*Summer Lovin' - Lovin' Summer

When I think about the "pains of love" I always flash on summertime. Maybe it was the heat (which never got too severe in Seattle anyway), or just the extra time of vacation, affording us the ability to focus even more on our lovelorn lives, but everything just seemed that much more torrid in this steamier season.

Sneaking out of the house summer nights was more comfortable too, you just had to be careful to be back before the sun rose painfully, at 5am in June. I remember running up hills carrying my shoes, and praying to the god I wasn't sure I believed in, that my early rising father wouldn't be up yet drinking his coffee.

It didn't happen that way every time, if I was that tardy it was usually because I had drowsed off at the boyfriend's apartment, victim to the body's natural need to sleep. I don't know now how I did it - functioned on so little sleep, for so long, and I speculate that some of my insomnia and "sleep issues" now might come from the continual disruption of any kind of normal night rhythm.

But I loved those summer nights in Seattle, the sun setting over the Puget Sound and Olympic mountains as I walked away from the boredom of my family's house towards the boyfriend or the party or anything else more interesting. I still love summer but it feels very different in Milwaukee; there's the more dramatic heat, and the humidity, but also no mountains. It's something to get used to - when I first moved here I kept having a specific sort of wish or almost-hallucination: looking to the setting sun wanting the clouds to be mountains, but they never were.

Nevertheless, today was a great summer day in Milwaukee, even without the mountains. We went to the local Greek Festival, after annoying chore of having to quickly tidy up for THREE showings of the house we are so desperately trying to sell. Pray god this last effort will be worth it!

Got there around 2 o'clock, surveyed the food (the biggest reason to go, can't believe how much I love Greek food, must have been Greek in a former life is all I can think), called my closest friend in Milwaukee who's just getting back from a trip to Greece (in case she was back already and could join us), thought of the novel I'm so recently enthralled by, authored by a Greek no less.** Small coincidences, sure, but they intrigued me nonetheless.

So we got beers and traversed the small grounds (small by the standards of the WI State Fair, which comes in August), walked around the screaming kids and rides, remembering what a big deal it was to go to the WA State Fair in Puyallup, where I first rode the "Zipper" and loved it, how it turned you upside-down and all around, until you thought you'd be sick or faint with pleasure. I felt like a little kid myself, just being in the fair atmosphere again, and was pleased to see the Zipper still existed, all rusty buckets and chains, they hadn't even felt the need to rename it.

The warmth beat down on us, we got water and made sure my husband had enough sunscreen on, lest we tempt the fate of heatstroke like the poor little kids in their Hellenic dress, lined up for the traditional dancing, They wore red velvet tops with gold brocade, and matching hats with tassels, some of them with white skirts, some with skirts "the precise cerulean blue of the old country's air" (The Virgin Suicides, pg.166), all with funny, clunky shoes they threatened to trip over. And they were terrible - but we applauded them, with love and abandon, anyway.

Later, after lamb dinner and chatting with some of the old Greek ladies sitting on their geriatric walkers in front of us, we idly watched the little boy on the empty dance floor, who couldn't decide what was more fun - running in circles to the Greek music or drinking his very large orange soda. I leaned into David, loving that we'd come to the festival so sort-of spontaneously, loving that it was free to get in (now that we have no/little income), loving the sexy food that still greased my lips, loving the waning sun on my face and the anticipation of a Milwaukee summer night yet to come.

*Anyone who got the allusion to "Grease" - yes, this was intentional, and a deliberate pun (get it, Greece - Grease?)
[Danny]
Summer lovin' had me a blast
[Sandy]
Summer lovin' happened so fast
[Danny]
I met a girl crazy for me
[Sandy]
Met a boy cute as can be
[Both]
Summer days driftin' away, to uh-oh those summer nights

And was there ever a movie to more fuel the fires of adolescent romantic fantasies than that movie? Hard to tell who the seven year old me was more in love with, John Travolta or Olivia Newton-John or even the whole idea of the 50's itself. To be a girl, in high school and in love, wearing a poodle skirt, singing on the bleachers in the sun, going to the drive-in movies and dances, just - wow.

