Making Time for Thanfulness

So, as you may remember from my last couple of posts, things have been absurdly nuts for me lately. Work was already crazy stressful, plus it's NaNo month, and you can see from my little word widget over there on the right that I'm way, way behind. Which sucks because NaNo is really (and totally disproportionately) important to me.

Miss G is flunking a class. Miss L has some weird skin rash exactly over her lymph nodes. Dan was laid off last week. Plus, this upcoming weekend is our family's Thanksgiving celebration, so I'm cooking a big vat of French onion soup for a crowd. You know, in all my spare time.

In short, much like every other day in life, there are many things happening all at the same time that all deserve priority and are all getting shortchanged.

As always, it is so easy to feel overwhelmed by whatever. Work. NaNo. Family. Things. If not these things than other things.

Dan just shrugs and says "Well, honey, you've pulled bigger rabbits out of smaller hats before. I have no doubt everything will work out just fine."

This is both exasperating and sort of complimentary.

And dead on.

With Thankful French Onion Soup Day just 12 hours away, I find my thoughts turning toward thankfulness, despite everything. Because really, there are so many things to feel thankful for.

• I'm thankful for my boss, who is all around awesome and who also hired some minions to ease up my workload. 
• I'm thankful for my job; despite the current crunch, I do love what I do and I'm thankful to work from home.  
• Dan's layoff came at the perfect time to spend the entire week at home while Miss L is here; they haven't seen each other since Labor Day. I'm thankful they can reconnect this week.

Most importantly, I'm thankful we're happy. Even if there's some graininess upon close examination, when we take a step back and look at the big picture, we're happy. And our lives are moving in the right direction, even if we feel all squished wiggling on through the current bottleneck. 

The stressful times are the hardest in which to be thankful. They're also the most important times in which to make thankfulness a priority.

When things keep piling up, step away. Just for a second. Take 10 minutes. Breathe.

Make time for thankfulness.

What Can You Do in 10 Minutes?

In an effort to alleviate at least the physical crux portion of my discomfort zone, I changed up my work schedule. Before, I'd force myself through two or three hours before talking a break. Only far too often, that "break" was still spent at the computer: paying bills, checking emails and whatnot. Always the damned whatnot.

And then I wonder why I'm so sore and miserable at the end of my 10-12 hour day.

My new schedule is to work for an hour, then leave the computer for at least 10 minutes before returning to work. In that 10 minutes, I have to find things to do. Things that are not computery things. And I set my timer so I don't get distracted; 10 minutes bloats out to an hour a lot faster than you'd expect.

I started small:

• Dump out my clean laundry on the bed; start folding. 
• Chop potatoes and onions to cook up in a big batch for breakfasts during the week. 
• Sweep up gross dog hair. 
• Clean the bathroom. 

And before I knew it, a bunch of stuff that regularly gets pushed to the back burner is actually taken care of. My kitchen is cleaner. My desk is more organized. Little nagging projects I never found time to take care of are getting completed. 

Slowly. In 10-minute segments. But getting there. 

The most interesting thing about this (besides the fact that my neck pain is actually tolerable now, even if not entirely resolved) is learning just how much I can accomplish in 10 minute chunks.

It's so easy to put stuff off until I have time for this or time for that. I keep wanting a week off to just write my own stuff and work on art projects. Catch up on movies. And I think society trains us to think this way, too-- how much more do you hear about planning for your retirement compared to making your life work for you right now? There's so much emphasis put on work first and other stuff later. But I don't want to wait till I'm 65 to do cool stuff.  

And I'm not getting a week off anytime soon to just indulge in the things I actually want to do. I have to make room for them right now. In among everything else. And these 10 minute breaks give me the perfect opportunity.

Life is never going to go on hold so you can live your "real" life. This is it. You're already living it. If you want your right-now life to evolve into your ideal life, you'll have to carve enough room out of your day for a good foothold, then launch yourself toward that ideal. Even 10 minutes can be enough.

