Obsession

A couple months ago, I read the book titled Bruce (aka my best friend, Bruce Springsteen).  It’s kind of weird to read a book about your best friend, and not know the full story of his growth and success.  Like anyone else, his eccentricities affected those that were closest to him.  Some people were offended by him, while others became the offspring of his success.  In the end, though Bruce could be a jerk, judged against the standards I’ve encountered as a “nice girl”, it was his obsession to perfect his talent that made him a success.  This is my humble opinion, and Bruce might disagree.  He might say that he wasn’t trying to perfect his talent as much as he was trying to live with his eccentricities in a world that wasn’t quite fair.

If I were to read the headlines or listen to the news that permeates our U.S. as “top stories”, I’d hear about husbands killing their pregnant wives, mothers smothering their children, or millionaire athletes - - - supposed heroes - - - attempting to get away with murder.

As a woman who has her own quirkiness to contain, and who knows people who harbor a condition that many might diagnose as obsessive-compulsive disorder, and who has had Bruce as her best friend since she was around 8 years old, might know that these headlines hurt at the core sometimes.

Don’t we all think that our standards and norms are the right ones?  I know a few people who can lie without remorse, cheat with justification and simply mold what I might define as “wrong” into something they justify as “right”.  Who hasn’t been a victim of that? And who hasn’t judged the actions of that kind of person?

Sometimes I think that I might be the one that is clearly effed up.  I mean, why does it hurt so much sometimes when I come across people who vehemently disagree that there is a higher power at play somewhere?  Why does it hurt so much to know that men and women around the world choose to walk away from their spouses and their children, and never look back?

I guess it goes back to that “justification” argument.  I can freely acknowledge that when I am unable to see beyond myself, I insist that my moral compass points to the right way all the time.  Yet, when I acknowledge the actions of people around the world - - good and evil, alike - - I sometimes feel like I am off-kilter.

I have been told by my friends, family and bosses at work that I am “too” nice.  My therapist, shortly after the split-up of my marriage, labeled me the same way.  Too nice.

BECAUSE NICE MATTERS

That’s my obsession.  Because quite honestly, when I lose my cool (mostly at work and when dealing with tired children), I often go on a diatribe of why I’m right and they’re wrong, and it makes me feel lousy about myself.  I finish the diatribe and I am instantaneously filled with remorse.

I don’t like that feeling at all, at all, at all.

So I obsess about being nice, and by doing so, I end up aggravating the people who think I should have a stronger back-bone, and that I should at least stay angry for more than ten minutes.

And you know what else I do?  I get aggravated by people who aren’t like me.  I get annoyed at people who offer love in different ways - - who, instead of being obsessed about being nice, are obsessed with being honest, or hard-workers, or gift-givers.

I think I need a different obsession, honestly.

How about I become obsessed with exercise?  Or writing? Or keeping in touch with my friends and siblings? Or cleaning my house? Or spending every extra moment with my babies? Or focus solely on my needs and wants, without regard for anyone else? Or, like Bruce, seek perfection to the point of scrapping hours of work?

I don’t know what is right and what is effed up anymore.

Maybe my obsession should be trying to figure that out.  Or maybe I should just turn off the headlines, ignore the idiots and put on my headphones, search for the product of Bruce’s obsession for perfection on my iPod and listen to the live version of Racing in the Street for the thousandth time, and not worry about it anymore.

Yes, that would be nice.  So I shall do just that.

Enchanted

There was a time when I would sit in front of the laptop with a feeling of joy and exuberance.  Finally!  My escape was waiting.  The day would begin and end with writing.  I recall sitting and not thinking about what topic I would get to, and not worrying about it either because it would just come to me, like a snappy comeback that I didn’t even know was funny until everyone who heard it, laughed.

Today, I took the day off from work.  Drove to a quiet cottage in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere to find the snappy comeback, because I no longer feel joy and exuberance when I sit down to write.  I feel dread, and guilt, and fat and ugly and stupid.  I feel like a wannabe, a has-been-who-never-was, a failure and a cheat - - - not at all like the girl who often wrote without judgment, and with the sole purpose of maybe, just maybe, making someone laugh or cry, think or get angry. 

The cottage sits a half mile off the main road, at the end of a dirt road.  It sits nestled on a plateau in the lower part of the mountain.  The furniture on the front porch is made of untouched wood - - - thin and thick branches, and twisted limbs, measured and corded together to form the porch, the rails and railing, the chairs, the tables. The worn chair cushions are the only parts that God didn’t create on the first or second day.

Upon entering the premises, the air is saturated with the resonating sound of a waterfall that fills a pond filled with Koi fish, built into the side of a steep hill that is brandished with flowers.  There is no perfection in the structure of the hillside, which makes it perfect for the senses - - the dreams, the hopes, the wishes, the truth and the purity of what is real.  It touches those other senses too.