**The Virgin Suicides, by Jeffrey Eugenides

Pit-Bull Of Love

She turned her head and looked at him, smiled, and took another sip of wine. It was his birthday and twenty-two seemed like an old age to her because she was only twenty, soon to be twenty-one. She loved him and she loved his country and she loved his friends. The warm glow of too-much alcohol and living so far from home and in her fantasies made her smile and feel a little bit light-headed.

It was her Junior year of college, her semester of study abroad and she was truly experiencing life in England, she thought, as she held his hand under the table and chatted with the bloke across the way. She was writing magical papers about Virginia Woolf and E.M. Forster, that fused with her poetry and her burgeoning love affair and she hadn't truly been in love in so long. Everything was exciting and fun.

"Oh bollocks! You did not go punting on the Cam, not in March! There's still ice forming on the banks!"

"I did! Just for the experience. It was cold but it was tolerable, and besides what else do you do for fun around here at this time of year?"

They always made fun of her American accent but to her own perception she was becoming more and more English; taking on the accent just a bit, the intonation and colloquial expressions, the gestures and mannerisms. She was smoking more than she usually did, just from hanging around them, the alterna-boys of Jesus College, Cambridge.

"Can I have one of your cigarettes?" She leaned over and spoke in the birthday boy's ear. His party was raging all around them, with people yelling across tables (thanks heavens they had a private room), and stumbling over chairs as people will do, but she narrowed the chaos down to just the two of them.

"Of course. And how are you getting on? Are you having a passable time Michele?"

She just smiled and nodded. She loved him. She knew she could make him love her. If only she had enough time left.

And now, about those "dangerous boys" I mentioned...

Come on home girl/Momma cried on the phone
Too soon to lose my baby/and my girl should be at home
But try to understand/try to understand/try try try to understand
He's a Magic Man, Momma
~"Magic Man" by Heart*

It started young for us - as teenagers still wearing braces that cut up the insides of our mouths when we drunkenly traded kisses with boys or talked too much, after entering other states of altered consciousness. With every book or poem we read, every phone conversation, or note passed between desks, we were always wanting to be "in love." We wanted this dark shining mystery, something way beyond any hallmark-card affection and above the banality of our parents’ marriages. Something real, something raw and ravishing - undiluted.

We dreamed about the "love" we wanted and wondered about the sex we knew would come with it. But it was OK to have sex so young if you were really in love right? Talk, talk, talking, over coffee and cigarettes at the cafés that hated us because we left the tables messy, and had no money to tip the waitresses. We wanted our lovers to know us like we felt we knew each other, our lives burning up so hot & quick inside us like newspaper.

We found out quickly what it was to be hurt. When the boy you wanted and talked to, seemingly for hours of true understanding, and you let him do more than you maybe thought prudent - then, when he turned out to be an asshole, he was only having fun and he “didn’t want any committment” that’s when we lost that most precious thing, the dream of a real "relationship."

But, like the insane, we repeated the same actions over and over, just hoping for a different outcome. We carried on, we got a little bit older but not necessarily wiser. We were - it seems clear now - desperate; to be loved, to have fun or excitement or experience. And also we were frustrated, because it felt like we were forever waiting, for the end of the school day, for the weekend, for the party, for our real lives to happen.

The “boys” we got involved with were often older than us, sometimes old enough to be called “men”. Even if we weren’t in love with them, we found their age impressive, in many ways, and also convenient - they could buy beer, and our days of “bootlegging” (getting homeless men to buy for us) were over.

Looking back, it seems obvious that we made choices and there were, of course, consequences, but at the time it seemed like things just happpened to us and we reacted. What did we know of “statutory rape” or even “child molestation” and what about, oh yes - where the hell were our parents? I think now that some of them didn't know what we were up to because they didn't want to know. Coming home smelling of booze and cigarettes, sneaking out of my basement room to wander the streets of Seattle at all hours of the night, being hungover and exhausted the next morning, wearing turtlenecks for soccer games (on days not cold enough to warrant it), to cover up our hickeys and they didn't have some idea?

And for me personally, if I kept playing soccer and got good grades, and wasn't too late too often for my curfew, I was mostly left alone. But more than anything, we didn't care about our parents, I guess, and we didn't think about the fact that these so-called lovers were older and illegal, or that anything we were doing might be wrong or dangerous - we only knew what we wanted to do and we did it.

