Monday Morning Orange Juice, September 9, 2019

"This world desperately needs silence. Most people are addicted to stress-producing stimuli. Mentally and emotionally, we need to fast, to clean out the system, to stop overloading it with mean and unnatural mental pollution.We are deeply afraid of the silence, the void, the emptiness…Empty places are not really empty; they are pregnant…the ever-present possibility of a magic moment or miraculous thought. Off the blank page jumps a cosmic summons. Out of that silence came the opening chords of Beethoven’s Fifth. "

Marianne Williamson, Illuminata

Have a wonderful week.

Meditando l'italia (Pondering Italy)

Over Memorial Day weekend, I was tasting and Instagramming a different wine each day (except Saturday, when I had to work during drinking hours.) I’d planned to taste a rose on Monday, the holiday, to really usher summer in. However, while I was downstairs, looking at bottles and pondering how I’d managed to accumulate so much wine, an Italian label caught my eye. I went upstairs ready to get the rose from the frig, when the word (and title) “ITALY” jumped off a bookshelf at me.

I took the book from the shelf and went back downstairs for the Italian Sangiovese. Time to step away from the tasks at hand and open my mind to possibilities again. I’ve been entranced by Italy for a long time.

From where does this come? My own family ties are in the United Kingdom with 19th century Native American links.  

Maybe the Italian culture is what lures me. There is a warmth about close families, grandma making pasta, traditions. The (admittedly stereotypical) food is “comfort” food: spaghetti and meatballs, cheese, pizza, bread, and cookies. There is the Old World wine still made today with ancient grapes on ground that monks tended centuries ago—“Salute” (to your health)—and the home made red in jugs in the basement from Nonno’s backyard vines. Lately, more Italian wineries and contacts are following me on Instagram because of my food and wine posts.

And the language…swoon-worthy words like Montepulciano, Sole de Sardegna, Campania, cara bella, Toscana, Barolo, grazie mille roll seductively around the mouth and off the tongue.

This weekend, Italy kept appearing again. I was able to get reservations at a special Italian five-course dinner at a local restaurant Friday night. On Saturday, as I worked at home, PBS ran a pledge drive promo, “Visions of Italy,” an entire program of helicopter views of the countryside and coastline, and on Sunday, I turned on “International House Hunters” to find a Canadian family buying a vacation/retirement home on Lake Como. Coincidences, I’m sure. These things probably pop up on my radar because, as I mentioned, Italy always piques my interest.  

I’ve been fortunate to have friends and family introduce me to their Italian customs and foods, but at different crossroads in my life I’ve considered an extended stay—or a move—to Italy so that I can really experience the culture and learn more about this ancient country. I’m considering this again, and maybe recent people I’ve met, wines I’ve seen, new followers on Instagram, and special dinners are really part of a plan put in motion a long time ago, this time not only keeping Italy on my mind, but pushing me to pursue this path. 

Clearance

I feel like I’ve had a productive weekend. Over the past three months—at least—I have been disappointed in myself on Sunday nights for not having completed a myriad of tasks. I would have checked off some of the items on my lengthy, ongoing list, but I wouldn’t COMPLETE the list.

Granted, I work at the store and/or writing articles at least two weekends a month, and the weather hasn’t been conducive to some of my wanna-do tasks like walking in the park or shooting photos.  If there is snow falling, and temps are in the teens, I’ll get my fresh air taking the dog out and leave icy roads and paths to those who have warmer blood than I. From Thanksgiving until the end of January I was also fighting off the flu and felt foggy and sleepy when I had a chance to rest. At any rate, this Capricorn seemed to have no extra energy to actually work on the tasks at hand.

Which brings me to this weekend. Maybe it’s the days getting longer, maybe I’ve finally cleared the flu hurdle, or maybe it was the full moon eclipse a couple of weeks ago, but I feel like things are moving forward in a lot of areas of my life. I’ve been gradually picking up speed and direction, and am making that leap from planning to doing.

Friday I got several things accomplished before getting to the office. One batch of snow hit Friday afternoon, and I shoveled the drive when I got home. Saturday I had a hair appointment, picked up a few groceries, and had the car washed. At home, I went through articles and emails I’d saved to my phone to read later while Hulu played “Tiny House Hunters.”  I watched all of these inspiring people paring down their possessions to “the things that really mattered”—and would fit into 192 square feet.

