Anchors Away

The company Christmas party was last night: a four-hour tour on the San Francisco bay in a Hornblowers Yacht with two or three floors of parties happening (our group occupied only one). It was probably in the low thirties when we walked from our hotel (the Hyatt at the Embarcadero) to our boat, glammed up but freezing. The boat had a live band that did eighties covers, which meant that even though it was as loud as any band and difficult to hear apart from the bass and high notes, I knew every song. We didn't dance - we never do - but we did enjoy good food and good conversation at a table with other wall flowers. After 15 years at the company, I have known so many of the other senior employees for so long, there's a comfortable familiarity there, and we really did have a very enjoyable evening. The Bay Lights installation was amazing (and one can re-watch the pattern at their web site). The walk back was even colder but a hot bath cured my oncoming frost-bite.

We'd kenneled the dog and S. had been at a friends, so we'd left the birds and rabbit in a house with no heat. While S. and I saw the Nutcracker matinee (a different cast for Clara, Snow and Rose), D. brought the house up from the 46 degrees he found it in. It's supposed to get to the 20s tonight, so we finally pulled out a space heater as well.

I'd come home cold, tired and hungry - a dangerous combination that led to pizza (which I hadn't had for months) a glass of chardonnay, and a "nap" on the red couch that lasted all night. The household chores and cleanup I'd wanted to do were left undone, and I just pray for a productive evening tomorrow, after a full day of work !

Post Early, Post Often

Back at my Saturday Starbucks while S. has rehearsal for Rep. Orchestra, in between trips to the bank and getting gas and a birthday present for a 14 year old ("Anything Iron Man, Mom. Trust me.")

A young barista has admired the Torchwood symbol and my laptop, and we've chatted about Dr. Who. At first I was flattered that he assumed I'd be hip about the series. Then I admitted that while I'd followed Torchwood, I was not caught up on Dr. Who. And I admitted that the laptop had been my daughter's. "I figured," he said. My feeling of being flattered was replaced by disappointment. Oh well. Maybe I can't pass for hip after all.

I seem to be having a hard time focusing at all these last couple of days. It's like my brain is, well, jumpy, and won't settle.  I'm anxious and scattered and worst of all, I don't know why. Maybe it's pre-holiday stress starting to bubble up, or nervousness about the company party tonight.

My mother's mother used to tell a sorry about my brother Andy's childhood tendency of excitability. He'd run to my parents, this little red-haired freckled boy wild about something he found terribly interesting. He'd be bursting to share whatever it was, his little face lit up with excitement. My father would invariably say somewhat crossly, "Now, simmer down. Simmer down." And once my brother's spirits had been sufficiently quashed, Dad would apparently say, "Now, what did you want to tell us?" And by then, Andy would just mutter, "Nevermind."

My grandmother told this story as an illustration of the faults of my father, I think. And to express how it broke her heart and, she thought, deeply affected my brother. I get that. I feel that life often takes the thrill out of us, making us learn that there's something wrong with enthusiasm.

So while I wouldn't want something like my father's voice telling my brain to "simmer down," I do wish I could channel Pema Codron for a day or two.

Survivor's Guilt

Tonight S. and I saw the Petaluma School of Ballet's Nutcracker.

It was the first time in 7 years that S. was not dancing, and the first time in perhaps 6 years that I was not in charge of the eighty or so dancers backstage and the moms that help them. It was surreal, and I felt a little bit of survivor's guilt mixed in with my admiration for the massive semi-professional endeavor and my relief at not having to dedicate weeks of my life to all things Nutcracker. It was weird for S., too, who says that being in two orchestras (three, if you count school ensemble) is both less work and just as much work at the same time.

Some of the principals I have seen dance as seven-year old Gingerbreads. They are now Snow, Rose, and Sugarplum, as well as Mothers in the party scene, waltzing around in their elegant Victorian gowns, so very grown-up. Two of them are off to college next year. Several more, the year after that. But they have more poise than most adults I know, and far more discipline. I was very proud of them all, although the pride was laced with a heart-sickness. In August, the mother of one of the most gifted dancers of all passed away after fighting cancer for years with more fierce focus and grace than the best ballerina in the world might have at hand. She was an amazing person. The news of Mandela's death only makes me think that now two incredibly bright lights have left us this year. Who could ever rise to take their places? And how could I ever, ever complain about any hardship or struggle in my life compared to what they endured with such elegant purpose?

