My Trees

I'm looking out the window at trees. Just trees. It's perfect.

We moved up here to a house way up on a hill, in the woods, a year ago. We're not isolated; this is a neighborhood, but houses here are more spread out than in the city. Back there, I could count twenty-two houses around us from my yard. Here, I can see five through the trees from my front yard and only one, or none, from my backyard. It's perfect.

Our desire to live outside the city was not an anti-social one. For me, it was about choosing my social encounters and face-to-face interaction instead of living among so many people and so much noise all the time that "alone" felt rare.

I need a lot of alone time, because when I'm with others, I use up so much energy- physical, mental, emotional. I am fully present. My soul's tank is on empty almost every time I pull into my driveway. I need to feel a LOT of space around me for a good long time to process and re-charge. Living surrounded by nature, by more trees than people, does the trick. 

For others, "alone" might mean closing the bedroom door and reading for an hour, or staying home all day. It might mean heading out to the woods for a long solitary walk, or being alone in a crowd, enjoying the sounds of people without the pressure to have a conversation. (For parents of very young children, it's probably taking a pee BY YOURSELF. A shower is out of the question.)


I'm super sensitive to many things, and too much noise is a huge trigger for my anxiety. Especially too much people noise. I can't even hear two voices at the same time without feeling completely overwhelmed. In the city, the outside noise was becoming more and more invasive. People yelling in their yards, people screaming at their kids, kids yelling to each other, multiple dogs barking, the neighbor's cockatiels shrieking, car horns, car alarms, and more frequently, police sirens. Closed doors and windows didn't always help.

Alone- the kind that worked- seemed more and more elusive.

Driving felt even worse. In our old neighborhood, and in the city in general, there are too many stimuli. People driving carelessly or recklessly, people pulling out of driveways everywhere, people walking in groups in the street, people running into the street or crossing while texting, bikes swerving into the road, horns, tires squealing. It was a dangerous obstacle course every time. When I got where I was going, my heart was pounding, and I wondered if I could make it home.

Now, I drive most of the way to my destinations on country roads. And I feel alone in the best possible way. There's not much traffic- sometimes, none. I don't mind watching out for deer, turkeys, foxes. I drive slowly, smiling. It's a relief.

The relief comes from less stimuli, but also from knowing that any animals I see are also striving for alone time, for quiet, for uncomplicated encounters with their environment. I feel that energy. It's my energy, too.

In the city, people are everywhere with their messy minds, their flawed decision-making, their intentions and impulses flying around in their heads and hands as they operate vehicles, machinery, and equipment around other people. Often way too close to other people.

I feel so blessed, now, to mostly CHOOSE when to navigate this obstacle course.

Far from making me anti-social, though, moving to the country has enhanced my ability to focus on the social life I want. I have enough alone time to de-stress, to re-charge, to feel fully energized for meetings with friends and for work. And for those times when I have to breathe deeply and be one of the crowd.

I'm in another room now, and I'm looking out the window at trees. Just trees. It's perfect.

In a little while I'll take those back roads into the city to bring my son's friend home and go to work, and I'll be okay. Because after that, I come home to my trees again.

They're the beautiful bookends to the stories of my days.

Karaoke!

I'm going through one of those times in life when new things hold great appeal. I'm reading new books, discovering new parks and places to eat, trying a whole plethora of new things. (Example: using the word "plethora" more often. Awesome word.)

Tonight my friend Lindsey, a fabulous 14-year-old budding music star, decided to sing in front of a local karaoke crowd. She did this sans her beloved guitar, of course, which put her out of her comfort zone a little. Which is another reason I admire her. She challenges herself. Her instincts are good, and she knocked her first song out of the park, and I got goosebumps as I often do while listening to her, and I cried. I don't cry when everyone sings, but there's something about Lindsey. The night went on and she performed three more songs, and I think I was as proud as her mom. And humbled.

