To Endure is to Burn

“What is to give light must endure burning.”  Viktor Frankl

I don't have a job, at least not one that pays regularly. You may remember I quit that thing over three years ago. I've spent the time since doing various things, like laundry, dishes, shopping, visiting with friends, traveling, running our cat to and from the vet, getting healthier, and other such stuff that most people with paying jobs do. Almost everyone I know tells me they are jealous of me and wish they could have my life. But they don't know the truth: Having no job is harder than it sounds (or looks).

Now, let's not get carried away here. I love my life, and know how very fortunate I am to be in a situation where I do not have to work my fingers to the bone and put my nose to the grindstone daily, beginning with a 5:30 A.M. Sencha ringtone.

Being jobless has, essentially, made me identity-less.

At first, I enjoyed recovery-mode, and will admit to spending hours hanging around, binge-watching TV. But once I got caught up on PLL, The Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, Sons of Anarchy, and numerous other shows, most of which I'd never heard of, and I'd On-Demanded and Netflixed myself into oblivion, I was disgusted with myself. Rested? Hell, yes. But mostly just disgusted because I had never been so unproductive in all my life. Surely, I got more done in my mother's womb, what with all the kicking and stretching and growing and being aggressive enough to actually make it out alive. Without a job, though, I was sitting around dying, withering away, with nothing to feel good about and nothing to say. My husband certainly didn't care that I almost found out who "A" was but then, in a serious plot twist of utter nonsense and suspense, Nope! I still hadn’t even managed to acquire useless information about fake paranoid people running around their little town, lying to everyone, including themselves, about everything. But Pretty Little Liars! I was stuck in their lives--because I was "breathing just a little and calling it a life." (Thank you, Mary Oliver).  But I needed rest, I claimed. I'll figure out what I'm going to do, soon, I said. Very soon, just after I finish watching all 101 episodes of Pretty Little Liars and have a good cry over the fact that I won't have anymore episodes to watch until next season.

As I settled into my crises--no more PLL and who the heck am I?--I developed an urgent sense of self-loathing. I got to quit my job and pursue my writing. I was writing a book, and now I had all the time in the world to finish it! This was the life! But I wasn't writing. I was avoiding. First, there was the recovery period, and then there was the helping period. The helping period consisted of two very crucial elements that kept it afloat: 1) Other people in my life thought I was free to do whatever, whenever, because I didn't have a job. 2) I let other people think I was free to do whatever, whenever, because I didn't have a job. Thus, my life became about going here, and doing that, and never feeling like I could say No because I didn’t have a job, which meant everything thing else that was not my writing became a priority. And it seemed every time I would chastise myself, get serious about sitting down to write, and actually write, something else would pop up that took me away from my routine. I managed to blame my writing failure and paralysis on everything and everyone else. Even our cluttered house became a reason I couldn't write--because I simply couldn't think for all the shit everywhere. So I decided to de-clutter. And when that didn't work, another excuse emerged.

So I got a part-time teaching job at a community college. Teaching one class monopolized my time. At the end of one semester, I was tired of reading essays and arguing with students about grades, and I was only $3,000 richer. I relished the idea of getting back to writing once I got the time-management thing down for the next semester.

Until B and I moved to San Diego. We had a tiny little one-bedroom apartment. It was clean and clutter-free, and the perfect little haven for my writer-ly endeavors. I did research, I entered contests, I submitted poetry to various literary journals, and I wrote and wrote and wrote, changing my memoir into a Young Adult novel, re-writing the crap out of it, bleeding it dry, and coming to the realization that my book might actually be good now that it has a purpose, a target audience, and an actual plot. I got so close to finishing my 330-page revision, I could taste it, like sugary candy on my tongue.

And then I got injured. Forget the surgeries I'd had--one in November and one in June--I was laid up with a severely sprained wrist and major tissue damage to my left hip/leg/butt due to a fall.

And then we moved back to Redondo Beach. And I became overwhelmed again with stuff. I wrote a little, but then, days were taken up with other duties and responsibilities.

And then I was asked back to Girls Inc., where, as a writing coach, I assisted a small group of girls with writing their scholarship essays. I thought about turning the position down, since the center is 40 miles away and a permanent move to San Diego lurked around the bend. But I took the job. And I told myself I would write in the mornings before work. Ha! I worked two days a week, leaving my house at 1:30 P.M. and getting home between 8:30 and 9 most days--and getting home at after midnight three successive days the last week because it was crunch time. I was mentally spent. Another small paycheck in hand, I had been swindled by the prospect of a part-time job that would allow me time to write.

The truth is, I loved that job and love the girls I worked with. Helping them learn about writing and supporting them as they developed their harrowing life stories into meaningful essays was one of the most rewarding and fun things I have ever been a part of. And if they all get a $20,000 national scholarship for college because I offered my time, talent, and love--well, then, I'd say there is nothing more successful.