Balance Pending

Write daily: check
Work 8 hour days: check. Except for the last two, in which I added 4 hours to the 8, twice in a row. Er.
Work out daily: Nope. Not since Monday. It's a wonder I'm sane enough to write.
Sleep 8 hours per night: mostly, yes. I'm too tired from the 12 hour days to do otherwise, and it's the full nights of sleep that mean no trips to the gym at 8pm.

It was in the 20s this morning, apparently. R. may get snow where she is, further North. Brrrr! As I've said before, makes me want to hibernate.

Sunset in Aberystwyth, Wales August 11th

What a Week

I was so happy to be on time for my mammogram today.

Turns out I was exactly 24 hours late.

Maybe it's not my breasts I need checked.

I've rescheduled.

On a brighter note, the dog's lipoma is apparently just that: a fatty tumor rather than anything we need to worry about. His dental hygiene, however, leaves much to be desired.

Here's who gets to ride the elevator in the department stores in Tokyo. People with one crutch (Tiny Tim!),  disabled persons in a wheelchair, baby strollers without babies and Alfred Hitchcock:    

           

Cold Snap

It's supposed to be cold tonight, by Sonoma County standards. Perhaps into the twenties. We are burning cut-up pallets in our stove to heat the house. It's cheap - free, in fact! - and effective.

The cold makes me want to hibernate. So do days like this, that start with a voicemail at work from a livid customer wanting to sue because of a perceived wrong. Her anger is palpable. I practically have to wipe it off the phone after I listen to her rant. She names me in particular, although she mis-pronounces my name. She nearly mis-pronounces other, simpler words too. She is that furious. She ends her message with "I'll see you in court!" And although I understand her anger and do not blame her for it, I also know how very misplaced it is.

People who have lost data through fate, Murphy's law, Acts of God, Acts of Ex-Spouses, and the failure of technology are often riding the waves raftless in a dark choppy sea of negative emotions. They lash out at the nearest target. I think they are really lashing out at themselves but they misdirect their anger and send it full-force at the very people who are trying to help them. It's ironic.

There were other challenges at work too  today - things that on their own, individually, would have colored the day tricky at best, but which together almost became amusing. I'm sure I'll laugh about it. Eventually.

For now, while I wait for S's Chamber Orchestra rehearsal to finish and wrap up my writing work at Starbucks, I think longingly about the red chintz couch/chaise lounge we inherited from Mom that sits conveniently next to that wood-burning stove. I think I can hear it calling my name from here. The red couch doesn't care about lost data or perceived wrongs. It doesn't want to sue me or my company. It promises only warmth and a place for both Lethe and lethargy. How lovely.

So Much For That

It is somewhat seldom that I buy new clothes. This will not come as a shock to anyone who has seen the collection of items that make up my wardrobe: they are a combination of the following: hand-me-downs from pitying friends or family members with better taste than I, but who had originally purchased with themselves in mind; the remnants of school rummage sales; goodwill items; second-hand store items, and the occasional brand-new piece. I was wearing a pair of pants in the last category this morning; I, who dislike shopping immensely and who has never stepped in a store on Black Friday, suffered a temporary bout of consumerism (I'm better now, thank you) and bought several things the day after Thanksgiving.

Having carefully removed not one, not two, but three tags this morning just after 5am in the sleepy dark, I set off to work congratulating myself for not having missed that third tag.

I missed the fourth.

You know, the long strip of tape that runs down the leg with the brand and size printed on it for such cheaper items as one finds at Kohl's?

I had been at work nearly four hours before an employee, bless her, politely pointed it out to me. True, I'd been mostly alone or sequestered in my office for that time. But still.

Another day started with a dose of humility.