The only time I did karaoke- 20 years ago- I was with a big group of women from work and there was alcohol involved. I sang "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" with my friend Chris, and it went well because almost everyone in the room was buzzed, drunk, or busy shoveling nachos into their mouths.

I planned to stay part of the crowd tonight, to enjoy Lindsey. But there was something infectious in the air, a lighthearted momentum, and I knew I could actively participate. Even though I was drinking lemonade!

Did I mention that I'm also into active participation lately? I'm not the same girl who hid behind all the other girls and was picked last for softball in middle school. And basketball. And kickball. Okay, I was also picked last because I sucked at those sports. (Not floor hockey, though- I was freakishly good at floor hockey. Take that, bitches!)

I grabbed one of the song binders and started cheerfully flipping through titles and artists. So many choices. What fun! I could join the legions of people who love karaoke, who stride to the microphone and belt out their favorite tunes as loudly as they do in the shower.

And this particular night, I mean "legions" in the literal sense. As in American Legions. And the particular Legion where we sat surrounded by older folks who shared rousing renditions of "Paper Roses" and "Let Me Call You Sweetheart." Including the dreamy white-haired guy with the Barry White voice. But I digress.

I searched for the perfect song, buoyed by the friendly crowd. I used to work as an Activities Leader in nursing facilities and knew many of the old songs. Sing-alongs were a highlight of my week. So I'd pick one of the golden oldies and everyone would be tickled that I- still surely a "spring chicken"- knew how to tug at their heartstrings. Never mind that Lindsey was performing current songs, beautifully and to great applause. I wasn't taking chances- I'd stick with a known crowd-pleaser.

Minutes turned into an hour and then two, and for some reason, hundreds of titles and artists weren't enough. The perfect song had to be there. If only I could find it.

My best friend Michaele, Lindsey's mom, noticed the flipping, flipping, flipping of pages. And maybe the biting of my nails. And maybe the jiggling of my knees.

"You don't have to do this," she said kindly. Which was especially generous since we spend a lot of time embarrassing each other in public.

"I really think I can, though," I answered. And meant it. As soon as I found The Song, I'd hand the music host my selection and eagerly await my turn.

I excused myself to use the restroom. This was really a secret mission to rehearse a song, quietly, in the stall. Twice. It went well. The toilet clapped.

Back at the table, I told Michaele and Lindsey my choice. Not an oldie after all. Lindsey inspired me, and I was going to sing something current. I wrote the title and my first name on the little slip of paper, tiptoed to the front table and handed it to the host. Now all I had to do was wait for my magical moment.

And make Michaele locate the lyrics on her IPhone. And sing them in my head. And hand her the phone. And ask for it again. And again. And again.

Because every time a performance ended, my song fresh in my head, I expected the host to call my name. But he called Arthur! And Lena! And Margaret! And Harry! And Edna! And Phil! And I started to lose my nerve, and then to silently freak out, while clapping overly hard for Arthur! And Lena! And Margaret! And Harry! And Edna! And Phil! Because then maybe they'd clap for me!

In case you're among those who wonders what could possibly be so intimidating about the American Legion crowd, they're a tight-knit bunch. Friendly and supportive, sure, but they have all these in-jokes and established routines, and you get an urge to fit in, to be welcomed into the fold. At least I do.

So strong was my desire to feel their support that I approached the female bartender (who loved Lindsey) and told her I'd finally be singing but might throw up before it happened.

"Oh, honey," she said. "Have you heard some of these folks?" She leaned close. "Some of them are just BAD. You'll do fine! I can't wait to hear you!"

I went to the restroom again, followed by a woman in a purple floral shirt (who also loved Lindsey).

"Oh my god," I said from my confessional. "I'm actually going to sing soon. I'm so nervous. I might change my mind."

"Don't," she advised. "You can do it. It'll be wonderful."

"Promise me you'll smile even if I sound bad."

"I promise! But you'll do fine!"

Secretly, despite my nerves, I knew I'd do fine. I knew I'd make them all smile. And applaud. And mean it!

