How am I supposed to be Zen when a mysterious poo is sitting in my garden of enlightenment?

I cannot take credit for the subject title, it's a line uttered by Eddie Izzard in his role as a psychology professor on the now-cancelled United States of Tara.  (By the way, good one to catch...only lasted 3 seasons but it was amusing.)

In the show, Eddie the professor has a little zen garden on his desk, similar to the one pictured right.

He's not able to listen to or concentrate on Tara (played by the remarkable Toni Colette, with whom I've been enamored since her Muriel's Wedding days), as she's explaining why she needs an extension on her exam.  All because of a poo nugget that has mysteriously appeared in his zen garden (aka garden of enlightenment).  


So he storms around, trying to figure out how the culprit got away with the heinous crime.  And he belligerently asks "How am I supposed to be Zen when a mysterious poo is sitting in my Garden of Enlightenment?"


Now, the scene is hilarious in and of itself, not the least due in part to the genius of Eddie Izzard and his classic timing.  His natural British accent gives the essence of posh while the subject matter is definitely not.  (Try it yourself...find a Brit or someone who can do the accent and have them say "poo".  I don't usually respond to scat humor but it's pretty dang funny.)


The scene and the comedy aside, however, and the underlying (obvious?) message resonated quite strongly with me.  How many times have I tried to get myself to a certain place mentally or physically and found that something not only stops me, but causes me to focus on that rather than the people and things around me that need attention.  Or in a broader sense, how many times do we as "enlightened" creatures bog ourselves down in trivialities that really don't matter in the big scheme (garden) of things.  And we use so much time and energy either managing around or raging against the object of our hostility that we burn out before we can achieve our goal.  It's a source of constant amazement to me when people around me get so wrapped up in negative behaviours that thwart their own purpose.


But I don't linger too much on them, for the simple reason that I can find many more examples of negative responses in my own patterns that need my attention.   I have many goals that I'd love to reach, tons of projects that I'd like to finish.  And yet I too get overwhelmed by the little things - things that should just be ignored for the most part.  And yet, I don't.  Too much focus on "poo" rather than pouring my resources into my own personal enlightenment.


And that's not really acceptable.  I like to think of myself as a person who is conscious of the potential in myself and not afraid to work through the tough stuff to achieve it.  (Geez, I've dealt with plenty of crap [sic] in my time and I know my own strength.)  So why is it so easy to get distracted from the goal line?  

Old Friendships Are New Again

I've been pondering relationships in general and friendships in particular the last while.

I'm not sure if this is because over the last few months I've been reconnecting with people who were important to me during my wayward (!) youth, or if I'm approaching some sort of mid-life crisis.  However, since I refuse to believe I'm anywhere close to mid-life (denial RULES), I'm going to go with the reconnecting.

Without delving into my history too much, many of the ties I had 20+ years ago have basically been severed.  Parents deceased, sister estranged, other family a distance away after moving, school friends drifted.   I know that's relatively normal (we all know how time flies and other such handy catch-phrases), and the friends I've made over the last few years have been amazing and wonderful (yes, I do mean YOU!).  I've been adopted into my husband's family, and by several other families I've met as well.  Since it boils down to choices I've made that created my current reality, I didn't particularly think I was missing anything...truly, I'm the happiest I've been in memory.  Although to be fair, since I'm over 40, that really isn't saying much...most days memory consists of trying to make sure I'm wearing pants when I leave the house.

Until I reconnected.  I didn't even realize there had been something missing until it was filled.  Bonds that had been created when we were all at very impressionable ages, the ones that help shape how we relate to each other and the world around us.  Those people are cemented with those experiences just as surely as I lived through them.  People I was close to, who know *that* me - the me that is the basis for who I have become.  The me that wasn't touched by the experiences of my 20's or my 30's.    

Okay maybe I'm the only one with a split personality.  ;)

But the point I'm making is that these people come in and out of my life and they bring me myself again.  They remind me of who I started as, and still am really, deep down, when I forget.  They remind me of the dreams, the plans, and the "what-ifs".  They're the "comfortable pair of shoes" (sooo stolen) that slip on and the years melt away as if they were nothing.  (Oh yes, given the chance, I'd so put my feet on you!!!  BWAHAHA!  But you love the Pammie germs, you know you do!)

And I feel the gap disappear.  It's not that I don't like myself now.  It's not that I'm unhappy.  It's just that the small empty part of me gets filled.  I hope that in return I complete some little part of them, or in some way make things a little brighter than they were.  It's the least I can do for the blessing they continually give me.

Because I truly think it's important to know that you have meaning.  That even after so many years, and so much distance, we're all still here.  Ourselves.