Beginnings at the End

Re-beginning the on-again, off-again practice of daily writing. December. Month of leaves giving up on the idea of sticking it out with the tree, of glaze-eyed flight-or-fight consumers propelled by greed and vanity (I must succeed in this purchase while someone else fails). Month of crisp nights and seeing the stars. As good a month as any to be a writer, even one who is falling asleep at the keyboard!

October Hearth

I am home from my travels, safe and sound and grounded, and grateful for both the survival and for homecoming. I may have sadly ambivalent feelings about my house, the Winchester Mystery House North, with it's various mostly-finished remodel and home-improvement projects a reminder that things never seem to get completed, but I am grateful to be back there nonetheless, with my family and some semblance of a routine.

More importantly, as truly wonderful as the four trips (10 plane flights!) I've taken since June have been, I'm grateful for the ability to focus once again on my writing - both the poetry and the prose.

My current goals are to make notes toward a new poem daily, to work on revising poems weekly, and to focus on the re-write of the novel at least five days out of seven.

I recently overheard someone (perhaps on Fresh Air?) talking about creating a "cocoon of creativity" - a time and a place that is sacred, or at the very least devoted to one's work and protected from the distractions and intrusions of every-day demands. The space is important - a room of one's own - and I have that. I have my own office, with a computer and walls lined with books, and a place under a cantilevered desk where the dog likes to stretch out and sleep. The office has a door, and a window with a view into our unfinished cement courtyard and its reflecting pool, water plants, rock.

What's lacking, still, is my scheduling of a time in which to create. Here are the options I must chose from: before 5am on mornings when I work early, or after 9pm on days when I work late and D. can home to supervise S's homework. Neither is ideal, my desire to be a writer has joined forces with my impatience with my own whining and excuse-making. Besides, this post (which I started weeks ago) is a prime example of making due between the cracks of Life. I can write while S. is in rehearsal for one of the two orchestras in which she plays. I can write in bed (and have begun to do so almost every night). I can write after working out at the gym. And on those mornings when I don't work early.

Here's the street where the heroine of my novel lives in Aberystwyth, by the way. It's one of the spots I scouted out while there, and I found it after I had nearly given up on discovering the row of stucco houses closer to downtown that I'd imagined. But this works, I believe. Not a place she'd want to live forever, but good enough as a room to rent while she gets her feet under her.   

At the Airport Again, Bound for Tokyo

With all the travel I've done lately, it seems surreal that I'm about to get on a plane again for another (very long) flight, this time to Narita. It should be the most exciting trip of all this year, and in many ways it is - I keep having to pinch myself to believe it, and I'm so very grateful for this opportunity ,afforded to me by our Japanese clients and the owners of my company who have supported that relationship for the last ten years. But on the other hand, I haven't yet had the time and space to write about my big Wales adventure, or the amazing weekend I had in Colorado with my family (both adopted and biological). And whether I'll have time to do that kind of reflection and review while going to, or in, Japan is questionable. But hope springs eternal. And in the meantime, I'm taking mental and actual notes and lots and lots of pictures. October and November may be quite the months for retrospective travelogue writing.

Diplomacy dictates silence

Besides, no one wants to read a blog that's just a rant about first world problems every other day. But suffice it to say that while my personal life is going well, and most aspects of my professional life are highly satisfying, there are moments (sometimes several) some days (fewer than half) when I just frankly don't know how I got myself into this position. Golly. Going to bed grateful that tomorrow is Friday. Happy Friday Eve, and happy birthday Mark, and happy day after your birthday little Miss A. who is now 9.

Tomorrow I'm looking forward to the Rose Ceremony at S's school, a big tour of guests at work, and the dinner with friends in the evening. Tonight I'm looking forward to sleep.

Sept. 4th Live

I was asked to try the new masseuse at our Chiropractor's office at a special price. Am so glad I did. I cannot remember or even imagine being more blissed out by a massage. Wow. I wish I could say the total relaxation and sense of well-being lasted without interruption all day, but I did go to work after the massage, so...well...it didn't. But for the first time ever, I can see that it would be very wise (and *lengthen* my lifespan) to have regular massages. Never thought I'd feel that way!

