my heart like a dusting of snow. Words weary. Writing doesn't excite me. Listening to the silence...that is where the new thoughts begin.

So...as spring winds up for it's first pitch, I am celebrating my new awareness. I am drawn to my water color paints and the quiet application of color to the white field. Ssshhhh. Listen. Hear how the permanent rose mingles with vermilion and bleeds into cadmium yellow.  I don't have to control it all either. The water has its own magic...the color vibrates it's truth and words don't matter so much. The best music is the music that moves us and makes us want to dance. After a long winter of beckoning white empty spaces and reruns of tired old thought-forms, playing with color stimulates something new and green deep inside my heart. I find a deep peace spreads open within me as I dabble away at being an idle rainbow in a frantic world of words. The music a slow...space making...and for this tired old body, it ignites a joy that longs to dance.

Life is a dance. My purpose is to dance with life...to leave space for the universe to lead and be willing to follow with a faith that there is a greater intelligence than my repetitive brain that thinks it knows everything. Learning to detach from my habitual thought forms awakens the intelligence of my heart and breathes fresh air into a humdrum routine. Loosening up. Breathing. Moving joy and allowing fear to have a voice but not a vote...here is the gem hidden in the my silence of 6 weeks. And a colorful one it is. Perhaps the sky is alight with dawn.

LOOKING UP

    Signs of spring are happening everywhere. It is a special time. Up here in the western mountains of Maine, winters can be absolutely freezing and also extremely snowy. The landscape is a vast track of white space spread before me as I gaze out the window. Winter has been pretty meh this year. Not much snow, very few days of below zero temps and a disappointing season for ice fishing. I know many local businesses have been impacted by the shortage of winter weather. I amazes me how deeply embedded in the changing seasons, is the day by day living of my life. I like it. I no longer spend 8 hours a day sitting at a desk or standing behind a counter. I no longer have to spend all my hours indoors. In fact, if I do stay indoors, I feel starved for the fresh air of the day. Spring brings a host of chores just like all the other seasons. Here where I live, we have 5. Spring, summer, fall, winter and mud season...and after living here for 15 years, I feel like the seasonal cycles are part of my blood. Today I felt the quickening.

     It is the end of February. This morning there were two huge turkeys feeding on the back hill where the blueberries grow. They came down to check out the hens I think. Stephen let the girls out to roam
for the first time since December when the snow was deep enough to impede the opening of their coop door. It was eye opening to see the difference in their size. Those wild turkeys made my chickens look tiny. A shiver of gladness moves through me when the local wildlife comes to call. One morning a few weeks ago, it was fun to see moose tracks making a path from the woods up behind us to the road where the tracks disappeared. Reestablishing a connection to the wild is one of the primary reasons we decided to move north. The landscape, the river, the forests and the trees are all a daily delight. Last week a huge gathering of Cedar waxwings descended on our flowering cherry tree. In moments, the berries were gone. The tree was wiped clean. And today, who should show up but 3 red winged blackbirds returning from their wintering territories. February 28th seems pretty early. But today was also the beginning of a four day stretch of warmth that motivated Stephen to set his taps. The sap is running and there is absolutely nothing like the ritual of the tapping of the sugar maples to lift winter from my heart. Don't get me wrong. I love winter. I love the snow and the pulling inward and the cozy talks by the fire. I love the reading and writing time that opens up when I am forced to spend much of the day inside. I paint with an art class all winter and it soothes my hunger for color. But something magical happens in my bones when the trees begin their waking up from winter routine.

   The light changes. The darkness in my spirit lifts little by little as the days lengthen. Sometimes I am prone to falling into a depression when the days of darkness descend. With all these signs of spring I can feel my heart getting lighter as well. I have been sad and angry about our country and the political circus going on, about the gun violence, the rampant racism and the suffering of so many people in flux at this time. Winter can lead me into too much screen time. I become edgy and feel pretty despondent about the state of humanity. Today, as the signs of spring lined up and marched into my heart, I noticed a change in me. Focusing on the birds, the wildlife, and the running sap that will call on us to sit outside for whole days at a time slowly burning away the water to render the sap into syrup...has gently turned my heart toward the natural beauty of my environment and the hope of returning life. It is quite clear to me today that looking around, looking outside, and breathing the air of today, that things seem to be looking up.