This is something on which I’ve been working for awhile, since the spring after my parents died, really. I came to Rochester with what I thought were mostly essentials to find that I don’t need all of the stuff still up in the garage. In addition, this house, funky and lovely as it is, is far more house than necessary. After Christmas I put holiday decorations in “to go” boxes in the mudroom and went through a storage closet, bathroom closet, and coat closet to thin those out.

Today I started on my bedroom closet. There were two bins and a suitcase containing seasonal and miscellaneous clothes. Memories of past lives and boyfriends went through my head as I dug through the jumble of fabrics. And socks. I already have a drawer full of socks, but here, remarkably, were more. I started four piles: garbage, general giveaway, teen shelter, and keep. At the end of this session, I put the "keep" pile into the suitcase—only because I didn’t have enough hangers. Shoe boxes went in the one bin to tidy the closet, and everything else went out to the mudroom.

Since I was on a roll, I decided to check out bins of kitchen ware in the basement, two small and one extra large. I went through these when I moved in and got rid of some things, but, now settled, I knew there was more waiting. Sure enough, I ousted the remaining cookie sheets (the one I use is enough,) several lidded casserole dishes (my crock pot and Dutch oven serve my purposes,) and the muffin pans, both regular and mini. Truly, I rarely bake, and any cupcake mission is best left to the professionals at any one of the 1,000 bakeries here in Rochester. Almost everything in these bins joined the clothes out on the porch, and only one small (18 gallon) bin went back downstairs to consider later.

So here I am tonight with a little sense of accomplishment, though there will be several more go-arounds with closets and bins before I get to tiny house level. But this is do-able. 

What are the essentials in my life? What is most important to me? When WAS the last time I actually used this or that? Which wine glasses will be the keepers, and how many of them? (lol)

All of this clearing is shaping up to stock a mega-garage sale this spring. In the meantime, what should I do with these?  

Another Year Over

As during the past year, I am finding it hard to put my thoughts in black and white today.

I’ve written 100 or more blog paragraphs in my head over these months and weeks, but my sentences and consciousness begin rambling down paths and tangents, so that nothing makes sense--just as in the rest of my life and the world in general in 2017.

This was a year of discouragement, distraction, and disillusionment. I found myself withdrawing from writing, creative pursuits, and social life, trying to feel that feeling that tells me I’m on track, but there was so much clutter and “stuff” all around. There was no energy at the end of the day.

My strategy has been to try to counter all of the negative energy—especially in social media—with positive energy: posting and sharing good news only, resuming a meditation practice, taking a course on angels and another on healing, avoiding as much political discussion as possible. And I think this has helped clear some of the fog. But it’s obvious that there is more adversity out there than ever, and I’ve recently become one of the targets in someone’s bizarre hate campaign. Fortunately, my work, reputation, and ethics speak for themselves, but there are many people who don’t know me who are swayed and brainwashed by ridiculous attacks. It’s hurtful and another needless distraction and waste of time and energy.  

There is something within us that always seeks some “promise of hope” for New Year’s Day and the 12 months ahead. I’ve been looking back to determine what has made me happy in the past, times when I’ve felt that I was in the zone and on the Path because I’ve seen precious little of it during the past three years. That will be a guide as I move forward. I’ve already begun cleaning closets and other “out with the old” tasks to simplify my space and life--again. I wish I could be somewhere and feel settled, but I always have the feeling that I’m a fish out of water, and everything around me is temporary.

Maybe 2018 is the year I’ll find home.    

Open to everything happy and sad

SEPTEMBER 05, 2016 IN GENERAL

Open to everything happy and sad

Seeing the good when it’s all going bad

Seeing the sun when I can’t really see

Hoping the sun will at least look at me

Moby, “Slipping Away”

Today did not start out well. It’s a holiday and one of my three or four days off for September. I set my alarm for “late” after finishing a movie well after midnight last night, and was planning on a leisurely morning. My new neighbors were up bright and early, though, chatting and walking around the yards in our little strip. I grudging got up at 7:15, not being able to sleep.