So.

• First 10 minute break: Set up a canvas, some clean water, some brushes.
• Next 10 minute break: Mix a glaze; brush a coat on.
• 10 minute break after that: Work on NaNo outline... in longhand.
• The following 10 minute break: Find my journal. Write until my timer goes off.

In the few days I've been doing this schedule, I can't believe how much more I'm getting done-- and how many more of the things I am doing are the exact things I am always irritated at not having enough time for.

Turns out, there is time. Even if it's only 10 minutes.

What can you do in 10 minutes?

Finding Your Niche

In Vegas, our shop was located just off the strip in the main industrial park neighborhood. There was this great Greek place right down the road. We'd stack our breaks so we could enjoy one long break (gorging on the best spanakopita I've ever had) instead of a lunch and and two short breaks.

Oh, yes.

Then our shop moved. Although we found new love at the Pizza Cafe (and an absurdly handsome barista named Pablo), it wasn't the same.

Then, lo and behold, the Greek place relocated too! RIGHT BY OUR NEW SHOP! So exciting! As soon as we found out we were neighbors again, we skipped our morning break to hit the hummus over an extended lunch. We ordered without looking at the menu first.

"No, no. No spanakopita. We got new things now." The guy puts a menu in my face and points a thick, furry finger at the grease-splotched paper. "See? We got subs. We got pizza."

We all expressed sorrow over the loss of our beloved spanakopita, but found other things to order. And they were delicious. Just not quite as delicious as before.

The next time we went back, a bunch of the Greek menu items were crossed out with a ballpoint pen, and the burly Greek guy who usually took (and cooked) our order was no longer in evidence.

Pasticio? Gone. Tabbouleh? Falafel? Gone and gone. And the top-notch quality that used to be in evidence had, like Elvis, left the building.

That was our last time visiting the Greek place.

I am always baffled by businesses-- and individuals-- who have a niche all nailed up, then water it down with some dumb crap that anyone could do. ANYone.

Like the disappointingly named VikingHus gift shop that had one small shelf of sorta-Scandinavian swag, and otherwise looked like a Hallmark store. Like the Pizza Cafe, our Greek restaurant replacement that started out as a fantastic high-end gourmet Italian bistro and worked its way down to a quasi-sports bar. Like the last couple seasons of just about any decent TV show where they lose their way and forget what made them stand out from the crowd in the first place.

The world does not need more bland, safe mediocrity.

When you have a thing you nail better than anyone, it's easy to doubt yourself. It's easy to think that the guy over there is seeing amazing success with his broader, less complicated vision that appeals to the public at large. Surely you should cater to the masses too, instead of your small niche market.

Nope!

The people who invest in your goods, your services, your presence give you the gift of their time/money/support because they like what you're offering. What YOU are. Not what everyone else is.

Not despite your differences. Because of them.

They say you should write the book you want to read. I say find your niche, that niche that needs filling that no one else has filled. Then fill it.

This lives on my desk. It's an interesting story. I'll tell you sometime.

Anniversaries

Our wedding was three years ago today. I jokingly said to my mother "It's hard to say if things have gotten better in those three years, or way worse."

Except, like many jokes, it's not really a joke.

When I first got our amazing wedding photos I had trouble looking through them.

Instead of seeing pictures, I saw memories. I remembered crying for hours the night before the wedding, sure Dan was making a colossal mistake in marrying someone his daughter hated so much. I remembered his ex-wife calling and yelling at him for an hour the first day of our honeymoon and wondered why the hell I had willingly signed on for this much animosity... for the rest of my life. The wedding itself, a ceremony promising union, felt like the biggest possible farce.

Hard to believe you could not find perfection against this backdrop.

Fast forward three years. Life is still uncertain, although I cry much less these days. Miss L no longer radiates hatred from her being if I walk into the room. And although Dan's ex-wife remains an obstacle to the future we want more often than not, we are learning how not to give in to terrorist demands.