Looking up opens my heart to the colors of the sky...the budding of the trees and the returning birds.
Seems simple enough...but I'm amazed at how much joy is stirred by the turning of the season from winter to spring. I pray that today's parents are getting outside and into nature with their kids. Sanity seem to hide in the process of unplugging. If you are constantly looking at a screen...how can things look up?

THE DARK SIDE OF LOCALS CHALLENGE

    Wednesday is the day of the Local's Challenge Ski Race. This morning, schools are canceled and there is a mix of snow and freezing rain falling...the mountain is shrouded in fog and temps are beginning to rise creating a freezing google condition. We don't race during the February vacation week so we haven't had a race since two weeks ago. I discovered with the last race that my ski boots are really all packed out after 10 good years, but because they are so comfortable, like a pair of bedroom slippers, the messages from my brain were not getting through to my feet. I feared there was something wrong with my brain. I could feel, as I skied, the impulse to turn but my feet just couldn't seem to make it happen. I wondered if my age was beginning to have an effect on the workings of my brain. I felt a lot of my confidence drain away right after I had my skis tuned. They no longer felt like my skis and for some reason (probably due to my old boots). Then...miraculously, a new pair of ski boots just threw themselves at me. A friend and fellow racer had purchased the boots over the internet and she could not make them work for her. I tried them on. I skied on them a few times. I was elated because suddenly, I experienced the impact of good equipment on my ability to ski. My brain regained its connection to my feet and I began to ski with more confidence. Slowly, I seemed to be getting back to my usual self. I skied both Monday and Tuesday in preparation for today. Western Maine has missed out on most of the snow that has fallen on the area...so the conditions are what they call..Firm. To me, the conditions seemed to be treacherous. There were many places where there was a dusting on top of ice. Sunday River does a fabulous job with making the best conditions possible with man made snow and a careful approach to snow making. You could find snow around the patches of ice so it could all be negotiated in good light. I worked hard practicing my turns for a solid feel to approaching today's race.


     In a past race, I took a spill on the ice. When a kind man helped me up, I was moved to finish my race anyway...and as a reward, I managed to make 18 points for my team. I received high fives all around. My ego felt warm and cozy and valuable. When I was a child taking ski lessons at 9 or 10, a ski coach commented that she could see me being a ski racer because as a child I enjoyed the thrill of speed and the feeling of flight. I did not make that prediction come true until I was 57 years old. Sick of being paralyzed by fear, I signed on to a team and began to race. Every time I stood in the starting gates, I felt like I might have an accident of the toileting nature. Every week I practiced silencing my mind and doing it anyway. Unbeknownst to me, I had found a way to teach myself not to believe everything I think. I was in control. I could go as slow as I wanted to make it safely around all the gates. The race time was not important. What was important was the challenge to my fear...the acknowledgement that yes I was anxious, but no...I would not let that define my life. Not once have I been hurt during a race. This year I have been challenged by the lack of real snow. I seem to have trust issues with man-made anything. I invest heavily in Mother Nature and I respect her down into my bones. When I got up today , there is a fog bank sitting on top of the ski area. I had addressed all my equipment issues and gotten more comfortable on my skis and felt excited about using my new equipment to do my gates.