The job ended last week and the girls will find out the scholarship results in February. Either they will get a visit at their school from the Girls Inc. director, who will smile big while holding a bouquet of flowers as she congratulates them; or they will get an apologetic phone call. Two years ago, all five scholarship candidates won $20,000. So there's no pressure for them all the win this year. The pressure may be all in my head.

Maybe I’m just excited because as I write this, I am actually writing this. As much as I'd like to say I am a writer, I've battled with the defeatist thought that I am not a writer. But no one needs to be committed every moment to her dream to claim that dream a reality. And I must stop fear from telling me I am just a girl without a job (a.k.a. a purpose).

So, the next chapter begins. My life is not predictable. I don't know when or if I will freelance again. I don't know when I will publish an actual poem instead of ushering in the rejection notices like pebbles in the wind. I don't know when I will finish my novel. But that's okay. I'm close--real close. I need to keep reminding myself that I do know who I am. I am a person. I am a homemaker and a wife. I am a friend and a daughter and a sister. I am an educator. I am a writer. I am all of these things. 

To endure is to burn--to experience the nothings and learn the munificent ways in which they are somethings. For if we never feel low, how can we know the high when it hits us? For if we ourselves never burn, how can we light the path? And if the purpose of life lay in the destination, I might be content to resign myself to yet another binge-watch of some show I don't even know about--because Sons of Anarchy was disgustingly delicious. But life is all about the journey. And isn't it sweet.

Moncho

When I think of Moncho I think of all the wrongs I should have righted before they became wrongs.  It's like I stepped in a puddle I saw coming and owned the water in my shoe and laughed about it like it's what I wanted in the first place.  And then came the regret.  And then the confusion.  And then the anger.  First at myself.  And then at Moncho.
Moncho is the temptation and the curse, the decision and the knowledge, the hope and despair.  And if you don't have a Moncho, you did.  Or you will.  Everyone has a Moncho at some point, even if he doesn't show up on your doorstep or look you square in your self-conscious face in the middle of the night when you turned around and least expected him but saw him anyway even though you never thought you would.
And Moncho knows exactly what he's doing.  He's a goalie, a score keeper, an ice-skater, and hunter, and he will run his bowie knife right through the guts of your perfectly salted plan.  And he will leave you alone to think about the mistakes you made.  Because you made them, not him.  He just happened to get in the way.  Moncho is always in the way.  Literally.  And then he's all you can think about until you want to puke because you're still a little sick about it and wounded, too.  Moncho is the one you thought you could trust out of everyone.  But Moncho is a trick, a monolithic, illusory, sparkly new thing that turns out to be that which you should've left alone.  But you let him in, and now he's your secret, and you wear him like cheap perfume, like smudged lipstick, like a life jacket, because he knows, too, what can tempt you.  He took a big risk because he was the one with nothing to lose, so what did it matter to him if he couldn't make you break your diet or your promise or you knuckles on the table of regret.  He's no longer innocent, but he's not guilty either. 
And he doesn't even have the sense to consider the ramifications of Moncho.  Moncho is mindless.  Now put Moncho out of your mind.

My Grandfather Makes Me Cry

My Grandfather Makes Me Cry

1.       He’s 94 years old.

2.       He married my grandmother when he was 26.  She was six years his senior, and had five children by her first husband.

3.       He became my and my brother’s legal guardian, with my grandmother, during a tumultuous and frightening time in our childhood.

4.       He opened savings accounts for us and made us invest 10% of our weekly allowance report card earnings, and he matched that 10%, to teach us the power of compound interest.

5.       He keeps my grandmother’s ashes by his bed and talks to her twice a day.

6.       He has survived 4 of his 5 children, and he supported my grandmother emotionally and financially for 64 years, through family illnesses, death, and strife.

7.       About a year ago, he fell and fractured his hip and back.  I expressed my anger about the fact that the nurses couldn’t keep his medication straight, and I was ready to give them a piece of my mind.  But he stopped me and said, “They’re fine.  I don’t want to make waves.  This is nothing, and I might really need them someday.”

8.       About four years ago, he made a new lady friend, who recently passed away.  He loved her easily and completely.  When someone mentions her, he says, “She was quite a lady,” and he knows this takes nothing away from the love he had for my grandmother, who he admits “was the best partner in life [he] could have asked for.”

9.       In response to any hardship, he simply says, “You play the hand you’re dealt; that’s all.”

10.   He suffers from macular degeneration and is nearly completely blind, registering only shapes and shadows. 

11.   He never gets bored.  He has about 500 songs on an MP3 player.  He just kicks back with his headphones plugged into his ears, his hearing aid turned up, enjoying the sounds of everything country including Willie Nelson, George Strait, and Taylor Swift.  Also, he has a machine from the Braille Institute that plays books on tape.  He can adjust the speed and tone of voice of the reader to suit his preference and mood.  When his sight was better, he worked as a volunteer repairing these machines.

12.   When I arrived to visit once, he looked at me and furrowed his brow.
               "What's that on your head?" he asked.  "You wearing a hat?"

