There is an old riddle which poses: If there are tens crows on a branch and five of them decide to fly away, how many crows remain?
The difference between "deciding'' and "action" plagues me these days.
Having decided to quit Los Angeles and come to Gardner, my hopes have been called into question, daily. The actions I believed would be in the realm of "Highest Good" have been blocked from the beginning. Connections seem to be tenuous and if not arbitrary, utilitarian. (But then, aren't all human connections based in utilitarian connection--at least, at first?)
Health decisions remain pure--yet health actions remain spotty. (I know I need to walk a mile each day or paddle an hour each day or ride a bike for half and hour or lift weights. I know when I do these things I feel better. My mood improves, at least for a little while. My body shifts its weight. I'm taller and less achey, overall. Yet, every time I decide to undertake the activity, something moves in front of it.) The car is running roughly; the gas tank is empty; the tires need air; the dog wants to go but that means all I'm doing is watching for other dogs and cannot use the track; my Mother wants to go with me to the track, and that means an entire morning shot: she will be done with her walk in fifteen minutes, tops; then its "lets go to the grocery store; let's take a ride and drop in on your sister-in-law; let's take a quick trip to New Hampshire and check the cemetery flowers on your relatives' graves...(She has many other family members to do this with and she drives herself, everywhere. It is just if I'm going somewhere, she wants to know where and for how long...My guilt wrestles with my frustration, hourly...). Sometimes the weather is so shifty, a day planned for kayaking becomes rained out or is too freezing to put the craft into the water. Dad's stationary bike is set up for him--and I'm just too short--besides, it bugs him when someone else adjusts anything. My sister needs me to go to the vet because she is working. My sister needs me to babysit the dog while she runs errands. My niece drops by to "chat". My parents are going out and want me home to watch the dog--and the house. I get a sub job at the last minute. (When are substitute teacher jobs NOT the last minute?) The list goes on. As the t.v. ad states: "There is always an excuse NOT to sweat."
But I have decided that excercise is necessary. The decision stands.
I have decided to continue to write. Every day. Sometimes each hour. From blogs to letters of inquiry and business to poetry. Of course, the novels. Even in the face of constant rejection (for the new fiction), hope springs eternal, helping create an open flower-bed for effort. I still define myself as a writer. I still do publish-- just not the stuff I really want to have a life of its own. Even more than "teacher", I have been a writer my entire conscious lifetime.
However, one needs solitude, quiet, a personal space in which to write (no matter how small), supplies, and time. Uninterrupted hours .In this house, there is no such thing as silence.(As my nightshift sister has come to find.)Screaming neighbors in houses separated by only driveways or narrow lawns. Crying babies; a Catholic grammar school which parades its students to the Church at the end of the street at least once a week, only a block away. City Council members having street repairs and tree trimming and waterworks and electrical services updated, constantly, now that it is in their home neighborhood. A public park at the other end of the street. And everyone has a large dog...Los Angeles had a different kind of "loud", but Gardner rivals it.
Then there is the uber-volumed t.v. sets in several rooms throughout the house. Mostly for the parental units who refuse to admit their diminished hearing. Or forget the sets are on, as they leave the rooms throughout the day, for errands. Or fall asleep in the arms of CNN and whatever baseball/football/hockey games are playing full-blast. There are the constant phone calls from politicians, local and national pollsters; there are twenty-four-seven doctors' secretaries and nurses checking appointments for parents; teeth, eyes, hearts, intestines, screenings, pills, prescriptions, shots, bloodwork, etc. There are insurance agents and home-repair techs and extended friends and family members--also for the parents (this is their home, afterall). There are the nieces who are far more attached to this "base" than I ever was--their needs extending from rides to money to emotional support. All valid. All welcome. However, all unending. And while it keeps my parents alive and vital and in their right minds, it is not the setting in which to get writing done.
Again, no excuses. (Even as every fifteen minutes there is either a knock at my door or a call from the outside hallway or a bang on the radiator leading to my room, from downstairs--the universal "signal" that someone wants me...) My choice to be here. My loft in California was as noisy, but in a different way. One of the reasons I left and came back. Shock of shocks to find not the peaceful setting of an old age residence, as my youngest sister had painted, but, in fact, an aging circus, still very much occupied and rumbling along. The decision to write is high-jacked, daily. The activity is only engaged in about fifty percent of the planned time.