     As I sat drinking my morning coffee, gazing out the window, I felt anxiety building. I could go slow. I took care of my equipment. I was familiar with the varying conditions...but when I saw the fog, my courage caved. Now, instead of taking up the local's challenge, I am here at home, writing my blog. I have not shown up for my team. I have essentially wimped out. The language is self depreciating. Embedded in my choice of words is a judgement. Somehow, I must be competing with other people my age who did show up for the race today. I am comparing myself. I am assuming that other folks assessments about racing conditions today should mirror my own. Not one person knows what I cope with in my equipment issues or how I experience the conditions. Nobody knows I get severe vertigo in the fog. Nobody knows the courage I need to muster to participate in these races even on a good day. I am the only one who really knows the messages coming from within and it is up to me to take care of myself as best as I can. As a wise old elder, I am listening to myself. So...shall I beat myself up over failing my team? If I was 57, yes. But now I'm 63 and I have some years under my belt with this racing business. I have never missed a race. I have never not shown up for my team. The challenge is supposed to be fun...but when the option to call my own shots is removed from the equation, and I am supposed to be part of a team that would overrule my own best intuitions, and I am hyped with fear and anxiety...I need to stop. I am NOT a wimp.

    Today, I stand at the gates of my own writing. The fog disorients me. The pressure I put on myself is just to clarify myself. I've never been 63 before. I have never had a moment like this before. I drop into my own course despite the mean names I use as labels. I get soft with myself. My gentle heart feels strangely empathic to my inner turmoil. I go to turn and can't get an edge in the icy crust of my self judgement. Writing is a brave thing. Owning your limits is a brave and intelligent thing. Turning something that appears to be a failure into a success is an art. Not showing up for my team, I show up for myself. I doubt my team will judge me like I judge myself. Everyone misses races sometimes. I am only human. Impossible standards  create frustration...and this is supposed to be fun. For a girl who always aspired to be like the guys, today is a bittersweet medicine.  I will no longer endanger myself by trying so hard to be someone I am not. I will not label myself or belittle myself for choosing to stay off the course today. Today I will be my own team...high five myself for my bravery in self expression...savor my freedom to choose...and hopefully discover the humor in my human frailty. Really...the only race that I need to join is the human race. And if I am ever to discover the greatness inside of myself, the comparisons have to stop. There is nothing simple about being a human being but of one thing I am certain...it is kindness that really matters.

MIS-PERCEPTION RULES

    I've been chewing on the the bone of mis-perception this week. Spell check doesn't like my word but I do. It means a perception that misses the mark...an inaccurate perception. It's like a virus I've caught from the media as it dances it's circus around all the hoopla of embittered politicians vying for the attention of the public. As the politicians cheat and lie their way into the graces of the American public with the media recording their bickering and jockeying for position, serious environmental problems are emerging around our country. There are gas leaks, poisoned water systems, historically damaging storms, a new epidemic of mosquito borne viruses and who knows what else is hidden by the superficial arguments of a bunch of well heeled white men who know nothing about white priveledge or the conditions of life for those that were born into a colored race or poverty. It seems the media wants us all to be sucked into the drama turned frenzy of a TV star billionaire actually emerging as the top candidate of the republican party. It is extremely embarrassing to be American right now. What is taking top billing in our country today is the travesty of our government and the deceit that has plagued us for years as we've allowed ourselves to be brainwashed in our addiction to entertainment and advertising. Never has the twisted truth been more obvious...and never has civility, respect and focus been so invisible. We are a deeply polarized nation and be you republican or democrat, we all seem to be guilty of mis-perception.

   I watched the Super Bowl this year. Because I was a girl in an all girl family that attended all girl schools, I missed out on football. Just recently I have made the effort to learn what so many are so invested in. I watched the halftime production without really overthinking it. I enjoyed Beyonce's daring dance and statement about her race. It was a work of performance art. I was shocked the next morning to hear all the hoopla about how she offended people with her black leather and video referring to police mistreatment of people of color. Her performance was obviously great art based on the intensity of reaction especially by white politicians and religious righters. She was speaking in a voice for all those people that aren't heard by the media. Her statement was not violent. It was not politically correct. But her point about the racism systemic to our legal system and police procedure came out of her repeated encounter with situations that victimized black people. What fascinated me was how government and police professionals interpreted her commentary as disrespectful to them.
There was no effort to view her performance from her perspective. She is a black woman whose black people are being victimized by our racist police procedures and she is courageous enough to speak up at a venue where the whole world was watching. Does that make her a police hater? No. What she hates is the treatment to her people and she has a right to express herself.  Was she dissing the police? I didn't get that. I heard her dissing the treatment her people have received at the hands of law. After seeing the spin that was imposed on her song and dance, I was aware of a kind of waking up inside myself. Since when did a victim's reaction to their perpetrator victimize the perpetrator?
Where is the onus of responsibility for the crime? As a woman, I am very familiar with this phenomenon.

