It Ain’t No Lie…Children Know

November 26, 2009

I am not sure where I am going with this but I think becoming a mother means not lying. We all need a slight buffer of half-truths to keep moving forward, yes? But the deeper lies. Sure, addiction is the number one denial, but other ones are less visible. For example, sometimes we lie as to whether we are working towards community or remaining stuck in self-analysis. True that our largest job is to move beyond our early years and their influence, especially if those years were more burden than joy. But you do move on and so the talk stops and then anyone needs to walk the talk instead. I feel like that now. Too much talk right now bores me and I prefer to engage in action. Mind you, we’re looking at thoughtful action here not mindless busy-ness.

What kinds of lies do children detect? They know so much more than we do because they run on pure intuition–that lightning quick understanding we often see return to us as adults if we reinvite the creative process into our lives, again. Sometimes we lose that. Maybe that’s one sort of lie a child knows is real. When we engage in work that dulls rather than shines us. They know and they stop asking about work over time. I have seen this.

Children definitely detect when an adult feels irritated from needing a smoke or another substance to quell the craving. That’s usually when an adult voice is raised too quickly or dinner is served abruptly. I’ve also seen kids make a beeline for their rooms in this moody environment. Similar is when a relationship cracks. A couple’s anger wears down a child’s confidence. They start to self-blame and lose trust in going to their parents for help. From a child’s point of view, how can an adult who fights all the time possibly help me? I’ll just stay out the way so matters don’t become worse.

I am certain–even if that sounds cocky–that the child(ren) I raise will not experience these lies. That’s probably the biggest gift of becoming a mom at a relatively older age, 44. My lying days are completely over.

An adult’s arrogance often drives him or her to rationalize that a child will not understand the presented lie. They know. I had the honor one time to help raise a little girl from birth. Her first three months she couldn’t really see. At least that’s what the mostly modern medical world claims. But I had the sense she could see by the way she clutched a hand, turned her head, pushed a foot, and sometimes turned to “stare” at you absorbing all of you–was kind of eerie actually. She saw the world through patterns–bottles, baths, and music. No earth-shattering insights here; I simply remember while watching her grow that we begin so much like we end–toothless, diapers, and cataracts. Some mornings she even looked like a wrinkly old man! Those were super fun days learning how to see all over again by observing her learn the world without eyesight.

So, as I prepare to become a mother, I will try to lie as little as possible. I’m striving to leave my ego far, far behind. My finances are in order, check. Need to secure the right housing, check. Continue to develop in my line of work, check. Adequate health insurance, check. Drive a safe and reliable car, check. Strive for emotional honesty, check. Ready to have lots of fun, check. Two months ago I made the promise on this Web site that a newborn would arrive in my arms within a year and perhaps that will come true. We’ll see. Just an intuition this might come true–no lie.

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Starlit Swimming Towards Chance

November 23, 2009

Love is so sudden, a lighting flash from no where. Or is it? Roger Housden in his book Ten Poems to Open Your Heart offers one poem by Wislawa Szymborska titled “Love at First Sight.” This poet won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996; at the time she told others that a poet lives to create by saying, “I don’t know.” This mystery space helps so much to notice the world and moments that seem to have a cause but truly arrive from a place we don’t know. Some call this Chance capital C. Malcolm Gladwell argues this in his amazing book Blink, Thinking Without Thinking. Just by arriving to life without knowing we can learn so much–instantly, in the blink of an eye.

What then of love at first sight? Star crossed lovers will remember their first meeting and recall in surprise how this was their first view of each other. But is this true? How would you know if perhaps on the bus, in the bank line, or at the bakery you had seen her before? Maybe. Hard to say. We don’t know. Szymborska laughs at these lovers, their blindness as to the first mystery meeting. She writes about the lovers in her poem:

They’d by amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.

Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

The poem reminds me that I’m living from the “I don’t know” school of philosophy. That’s too neck-up actually. I just mean that each day will unfold in a way I cannot predict and so I simply attend the gatherings mostly to watch and see what will happen next; I’m insatiably curious to know but all bets are off.

Housden, for example, bumped into a woman who greeted him joyfully thinking he was someone else. They excused themselves once real recognition settled in. One year later the same woman booked ten days at a monastery where Housden had to stay by accident. Her name is Maria and two years later they were married.