We married in the eye of a hurricane but the storm is finally passing. Clouds are breaking; blue skies appearing.

Maybe the wedding felt false because I thought it should be the beginning of happily ever after and ours felt like the furthest thing from.

A wedding is a beginning, period.

On our wedding day, Dan and I joined hands and committed to a life together, and that's exactly what we're doing. It's not the perfect life. It never is, not for anyone. We're just living life, and living it together.

Over rough roads and smooth.

Doesn't get much more authentic or more celebratory than that.

Happy Endings

Normally my thing is creative nonfiction, but for this year's NaNo I'm writing fiction. I don't know what compelled me. Literally the longest fiction piece I've ever written was a terrible sci-fi play called-- I am not making this up-- "A Slip of Tongue and Time." This was back in the fourth grade. My friends Brian Arnold and Andy Young and I recorded our LIVE premiere performance direct to cassette tape in my room one weekend afternoon. I'm pretty sure I still have the original script somewhere.

I can't blame that early effort for my fiction avoidance in the intervening couple dozen years. Meticulous journal-keeping led naturally into longer nonfiction pieces. My real life never lacked for interesting material (still not sure if this is a good or bad thing), so it never occurred to me to make stuff up.

With nonfiction, I strive for accuracy. I struggle to remember things as they happened, think hard about truthful dialog, attempt painting yesterday's story from today's perspective without giving away the ending. I comb my journals for reference, double-check photos and old emails for authenticity. It's a lot of freakin' work.

Fiction, though. There's no background check required. The characters can say whatever they want. Go where they please, kiss whomever they like, change their minds at the very last minute about-- well, everything, hijacking the entire plot in the process. And me? I'm just along for the ride.

In real life, we're stuck with the choices we make, good or bad. We spoke words that cannot be unsaid; heard others that we cannot unhear. We had complex childhoods, disastrous middle school fashion, amazing adventures, failed relationships, and incredible days that could not be described. We forget many of those; others haunt us. Our past tags along like little burrs on our socks-- mostly unnoticed, with occasional unexpected pain.

Real life cannot be un-lived. Done is done. But the future-- that's wide open. Instead of feeling trapped by the parts you've played in the past, set your plot on its ass. Write your own happy ending.

Hobo Code

I was reading the Wikipedia on hobos the other day (because I am a cross-referencing junkie, and had just finished a particular episode of Mad Men... you know the one). This led down a rabbit hole of intriguing information about hobos. Like: in spite of the common assumption that hobos are lazy bums, one of the articles in the Hobo Ethical Code is to always seek work, and work willingly. Also: there is an official Hobo Ethical Code.

The Mad Men episode touched briefly on a different hobo code-- not their morals, but their written signs, the guiding symbols left by transients traveling through the countryside.

Most of them are pretty straightforward and make good sense: “Food for working” or “Nice lady lives here” or “Can sleep in barn.”

Then there’s one that looks like an infinity sign, with the caption “Don’t give up.”

Of all the things to leave behind for fellow passers-through, this one touched me the most.

Hobos were around for decades prior to the Great Depression. They consciously chose that life, preferring flexibility over predictability. They were their own masters, not bound to any city or employer, but instead lived as citizens of nowhere and everywhere.

Then came 1929.

Men were forced by necessity away from families and homes into an isolated and isolating existence. They looked for hope where there was none, searched for solid foundations and met only shifting sands. The life they knew shut hard behind them, trapped them inescapably in a railcar corner.

You could travel to find work, but you risked ending up thousands of miles from home and still jobless. You couldn’t call home. If your family lost their house while you were gone, you had no way of finding each other again except through dumb luck.  

These were the new brand of hobos. Long, grey months lengthened into years, then into many years. It’s not hard to imagine hope as one of the first casualties of the Great Depression. For these new, reluctant hobos, there was nothing but unceasing, interminable struggle.

