Saturday, August 13, 2011
RSS Subscription and Follow via Email Added
I took a few minutes to figure out the RSS links and email sign up. So if any of you who may be out there want up-to-the-minute updates on my 3x a month posting...LOL Feel free!
Grief is Exhausting
I'm scanning photos today. It's taken me a full 10 years to manage to do this, not because of time or technology, but because I needed this long to be able to mentally and emotionally do it.
And you know what, it's still not soon enough.
But I'm getting it done. Because part of me needs to lay it to rest. Part of me needs to fulfill a promise. And part of me needs to get this house under control and the box of irreplaceable photos in my family room is not secure and also underfoot.
My parents were married on December 3, 1966. The photos I'm scanning are from the official photographer's selection book that my Mom had held onto after 20 years, divorce, remarriage and several moves. I don't know if she was saving them for my sister and I for "someday" or if they were just part of the things that never got cleaned out. It was after her funeral that my step-Dad opened up the boxes of memories and let us have our pick.
***brief interruption for a good cry and a hug from the Mr.***
I took the wedding photos and promised my sister I'd have copies made for her. My intentions were to do that while it was all fresh and new...and then Dad got sick and I was busy taking care of him until he died.
After that the next couple of years are really just a hazy blur. Which makes sense, because lucidly managing that much pain is just not comprehensible to me, even now. Logically I know that I have a lot more to process but processing takes energy, and often energy I don't have to spare.
Which is why when I take on projects like this, it feels just like the wound being re-opened. Sometimes when that happens, it's hard to know if it will ever heal, or just have periods of dormancy where I can ignore it.
After that the next couple of years are really just a hazy blur. Which makes sense, because lucidly managing that much pain is just not comprehensible to me, even now. Logically I know that I have a lot more to process but processing takes energy, and often energy I don't have to spare.
Which is why when I take on projects like this, it feels just like the wound being re-opened. Sometimes when that happens, it's hard to know if it will ever heal, or just have periods of dormancy where I can ignore it.
I still don't know if losing someone slowly to illness is better or worse than losing them quickly, like in an accident. I'm still confused as to how my sister can go through that same experience of loss of both parents in such a short time frame and still be okay with turning away from her only sister. (Although, to be fair, I'm sure she believes that I did the turning away.) I'm pretty sure that if she had been the one who had the photos I wouldn't get a copy. I'm just not built like that...even if she doesn't care to have them, even if she doesn't want them because they're from me, I can't in good conscience withhold them.
And so I've been scanning. Maybe because I want to be the better person. Or maybe I want to remind her that despite how she feels or acts now, she was part of the family that I was. And that no matter what choices we make now, that is a fact that can't be changed.
Mostly I think I'm scanning so I don't have to lose the pictures like I lost the people. At least I have my memories...which I may even manage to write down one day.
One day.
**Edited to add: But at least now I know why I've been sick for the last week. It's always like this pre-processing. I just hadn't had it happen for so long I didn't recognize.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Belief
I've been thinking about belief lately, particularly with respect to the definition "a state or habit of mind in which trust or confidence is placed in some person or thing." Other definitions discuss the trust placed after examination of evidence.
While trust relationships could be the subject of several posts, what I'm thinking about more is what happens when we actively show trust in people around us. Trusting others with our feelings, our possessions, our esteem, even our physical well-being can be a really scary thing...since the very act of trust makes us vulnerable. Even the word confidence implies a level of intimacy and care that should be implicit. Which makes sense, when you consider that usually trust grows the longer we know someone. Even when the trust is shaken or damaged, it's the previous experience that allows for even the possibility of rebuilding.
When I think back on my life experiences and how I got "here" from "there", I'm always amazed. How much of what I've been able to endure, and how much of what I've been able to accomplish has been because someone believed in me? From my family, to teachers, to friends, to my romantic relationships, to co-workers...the list goes on and on. From the simple words casually said "you can do it" - to the unspoken lessons that reinforced to me my value as a person in others' eyes, my core personality has been bolstered, padded and fabric'd with my worth to others'. (Yes, I'm a sofa! LOL)
Which is not to say that I haven't had relationships or experiences that weren't devaluating...there were some of those too. For the most part I've tried to remove those sorts of influences from my life, but that's not necessarily a choice that everyone can facilitate. And I have to say that the overwhelmingly positive experiences where in the majority when it came to framing my interactions with the world at large.
It's truly heartbreaking when I think of all those people out there who have never been told and never been shown they have value. How much individual potential is wasted because there is no belief or trust shown?
Based on recent work experience, it can be a lot. Obviously details are not appropriate, but as I'm attempting to work within a team where there is little to no trust given or received, it's damaging to the end result and makes the journey to it a whole heck of a lot of not fun.
So maybe it's the hippie in me, or maybe it's just my inclusive nature, but shouldn't we all be cheering each other on?
By the way, my friends, I believe in all of you, and truly value your presence in my life. :)
While trust relationships could be the subject of several posts, what I'm thinking about more is what happens when we actively show trust in people around us. Trusting others with our feelings, our possessions, our esteem, even our physical well-being can be a really scary thing...since the very act of trust makes us vulnerable. Even the word confidence implies a level of intimacy and care that should be implicit. Which makes sense, when you consider that usually trust grows the longer we know someone. Even when the trust is shaken or damaged, it's the previous experience that allows for even the possibility of rebuilding.
When I think back on my life experiences and how I got "here" from "there", I'm always amazed. How much of what I've been able to endure, and how much of what I've been able to accomplish has been because someone believed in me? From my family, to teachers, to friends, to my romantic relationships, to co-workers...the list goes on and on. From the simple words casually said "you can do it" - to the unspoken lessons that reinforced to me my value as a person in others' eyes, my core personality has been bolstered, padded and fabric'd with my worth to others'. (Yes, I'm a sofa! LOL)
Which is not to say that I haven't had relationships or experiences that weren't devaluating...there were some of those too. For the most part I've tried to remove those sorts of influences from my life, but that's not necessarily a choice that everyone can facilitate. And I have to say that the overwhelmingly positive experiences where in the majority when it came to framing my interactions with the world at large.
It's truly heartbreaking when I think of all those people out there who have never been told and never been shown they have value. How much individual potential is wasted because there is no belief or trust shown?
Based on recent work experience, it can be a lot. Obviously details are not appropriate, but as I'm attempting to work within a team where there is little to no trust given or received, it's damaging to the end result and makes the journey to it a whole heck of a lot of not fun.
So maybe it's the hippie in me, or maybe it's just my inclusive nature, but shouldn't we all be cheering each other on?
By the way, my friends, I believe in all of you, and truly value your presence in my life. :)
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
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.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
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!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, June 17, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
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...
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...
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
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