This evening I went for a swim in the outdoor pool at the UCSF Baker Fitness Center and stared at the stars above. A bright crescent moon hung way up high too. Pool lights filtered through clear water and I felt bathed in moonlight and pool light; my swim felt easy and happy. The water always pulls me into an “I don’t know” mood where cognitive thought turns off and intuitive sensing washes in. I’m not thinking about anything in the pool suspended by water, grateful for the chance to take a load off my feet, so after when I’m dressed some of my best “ideas” surface. Yet I’m still unsure about love’s fire.

Housden helps me ruminate more lucidly about love at first sight in the following words:

“The poem reminds us that there is a season and a time for things that cannot be orchestrated. It’s like death–when it’s our time, we fall. Lovers need to ripen on the vine. You will know the right moment by the ease with which you fall into this next chapter of your life. It will require no effort, just an assenting to what wants to happen” (54). Perhaps then I will turn off the light now and simply say my prayers to close this day, sleep well, and wake to see what the next day brings. Good night.

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Bicycling Days Past and Present

November 21, 2009

When I turned 30-years-old I became a bike messenger just a little bit for the hell of it. I didn’t feel like drinking alcohol any more, so I simply rode my bicycle for many hours on many cups of coffee. I would keep that mischievous approach to sobriety for nine and a half years, all through earning a masters degree in English and becoming a university teacher.

I remember the look on my radio dispatchers face when he saw me wobble up the stairs to reach in under the thick plexi-glass and take the portable radio to fit snugly into a sewn slot on my shoulder, on an expensive messenger bag that I had just bought. He visibly smirked. As did others when they saw me squirrel off on a dilapidated rusty one speed bike. But sure enough though the winter winds carried me swiftly. My number was 341 and I called in to base–my young, hip, and smart dispatcher, Roger, probably 20-years-old or so. I delivered the first one pretty quickly.

“341 to base. All clean,” I cackled over the radio, shocked I could figure out how to use the thing.

“341? That you?” a curious Roger responded.

“Yeah. All clean.” This meant I had picked up and dropped off the one package.

He paused and then gave me three packages to pick up. The first run he just gave me one to see if I would ever return. This time he staggered the pick ups close by in address just to see how quickly I could move. Also, he was an excellent dispatcher–calm and friendly even though sometimes he would have a hundred tags staring at him and ten bicyclists waiting to move into action.

Ten minutes later I checked in.

“341 to base,” I chortled, trying to catch my breathe.

“341?! Is that you?” Roger said, honestly surprised.

“Yes, sir,” I responded. He played casual and told me to drop them off. But my next call in he was ready. This time he gave me a load of tags and my speed, it turned out, wasn’t a fluke. I could ride.

I remember those days as the most carefree of my life. Adrenalin always pumping and yet I could watch people: cheating couples on a clandestine coffee break, pin-striped business executives stressed and cagey–male or female, administrative folks watching the clock intensely and happy for a break to chat with the messenger.

And, of course, I grew to love the city even more. So many side streets, obscure cafes, high-end bistros, and skyscrapers. I remember once delivering a package to the 39th floor in the TransAmerica Building. This was pre-911, so anyone could travel that high. I hear that today you can only make it to the 25th. I took the first elevator to this level and then had to cross a hallway to a different elevator to travel the remaining floors. Walking into that office and handing the package to the female executive sitting behind a massive polished cherry wood desk, I remember how small she looked with so much ocean and free fall space behind her.

Every morning a truly motley crew would say good morning to their dispatcher and grab a radio, each side grumbling about the early 7 a.m. hour. And off we went into the cool weather and day’s adventures. I began that job in the rain, which continued to fall the first month I worked. Still, I earned around $425 a week after taxes. Actually turns out that Aero Messenger service forgot to pay their employee taxes and so they eventually went under.

I remember the rain so well and actually thought about those bicycling days when I walked to my car through the pouring rain this morning. When I began as a bike messenger, I also started the tradition to volunteer on Thanksgiving day. I haven’t gone every year, but pretty close, so today I strolled into St. Martin de Porres on Potrero Street in San Francisco to reserve a volunteer spot. This special day brings out the folks who only volunteer one day a year, so you need to make a reservation just as you would if dining at a fine restaurant. Usually we serve any where from 300 to 500 free turkey meals to all walks of people.