Sept. 3 Retro

Here's the memo I made for myself on my smartphone to remind me September 3rd what I wanted to say about the day:

Work stress is probably shortening my life. There must be a better way.

Sept. 2 Retro

Here's the memo I made for myself on my smartphone to remind me September 3rd what I wanted to say about September 2nd:

I had such a massive to-do list for to-day and I nearly got it all to-done. Here are excerpts, in no particular order:
Study Japanese
Weed front yard
Weed back yard
Transplant grasses
Vacuum
Clean bathrooms
Clean bird cages
Clean kitchen floor
Laundry
Write condolence card
Emails to 5 different friends & colleagues
RSVP to party
Stats for work
Blog about trip
Work on Novel
Pledge paperwork for S's school
Organize laundry room
Switch girls' closets
In addition, I went to the gym.

Sadly, I saved the novel and blog for last and they were not crossed off my list at the end of the day.
That is not the best prioritization. But still, it felt good to get so much accomplished.

Sept. 1 Retro

Here's the memo I made for myself on my smartphone to remind me September 3rd what I wanted to say about September 1st:

I had a dream about a kids' video game/quiz that would be called, "Sit Down Town."

I think the title was to encompass the idea of kids sitting down and focusing but on something interesting the way "downtown" can be interesting.  The game was to be all about current world events, including horrible conflicts in the Middle East. There would be an option to update via a sync daily, so the kids could test their knowledge of how poorly human beings were treating each other, real time.

Even while part of my subconscious was plugging the concept, another part of my subconscious was thinking, "This will never fly. It's too intelligent and too dark. And the title doesn't quite work, either."

Three Days

Blessed with 3 days of not needing to go to work, but for some reason at the end of the first of these I am not feeling that lovely euphoric freedom that usually accompanies a long weekend. Is it because I didn't have a glass of wine tonight? How sad if so!

But on the other hand, I am very tired and very sleepy, and D. guesses it's because all week I'm wound up so tight that when I'm not faced with a heavy burden of work outside the home, I just collapse. Hmmm. But I look forward to what will be the biggest chunk of free time I'll have all month tomorrow and the day after. The second half of September promises to be very busy indeed. So I have time but this pressure to "make hay" as well!

Putting the Week to Bed

Nearly all week I worked 6am-6pm. This is not a boast. This is a confession of having already fallen back into the habit of thinking I need to do it all.

This three-day weekend, I will not be working, apart from the highly anticipated yard work, house work, writing, exercise, and catching up with friends. And maybe some genealogy. And studying Japanese. But that's it.

And I'll start by going to bed early. Writing this tiny blog post feels like the most important part of my day. Necessary and satisfying. That's the weight I am giving writing.

Here's a picture sent to me by one of my travel companions in Wales, Jerry. It's me, writing, at a place that has inexplicably huge meaning for me: Dinas Bran.

47 + 1

Today the course of a conversation required that I say out loud how old I am. It was the first time I'd done so. "47."

It sounds frighteningly close to "50" to me, and even though I know 50 is the new 40 - or younger! - I live with existential crises and morbid thoughts of mortality close enough at hand on a regular basis to feel a twinge of panic at the thought.

Not only have I clearly missed the opportunity to be much of a prodigy at anything, I am getting dangerously close to being behind schedule for even some kind of late-blooming life achievements. I don't really want to make Colonel Sanders be my benchmark for personal, professional or artistic success. I have a memory of my father using him as an example of someone making good after the age of 50 - he was 62 when he franchised KFC - but then again, my father was not a shining beacon of accomplishments either.

So I'm currently working close to half time (12 hours a day) and am also writing. Maybe only a little a day, but - say it with me - "incremental progress is progress."    
      

Birthday Post

I did not write a Birthday Poem, a la Dylan Thomas.
But I did check in to say :
still here, happy, working

There have been major ups and some significant downs of late, but I'm
happily working
happily here

Posting from the Eisteddfod

This represents the best wifi I've had in 10 days. So instead of spending a long time writing, I'm going to take advantage of the connection and only post a picture. Here's a shot from Wales.