My decision to get at least eight hours of continuous sleep--something I've never been good at attaining at any point in my life--has been firm. The reality is that at night I am most aware of the possible mortality of my parents; my siblings; my pet. A realization that at any moment I may have to spring (as well as I can spring these days...) from bed, pull on reasonable clothing and shoes, glasses, i.d., keys, and be ready to take someone to the hospital follows me to sleep every night. My dreams are filled with it. (So far, only daily emergencies have plagued us--and my other sibs, much more used to dealing with the situations--have stepped up and taken control. But this doesn't stop my
psyche from preparing itself...) Four to five hours are a good bet. The other time is spent stealing short "naps"...the best sleep being from five a.m. to nine a.m.--unless that is interrupted by a call to come substitute teach...oy vay. But, I have decided: eight hours, uninterrupted sleep. Optimum. Indeed.
A clean diet, full of fresh fruit and veggies, low fat, high fiber, preferrably locally grown. Absolutely. But this is Gardner and my family is ruled by my Mother and I am living under their roof. The beans we eat are baked. The veggies are usually cooked or canned or in miniscule salads containing the same iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and cukes from my childhood. Mom insists (grumbling while she does it) that only HER COOKING will pass as the main family meal of each day. So it is porkchops and beefstew and strip steaks and baked chicken and baked fish and lots and lots and lots of potatoes and carrots at every meal. For variety, in summer, there are ribs. (My favorite evening meal is spaghetti and meatballs--but at five p.m., it is a wee bit early to digest.) These menus are not bad nor fast and it is a kind of love that my Mother passes to us. No doubt. For all these things, I am glad. However, it is difficult, after thirty five years of Thai and Mexican and Vietnamese flavors, or Whole Foods thirty-five varieties of beans and tropical fruits, to be on this regimen. When I have a full-time job and am again, "on my own"...my mind quiets, admonishing me for being spoiled and a piglet enamored of too many choices, reminding me of the fact of starving humans all over the planet...or that, I could further restrict my diet to only those minimal salads. Only oatmeal or yogurt and whatever veggies appear in the evening meal. I can exist on tea. I can offer to cook my own rice. Yes. My decision is to clean up even this meat-heavy menu and do what I know is best for my aging body. Then Ann brings home a coffee-cake and flavored creamer for my coffee...
My decision is to do what it takes to become a Massachusetts public school teacher of English Language Arts. I take the professional classes. I clep the required courses MA won't accept from my New York college work. I pass all the educational tests for teachers which are required before a credential is bestowed. I do the coursework. I get all "A"s. I create a two-foot thick professional portfolio outlining what my philosophy is as an educator and what I have accomplished. I pay my dues and all fees to the university and the state. I apply to any job within a fifty mile radius--only to find, that, through no fault of my own, the university has failed to send my transcripts to the state. Every employer I've applied with has tossed out my resume or upon researching my vitae, found I do not have a current license number--unbeknownst to me! Finally, after six months and no jobs, I call the state and track down the issue. My transcripts! I call the university and find, after two weeks of problems and the Dean's intervention, someone made a drastic mistake and marked me down as having withdrawn from the program! After a year of courses, a 4.0 average, and my final seminar and portfolio passed in with my program -mates in attendance! My decision to be a public school teacher of English, in MA, has remained firm. The actions continue to be thwarted...
My spirituality remains constant and unwinding. Trying to re-unite with Catholicism, briefly, mostly for the parents' sake, and for the sake of being "pure enough" to teach at the Catholic school in the neighborhood, has ended in embarrassment and bitterness. A decision to overlook the huge issues raging in the Church--especially against women (who have helped to sustain and save the organization!)--only ended in my own passion play at the hands of the parish priest. But that's another story...So, back to the semi-Native hybrid Christianity and Celtic traditions of the invisible forces in my life. At least none of those manifestations has ever betrayed me, nor made me feel less-than!
As for love: the only decision is to remain open: to the Universe.