For example, today I saw someone who I remember from my bike messenger days. When we rode together he looked like Forest Gump except with blond hair, freckles, and crystal clear blue eyes. He had a reputation as a steady rider–not too fast, not too slow but super reliable, never flaking out or losing a package. That would happen since messengers are not the most sober lot. But this guy was so clean cut you could bounce a quarter off his tightly ironed oxford shirt buttoned to the top. I would guess his age around 25-years-old at the time.

This morning he wore a faded brown wool suit without a tie and penny loafers. Oily stains were visible on several spots. For a second I thought I saw a shadow of recognition in his eyes when he stared at me by accident. But perhaps not because his eyes quickly clouded over no longer looking crystal clear or blue, and he retraced his steps as if he couldn’t remember which direction to go. His skin looked worn down by sun and outside weather. Yet he retained the same Leave-it-to-Beaver haircut, smoothly pressed and cleanly parted to the side. He hadn’t gained a pound of weight.

How strange the trajectory of a life. A day is so long and a year is so short. Where had his years gone to? Fourteen years is not a short period of time and yet here he was again, looking altogether different and still the same. Maybe I will hear his story when I return next Thursday. For that I would give thanks on Thanksgiving as I count my blessings especially that I still love to ride a bicycle although now just for pleasure not intensity. Gratitude probably mellows you a touch.

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Neuroplasticity and Who, who let the dogs out?

November 19, 2009

I remember in August of 2004 when I had my first miscarriage, I learned something new. Alright, so this Blog offers more than a few painful big-life events. Good news is that it ain’t over to the fat lady sings and fortunately since I’m a touch plump these days and known to warble on occasion in the shower, maybe the bad-ol-days are nearly over. For now it feels like a completely new life to me.

But what I learned that miscarriage summer was about emotional intelligence. Distracting myself from the intensity of experiencing a miscarriage, I focused on completing my masters thesis instead. Yes, I had been researching for a while, but I finished writing the 140 page petite book in two months. When the woman who was my partner at the time, plus her newborn daughter, and her other nine-year-old daughter returned from their annual summer stay in Germany where they were visiting grandmother, I was ecstatic to see them again. A few days later, I worked from the afternoon and long into the night finishing last minute details on the thesis.

The next morning I woke the family up and we all drove to Hayward, CA first to drop off my finished thesis and then continuing to Monterey to visit my parents. Felt great to complete that project! I was hired one week later at the Art Institute of California, San Francisco and have been teaching there plus DeVry University ever since, cobbling together a pretty decent salary since combined I’m working at least full-time–usually a little more.

And I remember running across Daniel Goleman’s book titled Emotional Intelligence (1995) as one of my research sources. How ecstatic I was to read in that book that the Dali Lama and a well-known scientist collaboratively agreed that previous brain research no longer stood up. Before, the brain was perceived as static, providing each human only so many brain cells to work with. Do the math. Aging means trouble for anyone if this perception were true. Turns out, though, that the brain actually develops new brain cells all along and these are flexible to new learning. Welcome neuroplasticity onto the scene. How powerful I thought to witness anyone change a life simply by learning something new or by changing behavior. Either activity potentially creates different–even new–neurons.

The argument in my thesis essay was simply that students experiencing considerable life challenges before they arrive to a writing classroom, might benefit more from a class integrating assignments linked to the community–sometimes called service-learning. Perhaps old neurons would fire up and maybe even change when challenged by a familiar environment–urban life–while trying to advance at a relatively new skill–writing. Completing the thesis was incredibly fun and hard–kicked my butt and yet I finished. Pregnant again two months later, my second miscarriage kicked in and that had me scrambling emotionally. But I had learned enough while writing the thesis to recognize how my old emotions could change in the future.