Inspiration

I'd love to say that inspiration has struck, but it's more like it has crept in, nestled behind my ear and started whispering sweet nothings to me.  Although that's a bit of a misnomer, since they're not sweet and certainly not nothing.  Between us we've conjured a prologue scene of medieval torturous proportions.  And that's all I'm saying about specifics for now.  

Needless to say, with a whole three hours of sleep under my belt and a less-than-riveting workload today, it's a tad challenging not to just immerse myself in my own head and let it flow.  Of course, that's also the beauty of composing in my head...no one has to know what the wheels are turning.

So inspiration this time started with a dinner date out with friends last week.  Two sentences from someone whose opinion I trust and who has always been unfailingly supportive and I'm off and mentally running.  (Thank you again, Lady!  :)  )

For the last few days, amidst catching up episodes of Battlestar Galactica (yup, I finally caved on that) and calming the felines from the noise of the fireworks, my brain has been churning the pieces.  Threads from random thoughts have cast on and are beginning to weave.

I just hope that it will yield a complete project this time.  Fingers crossed!

Thursdays

Thursdays have always seemed kind of like the lame duck of the week.  Not really the middle, not quite the weekend, they're really just there as a transition.  Rather like holding your breath through a tunnel to make it go faster.  (Unless you're my husband, who thinks it rather hilarious that he once tricked me into holding my breath and then slowed the car down to a crawl!  There's a valid reason I call him nasty names, really.)

When I moved here and started working, my new U.S. co-workers dubbed Thursdays as "Crabby Canadian Thursdays".  It stemmed from one memorable morning where I arrived un-caffeinated to the office and they mistook my complete inability to fathom the world around me as "crabby".  Despite my assurances to the contrary, and even explaining that I was too tired to even have the energy to be crabby, the title stuck.  So much so that upon gaining dual citizenship, I thus declared Thursdays to be "Crabby Can-Am Thursdays", throwing open the doors to include my millions of compatriots.

Thursdays are also the day that the man comes to the building complex where I work and exercises his Constitutionally mandated right to free speech.  By putting up a dozen gigantic posters of aborted fetuses.


You see, I work in a complex with a Planned Parenthood office.  And in this country there appears to be a relatively small but vociferous group of people who truly believe that Planned Parenthood is nothing but a place to get an abortion.  This makes Planned Parenthood the devil incarnate, rather than a valid option for women's health care.  (For my Canadian friends who may be reading this and not know, because of the way the medical system works here, Planned Parenthood is actually one of the foremost providers of women's health services because they are accessible to people without insurance.  I actually went to them for examinations and meds prior to being on a medical plan.)


At some point I'll likely go on a diatribe about women's issues and the like, but for now I'm going to focus on the signage.  


Years ago, when I worked in this same office, the Thursday morning free speech was a sandwich board and a man in a chair.  He's an older man, who sits and reads, waves to the people driving in and out of the complex, and essentially is just there, making his views and his presence known.


Fast-forward 4 years.  Thursday morning is now the same man in the chair, still reading and waving.  Only now there are two vehicles parked all day with gigantic posters attached to their roof and sides, grotesque pictorials comparing healthy fetuses to aborted fetuses.  The captioning on the pictures is inflammatory toward Planned Parenthood.  There's still the sandwich board, but it's been joined by several more.  Essentially one turns the corner on Thursday and is bombarded with graphic propaganda which is at best in poor taste and at worst, misleading.


And I'm not even going to Planned Parenthood (I just amused myself by abbreviating that to PP and decided that wouldn't work...but it's funny!).  I can't even imagine how someone feels arriving for an appointment - procedure or not - and seeing that.   In many cases, this is the only place a woman has to get health care.  I applaud men and women for taking responsibility for their health and reproduction, and this little old man and his signs are seeming to be in direct opposition to that.


That's why I get angry.  Regardless of anyone's personal stance on what a fetus is or isn't, or whether abortion of said fetus is ethical,  this weekly display provides condemnation without education.  It addresses the end result of a series of choices, without acknowledging the value that Planned Parenthood could play in that equation.  I'm a firm advocate of sexual education and informed decision-making, and if this weekly propaganda display turns away even one person from gaining correct knowledge and health services, then in my opinion it's not worth it.  


I guess in the overall scheme of things, Thursdays aren't really do mundane any longer.  They're still Crabby though.

Taming the Wilderness

I'd love to say that the topic of this post was about how I'd fulfilled the lifelong dream of hiking the rigorous West Coast Trail or even managing to tackle the more local Grouse Grind stairmaster to heaven.  Alas, you all know me and know I'm ecstatically happy to simply manage to make it from one room to the other in my house without injury.


