A Funny Thing Happened...

A funny thing happened when I was lunching in my favorite organic restaurant today. 

Well nigh everyone knows that women talk to one another.  About the things not so small and not so insignificant.  Not too many go into deep, intimate tales.  And that is womanspeak.

It all changed today.  With bar salad in hand, chocolate mint cookie that can never be eaten on a hot day and a glass of water, I found an empty booth by the window.  By some standards it is a dark and dreary day.  It wasn't dreary in here.The oranges, reds, yellows and gold flowers in vases and old pine floors exuded warmth. I was more than glad to be in this cafe.

With absolutely no expectations, other than a scrumptious lunch, the two fifty-sixty somethings sitting at the booth in front of me were conversing.  Full disclosure, both were stunning men. Variegated gray hair, on the short side.

I had no intention of listening in. At first I wasn't sure what they were discussing.  The restaurant was nearly empty and all the machines were silent.  There wasn't even any cell phone chatter. 

"I adore her, I love her.  It is different with her than my first wife.  Stella was Catholic, all about being proper, nothing unique, definitely nothing experimental.  I was freshly out of grad school when we met.  She had a lot of sexual abuse in her life.  It played out in our relationship."

My ears were open. Wider.

"I know what you mean.  That is why I like this group.  Men from all walks of life, straight, gay tell their story.  It is safe there."

This must be the Mankind Project I am thinking.

"So what happened with Stella?"

"I couldn't get to me with her.  But I sure do with Tasha.  She will try anything.  I don't mean kinky, I mean she heals me.  I heal me, ya know?"

"Yes, I do.  That is why I am glad I became a therapist.  It helps me as much as it helps them."

"I know.  I love Tasha on so many levels.  She knows it.  She has her share of issues, but they don't matter. With her or without her next to me, she is always in my head.  I am a better man with her. And I like our men's group a lot."

I had to pretend to be on my cell phone chatting softly.  An easy way to cover my laughter. That and I couldn't sit in that booth any longer.  I felt exposed. Ten minutes was enough. And I was more than happy to hear this conversation. I just couldn't keep a straight face. Especially with all the DETAILS.  I also don't think I would enjoy my mate discussing me with someone at that level.  The privacy thing and all.  And yes, I did eliminate some of the intimate details. Use your imagination.

Lunch more than put a smile on my face.  Menspeak. I like it.

In Residence

A day in the den.  A comfy studio.  Guest room.  Retreat.  I love it here.  I use a variety of watercolors, sponges, paper towels.  All for the effect.  The nail file is the straight edge of the day.

That's my new paint brush in the photograph above- sable.  I'm using it more and more.  It makes me work hard to create the look in my head.

In this watercolor, the experience is creating depth. 

Three watercolors are framed and awaiting hanging over the sleep sofa.  But it is a bit busy there lately. 

And by the way, the snoozer at the bottom is doing much better.  A urinary tract infection but you would never know it.  Such a happy little one.

Happy Monday!

 

A Day

What a difference a day makes.  This photograph was taken in the den.  The pillows were removed from the living room and the botanicals added there.  For fall. These pillows were made for the den anyway.  I flipflop things around seasonally.  Less so these days.

The den is a warm place. I am painting here now - watercolors.  Soon it will have some of lthe paintings up.  A cozier look.  Maybe a few seacoast things.

The dogs are where they seem happiest ~ snoozin on the sleep sofa. When I took this photograph just the other day, the dogs seemed fine.   The lower dog, age 10, now has hematuria.  Tomorrow the vet will tell us what to do.  Other than that, she is perky as ever.  A bit thinner than last year though.  The animal folks use the word, 'geriatric.'  Personally, labels are so passe.  That one sounds moribund.  She has a little condition.  I am hopeful it will be resolved very soon.  I want to concentrate my time on enjoying the present.  Now.

I enjoy thinking about my buddies.  Loving them, nourishing them.  Being a part of their world, and them in mine.  I am more than gratitude for them.

And they have personalities. The other dog likes being high up.  It isn't a Napoleonic thing as much as it is that she has come feline in her.  Surely, the blood lines crossed somewhere. She thinks she is Molly, the cat.

My little buddies are best friends.  The smaller one atop the sofa plays the role of mother.  Always nurturing. Competitive.  Nervous. She is also the QUEEN.  The larger one is the younger by a year.  She is the affectionate one. Clueless, too.  And strong.  The fullback.

It is hard to see them getting older.  They are a large part of my world.  Easier here in New England.  The worst part about all of this is that sometime there will be just one of them.  I can't imagine how they will manage without their buddy. Or how I will manage without them.

They are behind me snoozing.  It gives me a lot of comfort.  For now, as always, I will take it day by day.  What a difference a day makes. 

The Shield of Perspective

This wall was erected a few years ago to protect the streets and homes by the seashore.  You can see broken up remnants of a former wall in the water by the wall below. This wall is a kind of shield. 

So often in our lives we use shields to give us perspective.  Sometimes it is putting a halt to behaviors, or responses from others.  Sometimes we have to reflect on them, deciding how we want to respond.  That is, if we want to respond at all.  Most of the work is within. 

We can shield our own thoughts as well.  There are days we don't feel homeostatic.  We feel just out of sorts.  Often there isn't an explanation, although our trained brain searches for one.  We can untrain the brain and let things be as they are.  Meditation helps that a lot.

When we can, we want to stop the stormy seas in our minds.  These thoughts often are external ones, having little to do with who we are.  Unless we allow that. Most of these thoughts we had the day before and the day before that.  95% of our thoughts are repetitive ones. 

A new friend inquired how to simplify their life.  Working in an IT field, this fellow wanted out of the rat race.  He wanted to find that elusive peace.  