I took Zsa Zsa out, and one of the new neighbors’ dogs was in “my” yard doing his thing. ZZ ignored him, and he came over and peed on her.  Yes, you read that right. The neighbor came over and apologized, but it meant I had to bathe ZZ right away. I did that, fixed our breakfast and went out the door for a walk at Durand Eastman Park.

Ahhhhh.

I did an article a few years ago—and have probably mentioned it here—on “nature therapy” in Japan.  City dwellers there pay exorbitant fees to be bussed with lots of other city dwellers to parks and forests, where they wander around, lean on trees, lie on the ground and just take in the oxygen. A few hours later, refreshed and de-stressed, they board the busses and go back home.

I step onto the trail with Moby on Pandora and put one foot in front of the other. Moby always brings up a range of emotions for me: relaxing, inspiring, nostalgic, motivating, and some of it hits notes in my soul. Today was the first time in weeks I’ve been able to chill and walk under the cool shade of these tall trees. (breathe in)

As Moby’s instrumental rocks a walking beat (breathe in) I stroll past the houses at the beginning of the trail, breakfast in the air. (breathe out) And down the hill into the woods I feel my muscles soften and begin to release some of the stress of last month. (breathe in) Earth and green leaves, and another scent of summer less identifiable. (breathe out)

“Focus on everything better today,” the lyrics whisper.  I smile at a couple walking by and a pass a couple expecting a baby.  (breathe in) Sunlight in the trees, shadows on the path, smells of daily life in the woods.  More people glide by. (breathe out) My body is now out of body—listening to the music, filling my lungs with this freshly produced air, feeling the rhythm of the songs as I step, step, step, step. (breathe in)

There are no red-winged black birds today at the bridge over the wetlands, but the reeds are thick, and I know there is life among them. (breathe out) Up the hill toward the lake, a thin jogger wearing thick glasses and a baseball cap approaches with his hand out to me in a “high five” move. Most passers-by give a nod or a smile, but he was a cyclone of energy. (breathe in) We hit our palms together, and I giggle.

I turn around at the park sign for the return trip (breathe out) and notice everyone heading in the opposite direction is smiling now, all met by the “high five” guy. What a little gift he gave with his encouragement and joy. (breathe in) I meet him again on the bridge. He is clapping and laughing as he runs this time. I put my palms together and motion toward him. (breathe out) “Thank you,” I say as we pass. He hesitates a little, grinning. I don’t think he expected a thank you.

A woman walking a greyhound (breathe in) asks me if I’ve seen a fawn along the path that someone told her about. No, I haven’t, but we chat briefly about the wildlife and greyhounds. I continue up the hill with my music. (breathe out)

I needed this. This has been one of the most difficult years, and it is most certainly—finally—turning around. I am fortunate, (breathe in blessings) but this has not come without pain and trust and faith. I am still processing all that has happened, but by October I should certainly be in a better place mentally, emotionally, and most other “--allys,” too.  (breathe out gratitude)

“It’s all a mystery, let it come and let it be,” sings the haunting song by Blackmill in my ears. Up the hill I push the pace. Let it all come at me. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. (breathe in) Life is a balance, an ebb and flow. Patience, faith, determination. I reach the top of the hill, feeling the physical release of the last of the negative energy. (breathe out) Let it be.  

Memorial Day (Looking Back and Forward)

MAY 30, 2016 IN GENERAL

I actually began this post with my “Monday” entry on my ArtSoulWine Facebook page last night. Today is Memorial Day, and many Americans are remembering loved ones who died in service or who were war veterans. But also in my head is a phrase to which I am clinging right now: “Don’t look back. You aren’t going that way.” Dichotomy is a constant companion in my life.

I have had better days—and years—but, in a “doctor, heal thyself” tone, I tell my tired reflection in the mirror that this is only temporary, that good things are coming any minute now. I ask, “How can it get better than this?” I expend my energy not only seeking opportunities and brainstorming possibilities, but trying to remain focused on tasks I can do today in manifesting my New Life. Daydreaming into the past would be easy. I had a growing photography business; people sought me out for freelance projects; I did what I loved in a place I loved. Previous to that I had a job with “purpose” where I felt like what I did had a positive impact even if in some small way. Not only that, but I made enough money to live. 

