The Hammock

During my guided meditation session this morning, the practitioner urged me to use my breath like a hammock, allowing my mind to swing in and out on it. I flashed immediately to the rope hammock that hung between two oak trees in our yard in Clinton. When I was 8, 9, 10 and beyond, I would swing for hours in that hammock, looking up into the dappled undersides of the leaves until I forgot the ground. Swinging has always been transporting for me: back and forth on a swingset, around and around on a tire swing, to and fro in a hammock. This hammock, in particular, felt safe as well as magical. The yard at our Clinton house was my habitat, containing my clubhouse, the hammock bower, the red maple that I climbed, the flower beds that colored the borders, the grape arbor that gave me shade. There were open spots, hidden spots, sunny spots, shaded spots, spots with animals, spots with colors, spots with grass. I knew the contours and shapes. It was my place, more than any other place had been. As I swung in the hammock, I felt guarded and free at the same time. Today I can see that I also felt very very lonely. I swung in the hammock alone. I gazed up into the leaves by myself. I dared myself. I rested by myself. I answered myself. Many times, it didn't occur to me to be lonely; this was just how it was. But this morning, as I sat and meditated on the hammock, I began to cry. A deep sadness welled up in me and I recognized how lonely and singular I had felt, growing up in a step-family with sisters who had had a whole life and story before I was born. I always felt somehow apart from them, even while I knew I was loved and loved them in return. Lying on the hammock, I would keep one foot on the ground, propelling myself faster and faster, daring myself to stare into the sun peeking through the leaves until I left the ground behind.

The Ring
Since last time I wrote, I've acquired a ring. As a symbol of my engagement, it's very satisfying, but as a concrete object in my life, it is miraculous. I never desired a ring, or thought much about having one. Now that I do, I find that the shininess, the sparkliness, the circularity, the very weight of it on my finger, all have a transformative effect on my vision of myself. The ring reminds me to enjoy the present moment. The ring reminds me to appreciate what is happening right now. The ring reminds me to see myself, and my beloved, as astonishing, surprising, and beautiful.

How I Got The Ring
Keith and I went for a walk, as we often do on a hospitable Saturday morning. We walked on a familiar circuit, down to Coolidge Corner via the back route, dodging hedges and recycling bins. We stopped at Peet's for coffee, the library to return books, Trader Joe's to buy Buffalo Chicken Meatballs. We discussed the usual range of topics - my (multiple, unsuccessful) attempts to call my mom on her birthday the day before, Keith's breakthroughs and setbacks in his paper on the Modified Prequential Bayes Approach to Gaussian Mixture Order Estimation, an article I'd read on the controversy surrounding psychology and pharmaceuticals, whether or not to see Greenberg in the theater, our favorite parts of the latest 30 Rock episode, and a long, mutual rant on the misguided walking habits of local pedestrians. The conversation carried us through Coolidge Corner, up Beacon to 7-11, through the purchase of a Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper Big Gulp, into the checkout line at Star Market, and all the way up to the reservoir. The walk was supposed to veer back to my apartment after Star Market, as I had purchased milk, but we continued up to the reservoir on Keith's suggestion. As we approached, I stopped at a park information billboard to see if there were any restrooms close by. I noticed an announcement for a nature walk that sounded interesting, and Keith and I tried to figure out where it would take place. We chatted on, up the dirt path to the reservoir, rounding the bend onto the main graveled path. We walked about fifty yards until we came to the first green bench. We sat down and I continued my campaign to get Keith to the movie theater. He stood up and stretched, blocking the sun and saying "today might be your lucky day". I looked up at him and smirked. He then dropped down on one knee and began speaking. I didn't hear anything of what he was saying as I laughed out of shock and fear and asked him what he was doing. He took a box out of his pocket and opened it to show me a diamond ring. I was afraid to speak, not knowing which words might fly out of my mouth. He and I got the ring onto the correct finger and I laughed more and felt like my lips and cheeks would stretch off of my face from smiling. I said yes and we hugged and kissed and sat together on the bench in the sun, as the light reflected off of the ring onto our grinning faces.

It's been over a year since I last wrote. I miss my voice. I liked the idea of myself as a blogger, but the reality of it was disappointing. I can never quite figure out why I stop doing things, or don't continue things I once enjoyed. When they excavate my brain in 2 million years, there will be an interesting geologic story to be told. My changes and reasons seem to subscribe to a vast scale of time. I think about how much I enjoy reading my friends' blogs and peeking into the psyches of strangers through their blogs and I wish I could be part of the inter-blast. I am, at heart or by training, a lurker. I would like to train to be a contributor.

I am listening to a fantastic album - Country Club by John Doe and the Sadies. It makes me want to write, to use my voice to share feeling and cause feeling. Ooh, shivers, that album just led seamlessly into Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes iTunes is a little creepy in its perfection. Country Club is about John Doe's love and appreciation of country songwriting and music, so hearing Johnny Cash right after him feels like the best illustration.

I have been trying to think about how to contribute. Am I incubating, preparing, germinating? Or is this cowardice, something that needs to be weaned, served, nipped in the bud? I try to have respect for my pace. I alternate between faith and impatience. Can those go together or do they require alternation? I think I can hold both at once - faith in my imaginative life, mixed with impatience at the pace of its manifestation.

Just listened to the wonderful part of Busted when Johnny laughs. "No laughing during the song. Don't you know this is being recorded?"

