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Almost every job I’ve had up until my current position at the Berryvale deli, I’ve worked in my own lone company. I baked alone for Village Books, I sat solo in the SAC gallery; at the Coffee Brake drive-through, I only occasionally overlapped with another employee for a few hours at most.
I don’t mind working by myself. It’s low key and I usually get to listen to music and sing. Plus, it has increased my sense of responsibility and capability in general–none of which I realized until I joined the team at BV. Suddenly, I’m not the only one running around in response to peoples’ orders for coffee. And if the soup bowls haven’t been stocked, I’m not the only one responsible! It is a breath of fresh air. Or, for an even better idiom: it’s a load off.
It makes me think about life in general and working together there, too. I don’t know about in the rest of the world, but in the U.S. it can really feel like in addition to pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, we’re expected to take every step in our upright boots on our own!
It’s like we’re all trying to be renaissance men in the most ridiculous ways. Women are tired of holding the sole role as homemakers, so they’re pursuing careers and degrees–mind you, they’re still making homes. Men are attempting to become more involved fathers, so they play Mr. Mom after long days at work.
Lawns need mowing, garages need painting, toilets need plunging and babies need bathing–and so few of us ever ask anyone else for help. At least not often enough, if you ask me.
There’s this wonderful detail about being human that I think we tend to overlook, or at least not consider the full implications of. Since we are all different, we all are good at and, most importantly, we all enjoy different things! Wouldn’t it save a crazy lot of time and energy if we worked as a cohesive “staff” more often?
Many hands make light work, indeed. I’m think I’ll try and have a hand in that melting pot more often.
Joe and I had a fabulous time dancing in Ashland again last night! Things went much more smoothly than before, as we worked it on the floor both together and separately.
If I am still going to parallel such experiences with movies about dancing, last night’s events would have comprised the lovely montage midway through where the female lead finally begins to show signs of significant improvement! Joe commented that I was “at least twice as good as last time,” (adding that I seemed to have gotten over my nagging neuroses about the beat) and a stranger walked up and complimented my moves! No matter that at first I thought he was asking me to dance and so responded, “Sure! I’d love . . .” and then, “. . . er, thank you!” So much for suave.
Anyway, what I actually intended to write about was seeing This is It with my pops this evening. After the most glorious of Sundays–packed full of lounging around in front of the fire first with a cup o’ joe (no pun), next a guitar and eventually a blanket as I cat-napped, followed by the most peaceful venture to Shastice park with Savannah–Dad offered to take me out for a brewski and dinner at the Goat and then to see the recent tribute to Michael Jackson.
I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of trying to write sensitively and eloquently about the film. So, I’ll try to settle back to my heart point at Four, where our tragic and remarkable musical hero M.J. almost certainly lived, and just let it flow. . .
Although I was running on very few hours of sleep, I was mesmerized by the movie as Dad (watching for his second time) said I would be. With my current passion for dance, what I found catching my eye consistently were technicalities like Michael’s impeccable turns. The way that man could spin on a dime and come back to the exact same millimeter of space in a second is astounding. I aspire to do the same!
I might say that the breadth of his talent–in addition to its excellence–is what I find most profound about the King of Pop. Watching the movie we get a chance to observe all the other incredibly gifted people who worked alongside him, but their expertise appears limited while Michael’s spreads as wide as the stage he shines on.
Of course, so does the air of tragedy that surrounds him; and an instability I sensed in his character that had nothing to do with the gory details gnashed on by the media. I just felt nervous that Michael might crack each time a request was made of him, despite that he never responded anyway but respectfully.
It all makes me want to hold him, cradle him like the little Earth Girl tenderly does the last flower. I wonder who the last person to do so, to really touch Michael Jackson, could have been? Did the composer of Human Nature ever receive any real human nurture?
My heart also breaks for everyone involved in the production of what would have been a pinnacle tour, for all the performers who opened the film weeping tears of joy for the opportunity to dance with the living legend.
I suppose that is the mess of life that any good Four will tell you is necessary in order to appreciate the beauty.
I appreciate the beauty of all that Michael Jackson created during his time on this earth–even if he did name one of his children Prince Michael II, a.k.a “Blanket!”
In honor of Michael Jackson, God bless you all.
I’m typing at the Snowcrest Internet Cafe today because the internet is still down at our house. If only they’d had broadband in the park, I would have stayed there to blog after the delectable picnic lunch Mom, Dad and I shared.