But life today is different, and there have been twists and turns on the path from there to here that have brought me to the edge of this cliff. Only lessons I’ve learned along the way can help me. Dwelling on what used to be or what might have been cannot. As Stephen King said, “Some memories were all right, but others were dangerous.” I place one foot in front of the other, one stumble from a fall.

One detour, of course, was moving to Ohio to take care of my parents. My father was a Korean War veteran, and, as I thought about remembrance and Memorial Day, I started searching for the photo album from his time there. He was in the US Army, drove a Jeep and was an instructor of some kind in the field. While he gave us anecdotes about various incidents and a puppy that showed up at the camp and that he adopted, he did not otherwise interact with other veterans or want to discuss his time there. He left what he could overseas, though it seems there was pain that stayed with him. He saw no reason to call that up.  

Back to the album. I felt sick to my stomach as I went through boxes and bins. I unfortunately left some things in Ohio when I came to New York and was worried that somehow this had missed the moving van. Taken more than a decade before the days of television war coverage and eons before social media, the photos chronicle parts of the daily life of a soldier: a Jeep stuck in a flood, a burning hillside, loading machine guns, camps, the aftermath of a bombing, reading a letter from home. The album is something that meant a lot to my father, and I began feeling a loss of history and letting my father down as I turned up nothing in the house. 

Today I found it in a small box in the garage (audible gasp of relief.) Why was this so important to me? I am a pacifist to the core. Do no harm. I think it was the “human-ness” and humbleness of the photos, taken from the eyes of a small-town boy from Ohio. There are most certainly other families that have albums like this. How many of the men laughing or staring tentatively into the camera lens didn’t make it home? That is what my father wouldn’t talk about. 

In my current frame of mind, trying to stay present and look forward, I wonder what this album and this Memorial Day is telling me. We can express our gratitude and honor our loved ones’ service and courage every day, not just one. But the message that really comes through is about not dwelling on anger and the evils and human sacrifices of war and conflict, but refocusing on thoughts and prayers for tolerance and understanding and sending those out into the Universe, becoming peace within for peace all around.

I (or we) need to do what we can do today to manifest a better tomorrow and better life for all of us.  

(My father, William Ault, seated third from the left)

(There is also a metal box with 35mm slides, meticulously marked with descriptions. I'll have to get out the slide viewer to see these.)

("It sure is a long way..." He was homesick and quite ill on the ship)

Hyacinth

MARCH 29, 2016 IN GENERAL, FLOWERS

“And the time came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”                                   Anais Nin

Overall, I am fortunate. I have good friends and nice friends. I have support and encouragement from people around me. Also around me, well . . .as I type this I’m looking at blue water under blue sky and know that this is a luxury.

I’m feeling the pain of a faith being tested. I’m pushing back the fear of the unknown, consciously forcing myself to look toward the faith side and turn my back on the fear. This has been a far more difficult winter than I imagined, with twists and turns—not all bad, but distracting. I feel like I’m sliding down a dusty slope, trying to reverse the momentum or at least gain enough traction to delay the descent.

And now it is spring, and the progress I’d expected to make over the winter has not materialized. Maybe my expectations were too great and my faith in my choices too secure. Or maybe I’ve been too IN-secure to let myself truly believe.

I am simultaneously restless and paralyzed. I want to pace back and forth and circle through the rooms, and yet the movement has no force or destination. I want to sit quietly and calm my mind.

I saw the hyacinth at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago, its flowers still closed. Like narcissus at Christmas, hyacinths at Easter have a heady fragrance that soothes and excites—spring is here. Today the buds have all opened, and the stems are bent from the weight of the full blooms. The fragrance is not as strong now that the flower has matured. It is fulfilling its purpose: to grow, to blossom, to beautify, to create happiness, to take us out of winter and give us spring.

What is my purpose, and is this my spring? 

Today (With Wintry Images from My Travels over the Past Month)

JANUARY 01, 2016 IN GENERAL

“It is 2016, but your life may not feel very different in any way just yet…but your life could change dramatically.” Capricorn horoscope for today

In my last post I noted how difficult it’s been for me to write. Again, I’ve started this post and stopped several times. I’ve shot photos and scrapped them. I usually post to Instagram nearly every day, though, thanks to a daily photo challenge. But I’ve been thinking about this blog.