    There is a need for courage if one is going to express oneself. For women who express their opinion in the world of white privilege and white power, there are many chances to watch as their legitimate concerns become minimized by the outrage of the perpetrators. Because Beyonce was expressing pro-black power does not automatically mean she is against whites. That perception is really small and petty. The candidates do it every day...and they do it with disrespect and intent to damage. That has become part of white privilege. If you are rich and white and male, you can say anything you want at any ones' expense. A woman speaking anger is generally patronized for being over emotional. Her feelings are dismissed. Even more so for a black woman. Or a black man. If our president wants to put some controls around gun ownership, he is perceived as wanting to take all guns away. Such a childish and simplistic deduction. And how it fans the flames of divisive argument.
I love icicles. I love the way the light softly passes through the transparent ice. Does that imply that I am an enemy to fire? If I am drawn to a male partner does that imply I hate women? Of course not. Because one empowers black people, that does not mean that it is at the expense of whites. I fear people have really stopped thinking...and without thought, they become pulled into the emotional vortex of polarized issues.

   For a person who has stayed out of politics for 60 years, I guess my rant is over.  Rest assured fire...ice has it's day...and so do you. The truth is in here somewhere. Look past what the media is selling because underneath the political circus, there are some very scary issues that need to be addressed...and only one person seems to be focused on those.

BETWEEN DEBATES AND THE SUPER BOWL

      Weary of politics and uninspired by the super bowl, I went to the woods with my Gracie for a long meandering walk among the trees. Trees are sanity in an insane world. They stand quietly, some obviously close friends, are not ashamed to lean against one another. Though they appear to be doing nothing, they are working hard to provide me with fresh oxygen and grateful for my exhalations of carbon dioxide. We walk along crunching the snowy crust beneath our feet. The silence is intriguing.
It isn't silence at all, really. Many times when I go out walking, I encounter very few other souls. I am always shocked by the loudness of the human voices as they talk on cell phones even out in the sacred space of nature. I rarely even bring my phone with me...as my most passionate calls have nothing to do with people. But today, we meet no one...human that is. My heart is beating wildly. The tracks in the snow inform me who has passed this way and when. I cross paths with the prints of a great buck. Grace runs in circles, chasing the red squirrels and rolling in smells that only she can appreciate. She tracks the deer. They were passing through here just a few hours ago and they have left messages for us with their foot prints. The clouds begin to break as blue patches of sky  spread the darkness and make way for the warmth of sun. A raucous commotion gives Grace pause and I stop to watch where the noise is coming from. A mob of Blue Jays disperses making warrior cries as they fly. I breathe in deeply. I walk and then stop and listen. Walk some more. Sit on a stump. Watch Grace dig and pull out sticks buried in the snow. There is a long hush. I think about being retired...at least the part about unemployment. I look like I'm doing nothing.