Did I mention that I live for magical moments? Moments you always remember? The ones that make you teary-eyed as you recount them for friends? This was going to make the list.

A hundred hours later, as my mental pom-poms were fraying, I heard my name. I looked demurely at the floor and made my way to the front of the room. Microphone in hand, I listened to the opening notes of the song and prepared to blow everyone away.

"It's that other girl," I heard someone whisper. (Old people whisper quite loudly.) I was thrilled that they placed me alongside Lindsey in estimation, and felt anticipation in the air. It was time.

To suck.

To really, truly suck.

To suck so bad that you know you suck ten seconds into the song, and your stomach turns to lead, and no desperate efforts to distance yourself from the Microphone of Shame or to channel Lindsey can save you.

My only goal, then, was to finish the song. No, I was not a triathlete with a freshly broken leg who nevertheless hopped toward the finish line. But I was going to stick it out, and leave with my head held high for that reason alone. I would not crumble.

The song became The Song That Never Ends.

And I became the girl in the middle school gym who burned with shame, head down, acutely aware of her unworthiness.

But I did not crumble.

Until the song ended. And the Pity Applause filled my ears.

And I rushed back to the table in the corner, and crushed my plastic lemonade bottle between my hands, and tried not to cry. And willed everyone to stop. looking. at. me. Me, the other girl, who did not amaze and delight. Who did not even earn membership in the Paper Roses Club of Velvety Pipes.

I stood and snaked my way along the wall to the exit, bursting through the doors to freedom.

And there was the woman in the purple floral shirt. My bathroom buddy.

She smiled. "You did great!" she said.

And I regained my composure, and sense of humor. Except that was later, in my car. Right then I ran. I ran away from the woman in the purple floral shirt. I sprinted through the parking lot and jammed my key into the car door lock and turned it and yanked the door open and averted my eyes from the American Legion and got the hell out of there.

And I can see the humor in all this, of course I can.

And I intend to actively participate in life despite this little setback. To keep trying new things. A plethora of new things, just less scary things, like juggling fire torches or tightrope-walking across Niagara Falls.

And when I stop cringing, maybe I'll feel good about finishing my song, even though I sucked. Because there is value in sticking things out. In holding the hand of your inner middle school loser and telling her that you're proud of her for doing her best. And telling her that you love her.

And that she never, ever has to do that again.

Ever.

Ever.




Ever.
Amen.

HA HA HA!

I'm sitting here laughing with Dave and pondering this next blog entry. I lift my fingers to type and then pause as we laugh again. So I shall write about laughter! A good, hearty laugh is medicine for much of the stuff we deal with in life. I'm not talking about a snicker, chuckle, or giggle. I'm talking belly laugh here, the kind that hurts afterward. The kind that takes you by surprise and makes you double over, gasping for breath. What makes you laugh like that? (Aside from those sudden hilarious moments we can't plan, like the time I was young and dropped my dad's Polaroid camera in the parking lot and it started taking photos of the car trunk and wheels and parking lot, upside down, and spitting them out one after another. Remember that, Dad?)

My family gets a big kick out of funny animal videos, the strange things our cats do, sticking weird things into the shopping cart that none of us would ever buy and watching each other find them (pickled pigs' feet! dog food! a skimming net for our pool! it would be great if we had a pool!). Dave and I love sending each other amusing texts. THE CAT PEED ON ALL YOUR GUITARS, EXCEPT THE STRAT. HE NEEDS IT FOR HIS GIG TONIGHT.

Write down the things that crack you up every single time, because you may not be able to remember them in the middle of a bad afternoon. If you're feeling stuck, discouraged with yourself or just plain sick of what you're doing, it's time to pull out the list and make yourself laugh. Take a break and let loose. Yuck it up. Whatever was bothering you...what was bothering you? Can't remember? Exactly. Take a tip from our cat Ellie, who finds GET FUZZY comics hysterical. Forget everything else and LAUGH.