A few thoughts on the Inauguration:
1. Contrary to my assumptions, most people in my office stopped working, turned up the TV and gathered 'round to watch the Inauguration. McCain supporters continued manning the phones, receiving deliveries, and discussing freight LOUDLY, while the rest of us sat, in various states of engrossment, and listened to the proceedings. Obama did not disappoint, though his consistent eloquence has gotten to be one of those things I take for granted, and therefore prize less. Thank goodness for the CBS editors, who panned to GW at just the right moments, reminding me why eloquence and consistency must be prized!
2. I was most touched by the performance of Simple Gifts, which reminded me of the majesty of Aaron Copeland and brought home the mythic nature of the occasion.
3. Everyone on Facebook seems to love the Pete Seeger/Bruce Springsteen rendition of This Land Is Your Land the most of all the pre-Inaugural performances. However, I gotta give a shout-out for U2 and Pride (In the Name of Love). That song even gives me shivers on non-momentous occasions.
4. Stevie Wonder singing and playing keys on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial just makes sense. It's like the place was built for him. I think Obama might need to footnote Higher Ground in his inaugural speech transcript.
5. Many thanks to several people who posted Martin Luther King Jr.'s April 4, 1967 Speech on Vietnam. It's not only still relevant, but still powerful and awe-inspiring.

All in all, a thrilling few days of media, pageantry, tradition, path-breaking, pomp, and true circumstance. I'm looking forward to the next 4 years.

I got out of work early today, so I started cooking. I made carrot soup in the same spirit of naive optimism with which I do so many things. I knew the soup was a puree, but persisted in thinking that a food processor/blender/mixer/puree-er would appear by the time I needed it, in about Step 5 of the recipe. It never showed; go figure. I mashed and mashed, but the soup is about as close to a puree as LA is to San Francisco. Not close and not alike either. I put it on the back of the stove and moved on to the next recipe. Viva la optimisma!

I've acquired a file cabinet, something I've wanted for a while but have no place to put. A lovely and lively woman whom I met while living with H died last week and left an apartment full of belongings. Her children arrived from Scotland and California to empty the apartment and H let me know there were various items available. The whole thing might have been a touch too macabre, even for my acquisitive sensibilities, if it hadn't been for the marvelous spirit and generosity of the family. The daughter I met was incredibly charming and put me at ease right away. I took several things after that first visit and went back today to pick up the file cabinet. The son was there this time and brought the cabinet down to my car. Inside the top drawer was a teapot and several tea-making implements that his sister had packed for me. It seems she had remembered all the little details of our conversation. I was very touched.

In any case, despite the lovely interactions that brought the file cabinet to me, the fact remains that I have no place to put it. My apartment is still a studio, though I seem to be bent on acquiring furniture and accessories for a one-to-two bedroom space. I may have to start stacking soon!

It's been a stressful 3-day week, which I guess is to be expected. The senior AP person who normally answers all my questions and handles the more complex aspects of the job went to Ireland this week, so I've been treading water more frantically than usual. My brain and body hurt from being tested so often. Although it is "okay" to make mistakes, it often feels much worse than "okay". I carry my weary body home at the end of the day and try to soothe the strains, both muscular and cerebral, that have accumulated at work. I hope the long weekend will give me time to regroup.

Man, I still hate my template. But then I never blog, so who am I to complain? I think a lot might have changed since I last wrote, but summarizing is beyond my attention span at this point. Today I am suffering (mildly) from a headache induced by grey weather and (I am convinced) inadequate office air flow. It's a typical friday here at the Bird. [My company is named after a bird of prey, which I will not name in this forum.] The coworker who sits closest to me has left for the day, so I feel free to put on Pandora and turn it up to almost level 3 in volume. I made a new station today - The Sea and Cake Radio - and Talking Heads' beautiful This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) is making my afternoon brighter. Today has been a slow day: a blessing for my dysfunctional brain but, by definition, not the best way to make time go fast. I am looking forward to a quiet evening at home, perhaps doing laundry, perhaps watching a movie, perhaps just watching the umpteenth episode of The Office on DVD, with commentary. I just got finished watching the first season of Arrested Development - the first time I'd seen the whole thing in order, all the way through. I always thought it was uncommonly funny, but now I am really floored by its brilliance. Such a perfection of elements present all at once: writing, acting, directing, chemistry. I am sad that it ended after only three seasons, but only in the purely childlike, selfish way of one who wants Christmas EVERY DAY, even though that would sour the whole effect of such a holiday. I am of the cliched (not to mention Puritanical) school that tends to think that too much of a good thing makes it less good. Also, I have some vague idea that it is better to have produced a small amount of brilliant art than a large amount of average or mediocre fare. I can't think of a show that was consistently good for more than 3 years, anyway. (The Simpsons probably comes the closest, but just try to imagine that achievement with live actors. Cheers? Nope. The Cosby Show? Nope. Seinfeld? No way.) As I write this, I feel like a crotchety old person. But short-lived brilliance does not make me feel crotchety or cynical or sad. It makes me wonder what kinds of brilliance might lie inside me and those I love. It makes me want to engage with the world in the hope of inducing such brilliance in myself and others. It is perhaps slightly easier to feel this sort of impulse in the wake of the recent election. The long, weary trudge of the soul through the Bush years has yielded to a more sprightly stride. I keep the New Yorker cover depicting a long red tunnel with a blue light at the end next to my bed. It reminds me to dream at night.

I changed my blog without saving my old template. I had a new look that I hated, didn't know how to change it back, and thus completely gave up on my blog. I would like to resurrect it, but I think a peach-tinted background is not the way to do it. Oh heck with it, I'll just write.

On Saturday, I will be moving into my very own apartment. This will be the first time I've lived alone since a brief stint in 2003. During all of the intervening time, living alone has been an insistent fantasy. I have now structured my life almost completely around that fantasy. I certainly took my job so I could make enough money to live alone.

I had a brief but stressful housing search which delivered me, at the last minute, into this beautiful and perfect little studio on Commonwealth Ave. (to be continued...I hope)