So no, taming the wilderness is not quite the herculean task one would think.  Really, it's trying to get my overgrown yard under control.  (Yes, I know you really guessed that but I really wanted to learn how to do links on this blog thingy so figured I'd do a little Tourism BC promotion too.)


I love the idea of gardening.  I even like gardening for the most part.  In Canada when I lived in apartments, I was limited to container gardening, but considering my schedule there (and lack of attention to details like water and nutrients), it was a realistic goal.  And I did really well - I was pretty much set for decades with the bounty of oregano, thyme, sage, mint, and lemon balm.  Not to mention the few tomatoes and strawberries that managed to live through the rainy Spring/Summer in the Lower Mainland.


Here in the U.S., gardening is shared between a group of us.  There's the people who come to mow and edge the lawn.  (The decision to sell the lawnmower in a garage sale two years ago is one neither of us has ever regretted...and likely never will.)  Then there's the DH, Mr. Eggshells, who is proficient at the stuff way up high where I can't reach and for which I'm reminded that I'm not allowed to get on a ladder (spoilsport!).   He's the great conceptualizer and helps me get through the logistic from what I want to do through to actually being able to do it.   He's also chief weed killer, for reasons that are patently obvious to anyone who's ever met me and my propensity for accidents.  And then there's me, who heads outside with a plan of exactly what I want to do and how much I want to accomplish.  For better or worse, I have a...let's be kind shall we, and say "extremely optimistic" view of my capability and stamina.  


But I start with the resolve:  this time, I'm sure I'll get everything I've planned, done.  I will be SUPERWOMAN!  *cue super-heroine theme music*  All the chopped greenery will be deposited into the compost/garbage, all my tools put away and the yard looking awesome as a tribute to my tenacity and ruthless determination.  


I'm midway through a project of clearing ivy from our back fence.  It's growing completely up the trunk of  the 30? year old sumac tree and has worked its way over to the adjacent fence.  The fence is staggered slats and has lattice at the top.  The ivy has entwined around all of it in an orgy of fantastic green, threading its weedy way through in a pattern rivaled only by little old ladies at the dollar store at Christmas (don't kid yourself, they are worse than freaking ninjas!).  


There is also a separate growth of ivy in the back corner of the yard, an area populated by a very large (overgrown) tree-style bush.  The ivy actually waterfalls down with the bush leaves and flowers, and really, now that I think about it, I don't know if the bush/tree even has a trunk anymore.  It might just be an ivy-gnome in there holding it up.  This batch of ivy also has wrapped around the fence, and is slowly overtaking the alley easement and the neighbor's shed.  It has bitten a couple of the fence boards in half with its jagged, nasty teeth.  The only reason it hasn't eaten the community garbage can there is that the guy from the City empties it weekly and moves it closer to our gate each time in his haste to leave the area.  (Really, it's like a game now, to see how many weeks it takes him to completely cut off our access to the alley.  I also watch paint dry and mold grow on cheese for fun.)


So with my mighty bolt cutter style clipping shears, I attack the overgrowth with a ferocity of a rabid moose on PCP.  


DIE IVY!!!!  I will rip you to shreds with my bare hands, stomp on you and crush you beneath the iron heel of my...erm flip flop.   


That was my first mistake.  


First, when it comes to walking, I'm not a particularly stable person (look at that wide open opportunity there!).  While flip flops are super comfortable, they're not exactly the best for support for my body.  But I can ignore the little twinges in my back and feet that come with balancing on the uneven dirt and detritus.  What I didn't count on was the ivy's ability to become super monster ivy and suck my shoes and their corresponding feet in the the gaping maw of their vicious green mouths.  In the space of mere moments, it wound its way over and through my shoes and ate my feet whole.  Fortunately for me and unfortunately for it, I was working on that patch and managed to cut myself away from it.  


Then the second mistake.

Because I'm working this project in stages, I've given away my battle plan.  The ivy decided to fight back.  

It has silently watched my attacks of its brethren...cut the roots so the tendrils die on the vine and are easily pulled off the wooden fence.  It saw its comrades falling by the meter-lengths and has spent the last week or so mustering its defenses.  Once I'd finished cutting the next batch of roots, I started to pull the dying ivy strands from the fence.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy.  Except...

Viciously and with malice aforethought, the ivy started belching huge plumes of ivy gas directly into my nose and mouth.  Little bits of dying ivy suicide bombers spewed like African killer bees from a cave and launched themselves into my eyes.  Blind, gasping for breath, I dropped the ivy pieces and tried desperately to move my feet which had been re-mummified in the ground ivy.  

  
Have I mentioned that at the time I moved to the U.S. I had already been diagnosed with allergies to every kind of environmental flora they test?  And that moving even just a few hours south meant that I spent my first few years here chronically inflamed from all the "new" environmental triggers?