So, like the ten crows on the branch, I remain.
The difference between "deciding'' and "action" plagues me these days.
Having decided to quit Los Angeles and come to Gardner, my hopes have been called into question, daily. The actions I believed would be in the realm of "Highest Good" have been blocked from the beginning. Connections seem to be tenuous and if not arbitrary, utilitarian. (But then, aren't all human connections based in utilitarian connection--at least, at first?)
Health decisions remain pure--yet health actions remain spotty. (I know I need to walk a mile each day or paddle an hour each day or ride a bike for half and hour or lift weights. I know when I do these things I feel better. My mood improves, at least for a little while. My body shifts its weight. I'm taller and less achey, overall. Yet, every time I decide to undertake the activity, something moves in front of it.) The car is running roughly; the gas tank is empty; the tires need air; the dog wants to go but that means all I'm doing is watching for other dogs and cannot use the track; my Mother wants to go with me to the track, and that means an entire morning shot: she will be done with her walk in fifteen minutes, tops; then its "lets go to the grocery store; let's take a ride and drop in on your sister-in-law; let's take a quick trip to New Hampshire and check the cemetery flowers on your relatives' graves...(She has many other family members to do this with and she drives herself, everywhere. It is just if I'm going somewhere, she wants to know where and for how long...My guilt wrestles with my frustration, hourly...). Sometimes the weather is so shifty, a day planned for kayaking becomes rained out or is too freezing to put the craft into the water. Dad's stationary bike is set up for him--and I'm just too short--besides, it bugs him when someone else adjusts anything. My sister needs me to go to the vet because she is working. My sister needs me to babysit the dog while she runs errands. My niece drops by to "chat". My parents are going out and want me home to watch the dog--and the house. I get a sub job at the last minute. (When are substitute teacher jobs NOT the last minute?) The list goes on. As the t.v. ad states: "There is always an excuse NOT to sweat."
But I have decided that excercise is necessary. The decision stands.
I have decided to continue to write. Every day. Sometimes each hour. From blogs to letters of inquiry and business to poetry. Of course, the novels. Even in the face of constant rejection (for the new fiction), hope springs eternal, helping create an open flower-bed for effort. I still define myself as a writer. I still do publish-- just not the stuff I really want to have a life of its own. Even more than "teacher", I have been a writer my entire conscious lifetime.
However, one needs solitude, quiet, a personal space in which to write (no matter how small), supplies, and time. Uninterrupted hours .In this house, there is no such thing as silence.(As my nightshift sister has come to find.)Screaming neighbors in houses separated by only driveways or narrow lawns. Crying babies; a Catholic grammar school which parades its students to the Church at the end of the street at least once a week, only a block away. City Council members having street repairs and tree trimming and waterworks and electrical services updated, constantly, now that it is in their home neighborhood. A public park at the other end of the street. And everyone has a large dog...Los Angeles had a different kind of "loud", but Gardner rivals it.
Then there is the uber-volumed t.v. sets in several rooms throughout the house. Mostly for the parental units who refuse to admit their diminished hearing. Or forget the sets are on, as they leave the rooms throughout the day, for errands. Or fall asleep in the arms of CNN and whatever baseball/football/hockey games are playing full-blast. There are the constant phone calls from politicians, local and national pollsters; there are twenty-four-seven doctors' secretaries and nurses checking appointments for parents; teeth, eyes, hearts, intestines, screenings, pills, prescriptions, shots, bloodwork, etc. There are insurance agents and home-repair techs and extended friends and family members--also for the parents (this is their home, afterall). There are the nieces who are far more attached to this "base" than I ever was--their needs extending from rides to money to emotional support. All valid. All welcome. However, all unending. And while it keeps my parents alive and vital and in their right minds, it is not the setting in which to get writing done.
Again, no excuses. (Even as every fifteen minutes there is either a knock at my door or a call from the outside hallway or a bang on the radiator leading to my room, from downstairs--the universal "signal" that someone wants me...) My choice to be here. My loft in California was as noisy, but in a different way. One of the reasons I left and came back. Shock of shocks to find not the peaceful setting of an old age residence, as my youngest sister had painted, but, in fact, an aging circus, still very much occupied and rumbling along. The decision to write is high-jacked, daily. The activity is only engaged in about fifty percent of the planned time.