"But how did you do it?" he implored.

"I just did."

Day by day, breath by breath.  Sometimes we are off a bit.  It is only the naming of it that gives it form.  What would happen if we just acknowledged it and let it go? 

I'm off to enjoy a morsel of chocolate.  That, too, works wonders.

Namaste

Rough Seas

Why are waves white?  

"To explain the phenomenon, let us recall that sunlight is white (the sun emits visible light of all colours, which combine to give white light).

Foam consists of bubbles, which are very thin liquid films with air inside. Compared with a water droplet of the same size, a bubble absorbs much less light than the water droplet because it has so little matter. And the air inside the bubble is not a good absorber of light either. Hence, all things being equal, the light coming out from a bubble is brighter than that from water (which is just a large collection of water droplets), and appears white under the sun."

Source:  http://www.weather.gov.hk/education/edu06nature/ele_beach1_e.htm

Light appears with lightness.  Lightness of one's life, lightness of the self. The soul.

The other evening I happened to walk into an area where a few people were chatting.  A not-so-familiar face glazed me over.

"Hi, there, have we met before? I said.


"Yes, the other day when I was getting ready to run."

Ahh, this is the woman. I didn't remember the face so much.  I remembered her energy.   She was angry, like life had not been all she had hoped. Within minutes, her face gnarled as her skin tightened.  Her neck veins bulged. She injured her body kickboxing earlier.  She said she was so angry.  She was glad her son's fiance wasn't nearby, for it would have been her face.

The woman never greeted me in the few times we passed one another.  Her son's fiance wasn't to her liking. She said the young woman was too controlling. And angry. A resemblance appeared immediately.  I listened.  Mostly.

The next hour she spoke about how she didn't need anyone, that men just want a Barbie. She was more than hard.

She was like the rough sea.  Edgy.  On guard.  Thrashing.

I wondered if the sea worked out its frustration as the light permeates the foam. Masuru Emoto wrote about water droplets.  How they hold the energy of the universe, the energy of individuals. That they change dependent upon one's energy.  Soft and positive produce pristene, beautiful images.  Hard and angry produce distortion, macabre images.

When a neighbor mentioned her at coffee this morning admiring how much this woman knew, I couldn't help feel sad.  What good is knowledge about the external, when the internal is suffering so?

So close to nature, so far from oneself.  A lesson for all of us. The lightness is there for the taking ...when we have suffered enough.

Undocumented Hours

"The past few years have levied a strange burden of proof upon our backs, a burden to account for our hours and days, to prove to all who care to watch from the screens of their phones and computers that we are doing something worthy with our lives.  In the meantime, we have forgotten how to be content in being present.  We have not been transfixed and emptied since we first believed the lie that all of our experiences must be shared." 

                 Undocumented Hours.  Rebecca Parker Payne.

Drawers

An early morning walk after a brief, but heavy rain last night is a reflective time.  My thoughts drifted years back some twelve years.  It was the new millenium.  My children were spreading their collective wings.  After our family home was sold my son returned to the city a few hundred miles south.  Eventually he settled on the area where he was born.  We have some extended family there. Jobs are abundant there.

Moving into the city after college means you don't take much with you.  His father was supposed to shelter his belongings after our marriage completed.  I remember telling his Dad to be sure to hang on to all of our son's collections.  Especially the Darth Vader collection kit.  He would want that in years to come.

Saying that didn't happen is an understatement.  His Dad tossed everything.  But this post isn't about that.   It is about new beginnings.

When I visited my son in a townhouse he was sharing with three others, I had lots of concerns.  Crime was the first.  I was assured he was a man of the world and was cautious.  I still worried. I also wanted to ensure he was living in a comfortable place.  A place he could call home. 

Upon entering the hundred year old structure,arched doorways and curved wall reminded me of an earlier time.  Craftsmanship.  His new home was neat and clean, his signature marks.  Spartan mostly. 

Climbing the oak stairs to his bedroom on the second floor,he showed me his room down the long hall.  A mattress was on the floor.  Directly on the floor.  No frame.  The floor.  A lamp was next to it. On the floor. Turning around, it became instantly clear this was to be an open look.  No dresser.  Nada. He had a double dresser in our family home.  I had a triple dresser.

But Mom's need to look into closets.  Why?  It is a sickness no doubt.  Closets tell the real story.   It also tells you if they have enough clothes. So I opened the closet. 

Inside the closet was a two foot plastic looking dresser. On the floor. It kept his things clean and organized.  But Mom was bothered.  How could he not have a dresser?  Further questioning lead to the fact he didn't need one.  But Mom's heart still sunk.  How could my son not have a dresser?   It didn't feel like home to me.  It did to him.  Or so he said. 

Years later, I think about the dresser.  I think about my thoughts about what was necessary back then. All the things that just weren't necessary. They aren't necessary now. Our lives have some parallels.  His life is a full one.  He called it in.  Married to a wonderful woman.  An adorable son.  More on the way for sure.

After he was settled, I moved five hundred miles south of him.  I had released many of the things I had in my former life. Including the triple dresser. Simplicity.  That's the ticket. After enjoying years in the mountains my life was ready for more streamlining.  This time the move would take me one thousand miles north, easier access to visit my son, closer to his sister. An easier lifestyle.

Just before I moved, I asked a friend if he wanted my dresser. I was reducing again. My space in my new home was half the space I had in the other house. Limited storage.  Stuff didn't matter in the life I was creating.  I didn't plan to spend a lot of time inside.  The funny thing was that the dresser didn't fit in the life my friend was creating.  He is a minimalist. He just doesn't have room for it. He graciously declined.

The small dresser now stands in my bedroom in my new place. A third of the size of the one I had in my former life.  It's relatively empty. But my life is now two thirds larger.