I did manage to spend 45 minutes working on the yard, which is a happy, no doubt about it.  Of course it's not hard to be happy when you're all looped up on painkillers and Benedryl.  

Discipline and habits

One of the biggest hindrances to writing for me is making myself sit down and write when I'm feeling uninspired.  It's so much easier to start surfing or facebooking or cleaning (yes, shocking to those of you who have seen my house, I do use cleaning as a diversion too!).  Yet everything I've read from successful authors states that discipline is the key...getting into the habit of writing daily.


The trouble I have with this is that my writing is not particularly a cumulative process.  Most of my writing is churned (like butter!) in my head and doesn't make it to paper/computer until it's basically complete.  Imagine Aphrodite springing fully formed from the ocean in a beautiful Hellenic vista and you'll get my drift...or distracted by the nudity.  


It becomes a case of discipline.  Whether I decide to focus on getting some writing in every day or to allocate specific time out of my day for the mental processing, what's needed is the habit to be formed.  "They" say it takes 3 weeks for a practice to become habit - and extrapolating that, presumably the same amount of time for negative behaviour to be changed and/or modified.


Now it comes to my attention (with a big whap upside the head) that this is the key to several other goals I'm trying to achieve.  Whether they be house projects, craft projects, schoolwork, or health results.  


And now that I've come to this epiphany, I just have to figure out how to implement it...  

Thanks to Shari

of BlogHer Food for the use of her photo of eggshells and coffee grounds.  :)

The layers of thought...

So the more I look at the title of the blog, the more my mind finds layers of meaning.  I beg indulgence as I wax poetic (or rather, prosaic) on eggshells and coffee grounds.

1. People used to put eggshells in coffee before perking it.  Why?  Well lots of possible reasons...to settle the coffee grounds, to provide an alkaline to the acidic beans that reduced bitterness.  I have vague recollections of this practice in real life, but as a very small child who didn't drink coffee, it had relatively little impact on me.  As an adult, um, ewww.

2. Eggshells and coffee grounds are a good source of calcium and nitrogen (respectively and probably respectably too), making them great fodder for a composter.  Which makes fertilizer.  I'm not sure I like where this is going...oh wait, fertilizer makes things grow.  So that works.  I'm not just writing crap in this blog I'm using it as a method for personal growth.

At least that's what I hope happens.

3. Eggshells on their own always makes me think of the phrase "Walking on Eggshells" - which is not to be confused with the song "Walking on Sunshine".  Very different concepts those.  Anywho, as I think back on my life, I've done my share of walking on eggshells...and have spent a good deal of time consciously trying not to surround myself with relationships that end up with me having to do so.

The song Walking on Sunshine however, always reminds me of the scene in Look Who's Talking where John Travolta makes stuffed animals dance behind a sofa.

And apparently I'm done talking about the blog title.  

Well, it's a start...

For the past several weeks I've been hungering to write.  I've had the time in some small respects, but not the head space.  Or when I've had the head space and drive, no convenient time.

Which may just be excuses anyway.

I have a lot of stuff in my head.  Lists, ideas, characters, nonsense, sense.  Prose and poetry, unicorns that sparkle and ghosts that haunt me (ooh, Crash Test Dummies song in my head now!).  I've been trying to start a novel.  I've been trying to finish poetry.  I've been thirsting to drink from the bounteous fountains of my muse.  (Wow, just flows off the tongue, doesn't it?  Or rather, off the fingers on the keyboard.  ;)  )

This morning I got to the new old office, less the soul-destroying stress-making place than it had been three weeks ago, and started my new, usual, routine. 

It was the eggshells peeled from breakfast's hard-boiled egg.

You know those little actions you take through the course of the day that are performed by rote with your mind elsewhere?  Brushing teeth, making food, tidying....all the while your mind is whirling and processing.  Trying to solve that one thing that's bugging you, way back in the depths of your subconscious.  Something you may not even have realized you were working through, or on, or around.

I dropped the broken shells into the garbage, little white jagged pieces fallen haphazardly amidst the scattered coffee grounds from yesterday's brew...and thus came the epiphany.  A blog!

Which explains the title of the blog.   Kind of reminds me of "Afternoons and Coffee Spoons" (another Crash Test Dummies song), lyrically rolls off the tongue, but alas, doesn't rhyme.  I can live with that.

So what will this be?  Right now it feels like the open road.  I feel the wind on my face and that feeling of being alive and free as I zoom along the highway at incredible speeds.   And if no one reads it but me, that's okay (although if I know my media junkie friends, you'll be along with me for the ride!).  This is the "me" time that my soul craves and I see no reason to deny it.

And really, why should I?