The stone chimney, built up the entire wall of the cottage stands over a fully living roof - - 3 ½ tons of living sod, growing wild flowers and various plants indigenous to the mountain.  The flies are leaving me alone; and I haven’t seen the bear that is known to make its appearance around these parts.

Jackson Browne begins one of his songs with these lines:  “What with all my expectations long abandoned and a future I no longer saw my hand in, how I found you is beyond my understanding. . .”

This cottage makes me think of those lines; and it makes me smile when I think of my companion on this trip.  For the past year and a half, he is the closest I’ve had to a best friend in quite a long time.  Though he doesn’t quite understand my need to be writing in the mountains, he has a sense of how it makes me part whole.  He has a sense that if I write, even that sucky, crappy writing I envision myself writing lately, I will somehow find another piece of myself that will send me back into a motion that propels me forward, toward a more mature growth and understanding of whatever it is I need to understand. 

Sometimes I get the sense that those who love me the most, know me better than even I know myself.

They pull me out of myself too; like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.  The rabbit often stares in awe after being drawn into the light.    The rabbit remembers being a baby, entertaining glee and giddiness, facing challenges, trapping hope, enduring pain.  The rabbit stares and remembers, and sometimes chooses to jump back into the hat until he his pulled out again and again and again.

I feel like that rabbit.  Lately, my uniqueness will become fastened to the hand of a loved one, and sadly, with the first hint of light, it often retreats back inside.

Despite the constant breeze rolling from the mountain, the sun, unaccompanied by the bank of gray clouds that sits on the horizon line, radiates a sweltering heat as it hangs high above me.

I’ve decided to retreat back inside.

There is a scent of a recent fire in the chimney that brings to mind a dying campfire, red embers that look soft enough to touch.  The sound of the waterfall resonates through the pine walls of the cottage, and through the headphones I have in my ears.  I just noticed, and I have no idea how it took me so long to see it, but a brown bear rug is lying across a worn leather sofa.

And I sense it again - - that feeling of knowing myself even less than others know me.

 During the week, I told everyone who would listen that I wouldn’t be available on Friday.  I told them that I was taking the day off, and that I would not be checking email or answering my phone, or returning texts.  I told them that I was off to write.

“What do you write?”  One person asked.

“Nothing.”  I answered.

Imagine the curious look.

“That’s why I’m going.”  I left it at that.

Others didn’t believe it.  Generally, a day off for me equals at least four hours of work anyway.  So, of course, I was invited to join meetings and conference calls - - - my cell phone alerting me to every invitation.  About halfway through the trip, I went to my settings and turned off my alert status.

Even if it’s just for this weekend, I want to be a rabbit that hops with glee and pain, hope and fear, tenderness and regret.  The rabbit that decides to glow in the senses - - - the dreams, the hopes, the wishes, the truth and the purity of what is real.

The rabbit who appreciates that she is loved.

The rabbit who finds gratitude that she is truly known by those she loves in return.

Insanity Makes Me Crazy Happy

Good morning to you all!  Happy Wednesday!  Happy May 1st!  Happy Birthday to my nephew, James! (I love you a lot, a lot).

This morning, as I struggled to follow two bladder-filled dogs down the stairs, I was reminded of my newest habit.  With every step, my hamstrings yelped, my ass cheeks screamed (who knew there was muscle under them?) and my calf muscles tightened up.  Yet, with every step, my smile grew bigger.

And I was reminded of one of my brother's favorite jokes:  "No pain, no pain."

Of course with that thought, I laughed.  Why wouldn't I laugh and be merry after eight solid hours of sleep for the thirteenth day in a row?  Why wouldn't I laugh and be merry with the thought that work awaits and I am no longer stressed and looking like a zombie every morning?  And looky here, I have enough energy to both sip my coffee and write a little diddy.

It seems that the Insanity workout, despite being insane and painful, provides a great deal of gains. 

I don't know if you've ever seen the infomercials for the workout, but I remember many mornings sitting in my chair, sipping my coffee while watching, and thinking, "That looks hard."

Then in one crazy moment, I decided that it looked hard enough to try.  So I got the discs from a friend, and started to move.

The first day, after about 6 minutes of warm-up, I had to rest, get back up, rest, get back up.  Both Paige and Tony watched me struggle through the entire 45 minutes, all the while giggling and saying, "Mommy, you don't look like the people doing the exercises.  They haven't fallen over eighteen times, and tripped into the wall."

The response I wanted to give, as the sweat poured down my face and into my eyes, and as my lungs screamed for mercy was, "Shut it, you little mongrels.  They are getting paid to do this, they are trained and have been doing this workout for months, they are no more perfect than me!"  But instead I said, "Ugh," and dropped to the floor in the final two minutes of stretches.