As usual, I didn’t know what would drip out of my fingers onto the keys once I sat down to type on this particular Tuesday. Stumped, I said to my folks in the car on the way here, “If I’m not careful, all I’ll write about is having my period and being hormonal.” Mom laughed and told me that would make a good opening line. It probably would have, better than the in between line I just used it as . . . especially because new inspiration struck pretty immediately after I got here, making that whole awkward topic rather irrelevant . . .
(Or did it?) When I arrived, I paid for my coffee and made my way back to the restroom. Snowcrest Internet Cafe is located right in the middle of main street and like many of the businesses in the area, it shares a hallway, bathroom and additional entrances with some neighboring shops.
When I exited the cafe proper and entered the shared hallway, I was suddenly struck by the funky details of it. Directly across from the cafe door is a hair salon I can’t imagine anyone ever remembering exists–other than the bathroom-using Snowcrest customers, that is, who are gifted with a full view of the salon’s interior thanks to indoor windows covering the whole north wall. A woman with dye smeared across her forehead smiled at me quirkily from the hairdresser’s chair as I entered the hall.
As for the hallway itself, green shag carpet adorns the floor with a decorative drip stain running the entire length of it. Plywood shelves collapsing under the weight of Highlights and hair magazines line the multicolored sponge-painted wall opposite the Mane Event. No, that’s not a dog grooming business. It’s the salon I mentioned previously . . .
I felt like I was in some foreign town as I pushed the door open to the florescent lighted bathroom; and that’s when I encountered a new twist on the idea of wherever you go, there you are.
I’m somebody who loves to travel, partially because I like to experience little nooks and crannies of faraway places. What I’m not sure I realized until this afternoon is that there are lots of curious corners even this town of 5,000 I’ve spent most of my life living in. Not to mention the slew (I use the word loosely) of opportunities to study psychology, practice my Spanish and (you know I have to say it) even to dance salsa!
Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means implying that traveling or moving elsewhere at certain times in life is not necessary. Not even close. Instead, I’m exploring my options as I find myself still living in three-stoplight Mt. Shasta. I’m looking to give life a little flair, or to acknowledge the flair that’s already there. As it turns out, it’s not all that hard to do. And I didn’t even have to go into describing all the ecstactic dancing I did last night. Maybe tomorrow.
A day to remember, in reverse:
I’m currently propped up in bed wearing a seafoam green flannel nightshirt with monkey’s all over it that my mother sewed for me. Zoe, the feistier of my two cats, is resting sweetly atop my outstretched legs. I’m drinking red wine and just finished relishing a delicious dark chocolate covered macadamia nut straight from Hawaii (hand-delivered to me by Carl and Kathy). In the background, Pink’s “Please Don’t Leave Me” is on repeat; it’s been stuck in my head since I worked out at Curves (“For Women”) earlier this evening.
I started going to Curves when I was 16 and still in high school. I remember being so impressed and happy with the program that I wanted to write articles in favor of it. These days I’m not so enthusiastic about it–although I suppose I am about just about everything else. Actually, as I hopped around on one of the Curves recovery boards today a gal whose seen me there a time or two before said, “Geez, you have too much energy all the time!” Thankfully I’ve learned, sort of, not to take things like that too personally. . .
Prior to going to Curves, I visited with my new friend Coreena at the SAC gallery. She relieved me at 1 p.m. as the coop member on duty for the afternoon and I came back around 4 to help her finish up the day. Together we looked at photos of her family’s holiday hideaway, “Hikers Rest,” on the big island of Hawaii. Corree had a c.d. playing in the background, “Have you heard of Rob Sexsmith?” she asked me.
“No. He’s good?” I replied.
“Oh, yeah! Plus he has ‘sex’ in his name.”
“And smith! As in ‘wordsmith.’”
“Or ‘locksmith. . .’”
I let Coree look through the clothes of mine the local consignment store had just rejected. “They didn’t take this!?” She asked, bewildered, as she tried on a pale blue corduroy jacket. The jacket was a hand-me-down from a Bostonian friend of mine, seasonally appropriate, cute and in good condition. I couldn’t see the problem either, but to each their own.
Shopping at Trading Places became a favorite pastime this summer while my big brother Tyler and Allison were in town planning their wedding. Neither my new sister-in-law Alli nor I are big shoppers, but somehow we created one fabulously fun experience after another at the little store. No doubt it was largely the influence of TLC’s What Not to Wear. Passing comments like, “Stacey and Clinton would NOT approve” back and forth resulted in each trip becoming highly entertaining. It also made it easier to provide–and receive–honest opinions about potentially poor choices in clothing.