Right now I’m engaging in the awesome book Shift Your Mood by Rik Isensee. I write engaging because although the text is only one-dimensional, the words on the the page are interactive. He provides step-by-step guiding tips in each chapter for redesigning yourself experiments. They work! Right now I’m working on letting my guard dog out more often from the kennel where I’ve had her chained for a long, long while. She was created in response to all kinds of life events since I was two-years-old until today where having a guard dog was incredibly useful to stay safe. But today my life is abundantly safe, meaning good ‘ol Fido there can take a hike. Or at least stroll down the block more often. And this is possible because “neurologists have discovered that the brain is capable of far more change than we originally thought. This neuroplasticity–the ability of neurons to create new pathways–suggests that our emotional reactions are not limited to previous patterns, so we can expand our range of responses” (Isensee 4). I’m inspired by the new research and my truly authentic second chance here. For example, this weekend I’m dipping into those cold Pacific Ocean waters because I have always dreamed of learning how to surf.

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Child-like Drives

November 17, 2009

“I need a car,” she whimpered in a tinny voice, high-pitched like a toddler whining for more, more, more.

“Yeah, well, I need a car, too,” her mom rapid-fired back, sounding irritated but looking hurt and frazzled.

We sat in her kitchen, the window propped open for a cool breeze to float in. Her sober house subsidized by the city of San Francisco is just off Third Street in the Bay View district. Mostly African American in culture, this neighborhood offers great deals. Complete houses go for $300,000–sometimes a little less and other times a little more. The woman, a mother of two who missed the chance to raise her children while out on the streets using and drinking as they grew up in the care of grandparents, listened to her daughter strung out on crack.

“Mama, did you her me. A caaaarrrrrr,” her 36-year-old daughter sing-songed. “Gimme uncle’s number.”

Mama scrolled through numbers on her cell phone. “Just hold on. Now I got it. Ready? 372-8476,” she said.

“You talking too fast. Do it again.”

“3…7…2…8…4…7…6.”

“I’m thirsty. Byyyyeeeee, Mom.” Click.

I listened to the conversation on speaker phone. This woman, Eva, a 58-year-old grandmother, and I work every week for several hours as she strives to complete each of the Twelve Steps in Alcoholics Anonymous. At the kitchen table we sat as she recounted one of dozens of stories from her previous life. How it works is that she identifies a specific relationship that drives a resentment–a reliving of anger–only relinquished by humbly and honestly admitting the role she played in this stifling emotion–an inability to let go of perceived wrongs done to her in the past. When her daughter called, Eva had been working through a resentment against her mother who passed away suddenly several years ago.

Last Sunday I visited Eva’s church where the pastor baptized her. Dressed in a white linen sheet and shower cap, two church men walked her up the stairs to a long wooden rectangle way behind the ordinary pews. Inside this spiritual geometrical shape was water. First, the pastor, an elderly gentleman, walked in the three feet deep water. Then his friend followed. Both men stood tall and ready to welcome Eva into the water; she reached, unsteady at first, for their strong hands and they all met in one clutch. Back she went as the pastor held her nose and dipped her quickly. Everybody clapped and most cried including me. Reborn at 58-years-old.

I saw her daughter at the ceremony. She wore resentment on her face bright as the sunny day; she also wore the same party dress working for a Saturday night and not for a Sunday morning. But she looked beautiful whenever her face didn’t turn towards her Mama because then she scrunched up tight, silently angry at the loss. Eva’s son has never touched a drug in his life. Truly, he looks like a choir boy in his early 20s. Stunningly handsome he works at Starbucks and has already cut a CD of music. He told me it’s his way out and through the difficult times. He still lives in the house where his grandparents raised him. Eva often asks for her children to give her a kiss and let her know how she’s doing. Children raising parents is never easy to watch.

Addiction reduces everyone to childish behavior; numbing out to the world doesn’t give anyone the chance to grow up. Even though I’ve moved to a new neighborhood, I still encounter folks without a home living on the street a few feet from my front door. I haven’t seen in a while the woman I befriended in the park near my old home. I still hope to connect with her.

Mostly though the story is the same. In front of the Safeway way out here on La Playa Avenue just a block from the Pacific Ocean, I met Dave the other night. He has a fascinating drawl when he repeats to everyone who walks by, “I don’t mind. I really don’t mind at all if you have a penny. I like pennies. I don’t mind them at all.” One woman knew him and broke open the container of cookies to give him three chocolate chip ones. His face is weathered and ruddy around blood shot eyes. “I have a good heart and that’s enough, right?” he asked me, child-like and hopeful.

