On recalling the past, or recoiling from it

"A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open a crammed drawer.
If you are searching for anything in particular, you don't find it,
but something falls out at the back that is often more interesting."

~ J.M. Barrie, dedication of his book Peter Pan

It has painfully been made aware to me lately that memories are often in the eye of the beholder.

What we believe to be a memory, unequivocally, often is much more ambiguous. People interpret things quite differently, so while you may have thought a certain way or with a certain twist, another might have seen or felt completely the opposite.

Take love, for instance. Often a many splendoured thing, but too many times one-sided. It hurts, yes, to discover the truth: love is often open to interpretation.

Time has a way of turning the happiest of memories into the bitterest of sorrows. Upon reflection, most situations we believe to be good ones turn sour. It's becoming harder to believe anymore.

One thing I do know, I am doing lots of drawer-cleaning lately. And, in case it's not obvious, lots of interesting feelings are emerging. Looking for the joy is proving a difficulty. And finding hope, impossible.

So, where to go from here? At this point, it seems like only up.

So, I just keep moving. What are the other options?

Is that all there is?

The lyrics to an old song popped into my head today . . .

I know what you must be saying to yourselves.
"If that's the way she feels about it,
then why doesn't she just end it all?"
Oh, no - not me. I'm not ready for the final disappointment,
'cause I know just as well as I'm standing here talking,
that when the final moment comes
and I'm breathing my last breath,
I know what I'll be saying to myself:
"Is that all there is?"
(Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, as performed by Peggy Lee)

I just keep wondering, over and over to myself, how is this 'middle-aged' thing supposed to go? I am so underwhelmed most of the time and overwhelmed the rest, I just can't seem to find a 'middle' ground.

The lyrics to the above song were inspired by an 1896 story, Disillusionment, by Thomas Mann. It's an early existentialist work, and I remember reading it as an undergrad. The scenarios in the song are much the same as those in the book, but with one major exception: the book's narrator FINALLY has a freeing sensation moment when he sees the sea with its endless horizon. Or seemingly endless.

I always think - "Huh. What would he have happened if he'd found out there IS an end to the sea?" Is that all there is?

It's been two weeks since I posted - due, in part, to the fact I was out of state for most of the time. In this past 14 days, I have had such a plethora of emotional events occur, as I stated to a friend, :"[My past] two weeks haven't been a roller coaster of emotions. It's been more like dodge 'em cars, the tilt-a-whirl, and a (insert F-word) dump truck all at the same time."

The joy of loving children, fun with old and new friends, tons of photo-ops (including showing a child how to see the world through a viewfinder), amazing scenery, and a touching goodbye to an old friend. Contrast that with the heartbreaking soul-crush of a person you trusted really letting you down, coming to the realization that it is true . . . the future you thought you had is over, the past you thought you knew was a lie, and here you are, stuck in middle-age, with absolutely nothing looking up - biting your tongue so hard it's permanently scarred.

Is that all there is? Shit. Isn't that enough?

The question is, where to go from here? I look ahead and see that I have a good 25 years left of work, a decent eye for the camera, and a fair ability to write. I love teaching, I love my animals, and I love my farm. But is that all there is? Should I want more? Or am I simply wanting too much?

It's a beautiful morning. Time to kick the shit off my boots and get over it.

Killing the Romantic

Inside everyone of us is a hopeless romantic, whether we want to admit it or not. Mine is usually well hidden, but at times, I show my girly-inner-crazy side.

Several years ago, I fell in love with a fragrance called "Killing the Romantic". It's a strong, earthy scent. All natural. Very aromatic. It's still one of my favorites and, at any given time, I typically have a bottle or two setting around.

There are times it might be appropriate to "kill" that inner romantic. It's that side of ourself which causes us the most pain, anguish, and turmoil. No one tossed and turned at night because of a pastrami sandwich! (Unless, of course, it was from heartburn.) Every one of us, from poet to paleontologist, has known the pain of heartache, the stab of longing, the agony of wishing for a dream that one knows will never come true.

Pushing all the 'romantic' within us deep inside would only serve to sever the bonds that strangle our heart, destroy our self-worth, and make us cry.

In other words, killing the romantic would be like killing our soul.

On Patience and Passivity

Patience is a virtue. Or so the saying goes. But where is the line drawn between being patient and just being passive? Does it make one any less virtuous to be impatient?

The waiting truly is the hardest part. Tom Petty was right about that. But, do we wait because we are virtuous, or do we become virtuous because we are forced to wait?

Sometimes, doing what is right for you compromises your usual 'style'. Listening to the inner voice whisper when all you want to do is scream - that's the challenge.

There are times when outsiders, strangers, can see our truths more clearly than we ever could. Maybe because they are not close to the source, it's easier to see inside our protective bubble than it is to see out. Often, it's more than we could hope for, more than we feel we deserve, and more than we could imagine.

Let's just hope the outsiders are right, once in a while. Walk to the edge and fly.

On Wanting What We Cannot Have

Imagine if every day were Lent. (Non-Catholics, bear with me. It's just an expression.)

What if, every day, all of your favorite snacks, foods, and whole meals were off limits? What if every walk through Meijer, Target, or the mall was a complete and total exercise in self-control? What if every commercial on the radio or television reminded you of this? Every person who walked by, carrying a lunchbag? Or McDonalds.

Imagine not being able to give in to the smell of Auntie Ann's. Or popcorn at the movies. Or even a candy or granola bar because your stomach is rumbling and you're stuck in traffic.

Welcome to my world. I am the allergy queen.

I am realizing, as this new phase/second half of my life plays itself out, what it truly means to be this allergic to the world. I remember snickering at the movie, Safe, thinking the main character was an idiot and neurotic for reacting to all of those toxins. But, looking back now, at least hers were toxins. Mine is what is meant to nourish. And the less I eat them now, the stronger my reaction.

