Seasons

The light is changing all around us. Here we are comfortably nestled in August and still the impending end edges ever closer.

I hear my coworkers and neighbors groan, “It’s back to school season already!”

I’m guilty of it too. I noticed the phantom ache in my chest this past weekend when I spotted some leaves drying out and wasting away in the far corner of a parking lot, under an overcast sky. “No,” I sighed. “Not yet.”

Then I closed my eyes for a beat and focused on the oppressive humidity of the afternoon. It’s a little, old trick of mine. I do it on Sunday nights too. Right after the thought of Monday sends nausea rippling through my guts, I kick my feet up, plunge my head deep into a cushion and sink into the comfort that is specifically not Monday.

I call this trick engaging in the present. I think of it as deliberate mindfulness. Or at least I used to, until I started to notice it wasn’t really working. Thoughts of Monday mornings still induce a gag-like reflex. And the pleasantness of a soft couch on a quiet Sunday evening only seems to make time power forward faster and faster. I’m watching minutes spiral off the clock with dizzying intensity. It feels like I’m in some beat-up old Chevy, sliding down a mountain highway with a severed brake line toward my desk. You know, singing along to the radio the whole time so I can say I enjoyed my ride.

I mean, isn’t taking the time to appreciate the things around you supposed to have a quieting effect? Instead that weird plasticity of time is more like one of those optical illusions that becomes clearer when you don’t look directly at it. It would be logical to assume the older I get the more aware I become of my own mortality, and the scarcity of time. Except this isn’t new for me. I was blubbering over the ends of summer days before I made it to Kindergarten. I couldn’t help but feel that I’d lost something dear to me.  

LOSS. That’s the bastard that keeps sneaking up behind all of the beauty, adventure and serenity I concentrate so fervently to acknowledge and appreciate. It keeps affixing itself to my favorite moments - like every motherfucking sunset I’ve ever laid eyes on.

And Christmas mornings.

And the return legs of my wild road trips, irreverent of the fact that I may still be in Utah with three blizzard-filled days of driving between me and home. Once that greedy sense of loss is established every mile driven is a mile gone.

So, okay then, not surprising at all, really, that at the apex of the calendar summer I would start to lament how short the days are getting, or how yellow the grass, or how tall the corn. I am losing summer. I could be a sentimental sucker. Oh well, so be it. Loss makes me sad. Fine.

It’s just…

I can’t quite put my finger on precisely what it is I’ve lost.

 My childhood? Sure. But let’s face it, I squealed away from that burning rubber, flicking cigarette butts out the window.

My youth? Yeah, alright. I guess summer could subconsciously represent some depleting resource I’m trying to monitor, but the analogy ain’t exactly apt.

Opportunity? At some point it dawned on me I’d never dance for the Paris Opera Ballet or wrangle cattle out on an open range. I’m completely (75%) fine with that.

A season…? You oughtta see my cynical squint right now.

 I am a rational being with superb knowledge and insights into the complex workings of a calendar. I understand that the fundamental nature of a season is cyclical. I know summer will be back. Shit, I even know when!

I also know that I adore fall. I love Halloween, and campfires, and cider, and putting on my tall boots and scarves. I like the crunchy sound the leaves make in the street. I like settling in to read when the light is slanting at a precarious angle.

And I love the night time. I like nightlife: bars, plays, parties. I like looking at the stars, and wandering around the city streets watching other people do the same. I love that easy freedom the darkness affords.

You know what else? I treasure sleeping in my own bed, especially after a week or more on the road.

So what’s up with all this ennui? Good question, me.

Fortunately it hit me like a damn freight train, like, just today. I think that sense of loss is not only melodramatic, it’s a front. It’s resistance and it’s bullshit.

When I look around with honest eyes, all I can really find is a little change. Aaaaaannnnndd, maybe I’m kinda-sorta resisting that change, a teeny-tiny-little, ok, a real-fucking lot.