 I replied first with a small, quiet laugh.  “It’s my hair.  Up in a bun!” 

 He dismissed this information with a shake of his head.

 I wondered if his dismay stemmed from his misperception or from the fact that I thought wearing my hair up on my head like a hat was a good idea.

13.   The most recent time I visited my grandfather, he shared his concern over having lost a significant amount of weight.  He didn’t look smaller than before, but I asked how much he’d lost. 

“I’m down to 143,” he said with a frown.  “I’m not going to be around much longer if I keep losing weight like this.  Last weigh in was 162.  And I just don’t have an appetite.  I’m forcing myself to eat, though.”

“Well, that’s not good.  I wonder why you’re losing so much so fast.”

“I don’t know.  Hope the doctor can give me some answers.  Otherwise, I’m a goner.”

We proceeded to eat our dinner.  He cleaned his plate: Chicken Parmesan, red potatoes, and peas and carrots.  He’d also eaten a cup of yellow split pea soup as an appetizer, and a glass of Salmon Creek chardonnay.  For dessert, he ordered a scoop of vanilla ice cream.  

"I'm trying to eat," he said. 

When we returned to his apartment, I asked him if he wanted me to check his scale. 

“Sure, why don’t you,” he said.  “What I have to do to check my weight is stand on it and then bend over and move one of the little colored plastic markers over to where the needle goes.  And then, I pick up the scale and take it over to my reader [a special magnifying machine for the blind] so I can see where the marker is.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very accurate way to weigh yourself,” I laughed.

“Well, it’s pretty good.  It’s the best I got.”

I went into his bathroom and weighed myself.  I was secretly hoping it might show that I, too, had dropped twenty pounds since my last weigh in.  The scale was set about a pound on the light side, but my weight was accurate. 

“It seems to be right,” I called to him.  “You wanna get on this thing and have me read it for you?”

“We might as well,” he said.  He pushed his walker into the bathroom and abandoned it to step onto the scale.

“Grandpa,” I said.  “It says you weigh 162.”  I checked the needle again.

“Well how ‘bout that,” he said.

“Good to know you aren’t wasting away after all.”

“Sure is.”

I moved the blue marker that had been previously set to 143.  “Now you know where you are,” I said.

Later that evening, I had a phone conversation with my brother about the faulty weigh-in situation, and we discussed the benefits of a talking scale.

“I can see it now,” I said, “Get off me, fatty!  Ow, you’re hurting me!  Lay off the sweets, will ya, Sweets?”

My brother laughed.  “It’ll read him the weight so he doesn’t have to go through so much trouble.”

“Yeah, we certainly can’t trust a blind man to read the scale right.”

My grandfather’s birthday is in October, and while he certainly would get a kick out of a scale that told him he needed to cut back on the biscuits, he can really use one that tells him he’s not wasting away.

14.    When I tell my grandfather we sure got lucky to have him in our family, he pats me on the hand and says, “I sure am the lucky one, and I love you so, so much.”

And that’s how he makes me cry.

No Certain Analysis

In keeping with the natural order of things and the fact that change is inevitable, I've updated my blog page.  I've neglected my blog for quite some time now.  There was a small part of me that hoped it would sustain itself and that, somehow, it could know me and write for me all the longings and lessons of my heart.  But that is the dreamer in me--the part of me that has remained too small in the face of truth.  Logic tells me that dreams and magic are two very different things.  But isn't there a sort of magic in all dreams?

A friend of mine was talking about miracles the other day.  Not the kind of miracles granted by God, but the kind of miracles we see in life every day, the kind of miracles we see in hope, love, and change.

The more she spoke about the benefits of changing one's attitude and perspective, the more I began to see myself in her--not the self I've been, but the self I wish to be.  Yet I couldn't help but wonder why, if this change is what I really want, it is so difficult to achieve.  My friend's philosophy stems from the idea that the only person you can change is yourself; it is not our job to change other people.  How true this is!  Yet we (I) pretend that this is not so.

Honesty is such a vast thing.  And so small, too, so easily hidden.  When I am honest with myself I am able to grant myself a place in this world much more meaningful than the space I fill by merely existing.  Being honest means giving your voice to the unforgiving wind that seeks to destroy your expression.  Being honest means loving yourself enough to know what you want, think, believe, and need and then having the courage and confidence to speak those things. 

I will admit, there is a part of me that's floating away, and I'm not sure where that fierce wind is trying to take me.  The question now is, does my voice sing with that wind or fight against it?

I'm dreaming more these days. I welcome the judges. They have always been here; now, I'm not pretending they don't exist.

Many of you who read this will wonder what I'm talking about and why I'm being so vague.  It must seem like I'm trying to tell you something while I'm not really telling you anything at all.  This post seems to be about so many things and about nothing specific at the same time.  Well, there we go, floating away.  It happens when we least expect it, and rarely do we see it coming. 

Your heart has answers, and if you will just close your eyes and listen, you might hear them.