I smiled but switched the topic–my valiant stand not to enable, an effort more to protect my heart-strings than his.

I asked him and he said he had lived on the street a very, very long time. “Sure, I got problems I can’t get over,” he concluded. Right, that’s it; addicts stew over resentments that bind them to drinking and using–forever in most cases. Yet some grow tired of feeling so sick and tired of the same old pattern. Eva finally reached for sobriety, ten months of them.

In working with her I am lucky enough to witness how close her past could have been my future. Addiction is an equal opportunity employer and discriminates against nobody. Sure, on paper the socioeconomics between Eva and I are different but at the end of the day we are cut from the same cloth. That’s why AA works so well. Mostly for alcoholics but for anyone actually. The steps simply help a person accept human limitations and so in turn live by compassion principles. That’s all and it’s damn simple.

A woman who I admire deeply said the other day over coffee and deep in the throes of laughter, “I’m just a drunk.” Yes, she was and at the same time she earned a bachelors degree in science from an excellent east coast school and now prepares to become a doctor; funny, kind, empathetic, brilliant, and beautiful–she sure doesn’t look like a drunk four years into her sobriety. But there you have addiction. Exteriors reveal nothing. Addiction is an interior job and predictions are way off who will become intimately acquainted with its dynamics. Why doesn’t Eva’s son use and drink like his sister?

In fact, Eva’s son looked remarkably similar to the clean cut and golden handsome young man I saw today in line behind me at Safeway around 7:15 a.m. as I was on my way to work. He placed one cold 20-ounce Heineken on the conveyor belt just moving forward into his day. He refused to make eye contact with anyone because that’s how shame works. Why him? He actually looked so talented standing there.

Walking home from work tonight on Market Street near Fourth in San Francisco, I stopped to give a dollar to a bearded guy sitting on the sidewalk with a sign: “Staying positive and hoping for kindness.” Not more than ten feet away, four men and a woman worked diligently to replace a heavy gilded metal door, one half of the entrance into The Palace Hotel. These five adults struggled to fit the door back on; earlier it was removed so a Rapide Aston Martin could drive onto the marble entryway and remain as a center piece decoration.

I am curious how mature is it to drive an expensive toy like this? Funny how other addictions besides chemical ones also retard growing up. How far apart are Eva’s daughter drunk on crack hoping for a car to appear out of thin air and the consumer high on material prestige stumbling greedily into signing the contract for this luxury car?

At the end of this day, I couldn’t help but chuckle in a disturbed and grateful way over how blessed I am. Life is smooth. My elitist life cocoons me. Living in a country where a predicted sales price of a car for $260,000 rests easy on display while outside a cacophony of human voices asking for some spare change, bankrupt by addiction, bereft of a stable start in life, I humbly whisper to myself as I look into the eyes of a street person, “There but for the grace of God go I.”

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Always Enough Needs Met

November 14, 2009

For only fleeting moments in the day, poignant remorse surfaces. What if, I wonder. What if I had been able to birth biological children? What if I hadn’t experienced such serious fraud by Elimisha Brown Fussell? What if I had majored in film as an undergraduate rather than blindly following what I experienced growing up? What if this feeling I have for her had some semblance in reality and didn’t just make me cry today? What if I hadn’t created all these painful moments. That is why the remorse is fleeting. Instantly I recognize my part, the responsible role I played. And by now I have immediate ways of positive thinking that turn the switch on. Which one? Gratitude.

On a brief list of daily activities to increase happiness this is number one. Who gave me the list? The therapist who I am working with at San Francisco City College, Rik Isensee. Cannot say enough positive comments about Rik. In a few sessions I feel so grounded and directional about change in the present moment and less actually on dwelling in the past. He recently published a book titled Shift Your Mood: Unleash Your Life! Your Pathway to Happiness. I’ve bought several copies and will distribute them to friends. Investigate further if you wish at http://www.your-pathway-to-happiness.com/ Still a touch sceptical about the talk-therapy approach, but these sessions are winners and I’m grateful.