     I question my purpose now that I have spent most of my life serving the public, helping the mentally ill and the handicapped, teaching, reading and writing and being productive. I have created a home and a family and raised two incredible sons who make me proud of my humanity. I have been a sister, wife, mother, lover, daughter, friend. My life has been rich with gifts and challenges and I feel grateful for the love that has met me along the way. I breathe. A fox has run past this stump I sit on and a snowshoe hare has left a trail before diving into a pile of downed branches covered with snow. I grow food for my family now. It is my small answer to the worlds' problems...the politics of food and water and homes and energy. I have learned that I am a fool to trust the manmade world around me. My government caters to the rich and powerful that find profit the highest priority  despite the cost in human life. Unsafe food ...drugs...empty promises. Law enforcement that is more criminal than many forced to sit in prison for petty crimes of youth. Corporations that privatize clean water and even want to charge money for polluted water. There is so much wrong with the world. At this point in my life, I have lost my patience with bullshit. Humanity seems to be blinded by deeply personal and emotional beliefs. The political arena is a complete farce with all the lies and promises delivered out of personal agenda. The most intelligent minds of our country..those who sit on the Supreme Court have even decided that corporations are individuals. The depth of deceit is horrifying. It is easy to become bogged down and despairing during these days of darkness and cold. I shiver. Clouds pass over and a wind rises and moves through the trees. A shadow falls across the trail. I have come to the woods to pray. I feel so small and ineffective...sometimes brittle and bitter with the years passage and the knowledge I have gleaned. My heart yearns to offer salve for the wounded and hope for the despairing. What can one person do? What can one small human offer during these dark days?

     The woods come alive with the sound of laughter...the beating rhythm of a drum. A Pileated woodpecker flits across the sky and down among the trees. Grace stops short when she hears that wild laughter...curious and cautious. We stop and listen again. Two woodpeckers begin a frolic among the trees. The big black bodies topped with bright red weave in and out of the trees. Their flight is unique and as they soar and dip and soar and dip, their underwings become visible...their large patches of white are revealed. I listen to the trees telling me...I am doing a job as I stand here looking like I'm doing nothing. I am converting what is negative and poison in my world into something useful and positive. I am breathing in and breathing out...giving the trees what they need to give me what I need.
And the music of a raucous laughter in sterio applauds the effort. I pray for humanity to wake up...to value life and love and each other over greed and power. I pray for me and for U.S. to recognize how interconnected we are to all other humans and nations. We no longer have time to indulge in egocentric nationalism and religous bickering. We are trees...the woods... the wilderness...the one people living on the one planet...and she is all we have. For now. Can we not love her and care for her as our home? Such simplicity...why is it so very difficult?
   
    

BIRD TALK

     January is sliding out for February...our designated month for heart.  As I sit here considering the beauty of the Rose Breasted grosbeak sitting in the spring blooms of my flowering cherry , I can't help but be aware of the black, white and red winged statement. I never laid eyes on one of these gorgeous birds until we moved up here to Maine in 2000. Since our arrival, they have become one of my most favorite winged wonders. There is something primal about the color scheme of red, black and white. I am reminded of the Indigenous Art of the Pacific Northwest. Many of the symbolic images created by the tribes of the northwest are done in this simple color scheme ...I have a drum made for me by a member of the Tlingit tribe. The pattern is painted in the three tone colors and represents a killer whale transforming into a wolf. I love my drum as a work of art but the deer skin head becomes very stretched out and hums a baseline when you play it. Its saggy.