Now, nearly two weeks later, I laugh - - - ha, ha, ha! - - - and though I am still dropping to the floor with exhaustion, I am doing it with a sense of satisfaction.

I think I might have a set of abs somewhere near my stomach because I swear I can feel them, and I can see a slight change in the way my shirts fall over the mini muffin top I've baked for the past couple of years.

The odd thing is, I didn't start the workout so I could lose weight.  I started it so I could lose stress, gain sleep and find my mojo again with writing.

It seems to have worked.
I'm feeling pretty good now. 
Insanely good.

January 27th: Still Spinning

               

               The words still come once in a while, and they’ll roll toward me and away again, toward me and away.  If I have the wherewithal I will bend down and scoop them up: conglomerate, pinnacle, obeisance - - - just words.  I honor their tenacity and stubbornness, and I am flattered that they still come forth, ready to be used, given my complete disregard for them over the past few years.

                Not too long ago, as I drove into work with Springsteen as my companion, singing of Life Itself (rushing over me, life itself, in the wind and black elms, life itself in your heart and in your eyes, and I can’t make it without you), I was reminded of the world that spun when that song first came out.  It was a world filled with lush greens, a world filled with laughter and smiles, kindness and ease.  It was a world without death, a world without sorrow, a world that rotated so effortlessly. 

As I drove, I realized that on the day that I had heard that song for the very first time, my world hiccupped in its rotation, and skipped like a record that had been spearheaded. As I played the words over in my mind - - - I can’t make it without you - - - I recalled the landscape of that massive world as it torpedoed into a tunnel of darkness and fear that had housed itself into an even darker abyss of the anonymity and alienation.

Yet it still spun.  The tunnel of darkness and fear, alienation and anonymity was just a facet of the continued world.  It was a long tunnel to get through, and it is now a permanent fixture of the new world.  I recognize that as my world moved through that tunnel, desperate to reach its end, I had left some things along the way:  Drama, worry, fear.  Sleep, exercise, confidence.

I recognized that as my world moved through that tunnel, desperate to reach its end, a new president had become known, a new war had emerged on terrain that I would never see, a new celebrity died from an overdose of being a celebrity, Brad and Angelina had another kid, scientists discovered another breakthrough, more diets emerged, and alcohol, drugs, guns, hatred, abuse, and pride ran all over the world, like termites on rotten plywood, nonplussed by my hurt.  In fact, as it spun, the words - - - juxtaposition, diaphanous, lethargy - - - shot off my forehead, pierced their way into my heart, rolled from my fingertips, or hid in the recesses of my mind; and some of them of them were left in the tunnel to toil around with my writing talent, or to cry along with the discarded willpower and confidence I had gained from having made it through a painful divorce.

I also realized that the walk through that tunnel afforded me some time to understand love, and the tenacity of love, the strength of love as it expands to cushion the pain, as it expands to embrace the sorrow of others, as it expands to allow the recognition that the excruciating pain I felt was a product of the amazing love I had in my heart, and rather than take away from it, the pain actually multiplied the love threefold.  I realized the power.

And the world still spun, looping through the tunnel, out of it, back into it, and out of it again through the wind and the black elms . . . 

As I sit here, January 27^th 2013, on the four year anniversary of the day that changed my life forever, I am reminded of love’s power, and of the power of life itself; and of a world that is still spinning in your heart and in your eyes. . .

'twas the Night Before Christmas

Originally published in 2010, but still holds true. . .

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Enzo was tearing up Paige’s stuffed mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Until Enzo decided to rip down a pair;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of Enzo attacking their heads;
And Gracie in her collar, and I with no chap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When down in the living room there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Down each stair I flew like a flash,
Until I tripped on a toy, and received a great gash.

The moon wasn’t shining and the sky did not snow
I was greeted with discomfort from the havoc below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a fallen Christmas Tree and Enzo, my dear,

He ran from my reach, so lively and quick,
I spun in place and gave a high kick.
More rapid than eagles his legs they came,
And I whistled, and shouted, and called him a name;
"Now, Bastard! now, Moron! now, Enzo, you chicken!
I’ll send you to the pound with Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the couch! to the top of the wall!
He dashed away! dashed away! dashed away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When he met with an obstacle, I said, “Oh my!”,
Over the tree, he leapt and he flew,
He stomped on the toys and the ornaments too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard his big bark
He pranced and he pawed his way through the dark.
As I flipped on a switch, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur; Enzo got a hold on his foot,
And he fell on his back in the ashes and soot;
The bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
Flew around the room as Enzo attacked.