I like to think Alli, Stacey and Clinton would all approve of what I came out with today: a gray Daisy Fuentes sweater-dress, a melon cardigan and a pair of black ballet flats, all for $17.50–and I didn’t pay a penny because I had $26 credit for clothing I brought in previously! Consignment, I tell you, is the shit! Please pardon my Français.
Prior to shopping came work at the gallery, and just before that I met for a most inspirational cup of coffee with a longtime family friend, Nathan. Being at similar places in life, we discussed the pros and cons and proper timing of grad school, travel, and just enjoying our little hometown. I tried to refrain from imparting any unprecedented wisdom to him, but Nathan seemed to welcome it. So I shared how when I finally slowed down and began to be present in my parents’ house in this teeny town of Mt. Shasta, life came to meet me, instead of the other way around. I explained that when I finally stopped “should-ing” all over myself, my passions just burbled up to the surface. It’s beautiful, really, and I wish the same for everybody . . .
As our morning together drew to a close, Nathan and I suddenly touched upon an idea to collaborate with many of the other motivated, creative and inspirational young people in town. Now, it looks like all the lovelies I’ve been spending time with–Coree, Joe, Nikolas, Royce, Nathan, and others–may all get to come together and create something beautiful.
Time will tell; and so will I. Stay tuned.
I’ve relocated my blog station to the coffee shop Seven Suns for the weekend. I have a nice table out front, Bodhi the dog to keep me company and a creamy mocha to distract me from typing. I also have limited time because there aren’t any outlets outside, so I’ll have to be precise in executing today’s post.
Let’s see . . . as I consider what to write about, I am reminded that I am supposed to be dedicating an equal amount of time to relationships, creative/reflective time and career. So. . . after yesterday’s trip through Tessa’s Boyfriend Hall of Fame, it can only be time to consider career again.
As I mentioned, yesterday was a difficult one for me. Want to know what why? Because I was exhausted from staying up every night reading Dan Brown’s book! That man has an indisputable way of creating an intense urge to turn the page.
Tired as I was, I made it through my Friday morning at the Gallery without much trouble; but by the time I went to the Kitchen to bake for the afternoon, I was spacing out on names and ingredients and rapidly consuming caffeine and sugar to try and penetrate the murky haze of my mind (No lectures, please. I am well aware of the contraindications of both caffeine and sugar. I just couldn’t see another option at the time and so I used both anyway. . .).
Let that be a lesson to the both of us! I ended up with three trays of half-baked biscotti resembling supersized, rectangular sugar cookies and a four inch burn on my left arm. The sad thing is, just before I burned myself saving a poorly balanced tray of 24 muffins from crashing to the floor, I proudly proclaimed to Anne next door, “I’m going to go home to rest and finish up up tomorrow!” I was so pleased with myself to have seen a fresh option and acted upon it, thinking all would be well from that point on. I guess the joke was on me. OR maybe I was just “burning” through some of my 20-something karma. Hm . . .
I usually love baking. I love the way it stimulates all the senses–touch as you mix and meddle with doughs and batters, sound in the whir of the mixer and hum of the oven, sight in the beauties produced, smell in the batters, the spices, the goods as they bake, taste . . . But even as I toy with the idea of having an apprenticeship at some classy bakery in Santa Barbara someday, baking is not actually something I see myself doing for a living. It’s not quite fulfilling enough. Fulfilling to the body, yes, but I’m looking for soul food!
That’s one reason I believe massage might be something that would suit me. It, too, is a profession where all the senses can be stimulated, with the additional perk that of the healing potential. Plus, it’s versatile. I could give massages as an aspect of the fancy practice I’ll establish someday, at a fancy resort in the tropics, or in anyone’s home. Not to mention, while you’re in school, a portion of homework is receiving massages.
Yes indeed, I like this aspect of my current career plan. However, with Kristina on the fence about our Santa Barbara plan and a friendly date in place to discuss the possibility of my teaching English in Sicily, as always, absolutely anything might happen. Let’s just hope that (as is not always the case), I am able to accept it all with grace.
OMG, 6 views today and they weren’t my mother; I just asked her. Woohoo and thank you all!