    There is such power in a drum. It is a heart beat...a ship moving through stormy seas...a horse cantering across a prairie and a way to communicate with the soothing energy that lies deep inside beneath all the clamoring of the external world. It beats a quiet comfort to the despair I feel when confronted by the true nature of this country I call home. The black represents the dark matter...the shadow and all that is born out of the darkness. That is part of me. The white represents all that emerges from the pure light...the high pinnacle of thought and feeling and the pureness of the fresh fallen blanket of snow. That is part of me. The red speaks of new birth and the heart and the courage to express that heart. This too is part of me. Sometimes I forget that life is not black and white...but it is made of black and white. There is truth to be found in both sides of the spectrum as there is truth to be found in the polarity of races and religions and even political stances. Pitting one against the other is folly because where that leads is into rigid adherance to either one shade or the other, thereby destroying both. I have gleaned this from passing through the stages of my own life.
    There was a time when I feared the black...the shadow...the mystery and the unknown other. I once discovered my bias when a friend took me fishing years ago. At the time, I was learning my relationship with food. I believed that if I could kill and clean and cook an animal, I had the right to consume it for food. If I could not see myself killing the animal, I did not have permission to eat it. So, when I caught 4 flounder on our fishing expedition, I was determined to clean it and cook it myself. I went about the job and ate the fish before I realized I had cleaned and removed only the white meat. There is a dark meat to flounder as well...just like chicken. I was always a white meat chicken eating gal too. Something came home to roost when I realized I had made use of only half of the available meat. I felt supremely guilty. I've moved on from that but feel grateful for the lesson. Years later, I became aware of the same bias I have toward myself and my humanity. I often set myself up wanting only to identify with the white side of things. By doing so, I created a violence inside myself to what would try and emerge  from the depths of darkness and despair. If only one side was right and good and true, I was trying to kill the whole other side of myself. It was folly...a folly I see playing out every day in my country. Anyone taking a stance with only white defiles the beauty of the dark. Conversely...those that empathize only with the dark side of things deny the pure beginnings within the vast white field. Both sides diminish their possibilities by attaching themselves to one or the other.

     The great unifier of the opposites lies in the heart of the matter...that both sides give rise to noble and magnificent beginnings as well as to their opposite. Most of my life has been spent in a mistaken attempt to hide my heart so as not to get too hurt by living life. As a teen I smoked cigarettes to appear cool. I didn't want anyone to know my true heart. After many years of doing this to myself, I discovered I had become a stranger to my own heart. I set off on a quest...a move to a new environment...a challenge to redicover the heart I had hidden from myself. 16 years of school taught me to ignore the unique messages of my heart in favor of the way things should be done. I was supposed to be like everyone else if I was going to be successful in the world. Misinformed, yes. But that was the lesson. As I watch the unfolding drama of our national identity crisis being played out on the political arena, I am aware that the US of A is passing through the same purifying fires as I did on a personal scale. The hope that I find is what Ive learned from my own changing conciousness. If I can emerge from the war of black and white with understanding of the need for both sides, maybe it is possible for a leadership based on heart to emerge as well.

     But...if that is to happen, someone has to wear their heart on their sleeve. Someone has to own the good and evil in each side of the debate. Someone has to stand up for the heart of America. Personally, I experience a quiet trust in the Rose Breasted Grosbeak. His colors cover all the bases...and his clear melodious song has the power to uplift and make glad the heart. My new leader teaches me to wear my heart proudly and to share my feelings as I have never done before...without self doubt and without reservation. The answer I've been looking for is simple.

      Use all your colors. Find a good tree and sing your heart out till your breath is done.

WARMING UP TO UNEMPLOYMENT

    

I've been unemployed for 2 years now...though sometimes I prefer to call myself retired. I've also been 60 for 3 years ...that is I've been warming up to the reality of my present age. It is a challenge to suddenly have no external purpose, no structure to your days and great insecurities about whether or not your life at this time has a purpose. Time becomes a true flow. Being the habitual human that I am, I have seen how difficult it is to teach an old dog new tricks. Adapting to change is never easy. But I have noticed that over the past two years, I have become much better at allowing myself to live life without a plan. Wow. That is a novel idea...that a person can live without an agenda of to do's. It has been slow, but I find myself now warming up to the idea of not having to go to work for someone else. Suddenly I am my own boss. For the first time since I attended kindergarten...my schedule is for my own making. There is freedom and exhilaration in that thought. Like a bird freed from a cage, the joy of flight is intoxicating. Suddenly all things whimsical and put on the back burner for my whole life of nurturing others, are possible. Art projects, poems, writings, makings of all sorts be they cooking, cleaning or shaping behaviors have suddenly become possible. I am startled and astonished by the potential. My lifelong habit has been to steal time for my creative endeavors. Write when Sam naps, when I'm at lunch, on door watch, driving between appointments...wake up an hour earlier than I need to so I can drain my brain on paper. From the first days of school on, someone has been telling me what to do.

