Attracted, intrigued, enamored.

I love this recent post of Danielle’s, and needed to do one of my own. Like, right away!

I’m attracted to… intrigued by… enamored with…

♥ Rain in the city
♥ Red lipstick
♥ Black ink
♥ Seahorses
♥ Baking
♥ The bathroom I refer to as mine: just a bathtub and a sink, two doors, no windows, totally womb-like
♥ Moody 70s bands like Crime and the City Solution
♥ Beets
♥ That whole New Romantic thing (Roxy Music, the Stranglers, etc.)
♥ Glossy magazines
♥ Roasted vegetables
♥ Overcoats
♥ Platform shoes
♥ Broad shoulders
♥ Kindness
♥ Sewing by hand
♥ Planting: getting the earth under my nails
♥ The ocean. Always, always, always.
♥ Textures in everything: clothes, furniture, food, paper
♥ Limes
♥ The moment before the film begins

Photo by zezinhaa.

Hummus-esque

My son and I needed a snack after a long, sweaty walk, itself necessitated by a long, cranky day cooped up inside. We were out of fruit, we’d had cheese and crackers earlier in the day, and I was in the mood for something savory. I remembered there was a can of garbanzo beans in the pantry (purchased for something like 89 cents). I rinsed them and threw them in the blender. (I do not own a food processor, although I’m jealous of people who do.) In the door of the fridge was one of those gigantor packages of basil that Trader Joe’s sells. (Why so big? Why? You use five leaves and the rest of it turns black!) I salvaged the five or so leaves that weren’t yet black, then went out to the deck and picked about five more–a total of ten large basil leaves.  I removed the stems and tore the leaves before adding them to the blender. Next, about a heaping tablespoon of minced garlic. (We cheat and buy the pre-diced kind in the jar.) Then some salt to taste. Lastly, a few glugs of olive oil. I turned the blender on and off about four times, using the “Chop” setting. Each time I switched it off I stirred the mixture. When I was done most of it had the consistency of a rough hummus, along with some whole garbanzo beans throughout. Also, it was insanely delicious. The boy and I devoured it with crackers and wine. Well, okay. He had a few mouthfuls and then wandered off. I devoured the rest of it with some Two-Buck Chuck. A rather fine snack indeed, and I couldn’t help but think that if someone served it to me and said it was homemade, I’d be mightily impressed, even though it had taken me all of ten minutes to prepare. Also? It took the cranky right out of me. (That, or the wine did. Whatevs.)

It matters.

(Originally posted on February 29, 2009)

This afternoon I was rude to the security guard at the front gate of my condo complex. I had broken my don’t-let-yourself-get-hungry rule, had left the house two hours prior for a hair appointment that had to be rescheduled due to my having been caught in traffic, and had neglected to pack my usual small bag of almonds. And so, when I drove up next to the guard station and the new guard came dashing out, hands raised, asking me to stop, I kind of freaked out. I rolled down my window and without even thinking said, “I live here,” in a tone that could have peeled paint. “Oh yes, I know,” said the man, politely, “But where is your sticker?”

For my parking sticker, you see, was on the opposite side of the dashboard, rather than taped to the left side, as it should have been. There was no way for him to have seen it, as he was on the left side of the car. So what do you suppose I did?

I pointed. Dramatically. “It’s right there,” I said, like a petulant thirteen-year-old.

“Oh, yes, I see it now, I’m sorry,” he said.

In the two minutes it took me to get to my parking spot and reach my front door, I died about a million times. I had been shockingly rude to someone whose was doing exactly as he was being paid to do. (And I recalled all the times I’ve rolled my eyes when the security guards here have let my guests in without even letting me know they’re on their way. Why can’t they do their jobs?) He had been polite to me. No, he had apologized to me. Because times are tough and jobs are hard to find. The people are terrible sometimes, I pictured him telling his wife in their language, but you just have to apologize often and they calm down.

With no warning, I had become the enemy. An Ugly American. One of the Entitlement Brigade. The complete opposite of what my parents had raised me to become. And I wanted to disappear.

I had lunch (crucial, obviously). I put on workout clothes. Then I walked up the hill to the guard gate. The same man was in the middle of what seemed to be a very confusing situation, talking to another guard on the walkie-talkie and to a third party on the phone. Nevertheless, he looked over at me and said, “Yes, how can I help you, ma’am?” I died yet again. “Oh no,” I said, smiling and bowing my head, “When you’re finished.” He nodded and bowed his head in return. When he finished, he said, “Yes, ma’am?”

“I just wanted to apologize,” I said. “I was so rude earlier, and I am so sorry. I was late [this was to spare myself the deep-seated fear of having to discuss the concept of me, eating, with a perfect stranger--and because anyway, being late is just as bad an excuse for rudeness as being hungry] and I was so rude to you. I apologize. You were only doing your job, and we very much appreciate that [apparently my phone network had joined me? I dunno.].”

“Oh! No, it’s okay,” he said. “Only that your sticker was on the other side, and…”

“I know!” I said miserably. “I didn’t tape it to the left side, it was completely my fault, not yours. I’m sorry.”