So, when I too "fell in love" I almost couldn't believe it was finally happening! Interestingly, it felt like time sped up, became so much more valuable than it had ever been before, but only when I was with him. School became even more excruciatingly long stretches of languid boredom. When I fell in love for the first time I felt invincible, it was like I was on drugs and nothing else mattered, I was hooked.

And like an addict, I couldn’t give him up, even when the relationship quickly became destructive and when my good grades, my future prospect of going away to a “good” college and my parents’ wishes pushed me in other directions. Even when he broke up with me because I was going to leave, eventually, for college, I hung on; I was a little pit-bull of love, I would not let go, all the way until the end. Embarrassingly, I called him up shortly before I left, and played him "Leaving on a Jet Plane" by Peter, Paul and Mary, just so he knew of my actual departure date (even though we were actually driving to my college, down in Southern California).

This Magic-Man I couldn't let go of was remarkable (handsome and funny, he drove a Vespa and dressed mod! he played drums in a band!), and I was noticeably addicted (as one friend said, at one point, and without a ton of compassion, "aren't you over him yet?!"), but I know now that it was less about him and more about me. I wish I had known that then. I also wish my entire group of friends could have had some other focus than this cult of love we created (influenced by myths of romantic love in the general culture, of course).

Because I have to admit, I still don't completely understand it. I guess I'm just glad that I survived, mostly intact, both the spell I thought he had cast on me, and our Wild Youth in general. In the spirit of my new mantra, I think I'm finally ready to let go of all of it. Years later than I should be doing it, maybe, but in my defense I quote Sheryl Crow (channeling Cat Stevens) - "the first cut is the deepest."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_First_Cut_Is_the_Deepest

*For a memorable scene involving the song "Magic Man" - as well as an overall compelling portrait of young girls/women - see Sofia Coppola's "The Virgin Suicides" (though, to my shame, I've not read the book yet).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Virgin_Suicides_(film)

Joyful Girl with a Joyful Guide

I do it for the joy it brings/cuz I'm a joyful girl/cuz the world owes me nothing/we owe each other the world/I do it cuz it's the least I can do/I do it cuz I learned it from you/I do it just because I want to/because I want to....~Ani Difranco

Day #2 of my joyful joblessness, I did a sort of strange thing: I had a 1 hour session with an "intuitive coach" named Linda Elmer. My wonderful friend Christie turned me onto her "meditation marathon" back in April & May - she encouraged people to meditate, at least 10-15 minutes a day, for 30 days straight and see what happened or didn't. And when I saw that she was offering her coaching services on a sliding scale, I thought what the heck?! At a minimum it would give me someone besides my husband to talk to about what a big deal it feels like to leave my job.

Linda's website (http://www.thejoyfulguide.com/) describes what she does:
"As an intuitive coach, I guide you to both understand and take action on the issues you’re currently facing. Confronted with our own problems, we can get confused and lost in the momentum of our thoughts. My intuitive abilities can perceive the root of the issue—and assist you in identifying the right actions to move through it."

The first step was filling out a form which was quite a few questions, definitely took some thought and time, but once I got over that hump, it was a simple matter of setting up a time for the 1 hour call. Non-West coasters, be sure to mention your time zone when doing this! We has a small misfire for our appointment, because I was speaking Central time, and she's on Pacific.

Now, despite what I have opened my mind up to in recent years, I still have a limit with how New Agey I can comfortably get and I've never called a psychic before or anything like that. So I had slight trepidation about how "hippy dippy" (my neologism, I think) the call might be, especially once I discerned from her area code that she's in the Bay Area (sorry Judy! :). But I was happy to find it was a lot like a counseling session, with a meditation bent.

The first thing Linda had me do was take a deep breath and bring my attention to where I was sitting (a distractingly creaky old desk chair, unwisely). And then we basically had a conversation based on the questions I had answered, and what Linda intuited about me and my situation. The first thing she said she was getting about me was that my main focus right now needs to be letting go of my past, which just rang through my body like a bell with its truth. To help do this, she advised me to take lots of deep breaths, exchanging the old stale air for new. Just this one gentle suggestion has been helping me daily ever since.