We just arrived home from yet another of Mom’s birthday celebrations this evening. It was dinner with Terry and Happ, Mona and Bruce, Mom, Dad and myself. For a few of these birthday gatherings I had a date to bring along, but tonight we’re back to the good ol’ norm: three wise couples and . . . me. I tolerated it in good taste anyhow, comforting myself by sitting prettily in my green dress between Savannah and Shasta, the dogs. . .
Today is Sunday. I spent the early morning sipping coffee and making my Slovakian grandmother’s award winning pastry, “cheesies,” for dessert at the party. The experience was lovely and nostaligic, bittersweet only in that the gooey bites of deliciousness are prepared with premade Pillsbury dinner roll dough and therefore gave me no opportunity to show off my baking skills. Alas, I tolerated the convenience and popped the golden puffs in the oven with expectant glee anyway.
I spent most of the afternoon trying not to eat the cheesies. Thankfully, my friend Amy came over later and “Mmm’d” and ate some for me and then kept me good company. We talked about school and shopping and food and God.
The last fellow I dated nicknamed Amy “Bible Amy” for her love of the good Word. Although I think his intention in coining the nickname might have been slightly less than pure, it really is fitting. Amy is a “Good Christian” in every of the phrase. She does just what Jesus would and doesn’t what he wouldn’t; she’s never judged me even though I used to babble church like a brook in the Garden of Eden and now I burble enneagram instead and have nothing to say about church anymore because I haven’t been going . . .
For nearly an entire year I was infatuated with a church called Bethel. Each week, I drove 60 miles there and back, and sometimes attended three two-plus hour services in one day! But the year before that, it was the Buddhist Abbey that had my heart. I guess if I had to categorize myself, I’d say I was a Buddhist-Christian-Yogini . . .
. . . which is a musing I will have to indulge another day. For now, as first the Abbey’s and now Bethel’s tugs on me wane, I am simply grateful to be gifted again with the quiet pleasures of Sunday mornings unplanned.
Consider this the first post in a category I’m going to call “The Daily Epiphany.”
I suddenly find myself agonizingly tired, but I’m dedicated to you and baby blog, so I type on . . .
Yesterday I mentioned a portion of conversation between my mom and me in which I was “forcefully proclaiming my latest revelations.” Although I didn’t feel the need to elaborate on said revelations then nor do I now, I did feel it important to allude to such epiphanies because they are a staple of my life.
Today’s epiphany–and I’ll try to keep it concise because otherwise we’ll both be at risk for sleep–relates to the disconnect between head and heart that countless love songs have been written about. Only, here the context is slightly different.
To give you a brief bit of background, I was once again discussing my future and how to find it, this time with my friend and mentor, Carl M. (suggested mental note: Carl is also the founder of a local Enneagram Institute). In his infinite wisdom, Carl suggested that I try the following: “Consider your heart as your compass, your belly as your engine, and your head as your navigational system.” In other words, your heart points you to where you want to go, your belly sustains you while you’re getting there, and your head figures out the means to the end and deals with any bumps along the way.
As Carl was explaining, I was nodding emphatically and taking this new perspective to heart. Unfortunately, it didn’t make it to head until today when I found myself repeatedly using my heart not only as my compass, but also as my navigational system! But then, if I’d gotten it then, I wouldn’t have this epiphany to explain now. . .
Anyway, to give you an example, this morning the needle of my heart pointed me to a coffee shop for a beverage and relaxation on the patio with our family dog Savannah at my feet. A fine idea!
Now, had I allowed the authority to transfer over to my head at this point I might have remembered that we are in the middle of an uncharacteristic Autumn heat wave and that walking two miles in long jeans with a thick furred pooch in tow might not be the best means of travel on this particular day.
Alas, I listened not to my navigational brain (a GPS system apparently requiring heavy manual engagement in its earlier stages of use) and as a result arrived at Seven Sons hot, sweaty, and swearing.
The trend played out repeatedly today–which I’m thankful for, mind you, because it gave me the opportunity to epiph (new word!) all over the place and consider my heart-focused tendencies not only in day to day mundane experiences, but on a grander scale as well. I wondered, am I at risk for deciding my future based entirely on my heart’s desires with no input from my head? Have I acted and made decisions doing so in the past?
Already having rambled on about this to lucky Mom earlier this evening, such questions have been confirmed. She kindly brought up the still sore subject of my last boyfriend and the way my head told me from day one we weren’t a good match, but I still chose to navigate with my heart . . .
Oh, how I’ve been such a heartfelt fool, dancing days away in a golden field of dreams.
But as they say, “noticing is the first step” . . .