Today, as I type, I’m thinking that I should be outside walking. The sun has come out, and fresh cool air would do me good. I should also be making lasagna with the vegetables I purchased earlier this week—that really has to be done. I’m finishing laundry, and still need to finish taking carpet staples out of the hardwood floor in the bedroom. And Zsa Zsa is overdue for a bath. 

This blog, to me, has always been a personal outlet, and maybe that is the issue. For the past few months I’ve been scattered, distracted, on the edge, trying to develop a new business, leaving the known for the unknown, struggling to get settled in this house. Progress is slower than expected. I’m worried and sad and excited. As my old life slips away, I feel unprepared for the new, yet I push ahead. As much as I used to love the holidays, I now dread the isolation of December. What I’m feeling defies description at any given moment. But I put up a good façade. 

A recent conversation with a friend who paid me the nicest compliment I’ve ever received and a heart-wrenching Facebook post by another whose friend just committed suicide made me pause. From different directions and in different ways, the same message I got from each of them was that you never know what someone is thinking. We are all islands—with all due respect to John Donne—connected really by the water between us, whether ebbing back and forth or flowing past. Our energy draws us together, but it may or may not be strong enough to keep us that way. 

This New Year brings release of old patterns and relationships and memories that are hurtful or that have run their course. All I can do is focus long enough to welcome new opportunities, new connections, new waters and new inspiration, and hopefully a cushion for next December’s blows.

Too Many Scattered Thoughts

DECEMBER 13, 2015 IN GENERAL

I’ve been trying to write for several weeks. I thought that once I got to where I was going it would all be okay. I could regain my focus on tasks at hand and move ahead. Without relaying all the laborious details, these weeks have been somewhat disappointing and even distressing. 

Today's photos were taken ages ago when we had a couple of days of snow. The sunrises here are beautiful, and I photograph them regularly. Truly, the weather has been amazing, so that is positive.

Right now my “to do” list is still full, and there are things that I HAVE to finish today. I’ll write a real blog entry when I’m in a better mood, a better frame of mind. This afternoon the water outside is calm, reflecting the grey, broken clouds. I’ll enjoy the quiet evening, make a phone call or two and push through the must-do tasks on the list.   

The Long and Winding Road

OCTOBER 25, 2015 IN GENERAL

Some people see their paths clearly. Everything is laid out in front of them, their compasses point north, and they’re off and running. Other people—like myself—seem to have less direction or clarity or a path that is at least partially covered in vines or fog. Maybe it all feels right sometimes. Things fall into place, and people show up exactly at the time they’re needed. One contact or project or tidbit pushes you along in the Universal Flow. I’ve been there.

However, the last few years I’ve groped in the fog and hacked away with a machete. While I knew Ohio was the “right” choice I could not seem to make much headway. I felt isolated most of the time for many reasons.

Finally, though, I tuned out the desire to “make it work” and tuned into more subtle messages. I evaluated my experiences and reviewed the paths I’d taken. I went back to an old exercise of mine that asks, “What would you do if it could be anything?” and eliminated limitations, gradually putting thoughts out There about what would be ideal for me. 

I’ve learned the following:  1. what you think you want and what you’re supposed to have are not always the same things; 2. meditation is an excellent tool for filtering and calming; 3. having patience is very important; 4. focusing on lack creates lack, and focusing on abundance and blessings creates abundance and blessings; 5. it can all be frustrating and grueling, but you have to be patient; 6. and trust in a benevolent Universe/God/Spirit; 7. your gut feelings are your instincts, and if you can tune into those—as crazy as they may seem—they won’t steer you wrong; 8. patience, grasshopper, patience.

My “work” is still evolving, but my house-hunting exploits are the stuff of legends. Plan A was to purchase a house for cash and not have a mortgage payment. As soon as this was possible the market skyrocketed, greatly diminishing my choices of homes and neighborhoods. There was a cute little place near the corner on Jewel St. at Norton, however, that caught my eye in spite of there being only one exterior photo of the property. The neighborhood was marginal with a church directly across the street, but a suspicious looking multi-family across Norton that seemed to have cars generally pulling up and leaving.  