Despite heartache over the missing girl, life seems especially intriguing these days. I am so damn free. In this daily joyful mood I stumble into mini-adventures. Today I encountered the parking meter maid. He paced back and forth several times around a car he was writing a ticket for. After cleanly parking my car, and falling behind the red line by a generous three feet or so (I’m a cautious driver and excellent parking gal, said humbly, of course), I stepped out of my car and he happened to stroll my direction. I looked down at the curb and saw the other car parked by six inches or so in the red.

“Dude!?” I said, (for some reason I am saying “dude” often these days) waving my hands in incredulous disbelief– as in, how could you ticket a car for only taking such little space in the red.

He looked at me–earnest, stout, and spouting a few black hairs from his ears, appearing a touch to me as if he were a Greek grocer.

“Listen,” he said.

I sneered and almost walked away, giving him immediate belligerent meter-maid attitude; these guys are the Gregor Samsas of real life (see Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis).

Calmly he replied, “No, I mean it, listen.”

And so I did. He regaled me with a story about the building next door catching fire with a loved one inside. He had my full attention and I swear once he sensed that he started to wing it big time. For example, he emphasized three or four times before moving on to another segment of the story about a cherished one waiting inside a burning building. Then he analyzed how the fire hydrant stood at a certain angle, so the fire engine would need to break the car windows in order to feed the hose through. That is why the car deserved a ticket, he calmly explained. This car parked illegal and as a consequence would place someone’s life in grave danger for the extra few minutes it would take to feed the hose through the car’s windows.

Then he turned and pointed to the car three feet away from the red paint and seven feet from the white fire hydrant.

“Now this guy drives with respect,” he said.

“That’s my car!” I said happily.

“I didn’t even notice you parking there,” he said bashfully.

He told me several times that I knew how to drive well and with total respect. Thank you, I replied. Looking directly at me before he turned around to walk away, he said in earnest, “God bless you.” I smiled and said thank you again.

These moments are strange and powerful. In my remorse spots, I wonder if my life has had much purpose. But this idea of rhetoric–the art of persuasion–is one we always discuss in a writing classroom where I work. Maybe my teaching has influenced some. And this guy demonstrated the persuasion technique of using pathos–a splash of emotion to get me not only to listen closely but to accept his logic. Aristotle would have been proud. And also the uber meter-maid reinforced to me that truly it does not matter what your career is–just take it serious and work with integrity. That’s all. Simple. And more than enough. Even eases the heartache of missing her, accepting I don’t usually get what I want, but always get what I need.

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Good Times at the Dentist

November 13, 2009

I don’t know about you but I’ve got that irrational fear of the dentist thing going on. I have an unusually small sized mouth (obviously only the literal version) and I remember as a youngster visiting the dentist to remove a tooth every couple of years to make room for a basic set of choppers. This novel orthodontia approach seems to have worked since for the most part I’ve been a happy masticator. That is until a few months ago when a partial repair of a previously chipped tooth began to fall apart in miniature pieces, bite sized ones.

This morning Dr. Lily Siu expertly worked through my scared stare to suggest a porcelain crown. Sure, my dental insurance pays half of the $1,250 price tag, so I agreed. Before I could barely realize what voluntary torture I had agreed to pay for, she had me inclined way back in the elongated lawn chair. Swiftly she dabbed the gum around my upper right molar with some gooey sweet stuff and then gave me a shot with a long needle that didn’t hurt at all because my eyes were squeezed way shut. I never open my eyes when she works on me. Today I actually fell asleep (exhausted yet again from a quick drive-by coffee moment yesterday with a woman who every time I see her, I toss and turn into the wee hours; trust me that even for a clever manipulate-control aficionada like me, this one is way out of my control) while this procedure took place. Didn’t feel a thing–truly.

My gum numbed up immediately and so out came the drills. She worked steadily to grind the tooth so a freshly minted porcelain crown would fit beautifully over my birth original. While she worked, a distinct burning smell wafted into my nose. And the sound of those drills is so, well, offensive. I almost started laughing at the sitcom-nature of anybody sitting in a dentist’s chair enduring that shrill attack on otherwise peaceful chunks of bone peacefully hanging out in your mouth. Lucky me that Dr. Siu is amazingly talented, so everything was chop-chop done quickly.