See, if I can work myself into some woe-is-me-what-has-the-world-come-to-who-am-I-now-and-what-does-it-all-mean-anymore state of grief, then I can dig my heels in. I can fight it, and worry about it, and put all my muscle into trying to manipulate it and control it. And why would I do such a convoluted and absurd thing?

To feel valuable.

To give my life a purpose.

To prove to the blood orange sky that I, too, exist.

Except…

 I already exist. I am already driven by the purpose of my life. And I sincerely value the shit out of myself.

How many more seasons am I going spend resisting? I can’t stop change. I don’t have to, and I don’t want to. The alternative is a dark, rotting, mosquito filled swamp of stagnation. I can’t rush the changing either. These things move at their own pace. I know that. All my attempts to affect outcomes are as useful as trying to stir the ocean with a teaspoon. Monday morning always comes.

I don’t have the answers. I don’t know what cosmic forces are at play or what the rules of the game are. I don’t know why people from Iowa get in the left lane to drive the speed limit. I don’t know why I hate olives, but love dirty gin. And I don’t need to, because its far more likely I am the passenger on this crazy ride than the driver.

So, can I accept change? Can I embrace it? (I actually winced as I typed that).

I can try. I can unscrew my thinking for a while and view all this change just like one of those optical illusions. I can stand way, way back from my life and my time and consider the possibility that the only moment that ever truly exists is this one. 

No matter how childish or tilted my perception may tilt in a given moment, the underlying truth at-hand, is that I am enough, and right now is enough. All I have to do is relax and enjoy the show.

So I’m changing my tune.

From now on, I’m laughing with the sunset, and hollering invitations into the darkness. I’m singing and dancing my way through fall right into the depths of winter. I’m eating ridiculous breakfasts on Monday mornings.  And as always, I’m inviting the silly, serious, brilliant, haunted, beautiful freaks to join me.  

An Open Letter to my Parent-Friends

Why don’t you ever ask me to baby-sit? And why don’t you want to bring your kids to dinner, or over for a cookout? Do you think I don’t know how to look after the tyke for a few hours? Or that I don’t know how to change a diaper, or warm a bottle. Maybe you think I don’t know how much mac & cheese is too much mac & cheese for a four year old. Or won’t be able to answer that ridiculous question about  if a flower had feet how high do I think it could jump, and would it talk to itself too?

I bet that’s not it, though. I bet you think I don’t want to take on that burden. You probably think your kids would drive me crazy if I was left alone with them for more than 20 minutes. Or if I had to listen to them shout “NO!” 163 times every hour. Or if I finally realized how said mac & cheese can actually stick to the ceiling... because I don’t have children.

What you don’t know is this: it is quite unlikely that I will ever have children of my own. Yes, many women (and men) choose not to have children these days. And being the modern-progressive I am, you probably figured that’s the path I chose too. Sadly, it’s not.

Yes, I have cherished my free time, disposable income and full night’s sleep. Yes, I have rolled my eyes at strangers holding screaming children in restaurants. Yes, I have audibly scoffed when acquaintances I barely know ask, “When are you going to start a family?”

But it’s high time I vulnerably and (apparently very publicly) admit that these are defense mechanisms, and they are no longer serving me.

Because I have also gushed over blurry ultra-sound images, considered the honor of family names, swelled at the simple rhythm of a tiny, beating heart, and wept bitterly at the silence that invariably followed. I have submitted my abnormal anatomy to a scalpel in desperate hope, and cynically sneered at disappointment.

And only now am I learning that no opinion, decision or attitude makes any difference. It is only acceptance and gratitude that slowly transform me.

I am not a mother. I cannot change that. It is not without its darkness. 

But I am also buoyed by every opportunity to be one hell of an “Aunt.”

So listen up- YOU with the sleep deprived circles under your eyes! YOU with that fierce commitment to raising exceptional human beings! YOU who have figured out how to stretch your dollars to cover school clothes and ballet lessons, tiaras and army men, rent and dinner! If you (EVER) need a break, want a nap, miss the silence, or just feel like taking a tour in my childless world for a few hours:

BRING IT ON!

and don’t be shy.

I will take those beautiful, little monsters of yours and I will spoil the living shit out of them. Because I can.