Unemployment in 1930 was 8.9%, slightly less than it is now. In just a single year, that number doubled. By 1932, it had nearly tripled. Not just no jobs but no hope of jobs. Unemployment stayed higher than 20%  for four years; higher than 15% for the next ten. Ten years. Imagine our current unemployment rates, right now, but doubled in potency, and quintupled in length.

But for those who still believed, those seeking more, those convinced a pocket of hope still existed somewhere.. for those, the true hobos left word:

Don’t Give Up.

Tributaries

It’s been a long time coming. It’s exasperating to comb job postings on craigslist and see: “Bachelors degree required + 5 years min experience... Compensation: $9/hr.” That will not cover my gas money. And of course there’s no benefits.

More and more Dan & I have realized there are no jobs that allow us the flexibility necessary to maximize our visitation schedule with Miss L, let alone spend our days doing anything we’re passionate about. So, we’ve decided to employ ourselves.

I should be terrified. This is nuts, right? Except I feel the most sane I think I’ve ever felt.

With this decision, with both of us all in, our formerly erratic lives have ballasted. All kinds of mental energy is free-ranging again; our creativity is through the roof. My blog is late this week because I’ve been painting too much.

All our energies have shifted toward bringing our new life into existence; we’re no longer biting fingernails, praying for a job call, every day devastated if one doesn’t come through. And if a call did come in, then we’d spend every day dreading the inevitable layoff and that’s no way to live either.

We’re done with all of that.

In The Art of Non-Conformity, Chris Gillebeau writes (and I’m paraphrasing poorly here) that when we work for someone else, we’re always at their mercy. I never would have understood that before my half-dozen years held hostage over the contractors’ barrel, but now I just “A-MEN!” And having seen it so clearly now, I can’t un-see it; in some way or another, I’ve been trapped by every job I’ve ever had. Every call at home after hours, every email received while on vacation, every time I felt guilty for calling in sick-- these link me to an anchor I never even noticed.

These days are ripe for unconventional lives. I’ve spent so long trying to nail down a conventional one, I forgot there were other ways to support ourselves-- other lifestyles more conducive to our personalities, other ways to build and raise our family. All our strengths lie along untrodden ways; why have we been trying to fit into a box all this time when we’re so not box-shaped?

I’m taking my life back. Choosing my own priorities, deciding for myself how to spend my time. I’m painting. I’m writing. I’ve got plans to sell refinished furniture. Teach faux finishing classes. Write grants. I’ll manage Dan’s etsy shop and his blog while he carves up a storm. Not one of these incomes, not limited to one future or one path, but ALL of them. Why didn’t I ever think of this before?

In doing all the things I love most, I actually get more time. Dan and I get more time together as a couple, we get more time as a family, there’s more time for road trips and long hikes. This is not an interim. This is our new lifestyle.

We’re taught there’s only one safe river: go to college, get a job, forge a career, build up the 401k. Buy a house, have a family, put the kids through private school, teach them to follow the river too. There’s nothing wrong with that, exactly, except you’re pretty well screwed when there’s a drought. It sure ain’t raining much these days.

One river’s not enough any more. It doesn’t flow the direction I want to travel. It’s time to seek out hidden tributaries, explore 86 directions at once, immerse ourselves in freshwater abundance.

Hidden Wings

Things are a little nuts. Again. Or-- still.

Dan's laid off, Miss G needs minor surgery, one of our snakes died. We roadtripped to Phoenix, Miss G wants combat boots, Dan needs 3 crowns, health insurance runs out at the end of the month, and I just filed my last week of unemployment. Two of our good friends started dating each other (to our delight), Dan's back is jacked up so all house construction is on hold, and I started my own business. Sort of.

Yet with all of that, and more I'm sure if I sat down and really thought about it (but let's not, okay?), I feel cheerful instead of stressed. Excited, even. Challenged in good ways.