Sleeping in Boxes

My little cat Zinnia is currently asleep in her sideways box under the kitchen table. It fits her perfectly. She doesn't need a cushy cat bed (though there is one), a soft blanket (though there are several), or a human pillow (again, several). She just needs her box. It feels right.

Remember being a kid and playing in boxes? Especially the huge ones from refrigerators? The best! Those boxes were rockets, time machines, caves, offices, everything. And they made for perfect sleeping if we were allowed to sleep in them.

At the age of 25, I slept in a box. Fortunately not on the street- and I don't say that lightly. I got a refrigerator box up to my rented room and went nuts with it. I colored flowers along the outside, made a window, added some whimsical touches. In went my pillow and blanket. I slept in the box for a week. It was awesome, and even more awesome to tell people what I was doing. They thought I was crazy, or silly, but some of them got a faraway look in their eyes. They remembered boxes.

I did it to remember, and I did it to access my inner child. It did help my writing. I did it mostly, though, because IT WAS FUN. It made me feel giggly and artistic and yes, different from all those boring people who would never decorate a box, let alone sleep in one.

And if you are reading this and thinking it's amusing or inspiring but your back would never recover from sleeping in a box: a single air mattress can fit in there. Foam toppers can fit in there. Several layers if necessary. And- if you are feeling so bold- a box can fit ON YOUR BED.

Boxes rock.

Stuck

So often we pretend we're not stuck- not stuck in our writing, not stuck in our ruts, not stuck in the middle of a crisis. We pretend we're okay, at least around most of the people we know, and sometimes within ourselves. How many times do you say "I'm okay," when asked how you are? Even if things suck and you want to cry or throw a toaster across the room or hide in bed for a year? Wouldn't it be nice to be honest around everyone? We should feel more comfortable saying "I'm not okay," and getting a brief but heartfelt hug from a friend or acquaintance. It would help us all, at least a little, and bond us. We need to trust that people can handle honesty and respond with compassion. They can look into our eyes and say they feel for us. They can let us know they understand. And once in a while, they can unhook our claws from the curtain.

The Table

My problem is not doing laundry, but folding it and putting it away. I'm regularly running down to the basement to grab a shirt or shorts or towel from The Table, an ordinary card table buckling under the weight of all those clean jumbled things. Dave will say, "If you have time, you know, sometime today, there's a load of towels on The Table," and I'll cut him off with, "I know! I know! I know!" Dave is a man who does his own laundry, washes more dishes than I do, and generally cleans more, so he's allowed to drop hints or suggestions about The Table and its contents. And I ignore them. I do like drawers full of easy-to-find clothes, but being a creative person, I guess I don't see the point of folding and transferring them when I could be doing one of a million more interesting things. My hand reaches toward The Table and stops- really. And I think about grinding some Guatemalan coffee beans or checking out Ben's ant farm or writing a poem. I've also never heard the laundry complain. I imagine all the clothes happily snuggling together like a pile of cats. And I get exercise every time I need a shirt. Plus, once in a while, I like to think I'm so busy having a Meaningful Life that taming the laundry is maybe even beneath me. So...is this a problem? Or is The Table actually a solution, somewhere to go when I need confirmation that Life is full and wonderful and so many mundane things can wait? That may be the real reason I leave it the way it is- because I know! I know! I know!

Luna Moth

The day I met my first luna moth reminds me of what it means to be a writer. I was standing at the side of a lake when the gorgeous creature literally landed in the water in front of me, struggling to save herself. I lifted her and without even thinking about it, set her on the front of my shirt to dry her wings. Right over my heart. She waited, and lifted her wings a bit; she waited some more. She knew when the time was right. When it was, I lifted her on one finger and she flew high, high, high into the trees. What a magical moment.

It's important for us as writers to dry our wings, to wait until our words are truly ready to venture into the world. When they are, who knows how far they'll go? And when we struggle, may we all find someone to lift us from the water and give us shelter until we're ready to fly.