On my way out, Vanessa made sure to smile as she scheduled me for the follow up visit in three weeks. Right now I’m just wearing a temporary crown. Was that a sadistic smile when she said the next visit will take at least two hours? This meeting whizzed by in one short 60 minute period. So happy was I for the brief interlude with this place that I almost whistled on my way out. Since my gum was too sore to accomplish this I thought why not explore the neighborhood some, a sort of treat for surviving the torture.

Just a few doors down I discovered the West Portal Bakery. They sliced up a loaf of still warm wheat sour dough. Delicious stuff and especially soft to chew–lucky me. Better yet they toasted a blueberry cream danish that was awesome with a strong cup of joe. I was starting to like going to the dentist. Polishing off the treats, I sauntered back to my car. And then I saw it–a store devoted entirely to selling board games. Huh?

I hadn’t taken more than a few steps inside when a spritely young man without a hair out of place and probably half my size (can’t seem to lose weight as I had hoped, so I’m a pretty hefty girl right now) asked me if I’d like to play the game I was staring at–”Dumb Ass.” Within a minute, we sat at a small table and he read me a trivia pursuit question. And, yes, I knew the accurate answer–the Pentagon. I read him a card and he hopped off his chair, honestly, while replying, “Pamela Anderson.” This guy likes games. No, he loves games and I was absolutely happy that I walked in by accident. He showed me two other games that we also played for a few minutes. Then he showed me a rock game similar to tic-tac-toe but much more clever and engaging. He had invented this game while serving time in the Army overseas and watching Iraqi children play. Alright, so the guy’s a sort of genius for fun. Who opens a board game store in a recession and keeps laughing? Wonderful business to stroll through and spend time–an unexpected visit to a local Willy Wonka factory minus the candy production. See for yourself at Just Awesome in West Portal. Who knew a scary dentist visit could be so fun?

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Faith and New Batteries

November 12, 2009

Faith is driving in the dark. Probably used this image before but think about a road trip at night. You can only see 20 feet or so ahead. That’s the window of trust. Traveling so fast, the car simply keeps moving. Headlights provide enough security to keep the trip going. Unless a bulb burns out as mine did on a 1998 Volvo V70 XC AWD. In my old life that project might have taken me a month to chase down. In sobriety I could enjoy success in 24 hours. Because I know that faith depends on the small details. I can’t trust myself to safely travel forward unless I responsibly act now, act today, and follow through.

So, first thing on Saturday morning I went to Kragen’s and bought two light bulbs for $42. A Volvo burns headlights even during the daytime and I expect the other one will expire soon enough. Leave it to those stoic Swedes to protect us even in the daytime. After I bought the bulb, I drove a few blocks to Royal Motors Sales in San Francisco, wincing as I looked around at the pricey cars on racks for oil changes. The garage is more immaculate than my living room and I’m pretty tidy. No dust or dirt in sight, actually. It’s so true that in America people look you up and down after spying your car. Saturdays are my dress down days, so the clerk searching for the special transmission oil that I needed appeared to assume I must have money somewhere based on the car I was driving. Enough to invite a full-fledge car mechanic to stop on by the hood of the car. He opened it and jeered at the battery cables covered in leaking gunk.

Then he spent five minutes narrating potential dire situations. Problem is I love language, so when car mechanics talk to me I simply memorize every word and repeat those money-earning vocabulary words. This always brings a stare of disbelief. Each one takes a step back and stares at me as if I’m undercover and here to bust them. Nothing could be further from the truth. I simply ask questions. A lot of them. He quietly asked for the headlight bulb; I gave it to him and he replaced it in 20 seconds. I thanked him profusely for all his insight–really I did and honestly so. Then I turned around to leave. The knowledge cost me $0. And that’s most often the case after paying attention closely, asking questions, and listening carefully. Never fails.