We talked a lot about my health concerns but I'm sure no one really wants to hear about the anti-Candida diet that I still haven't fully committed to, nor my reasons for wanting to do it (Candida symptoms being neither pretty nor pleasant reading). She told me to make time for the walking/jogging & yoga/meditation that keeps me on track, mentally and physically (for I'm still trying to lose 10 pounds, make and hold my Weight Watchers goal weight, finally). But also to be sure to let myself write regularly (the reason for this blog), even if it was just journal entries and not my memoirs quite yet.

And then at some point Linda asked me "what about your Dad"? Crying, I told her what it was like to have just quit my safe middle-class desk job when I grew up with a man who walked around the house saying things like "Life is Work!" and "you need to get a J-O-B" - and I speculated maybe quitting was a bit of a belated F--- You to him? Then she said the most amazingly insightful thing: that for men of that generation, most of them were/are secretly terrified and that's where some of that harsh authoritarianism comes from. Their parents, who lived through the Great Depression and suffered WW II, taught the terror to them, I'm sure. And our society doesn't allow men to experience or know or express their emotions, least of all Fear.

But there was more: Linda said that many men "don't know what to do with daughters," especially headstrong, willful daughters with their own ideas about how to live their lives (as was/am I), especially after a certain age, puberty, when begins the awkward breasts and the dangerous boys (but that's another post). This made sense to me, I've actually similar thoughts before, and my husband has even said thank god he had a boy, he didn't know how he'd be a father to a girl, that he'd probably end up in jail cuz he'd kill the first guy to touch or hurt her (I think he was kidding, but maybe only slightly).

So, I'm ostensibly writing about joy but I end up talking about my "obvious daddy-issues" (as Meredith on Gray's Anatomy sez), go figure. It makes sense, I once said to my husband that in our family "he was the reason for everything" which doesn't do my mom much justice, but there you are. But if the mantra is "let it go, let it go" then maybe I can even let go of the feeling I've had that I would never get over his sudden death.

For those who don't already know: it was a hiking accident on a boy-scout trip (that my younger brother was on too), he was only 54 years old, and it pretty much ripped my life apart - I'm sorry if that seems melodramatic or maudlin but it's true. There was my life before my dad died and my life after and there's a huge wall between those two lives. And it certainly didn't help to reduce my fearfulness.

Shortly after it happened I wrote, in a poem:
...they come offering hallmarked sympathy, the cliches
we all say in our helplessness, such pretty
flowered condolences, and the food to fill the
emptiness: we eat grief like gourmet
chicken, drink wine the color of blossoms
and keep thinking of the one step
he took in error, in error
we keep thinking of the beauty of the world
and the terror

There are no road-maps to help navigate grief and it doesn't end at any tidy time or place, sometimes it takes years to process. I guess I am still processing it. But at least I now feel like I can start letting go. Because - it may sound a little cheesy, but - I honestly believe it's in the letting go that you let joy in.

For exploring the idea of having your own joyful guide, see the following web site:
http://www.thejoyfulguide.com/

Meditation Can Save Your Life

This post will be about meditation, eventually, but first I need to address the F-word again, so back to Fear we go.

There were only three people to whom I shyly sent my first post, and one of them, my older brother responded: "I think it's an interesting post...you say you have been afraid most of your life but don't even offer one possible reason or ponder the cause." And he went on to say "...it puzzles me because you are one of the smartest people I know. You obviously can be successful in the working world, and you can have a successful marriage/relationship. I guess I just wonder why, with all your accomplishments (you have an MA! You won a gazillion soccer championships! :-), you feel insecure. Is it all about Dad? God, I hope not."

Nothing like a sibling to put you in your place AND boost you up at the same time!

I suppose it is "all about Dad" in that he was a highly critical parent, who never seemed satisfied. Growing up, he'd say things like "that's great you won your soccer game and made two goals, but I noticed you're getting an A- in Social Studies..." He could be very loving, in his own way, and he had a heart of gold but he was an undeniably harsh man, who in some ways just didn't seem to know how to deal with people, least of all his family.