I will feed him ice cream.

I will twirl her.

I will chase them down in epic TAG battles through the back yard.

I will catch all the fireflies and stick ‘em in jars.

I will finger paint, and build couch-forts, and contort my face in any grotesque way that will make them laugh.

I will buy them peanuts at the zoo to throw at the elephants.

I will take them on the most nauseating rides at the carnival.

I will let them pick the song on the radio.

I will give piggy back rides, and tell stupid jokes, and I answer every absurd question with the most creativity I can muster.

And I will return them to you safe, sound and worn out. Because you are my friend, and your child is your world. And because there are infinite ways to experience joy in this world, and some of the most priceless are through the eyes of a child. But then you already know that, don’t you?

And really because I can.  

And because I can, I’m the luckiest “Aunt” around. 

Small Victories

Eureka! We have accomplished the remodel of the bathroom on our first floor! I love the way it looks, now. I love that we did it ourselves. I love that what was once the ugliest room in the house, is now one of the prettiest.  I'm feeling a lot of love over here, which is funny because this was, at times, infuriating. It didn't end up exactly the way I'd envisioned. The disgusting drop ceilings are still hanging there covering god-only-knows what untold horrors. Just, please don't look up.  And there is still the matter of the bathtub. Really? A bathtub? Who needs a bathtub on the first floor? I mean, yes, we are out on the prairie, but this ain't a little house and its 2014. 

No matter. It's not bringing me down. No, sir. I'm in love with this bathroom anyway. 

I guess the euphoria is stemming from the sense of accomplishment. Well, that and the knowledge that this room is done, and my weekends are again free until I choose to tear in to the kitchen. 

What is it about accomplishment that feels so good? I'm sure there are articles I could read about brain chemistry and how endocannabinoids stimulate a sense of bliss and... blah, blah, blah. I don't care. I feel good about this project, and that's enough. I'm proud of myself and I am dumbstruck with pride in my husband who rocked our ancient plumbing like a pro. 

Most importantly, I'm proud that it isn't perfect, and that I love it anyway. 

These are those same, old fixtures.  I'm still not crazy about the frilly, glass globes.  As for the bases, we painted over all that brass with a bronze. Then we painted the brown wood white like the cabinets. 

Not to let on to too many of our new secrets, but see this beautiful, gray, weathered, pine flooring? It's actually a single sheet of linoleum that we bought at Menard's for $0.89/ sqft. When the pain of this project dulls to the point that I start to say, "The bathroom wasn't so bad..." I'm going to rip the flooring out of my kitchen and use this again. I love it. 

We call these "finishing touches." You may call them delirious attempts at drawing a straight line through a crooked house. 

Nobody was ever more deserving of the satisfaction of crossing your arms over your chest and standing back to admire your own handiwork than this man. 

It's the little things. 

 Chris had to buy and install new piping to get the sink back in over the new floor. For a minute there I wondered if he'd sail the whole sink through the window and out on to the snow covered lawn. I wouldn't have blamed him. Alas, he persevered and the sink is once again functional and beautiful and most importantly, water tight.

I've heard some people say that after all the years of work (and fighting) they put into their houses, they start to hate them, but I don't get it. We're taking something that was SO someone else's and making it our own. We're finding our way out here in the boonies. It's been a long, hard winter We've been cooped up in this house with all its idiosyncrasies and our own, but we have something to show for it - something that is so uniquely "us." Maybe its all ego. Like I said before, I don't care. I'm happy with my bathroom and I'm happy to be happy.

The Process

My bathroom isn’t finished yet. It’s been ripped up for more than a month. For a Type-A, overachiever like me, this is irritating... like the way the newly cut hairs that fell into your shirt at the barber are irritating. Only you can’t go home to change because you have dinner plans, so you sit there all night long with a prickly, itchy back. It’s right there. If only you could fix it or ignore it.  And, of course, I’m mad at myself, because it wasn’t enough for me to just paint the bathroom and call it a day because the floor was old and didn’t match the new color scheme. And because I wasn’t realistic when I thought putting a new floor down would be a breeze because I didn’t understand I’d have to take the sink and toilet out to lay a new floor. And because it never occurred to me in a very old house with a floor that leans, that maybe water might have gotten under the linoleum at some point over the last bajillion years, and pooled, and fostered a very neat, cozy, little place for mold to grow. And because I can’t just do it all myself, with no help from any one ever, for free. Grrr.