      I had a brief exchange of messages with a friend on Facebook last week. Something she said has stuck with me all week. She said she was fine but "very busy doing nothing". I had to chuckle because so often it seems that if I was an outsider looking in, I would see myself doing nothing as well. I mean, I'm not working or making money...no one is depending on me ...except maybe Gracie. I cook and clean and grow food and write and paint and love my family and walk my dog. Company comes and I am happy to take care of cooking projects so I can give my full attention to my house guests. As I look more carefully, I see that I am calling all these activities "nothing". I feel the lingering effects of past judgements I've made of my own mother. As a kid, I perceived my parents as polarized. To me...my Dad had a full creative life as a professional architect who met interesting people and experienced new places. He was a great story teller and delighted his kids with stories of his own boyhood. We hardly ever saw him because he was self employed and worked 6 days a week. His life in comparison to my mother's was so much richer and more fun in my child mind. My mother on the other hand, was always home bringing up 5 daughters; cleaning, cooking, taxi driving...all that makes up the life of a  mother at home. I perceived her life as boring and insignificant...small and somewhat self centered. She had some activities she loved, but mostly I thought of her life as a jail sentence. I feel very lucky to have become a mother myself and so learned to eat my judgments on her life. My son's growth and development has taught me the richness of a mother's life in the home. In hindsight, I've even become grateful for the choice I made repeatedly over the years, to be a mom at home for my kids. Isn't it funny how we learn to love what in the past seemed disgusting. With all kinds of attention issues, I have never been strong as a multi-tasker. Stephen and I decided from the get go that we wanted one of us to rear our kids and the other would focus on the job of providing.
   
     It was a sharing of gender specific jobs and as much as I resented the stay at home, wipe the noses, cook the meals of the home-based woman at times, I look back with gratitude and pleasure for what that choice has created. Now that my 2 boys are all grown up, I am repeatedly reminded that the choice I made early on is part of the reason they are such wonderful human beings now. And I am reminded of women's work in general; teaching, social work, nursing, behavior shaping...all are jobs that seem undervalued by our society. Women are under valued in the most basic ways made crystal clear by the fact that women only make 70 cents to a male's dollar. Why does this still hang me up?
Because I actually chose the life that I had judged severely. As soon as I became clear that I wanted nothing to do with marriage and children, I met Stephen, got married and had 2 children. I have lived my life in counter point with myself. But somehow I came to learn that the undervalued job can be the best job in the world. Everything took second place to my marriage and family. While I was living along that path, I felt resentment and anger. I felt trapped. I lost my temper and stole whatever time I could to express myself. Now the guys are grown and gone and it is just Stephen and I with Grace and the chickens. I can read if I want...or felt or paint or write or ski. I look back on my mothering years with only 1 regret...that the whole time I was bringing up my boys, I thought there was something else I should have been doing.  What I wished I did  was be there 100%.

     Now I have 100% of my own time! And like a bird freed from a cage, I can swoop and soar to my hearts content calling my own shots and working on my own agenda. It is awkward to have the time I used to steal. My creative endeavors pale in importance to the rearing of my sons and the sharing of my marriage. Before, everything was well planned and scheduled...busy, busy, busy. I tried to be productive with every moment. Now that I've shed that skin, I feel weightless. It has caused an anxiety in me. So long accustomed to being the caterpillar moving slowly along, it is scary and strange to take flight. I talk to myself all the time to argue with the inner voice that berates me for not having ambition  and life plans at this moment in time. I tell myself that I have worked my butt off for my whole life long...since I began babysitting in 7th grade. I have given to the world in the jobs I have chosen and now it is time to give to myself. So when I hear a woman say she is busy doing nothing, I have to giggle, because her "nothing" is made up of so many important things. And besides, when the universe asks you to dance, it is necessary to put everything down and let the universe take the lead. Suddenly being unemployed has become the greatest gift I can give myself because there are so many nothings I want to do.