When realtor Tim opened the door, I fell in love with the house. It was everything I’d imagined: old style tiles, hardwoods, a sunroom, glass front kitchen cabinets, an attached garage, charm, reasonably priced. But would I feel safe in the neighborhood? Could I take Zsa Zsa for a walk? Did I want to zip my car in the garage and live inside looking out? There had been a shooting down the street.  I decided to make an offer anyway because it was such a nice house in good condition. Ahh, but no-go. The man told Tim that he was taking it off the market to rent to a friend of his. I wasn’t happy, but “wasn’t meant to be” kept going through my head.  

Subsequent houses went from bad to worse, including a house that was imploding because it had been built on a spring (or cave or something) and a mobile home 20 miles from the city with a ceiling that was buckling. I’d tried to wrap my head around a possible deal for a house on the water, but couldn’t get it to feel comfortable. A talk with one of my friends finally convinced me to rent instead by reminding me of the freedom I had as a tenant in Oregon and reiterating that repairs on these houses were imminent, as were Rochester’s notoriously high taxes. Oh, yes. It was coming back to me from owning my house years ago. 

My friends and I switched gears to find suitable rental properties: at least off-street parking, two bedrooms if possible, and, of course, Zsa Zsa friendly. We cruised by a few possibilities; I visited a couple of city lofts. I was making appointments and staying in my friends’ camper next to their house with my belongings in storage.  

One Sunday I simply drove around thinking, “There has to be SOMEthing. What am I missing?” which took me along the bay. I spotted one “For Rent” sign in front of a two-car garage and took down the number. When I called the next day, the landlord and I seemed to connect right away. The house was a funky, artsy-craftsy two-bedroom with the garage.  And it was right on the water. In fact, it had everything I’d asked for from the Universe at the beginning of this whole process.  BAM, Emeril style.

I imagine myself as the princess kissing frogs to get to the prince, (need I mention the trust and patience involved?) but am excited to be in a place that feels kind of like home even with my furniture in storage. I couldn’t have gotten here without help from my friends Diane & Bill, Rich, Jodi, Carol and Larry—sages, cheerleaders, voices of reason, sounding boards. I am so, so grateful for the advice, suggestions and patience as I toddled through this particular stretch.

 I’ve spent the entire day here at the house just reading, unpacking, cleaning, putting a slipcover on a chair, looking at paint swatches. Neighbor Dave mowed my little back yard. The path continues, and so will I. The fog has cleared. Tonight the moon is shining on the still water. 

Surrounded

JULY 19, 2015 IN GENERAL

I’m getting closer to the finish line. While looking at all the updates on Zillow, I did see one little house that I thought might be a contender. Then the realtor sent me additional photos: part of the plumbing missing, a shabby roof, a large window rotted underneath, no furnace. Hmmm.  

The Salvation Army took away much of what has to go, but I’ll need to have them come out again for the final large items that I’m still using. They took my father’s recliner, and I replaced it with an old Mission style rocking chair that suits me better. I’m packing every day, and now I can take more down to the basement. I sorted and condensed bins in the garage on Saturday. There is still too much stuff, but I don’t know where I’ll be and what I’ll need. At least a lot of what I have is in boxes now.

As I was maneuvering boxes in the basement, I saw one from Oregon that I hadn’t opened. Inside were some photos, some books (what a surprise,) and a beautiful, soft knitted wrap from my friend Beverlee. Beverlee and Robert were my first landlords there and my neighbors and friends after I moved from their furnished, stunning loft apartment with a wall of glass. This wrap was on an arm chair facing the ocean, and I spent most of my mornings there with coffee. After moving across the street, I would sometimes see Beverlee sitting in that chair, the wrap on her shoulders.

She offered items to me sometimes when she did her own downsizing or redecorating. At some point I had admired this when she was wearing it, and during her next clear-out she brought it over to me. It’s soft and light and hand made with little imperfections in the yarn and stitching. I can still see it on the back of the wing chair and feel it against my arms on misty mornings and rainy evenings in front of the loft’s gas fireplace.

Finding this made me cry and cry. It may be all of the emotions attached to this process and feeling overwhelmed and tired from this solitary journey. I’ve been going through three lives for the past year—my father’s, my mother’s and mine—trying to determine what will remain of them. And this knit throw smells of the ocean and is what remains (for me) of Beverlee. She passed away three years ago this month after a painful battle with cancer. I was talking with her at her home in Phoenix before I moved here, and she had not been feeling well but was planning to get to their summer house in Cannon Beach that summer—and did. The disease finally took its toll.