“It is no problem,” he said. “But please try to put the sticker on.”

“I will! Thank you.”

“Thank you.” He nodded. We smiled at one another and I walked my miserable self around the neighborhood for the better part of an hour.

Here’s what really gets me: the reason traffic had been so bad earlier, when I was trying to get to the hair salon, was that there had been a terrible accident. The flattened, crumpled remains of a very expensive convertible were shocking enough (I still can’t picture what must have happened; it looked as though a boulder had fallen on it), but the sight of two arms limply reaching up from within the cavity, as six men worked together to cut and lift the body out and onto a waiting stretcher? That’s going to stay with me for a long time, like the body I saw on a traffic divider once, as a child, of a man who had just been hit by a car and was now lying motionless. I knew he was dead. I prayed for him for miles after we’d passed him, but I knew he was dead.

Despite all that–still! I let my annoyance and my impatience get the best of me, and I abused someone working, for all intents and purposes, in my employ.

I can hear what maybe some of you might think: Oh, let it go, you’re not that important, do you really think one bitchy woman ruined this man’s life? I’m not that important, no, and I very much doubt that I did much to that man other than make him roll his eyes. But that’s not why this matters. It matters because I think one is either part of the problem or part of the solution. If I’m not giving, I’m taking. And I try very hard, though I know my efforts come up short all too often, to give more than I take.

This is why minutia matters to me. Our lives are made up of a million tiny particles that gravitate toward one another, like grabbing like. I’ve got a rich tapestry of flaws, God knows (and so does anyone who’s met me). I want there to be more generosity, more love, more kindness in there, so that those particles can hang onto one another and grow. We’ve all heard the expression “garbage in, garbage out,” but the opposite holds true as well: the more good we output, the more good we want to input. And that changes us. And the people around us. And the world.

It matters. It all matters.

What Keeps Me Steady

(Originally posted on March 28, 2009)

Historically, I’ve been an all-or-nothing type of girl; either I’m thrilled and enthusiastic, or I’m Sylvia Plath’s spiritual twin. You probably know someone like that. It’s a very tiring way to live. At some point I decided it wasn’t for me. So I studied what other people did, people who were able to remain calm, non-reactive, rational. Intelligent, kind, authentic [I hate the way that word is bandied about, but it's the only one that fits in this context] people, whose skin seemed to be much thicker than my own, which was more or less like waterlogged vellum. And I’ll be honest: it helped me tremendously to be married to such a person (who also, rather conveniently, happens to have a whole lot of patience).

I’ve found, through observing others and through good old-fashioned trial and error, that there are six things that really help me move beyond my tendency to react. They are:

As much as possible, remaining an observer, not a reactor, to my feelings. It’s a bit of a cliché, but feelings are, after all, just feelings. Like fear, they are meant to be a general roadmap, not a step-by-step instruction book. It’s a mistake to rely on them. It’s also a mistake to ignore them. Listen to them, but remember that context is everything.

Making time for devotion. My days are not the same without this component. When I make time for prayer, I’m more connected, more alive.

Stewardship. (Taking care of what I have.) If I can be trusted to take care of the little things, I can be trusted to take care of the big things. (There I go with that minutiae thing again.) Looking after what you’ve got, be it as small as one cat and a studio apartment or as large as a family of 8 and a business, is love in action. You’ll see a difference in yourself and your life immediately. Seriously.

Being actively grateful for the good things in my life. Here is one way you might look at my current situation–these are all irrefutable facts: I was laid off in early February. We very much need to be a two-income family. When I read up on frugality, I realize that most of what the pros are suggesting in terms of cutting corners are things we’ve been doing for years–in other words, we really don’t have many corners left.

You get the idea.

This is how I view my life as it currently exists: I no longer have to get up five days a week to spend 8-10 hours a day working at a job where I was miserable. Instead, I am spending my days with my son, doing crafts (I love that!), taking him to the park, teaching him things, laughing with him. I am getting my house in order (even the frighteningly-disorganized closets and pantry). I am improving my cooking and homemaking skills. I’m baking! (I love baking.) I spend several hours a day working on my freelance business, which has taken off in a way I can’t quite believe just yet. I’m reconnecting with old friends. I’m meeting new friends. I’m getting to know my community better. Yes, our budget is tighter than ever. And I am so grateful.

Running a quick reality check. This goes hand-in-hand with the above, but is sort of in its own category as well. My family and I have a roof over our head, more than enough food on the table, clean water to drink and bathe with, more clothing than we really need, family nearby, amazing friends. We are healthy, resourceful, resilient, and we make our own fun. Most people on this planet are not so fortunate.

Making time to exercise. We all know the benefits of regular exercise, so I’ll keep this one brief: when I make time to exercise, I am less of a psychotic [redacted]. (I like to think of it as a gift to the world at large.)

What about you? What keeps you going, keeps you steady, keeps you motivated and focused in the best way possible? I’d love to hear your thoughts.