What if every time you went to eat, it could potentially be your last?

It came to me this morning, as I was throwing a Benadryl down my quickly-constricting throat, that a "mild allergen" doesn't mean you are mildly allergic to it. Oh, no. It means you can still die from eating it . . . it just takes a tiny bit more. And, sometimes, that amount is tiny.

It turns out that "modified food starch" found in foods is often wheat, corn, tapioca, or a mixture of the three. I was told by a now-completely-unreliable-source that it was only tapioca. I found out how quickly that person was wrong this morning - while I was home alone. That scratch in the throat, or red-burning sensation, is horrifying.

Yet, oddly, I still crave my allergens. I would kill for a grilled cheese right now. Why?

So, why do we want what is bad for us? Is it just human nature?

Why DO we want what we cannot have?

When posed with this question, most people would think most people would say, "Greed". Huh.

So, it's greedy of me to want organic vanilla yogurt with fresh strawberries from my garden? Or whole grain toast? Or something with corn starch or corn syrup in it? (Check labels - some form of corn is in about 85% of all foods.) Or potato salad? Or turkey ham . . . the item I nearly died from this morning?

What the hell? HEALTHY foods. GREED? No.

I think it's exposure, then memory, and finally - longing. If I had not been exposed to shrimp, lobster, almonds, chicken, corn, wheat, oats, and especially eggs and dairy, sugar, and most starches, I would not have the memories of good times, of taste, of happiness, of the love I felt for others that I was with while consuming these things. I wouldn't miss them.

You can't miss what you have never known.

I still can't get my head around it. In so many ways, I feel so much better. But, in so many other ways, I still feel like that same old kid from childhood - the one who was teased for things beyond her control, the one who spent a lot of time on the sidelines, looking in at all the other kids having a great time. The only girl on the street. Knowing I will never get to have a plain, ol' birthday party again.

Life will never cease to amuse.

On Setting Examples

So, I don't have children, so maybe it's not for me to say. But, I wonder . . . what is becoming of the examples we are supposed to have become? I'm putting my foot down on this one - finally.

It has taken me two weeks, nearly, to decide how I wanted to broach this topic. Then, I just decided, "What the hell?"

I love Facebook. I have to say, it has reconnected me with many folks I have missed over the years. I have become friends with people whom I never was before. And, I have an "in" to the artsy/music community in the D. In case I ever decide to move back there, that is.

What disturbs me about Facebook, though, is the fact that I am finding out dark secrets about people which I shouldn't talk about, hence my hesitation about this subject.

You see, I realize it's the Internet, but doesn't everyone else realize this, too? If you plagiarize on a public forum, others will know. Those of us who are ardent creatives are a bit put-off by those who plagiarize for attention. Okay, maybe not a bit. More like A LOT.

When people who don't know each other and live 11 states apart have the same status post, and one of them credits the source, but the other does not, isn't this plagiarism? Does adding a little color to a classic photograph make it "yours"? Or is it the other artist's, with a little embellishment?

What kind of example are we setting for our children if this is how we represent our selves?

I guess, being in the profession I am, another MAJOR, irksome situation is the use of grammar. Sorry, but the word is "YOU" - a word, not a letter. And, what about "ARE" - also a word. Those with no children at home, I do not hold accountable. Your days of setting examples are pretty much over and your influence set in stone. But the ones with middle, elementary, or high school students under your wing? Oh, no. Let's not kill the language, please. Johnny can't read because it's not spelled phonetically, or in text talk, right?

Above and beyond all of this, it's also the idea of stealing ideas. Do people realize that stealing what is referred to as "intellectual property" is actually a copyright violation? Obviously not. I see my ideas, complete with tildes, all over my HOME page on Facebook now. It was bad enough a few years back when a foreign website was stealing health tips from my previous blog.

I am not really bitching, I guess. Again, "I say who am I to blow against the wind?" (Paul Simon, "I Know What I Know"); I don't have youngsters to whom I can bestow my wisdom. But, does that stop me from wanting to be the best role model I can?

No.

I guess it's sad that others don't see it that way, too.

View from Within, View from Without

This is my current window view, sitting in the study.

We finally have the waterproofers here to do the basement. Over 150 years of neglect have taken their toll. The basement leaks like a sieve - at least half of it. The previous owners' solution was to carve grooves in the cement leading to the sump pump. Great. The house was purchased from an estate, and we were told how much the parents 'loved their house'.

You can love something, but that doesn't mean you take proper care of it. All the love in the world can't make up for years of neglect.

Sixty-year-old wallpaper is also being torn from walls as we speak. The housepainter is finding that, beneath the surface, the walls were never tended.

So, mold in the basement; crumbling plaster in the bedrooms. Cover it up and it will be fine?

Our current neighbors get frustrated with us because sometimes the outside of the house doesn't meet their standards. Like during the 10 day period we didn't mow the grass because the new blades we needed were out of stock at John Deere. But, did they know that we were inside, dilligently working? The grass was still there when the blades came in. Or, last year when we did a natural agricultural process called leaching, letting the weeds grow up to cut down and burn to eradicate some of the toxins from years of crop abuse, cleaning the ground of over 100 years of pesticide. We hoped to plant a natural pasture for our horses. The neighbors didn't understand and so complained. The township could do nothing because we are zoned agricultural and it is a verifiable process.

There is a point to all of this.

Because we don't understand what is happening on the surface doesn't mean that something good isn't in the works.

I am learning, the older I grow, that being discontent today can be futile. You never know what the morning brings. But, taking rash action almost always ends in heartache.

Sometimes, it is just best to wait things out.