My life went on and is still going on. Her memories now mingle with my parents’ memories and those of my grandparents as I sift through all of the things that once meant something to them. I took the wrap upstairs with me. I couldn’t open any more boxes or put sheets of newspaper around anything else. The house suddenly felt cold, even though it was near 90 degrees outside.

I put the wrap around my shoulders, sat in my chair, and rocked myself to sleep.

Letting Go and Hanging On

JULY 13, 2015 IN GENERAL

This is the fifth time I’ve written this entry. I started it last Sunday and scrapped that subject.  I started another during the week, and stopped. I began two other versions today (Sunday) alone. And shot other photos yesterday. It was all ready to go until I got ready to fire up the laptop to post. What I’ve really been thinking about this weekend are memories.

This week I heard about a woman’s supposedly revolutionary best-selling book on eliminating clutter in your life. The idea that everyone thinks is brilliant is simply “keep only the things that mean something to you.” Okay. I’ve been doing that for a year and a half.

At no other time in my life have I had to weigh the emotional “value” of things than as I’ve gone through my parents’ house. I don’t even know many of the people whose pictures and cards I’ve found. I hadn’t lived with my parents in nearly 30 years when I came here to help, and I had never lived in this house. I recognize knick knacks and drinking glasses and vacation photos that bring back memories, but I don’t need to keep all of them.

I have my own keepsakes that bring old memories and feelings to the surface: a favorite coffee mug, a postcard, a purse, some jewelry, and of course photographs. For years I kept an envelope with a scribble on it. I think I’ve let that go, but the memories of that period and lover are still mixed. Sometimes happy thoughts are crowded away by painful ones, even so many years later.

I have some Depression glass that was my grandfather’s and a fern stand that was his mother’s, as was a lamp that my mother inherited. They remind me of the lovely house on the bank of the Ohio River; memories of my grandparents are good. Those things will come with me again.

July 6 was an old boyfriend’s birthday—and I mean decades ago. Memories of the good and bad trickled into my head all week: skiing, concerts, Kennywood, then, phone calls, tension and a nasty breakup. I know I am not the same person I was then, and it all happened as it should.  

Today on NPR’s “Radio Lab” a guest told a story about a friend who had passed away. He talked about memories and how he and this friend had shared a very special, intimate moment. He noted a realization about it: that he is the only one on the planet now who has had that experience and that memory. His friend is gone, and he can share it through talking about it, but he is the only one who can feel the memory. When he goes, the beautiful moment will die, also.

He re-started the memory flow in my head—fireworks in Pittsburgh, a special dinner in NYC, a discussion of love in the dark, a drive along the coast, a night under a meteor shower—all unique, intimate  moments shared with just one other person at the time. Do they remember them, too? 

My final thought in this stream of consciousness is that “things” are not memories, they are triggers. Yesterday, while “downsizing” a bin from Oregon I found a t-shirt from one of the best days of my life. I not only took it upstairs, but put it on, recalling vignettes from that happy time. It’s impossible (and not really practical) to keep everything that has a memory attached. I’ve done well in clearing the clutter and not hanging on to items with marginal meaning just because someone else was fond of them. I am looking forward to having my own space again, surrounded by things that are important to me. But the number of fond memories I have of friends, family, loves and places would fill many houses. They are the most important possessions and travel with me in all places through all of time. 

(The photos are from friend Jodi's recently acquired old farmhouse, where she and husband Kelly will make new memories)

Just Flowers

JUNE 24, 2015 IN GENERAL

I am always surprised (and shouldn't be) when I see how much time has passed since my last post here. I do post on ArtSoulWine a couple of times a week and shoot a "photo-a-day" challenge on Instagram, but I find myself missing the more personal posts here.

A lot has happened this month, and it's ironic that the last post was my column titled "Disconnecting" because I've been "disconnected" from the paper in a company "reorganization." This is fine and as it should be. My work there is done. Now I'm watching for the next door to open, the next directional sign, ready for the next step (whatever THAT is,) and preparing to move on. I'm sure the Universe is aware of this and is getting ready to launch me into something. 

