Sons and Daughters.

I have a great capacity towards self indulgence. The center of the universe is about two inches left of my couch. Occasionally I'm hurled into awareness. A friend's adult daughter is missing. A woman in her late thirties with over a decade's history of schizophrenia. She left Oklahoma and has puts thousands of miles on the family car driving in and out of New Mexico, Texas, Colorado, Arizona, and Kansas. Her gas card has well over a thousand dollars in charges from the last two weeks. Somewhere along the line she shaved her head. Last seen in Burlington Colorado, the sheriff's department put her up in a motel after she was evaluated as neither a danger to herself or society. On foot, now, she was gone the next morning.

Tomorrow family will leave Oklahoma and head for Burlington. Her father and her ex husband will travel together, pick up the vehicle she'd been driving and hopefully find and coerce her into coming home. Her sixteen year old daughter and mother are cleaning her house and waiting.

I don't know the lesson in this. I suspect it's that the connections between people must be present through marriage and through divorce. That the people you see mumbling and looking a little crazy, they're our daughters, mothers, sisters, wives, neighbors. That something as simple as taking your meds...isn't simple. Toss in a big pile of grateful. (There but for the grace of .....) Kindness to strangers. etc. etc. etc.

For me---I'll be making beads tonight. Riding my bike. And hugging the ex husband before he goes off looking for his daughter's mother. The woman he loved through a difficult marriage and still loves. Thankful for his big heart. And hoping she will be found.

Ohhhhhh MOM

It's true. We do turn into our mothers. And while this information doesn't force me into the spasms of hysterics it would have a decade ago, I still admit a little uncertainty with this process. For example: My mother as a child seemed to me VERY bold. Sure, the express lane at the grocery store stated a limit of 12 items. But my mother assured me that if you had 7 of the same item, it only counted as 1. If the commissary (army brat) was crowded, she'd have me wait in one lane and she in another, to see which moved faster. OR WORSE--she'd leave me waiting in line with the cart while she waltzed off to find a few more items. Now before you call security on me, I want to clarify--I do NONE of these. Well, ok...maybe just one of these. But today--when I answered the phone the caller said, "Who is this?" And instantly my mother's voice responded, "To whom do you wish to speak?" I lost every trace of the Southern accent I've cultivated for the last two decades...and no shit...my mother's clipped ohhhhh so proper voice waltzed out of my mouth. I'm 43. Only one or two gray hairs. Have probably raised children who are just a tad less psychotic than I am. But I'm now channeling my mother.

Life's Calling

There is nothing that forces me into a panic faster than a plumbing issue. I can handle phone calls at 3am, letters from the IRS, and "We need to talk," moments--but the minute water dribbles from where it shouldn't or ceases to pour from where it should--I turn into a babbling mess.

Tuesday I took a shower. (Whoa, fascinating, you did???) Upon completion I reached down to turn off the water and the tub spout fell off in my hand. The resulting arc of jetting water and rusted spout spelled certain disaster.

In North Carolina I had a plumber. He knew me. Well. He was aware of my sensitivities and paranoia about anything plumbing related. He spoke to me in a soothing voice. He was a GOD. In Oklahoma I was lost.

I trekked off to Lowes and pretended I was stupid. A roll of teflon tape and a new spout later I returned to the crime scene. I ascertained quickly (7 hours, and 4 breakdowns later) that the pipe was too rusted to screw on a new spout. (In a clockwise or counterclockwise direction.) I trekked back to Lowes. The returns lady took one look at me and practically threw money back at me. (Bless her.)

At the ungodly hour of 6 45 am the next morning--and $210.00 later, the problem was solved. Now here's the thing. Maybe I should have called a plumber first and avoided the hysteria. Plumbers are far superior to therapists in resolving a sense of personal well being. But I think if they came immediately and not after 7 hours of "Try," and 24-48 hours of sobbing, they'd be undervalued.

I once thought about going into the ministry...I was certain I had a calling. Now, I know I was clearly wrong. If so much joy can be spread by a man with a wrench--imagine what a woman who knew how to weld one could do.

Brambles

I went blackberry picking tonight.

A really brambly mess it was. And 2 hours later I have precisely enough to make a cobbler...which is always the best way to serve blackberries.

My beads are coming out crisper lately. More focused. Less wobbly.

I'm hoping as much for this cobbler!

One Hundred Percent Positive

My ebay feedback went back up to 100 percent this week. (A year ago I received 22 negatives from the same person, it sucked, I cried, etc.) One more example of "This too shall pass," coming to pass.

I finally weighed myself this week. 20 pounds lighter since I arrived in 107 degree Oklahoma. Apparently humidity is good for me.