 I’ve been avoiding posting a new blog until the lousy room was good and done.

But then I remembered. This move, this house, this blog, all of it was to learn to slow the-great-jumpin’-jehoshaphats down; to learn to appreciate and be grateful; to internalize the concept that the real prize isn’t at the finish line, but rather the change you affect and the change that affects you throughout the journey.  In short, the value is the experience.

In Managerial Accounting there is something known as Work In Process or WIP (stick with me here, it gets better). Most of us use the phrase work in progress, but not accountants. And while they may be some of the least emotionally accessible people around, the bean counters may be on to something with this. Progress is a state of advancement, a given stop on a continuum from raw to refined.

It is so easy to become preoccupied with progress. It is measurable.  How far have I come? How far do I have to go? When will I be done? These questions run a maddening loop through my brain and distract me from the present.

Process is a method by which something changes. And change is multidirectional. A method of change is far more expansive than a single continuum. Its spreads, and seeps in messy, non-geometric ways. It touches everything.

This house is not my only project. I am right, smack-dab, in the middle of multiple projects. I am working toward multiple goals. But all that work, all the effort and energy I pour into changing my surroundings and my abilities, it all comes together to form one process, my process. Every day I learn something new. And maybe the most valuable thing I’m learning is how to learn.  

So, I’d like to celebrate this midpoint in my bathroom hell. I’d like to take a step back and examine the present state of things, all messy and irritating and unfinished and very, very real. And I’d like to appreciate the process of change.

If you recall, this is where we started: a complete dream in tangerine and brown. Fortunately, the sink is really lovely.  

Somewhere along the way I got it in my head that I could salvage these ridiculous lighting fixtures, and this mirror.

As you can see, the floor is a perfect match for this horror scene. 

The duck egg blue curtain was a nice touch. Mercifully, this was not repurposed. 

This was all sanded by hand, primed and painted. 

I'd comment here about the how the silver doesn't match the brown, but I think we are way beyond that by now.

Why, yes, those are more acoustic, dropped ceiling tiles. Good eye. 

I'm learning that DIY means, to do it with others. There is no way I could have done all of this myself, and I'm grateful to my family for their free, patient labor. I only try to ignore the look on my husband's face when he realizes before I do just what exactly we're in for. 

This room, this whole house, is covered in years, decades of unmitigated filth. It cannot be wiped away. It can only be locked away under layers of new paint. 

This was our first stopping point. It made me want custard in January. 

If you ever find yourself painting trim this detailed, I cannot recommend highly enough investing in several, very small brushes. 

Our laundry room is serving wonderfully as a painting studio. It has excellent light. 

We have two dogs. Their hair will also be forever locked away under layers of paint. 

This is the wiring in place for the lighting. It's probably safe. 

We have gone over these with steel wool to get any surface rust off. Then we spray painted the brass with a metallic bronze. What's taped up in blue will be painted white. 

You do not want to look into the wax ensconced hole that leads away from your toilet. This is where hope goes to die.  

I will spare you the photos of the black mold that was civilizing under the linoleum. It will suffice to say that I came through like Godzilla, wielding a spray bottle full of bleach in one hand and Killz spray primer in the other. The place is now fallow. I only hope we will not have to hear the ghostly cries of dying fungus in the night. 

New floor. We can all take a deep breath. 

This is what we call a solution. The water source continued to leak even after we turned the water off, so we taped the pipe to a bucket and aimed the bucket at the hole where hope goes to die. But, the bucket kept popping out. So we weighed it down with the heaviest thing handy. 

No. We did not call the plumber. 

I'd love to hear from you. Leave me a comment or a picture. What are you in the middle of? What are you learning? What is your process?