Tonight I am a bit tired; my days are full still with details and thoughts--waaay too much time in my head. With an early meeting tomorrow, I took time tonight to go through some recent flower photos and play a bit with them. I'm thankful for that quiet time and the peacefulness that the photos are giving me.  Enjoy...

COLUMN 27: Disconnecting

JUNE 03, 2015 IN GENERAL, TIMES LEADER

This column appeared in the Times Leader on Sunday, May 24, 2015

From the Latin words “dis” (apart) + “com” (together) + “nectere” (to tie,) the concept of “disconnect” has apparently become a bad thing. I wonder why.

That’s not to say that there aren’t negative forms of disconnection—sudden or prolonged withdrawal from friends and family or a winter power outage during an ice storm for instance. But I’m far more overwhelmed by too much connection than by pulling the plug or temporarily loosening the ties. For other people, it seems there is no such thing as down time.

I’m connected to my computer, phone and television, as are most people these days and as guilty of fidgety glances looking for notifications. My smart phone dings when new emails arrive in four different accounts. It tells me if I’ve missed a call and which contact in my list of several hundred was trying to reach me.  A little camera icon appears when someone likes one of my Instagram photos, and a talking bubble icon shows up if one of my friends sends me an instant message or text. I have websites and blogs to be updated, and don’t get me started on keeping up with my friends’ activities on Facebook.

Yes, there’s something kind of cool about someone in Australia following your posts or getting “likes” from the UK and Malaysia and keeping in touch with friends throughout the world, but there is also something a little creepy about people from your past that you’d rather forget or people that you don’t know at all repeatedly sending requests to be in your network on LinkedIn.

Companies that develop the apps constantly badger me to update their products, some of which require an increasing list of “permissions” to access my phone’s history, camera, contacts, location, etc. I usually opt for “No. I’ll keep the old version, thank you.” What is disconcerting, though, is that I just scanned through some of the out-dated apps, and they now “require no new permissions.” This means that (probably) Google has taken care of that and upgraded me with some sort of system update that handed over all of my information to Amazon, Facebook, Google Play, Motorola and YouTube whether I want them to have it or not. Very disturbing to have them connecting to my life without my knowledge or my approval. It is, after all, my phone service for which I pay an exorbitant amount of money every month.

For many years, going back to the Dark Ages when I had a land line at home, I have shut the phone ringer off on Sundays. Now it’s usually because I’m writing (working) on Sunday afternoons, but then it was to disconnect and spend time reading, watching old movies and hanging out with my dog to recharge.  I do it when I need to spend a few hours of quiet time away from the world at large. Voice mail is a wonderful thing.

I disconnect when I’m working, too--no TV, no radio or Pandora. For the most part, the only sounds are usually the breeze in the trees and Zsa Zsa snoring while I write. Maybe it’s my little pea brain, but I have to concentrate without distractions. I zone in on my research and computer screen. I sound out the words in my head as I type. I read what I’ve written out loud. I can’t hear myself while Dr. Phil interrogates his guests or Ellen dances or contestants price appliances.  But that’s just the way I roll.

A commercial for a morning show says, “You don’t want to be the one who doesn’t know.” Frankly, I don’t care about “knowing” everything. I glance through the headlines later, and if something interests me I read or watch the story. What I REALLY “don’t want” is to be bombarded with bad news and commercials first thing in the morning.  I’ve mentioned this before.

I recently forgot my phone when I went to Pittsburgh with a school field trip. A little anxiety set in at first because I was waiting for an email. How would I return calls? I’d planned to do my Instagram post from the museum—what now? My friend offered her phone to check emails and snap photos, and I stopped myself. What was the big deal? I had my regular camera for taking photos, and I would still have time once back at home to return the necessary messages. No need to panic. Breathe, reset, relax and simply enjoy the opportunity to see the art and artifacts.

How have we become so nervous about stepping out of the loop? What is that need to check the phone for flashing icons or the number of “likes?” When did the human web become so tightly woven that there is no privacy and so much extraneous thread? We’ve become afraid to be quiet and alone and untied even just for a little while. Is it because “the truth is out there,” and we want to be the first to post it? Or is it because we know the truth lies within us, and we are uncomfortable with what we’ll find?