It reminds me of one of my favorite songs by Everything But the Girl:
'Cause you never learned to speak the language of life
And here you are a grown man
Who can't talk to his wife
And the children you don't understand.
(for full lyrics, see http://www.mtv.com/lyrics/everything_but_the_girl/the_language_of_life/4243085/lyrics.jhtml)

So nothing was ever was good enough for him (or that was often the message), which led to discounting any accomplishments instead of enjoying them, and constantly worrying that I might fail at the next thing, instead of relying on a solid track record of "success" to reassure myself that I would do fine, maybe even great. Especially when "the next thing" was a really BIG thing, like when I moved from Seattle to Milwaukee for Graduate School. I was by no means the star student, I was told I had to work on my writing (a most humbling experience), and I got a couple Bs (unheard of in Grad School, practically). And maybe becoming a Professor was just the wrong path for me and that's why it all felt so hard, but my god did I have to be so petrified that whole first year?! (And the second year wasn't much better.)

When I talk about needless suffering, and Fear being "a waste of energy" this is what I mean. And I know that despite any level of "emotional intelligence" (check out Daniel Goleman's book of the same name), any of us achieve, and whether or not we'd admit to it, we all do this to some degree. The only remedy I've found that works consistently, for me, is Meditation. More about that in a moment.

To be honest though, it's NOT "all about Dad" because I think my mother modeled anxiety for us kids pretty well (not to mention depression). But I don't want to dissolve completely into a therapy session here, and anyway at this point in my life it's really not about looking backwards with intent to blame, only to understand and move forward in my life. As I said in a heated email exchange with my older bro (that I unwittingly started): I know they did the best they could as parents, and anything they weren't capable of well, they weren't taught it by their parents, so how could they have known how to do better or differently?

And who knows, maybe I was born with a tendency towards fearfulness, that has lent itself to these situations all my life? (I do believe in something called "temperament" - it's not all socialization, like I used to doggedly insist in late-night college dorm-room conversations.)

In any case, these days I'm trying to feel the fear and do it anyway (often quoted as the definition of courage), and I also want to redefine "success" for myself. It's true I never got to resolve this stuff with my Dad because he died too young, but I feel pretty certain he'd encourage me to do this, to not remain trapped in one-dimensional thinking and hostage to others' ideas of what counts in a lifetime. And certainly not to remain in a job I disliked and felt so stifled by. His death remains a vivid lesson in the "life's too short," seize-the-day vein.

And also in that vein, wasn't I going to blog about Meditation? Yes, well my story is that I took an 8-week class from a fabulous teacher, Kathie Koenig, about two years ago and it has changed my life. Kathie bases her work on Jon Kabat-Zinn's very straight-forward and simple program of Mindfulness Meditation (see hyperlinks below). It has a Buddhist base but it's not required you delve into that angle, unless you are interested (I'm interested, more on that in another post).

I wasn't too sure about the whole thing at first, but I hung in there, and I knew I was getting somewhere when I had the thought "maybe things are going to be OK, actually?" Just having this tentative thought was such a relief, I can't even describe it! Even if it was only fleeting and the worry reared it's ugly head again later.

But the ability to notice and catch our thoughts before they spiral out of control, to bring attention back to the breath and realize that whatever the fear (or any emotion or strong thought-current really), it's usually not about anything happening this moment, is, simply put, a revolution. It can change everything. I'm not saying that Meditation is a magic-bullet for Anxiety and Depression; the whole point is that the mind is so persistent in its habits (as Jon K-Z sez "if you have a mind, it will wander"), that it takes a ton of practice, but it WORKS if you stick with it!! And that's why it's called a Meditation Practice, it's something you have to work at to get stronger (like exercising a muscle), and to get more benefit from it, over time.

In general, the benefit for me is to deeply understand - and remind myself, when necessary - that the mind is a monkey, bouncing off the walls and typically getting all worked up about things that are probably not such a big deal after all. I feel incredible compassion for that sad little animal, but it's not me, and it's not running my life any longer. I could never have left the safety of my job if it were.