My decision to get at least eight hours of continuous sleep--something I've never been good at attaining at any point in my life--has been firm. The reality is that at night I am most aware of the possible mortality of my parents; my siblings; my pet. A realization that at any moment I may have to spring (as well as I can spring these days...) from bed, pull on reasonable clothing and shoes, glasses, i.d., keys, and be ready to take someone to the hospital follows me to sleep every night. My dreams are filled with it. (So far, only daily emergencies have plagued us--and my other sibs, much more used to dealing with the situations--have stepped up and taken control. But this doesn't stop my
psyche from preparing itself...) Four to five hours are a good bet. The other time is spent stealing short "naps"...the best sleep being from five a.m. to nine a.m.--unless that is interrupted by a call to come substitute teach...oy vay. But, I have decided: eight hours, uninterrupted sleep. Optimum. Indeed.
A clean diet, full of fresh fruit and veggies, low fat, high fiber, preferrably locally grown. Absolutely. But this is Gardner and my family is ruled by my Mother and I am living under their roof. The beans we eat are baked. The veggies are usually cooked or canned or in miniscule salads containing the same iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and cukes from my childhood. Mom insists (grumbling while she does it) that only HER COOKING will pass as the main family meal of each day. So it is porkchops and beefstew and strip steaks and baked chicken and baked fish and lots and lots and lots of potatoes and carrots at every meal. For variety, in summer, there are ribs. (My favorite evening meal is spaghetti and meatballs--but at five p.m., it is a wee bit early to digest.) These menus are not bad nor fast and it is a kind of love that my Mother passes to us. No doubt. For all these things, I am glad. However, it is difficult, after thirty five years of Thai and Mexican and Vietnamese flavors, or Whole Foods thirty-five varieties of beans and tropical fruits, to be on this regimen. When I have a full-time job and am again, "on my own"...my mind quiets, admonishing me for being spoiled and a piglet enamored of too many choices, reminding me of the fact of starving humans all over the planet...or that, I could further restrict my diet to only those minimal salads. Only oatmeal or yogurt and whatever veggies appear in the evening meal. I can exist on tea. I can offer to cook my own rice. Yes. My decision is to clean up even this meat-heavy menu and do what I know is best for my aging body. Then Ann brings home a coffee-cake and flavored creamer for my coffee...
My decision is to do what it takes to become a Massachusetts public school teacher of English Language Arts. I take the professional classes. I clep the required courses MA won't accept from my New York college work. I pass all the educational tests for teachers which are required before a credential is bestowed. I do the coursework. I get all "A"s. I create a two-foot thick professional portfolio outlining what my philosophy is as an educator and what I have accomplished. I pay my dues and all fees to the university and the state. I apply to any job within a fifty mile radius--only to find, that, through no fault of my own, the university has failed to send my transcripts to the state. Every employer I've applied with has tossed out my resume or upon researching my vitae, found I do not have a current license number--unbeknownst to me! Finally, after six months and no jobs, I call the state and track down the issue. My transcripts! I call the university and find, after two weeks of problems and the Dean's intervention, someone made a drastic mistake and marked me down as having withdrawn from the program! After a year of courses, a 4.0 average, and my final seminar and portfolio passed in with my program -mates in attendance! My decision to be a public school teacher of English, in MA, has remained firm. The actions continue to be thwarted...
My spirituality remains constant and unwinding. Trying to re-unite with Catholicism, briefly, mostly for the parents' sake, and for the sake of being "pure enough" to teach at the Catholic school in the neighborhood, has ended in embarrassment and bitterness. A decision to overlook the huge issues raging in the Church--especially against women (who have helped to sustain and save the organization!)--only ended in my own passion play at the hands of the parish priest. But that's another story...So, back to the semi-Native hybrid Christianity and Celtic traditions of the invisible forces in my life. At least none of those manifestations has ever betrayed me, nor made me feel less-than!
As for love: the only decision is to remain open: to the Universe.
So, like the ten crows on the branch, I remain.
No comments:
Post a Comment