His teeth -- how they nibbled! his paws how they buried
Santa’s cheeks were like bonies, his nose like a cherry!
Enzo’s droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And on the beard of Santa’s chin Enzo had a great hold;
The stump of a pipe was chomped by his teeth,
And the paws of this Doberman encircled Santa’s head like a wreath;

Santa pushed Enzo off his little round belly,
They tussled and shook like a bowlful of jelly.
Pawing and pushing, right jolly old elves,
And I laughed when I saw them, in spite of myself;

A push on his snout, a paw on his head,
They played and they laughed on Enzo’s big bed;

When Enzo got tired, Santa went straight to his work,
Laughing while calling the dog a big jerk,
And laying his finger aside of Enzo’s nose,
And giving a shove, Enzo whined as he rose;

He sprang to his feet when Santa gave a whistle,
And flew to his crate like the down of a thistle.

I heard Santa exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to Enzo, and to Enzo good-night."

The White Board

So, the kids and I have taken to writing notes to each other on the white board.  Every day, I'll walk by and see a note from either Paige or Tony.  "Hi Mom, I love you, and Gracie, and Enzo and Jack-o-lantern (the pet caterpillar). . . just thought I'd let you know.  Love, Paige.  Or Tony will draw a picture of poop, and with an arrow, label it "Paige". 

The other day it was my turn.  I wrote, "My Dear Paige and Tony.  I ADORE you both.  I think you're AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful you're in my life.  ALWAYS.  Love, Mommy"

Last night, I tucked the kids in, and I walked by the white board.  Tony had mentioned that he wrote me a note after he came down from his shower, but I didn't have a chance to read it before then.  It read:

My Dear                      Tony,

I ADORE you                 .  I think Tony is AMAZING and AWESOME, and I am so thankful HE is in my life.  ALWAYS.  Love, Mommy.   P.S. Tony is my faverit.  Sorry Paige, but he is the BEST.

I fell into a sound sleep, giggling.  I can only imagine what Paige's response will be. . .

S.A.D.

Into yet another December, and last year I felt lousy, the year before I felt lousy and the three years prior to that I felt lousy.  I blamed it on the divorce, and then the deaths. 

Last year, I had been going through a health scare early in December, that carried into January.  And so, I had another thing to add to the misery of the month. 

Yet, as I look back on 2012, it wasn't as bad of a year as the last five or six.  I am employed at a company that I actually like, working with people I actually like, doing work I actually like.  I've been dating someone for the majority of the year, and although it's not the ideal dating arrangement (long-distance), it's working.  My kids are both exceling at school, and they make me giggle on a daily basis .

I'm tired, but I've been tired since I started working at the age of 14.  (It happens to people who never stop working -  ever - [ask any of my siblings]), so that doesn't explain the lousy feeling that this year is bringing.

A couple people close to me suggested that I might have that seasonal disorder, SAD.  (Seasonal A-something, D-something). Quite possible.

I mean, does this disorder/disease/disfunction/discombobulation allow people to dwell on the losses?  I guess that's what I've been doing lately, and it's all been subconscious. 

I think about my sister's 50th birthday coming up this week, and I reach for my cell phone to call Jeff to talk to him about the celebration. 

I walk into a restaurant (yesterday) and Frank Sinatra is singing a song (You and Me), and I immediately think of the time when I was about 13 and I played the song on the jukebox at Speedy's (a hometown hangout that used to be), while my dad was working in California and I recall the tears that ran down my mother's face as she stared at the jukebox and missed my dad. . . and I actually reached for my phone to call my dad to tell him of the memory.

"Dominick the Donkey" or "Lazy Mary" come up on my iPod and I am in my parents' basement watching my father sing the Italian words without a hitch, and seeing Jeff spinning Rocco around in his arms. . .

Does this SAD thingy do that?

So I suppose it's not the misery of the actual year (2012) that causes the sadness.  It's the misery of this life.  And maybe the SAD thingy just happens to coincide with the time of the year.  Maybe we should propose celebrating Christmas at a different time, or maybe we should say SAD is a bunch of nonsense. . .

We all bring baggage into the holidays, and I certainly wish the baggage I was carrying was whether Grandma's feelings would be hurt because nobody ate her god-awful fruitcake, or the drama came from my mother making up names of author's while we played board games; or even the over-indulgence of alcohol by one of my brothers or my father or all of us. 

I wish the baggage came from the drama of one of the couples in the family fighting.  I wish the drama came from the fact that I washed all the dishes, and somebody else sat on their ass.  I wish the drama came from my father screaming at the grandchildren to calm down.  I wish the drama came from my brothers fighting and one of them going through the two-plated window.  I wish, I wish, I wish. . .

I might have this SAD thingy, and I could shoot Vitamin D into my veins like an addict, but I very much doubt it would work. . .

Perhaps Tracy Chapman summed it up best when, in one of her down times (maybe she has SAD?), she wrote:  "For Christmas and for New Year's, I wish and I resolve. . . but I'm disappointed by myself, Jesus and Santa Claus. . ."