Or do any of the other things I'm going to do with the time I have left on this planet, like live in another country, become at least proficient in Spanish, learn organic farming, do care-taking, start a small business, become a yoga/meditation teacher....and hopefully more. Just have a big adventure, "live wide"*, breathe deep, and write about it all!
*See a wonderful poem called "For Claudia, Against Narrowness" by Erica Jong

A Recent Little Lesson in Moderation

Funny thing, I've been having a Freudian slip-of-the-mind as I thought about writing this next post - envisioning the title, I kept substituting the word "mediocrity" for moderation. This is interesting, because I think I may have a subconscious fear that moderation does lead to mediocrity, or at least that they are somehow related.

I've not done moderation very well in most sectors of my life; despite knowing that it doesn't always serve me well, my life philosophy and practice has been more like that well-known Edna St. Vincent Millay poem:
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!
"First Fig" from A Few Figs from Thistles

So the reason that this issue raised itself to my consciousness recently is because of what I did last Friday, on my 37th birthday. Not because I ate too much incredible-tasting Greek food for dinner, and drank too much red wine (although I did both of these things), but because I way overdid it on my morning walk/jog.

I thought I was in decent shape because I have been doing intervals of fast walking and jogging on the treadmill (with incline) for some time. But this was outside on "Milwaukee's beautiful lakefront" - day #10 of being blissfully unemployed, fullfilling a long anticipated dream of being able to exercise in the late spring sunshine at any hour of the morning, not just at the crack of dawn and then be all rushed and stressed to get to work - and it just happened to be my birthday. It was perfect.

I breathed in the fresh breezes off the lake, tried to be as present and "in the moment" as possible, and just felt grateful to be alive to see another day, let alone another birthday. But I forgot to wear a watch or bring my cell phone, totally lost track of time, ended up running late (pun intended) for my lunch-date, and therefore jogged way longer and faster than I should have, just to get home with any time to spare.

The result being that I was sore as hell the next day, and hobbled around all weekend like an 85 year old with full body arthritis. A nice little lesson that I'm 37 now, not 27, the physique can't take the same beating it used to, nor recover as fast. And ultimately that a little moderation can go a long way towards saving you undue pain. There's nothing mediocre about sparing ourselves needless suffering!

I've Been Afraid Almost All My Life

"Years go by, will I still be waiting, for somebody else to understand?/Years go by, if I'm stripped of my beauty, and the orange clouds raining in my head/Years go by, will I choke on my tears till finally there is nothing left?/One more casualty, you know we're too easy, easy, easy"~Tori Amos


I've been afraid most of my Life - that's probably the most honest thing I could ever say to anybody. Despite what I've accomplished, everything I have gotten out of bed to do all these years, in spite of anything I'm proud of, in that solid way you feel where no one can take it away from you, that I could easily remember or tell anybody who would listen, or list on a resume and be able to stand by..I have been secretly terrified for much of my life.

And I'm so tired of it. It is such a waste of energy. And maybe this is my topic because I recently did something really scary: I quit my solid, well-paid job in IT that I had been at for nearly 11 years to um, sort of do nothing till our house sells and then move to Panama with my husband where we plan to do we're-not-exactly-sure-what, but no corporate jobs, that's the only rule.

My last day at work was Friday, May 29th and I have such a story to tell about the whole process of leaving and where we are headed and once we get there and everything inbetween...but in the meantime, there's this small thing called Fear, but then I guess I've always had that, no matter what I did so why not take a risk?! And I'm confronting a big fear just by starting this blog, because I want to write a book - or maybe several books - about it all, and my published friend sez "just start blogging" and find your audience, get your ideas out there, even before you do a book proposal (which was my amateur first thought), something along those lines. She's smart (and published), so I listened, and here's my first stab.

And speaking of books and conquering fears, I just finished a book that was all about letting go of worry and maximizing joy and abundance in your life - a little bit business-y and maybe too entrepreneurial-spirited for some, but full of enough solid life wisdom that I feel it could appeal to anyone. So check out Don't Worry, Make Money by Richard Carlson (and please, don't get turned off by the title alone).

Like a very wise woman once said "more Joy, less Shame" (Ani Difranco) - ok "Shame" that's not really addressed here, I will just have to save that for another posting!