I delicately backed out of the garage and drove to a different shop where I know the owner, Raul, from previous visits. He focused on a completely different potential problem. These mechanic guys always teach me so much. I asked him if I could return the next day and leave the car with him. I did but he hadn’t ordered the parts. Huh? Anyway, I leave the car with him and walk to work. Even by 5 p.m. all he finishes is installing a brand new battery. Mind you, the car runs just fine–I’m simply proactively taking care of what will probably need focusing on. And with these guys that’s so hard to tell. Each one has a different story and a radically different price for that creative story. But I keep the faith. Because I know my patience will pay off.

Mind you I’ve usually lived this way; my AAA membership is probably a decade old. They’ve been my road insurance for a long, long time. It is just that faith in life takes additional leaps when trying to recognize who speaks truthfully and who doesn’t. For example, I went to Wheel Works today so they could put on brand new tires. Again, I stepped up to the hood of the car and this third set of mechanics went through an entirely different laundry list of items to consider repairing. No joke. Inside the office, a clerk spent 15 minutes typing up the list. He was asking $450 to replace the transmission oil. Is that possible? On a Volvo anything goes when it comes to repair costs, but still. I questioned him. He looked flabbergasted and then back pedaled, finishing by saying the job is not as easy as a regular oil change.

It’s all good. Another clerk advised me to go next door to Kragen’s and buy the $4.95 battery that I needed to open the car. Several mechanics were trying to use a coat hanger because the battery in the electronic door opener went dead. Only one battery was left hanging on a dusty rack in Kragen’s. Lucky faithful me. We all shared a good laugh when I simply strolled up to the car and whispered open sesame while pushing down on the new battery. Success!

Life is that trustworthy I guess. Just keep doing the footwork to show up and notice what absolutely needs doing next. After selling my condo, and remembering my traumatic life this time last year, I admit that for several days this past week a few tears fell. Simply healthy moments of letting go and feeling grateful. Truly I cannot see beyond the next few hours in any given day right now, maybe twenty feet ahead of me on the sidewalk. But I trust. My batteries feel recharged by keeping the faith.

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Posted by karolinawrites

Random Life Into Art

November 7, 2009

Just staying alive seems so random. I remember at 16-years-old driving my parents van after drinking nearly a full bottle of Southern Comfort. Three or maybe four of my friends were in the car. Pretty scary stuff actually as I drove down a narrow street taking off side view mirrors on stationary cars. Finally, the police pulled me over and asked a friend, not as drunk but pretty toasty, to drive the gang home. Meanwhile they took me to a drying out cell in the small downtown Monterey jail. I remember placing my feet on the cold cement floor hoping they wouldn’t call my parents, which of course they did. Arrested that early was perhaps an early warning sign I suppose of troubled drinking to follow. Who knows what life turns I would have had if somebody had helped me. Nobody did and so today at 44-years-old and 28 years later, I’m simply grateful for healthy living, the random life given me.

So many are not so lucky. Sitting in an AA meeting the other night, I listened as a young woman teared up while telling the story of her San Francisco State friend who found six months of earnest sobriety at 19. Family and friends celebrated the change he was able to make. Then last weekend while driving to Chico, CA he died in a random car accident. Today in class a young student shared with the group that she knew this student too. Many say he had an amazing spirit. Another student in this class recounted a different anecdote about another 19-year-old who drank too much, passed out on railroad tracks in the East Bay, and met his fate there. Why is one person taken and not another? Simply eerie to ponder the random toss of the dice. My rolls have sure come up lucky so far.

Or consider how randomly forces of human nature take shape. With a friend tonight, I went to see “Coco Before Chanel,” a film with beautiful cinematography, telling the tale of a young girl orphaned at 10-years-old only to evolve into one of fashion’s revolutionary influences. She seemed to work her loss, her abandonment, into frenzied ambition. In the film’s narrative you watch and listen to her plaintive urgent whisper: Please see me now. No one left me, right? My work is me and so I’m visible, yes? Even in later life, Coco suffered the loss of her major adult love to a random fatal car accident. After his death, she had several affairs, but never married a person–instead forging a lifelong commitment to her career. Come to think of it, her signature fragrance Chanel No. 5 smells playfully sweet, yes, but also sad, a touch forlorn. Funny how loss can motivate the creative impulse, imploring the art medium–whether painting, fashion, cinema or many others–to represent tolerable presence while underneath so much absence is felt.

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Posted by karolinawrites

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