Kristen

F.A.T.

I rode my bike tonight. About 6 miles. In 100 degree weather. And a kind and thoughtful young man informed me that I was fat. In fact, "Really fat." Now being a woman who is fully aware of both my size and the fact that he was standing still doing absolutely nothing--my response was a cool "Have ya looked in the mirror lately, sweetness?"

A year or so I probably wouldn't have said anything. And cried. A lot. But there's something about riding six miles that makes you both tougher and also less inclined to give a shit about what someone else thinks. And it's addictive--this sense of toughness. Not that I didn't consider running him over, mind you. And not that truly the best response would have been to smile and say, "Thank you. Have a good evening."

F.A.T. Freely Admitting Toughness

Dump Cake

Did you make this in the 70's? Cherry pie filling....cake mix....pineapple...pecans. All thrown together and baked. It likely included butter too. And shouldn't have tasted as good as it did?

Sometimes things blend well. And sometimes they don't. I'm in the process of trying to decide if I blend with another person.

I probably don't. And it's hurting.

K

Help

I went to school in Swannanoa, NC at a very small liberal arts college, Warren Wilson. When I was there, the student population hovered a bit under it's agreed maximum of 590 students. Now I believe it's reached a ghastly 1000 and it's hard to fathom just how they manage to graduate individuals. Over two years ago they printed my obituary in the alumni newsletter. While at first horrified and then a bit miffed--mostly now it's just something to grin over. I've cheated death and it didn't even involve a plane crash or surgery. Woot!

It's going to be a charming 107 degrees tomorrow here in Oklahoma. Heat and humidity lead to depression, irritation, and the advanced certainty that things are simply not well. So I'll probably flee to the land of coffee and WIFI and list beads and read magazines I won't buy and lounge in comfy chairs. That'll kill 2 hours, anyway.

And then I may pull out tiny little seed beads. I haven't in a while. And thread a tiny little needle and weave myself into the certainly that Oklahoma is charming. That my life is charmed and that 107 degrees is normal, if not lovely.

And you?

Birth in Darkness

In Louise Erdich's Tales of Burning Love two characters sit around telling stories and discussing healing remedies for toothaches. June, a Chippewa woman suggests to Jack (he with a toothache) that he try chewing on cloves, an old Ojibwa remedy. His skeptical response, "Aren't cloves from Europe or something?"

When we gather remedies around us--those which nurture us spiritually--those which nurture our bodies and our hearts--we have to sift. What worked for us 20 years ago may still be fresh. And it may need to be sieved out of the mix.

Whether these remedies come from those we love (or from the last expected source) this process of cleaning out our "medicine cabinet" can cause anxiety and grief. It is for me right now. And I firmly believe it's only going to help....eventually, drat it.

I recently spent hours of focus on another person's life. If he just did this, this, and this....it would all come together. How dare he be dishonest with himself? With her? And while it left me certain I was absolutely right, it also left me certain that it didn't matter. Not my life. Not my choice. And of course...that it was really a way to not examine my own choices. My own personal dishonesty. My own responsibility for happiness.

Melt glass, ride bike, eat, sleep, list. Sift. Sift. Sift. Bake at 375 degrees for 24 hours. Repeat.

Foxes

Ok, after equating my recent lampworking to losing my virginity, it's probably best if I stick to something less squalid. I frequently walk at night here. There's a well lit Urban trail that meanders in and out of the woods. Three bends in lives a male fox. He calmly escorts me to the next bend, protecting, I assume his family. It's all done with a certain level of familiarity and calm that I really appreciate.

I watched a recent documentary, a Buddhist monk who works in a kitchen. Work as prayer/meditation is part of the theme. But another theme is serving others. That in cooking you're providing your fellow man the greatest of service. That it's best accomplished with whole foods and doing things by hand. When I watch my housemate prepare chai I get a sense of the innate truth in this. After grinding multiple spices in a mortar and pestle, Steeping tea, adding half and half, a mere 45 minutes later I'm sipping (luxuriating) tea. Molten glass can't be hurried. Learning can't be rushed. Growth is frequently so slow it makes you ache.

Time for my walk.

Meditations on Blobs of Molten Glass

I've been submerged under piles of molten glass. Gravity has become circular. You twirl and twirl and twirl and regardless of how lumpy and misshapen a bead once was, it becomes round and dimpled like a donut. (Bah, lentils.)

I really do feel like I've gone to summer camp and emerged, well, not a virgin. Yeah, the tawdriness of it all. But some sort of rite of passage is occurring. I'm learning to be quiet and "make" again.

And you?