Times like this growing up, we dubbed "Mr Toad's Wild Ride" after the now-defunct Disneyland ride. Ever been on it? It's insane. There's never time to get used to one direction; the entire ride is an amalgam of blindsided jolts to somewhere opposite and unexpected. All while spinning. And various illuminated creatures popping out of the murk-- cheerful creatures, I think, but still. It's unsettling and breathtaking and easily the most memorable ride we went on.

The ice is thin all right. The winding road gets twistier pretty much daily. But underneath, I keep hearing my sister's voice in my head. Whenever I do something  that leaves little Peep round-eyed and awestruck (like, make stuffed animals sing 'Should I Stay or Should I Go'), my sister bends down and whispers to her:

"Auntie keeps her wings hidden."

And I think of this poem by Victor Hugo a friend gave me last year, which has become my lighthouse:

"Be as a bird
perched
on a frail branch
that she feels
bending beneath her,
still she sings,

sings,

knowing
she has wings."

And I think-- I can go any direction I want. Deep chasms hold no fear, if you have wings. Even hidden ones.

A spankin' fresh year.

I love a new year. And poised at the edge of 2011, I feel all thick with potential, like I’m on the brink of something perfect-- a funny combination of slipping into my favorite t-shirt fresh from the dryer and combining it with boots that are ten feet tall.

The more distance I put between me and 2009, the happier I get. Now that the barricade’s a nice solid twelve months deep, I can finally slow down enough to look around again. Enjoy the scenery a little. Notice that there is scenery.

On New Year’s Eve, we went out for Thai food. My fortune cookie said, “Your path is arduous but will be amply rewarding.”

Was, I thought. Was arduous. Now it’s time for the ‘amply rewarding’ portion of our show.

Welcome, 2011.

Autumn's Brink

Okay, here’s what happened. My brother got married on July 31, which was a Saturday. That took up the first weekend I didn’t write. The following weekend was the Centennial Celebration of our family cabins. By then my computer had been off long enough that I was real grouchy at the idea of turning the thing back on; I didn’t write that weekend either. I then misplaced the laptop somewhere in between MN and NV the next week, neatly preventing yet another weekend’s writing. (It turned up at my sister’s house in CO.)

So here we are, in August. The computer and I-- and both dogs, both girls and Dan-- are all home safe and sound.

The last month has been perfect. It confirmed what I’ve suspected the last few years: that under other circumstances and significantly less stress, the four of us function pretty great as a family. It was good to be reminded of that... good to send Miss L off with cheerful memories; good for the rest of us to keep some here as well.

I taught the girls how to play poker this summer. And gin rummy. And hearts. They spent long lazy days never leaving the lake-- I’m sure they peed in it-- and late nights playing cards and watching movies. Many Eskimo pies were eaten. Much lemonade was slugged. Exactly how summers should be spent.

While in MN, I finally cleaned out my storage unit. I went through every single box and unloaded many pointless things from multiple lives, none of which I’m living anymore. I’ve never been scuba diving, but I now know exactly how it feels to drop weights while kicking for the surface.

In finding places in our house for the things I brought back with me, I find they’ve had a purgative effect instead of contributing to clutter. I’ve shoved buckets of the unwanted and unneeded right out the door into donation bags.

I’m sleeping better and breathing more deeply than I have in months.

I’m at Autumn’s threshold, the season weighted with the most potential. School supplies have been purchased. Immunizations are lined up for later this week. Dan says, “This is the year of Us, honey.” And I say, “No. We get the whole decade.”

I am so ready.

One Whole

Time away made me feel more sure about what I want going forward-- in my marriage, my parenting, house remodeling, work-- and now I’m home, freshly determined to incorporate all that into my current reality. What I want is integration.

I kept thinking one choice replaces a different choice. So very wrong. It’s not an either/or between (for example) ‘new baby’ or ‘new career.’ I am both those things already: Mom. Working. Just like I am both wife and my own person, simultaneously disorganized and on top of things, and a hippie who likes war movies. I could list about a million other examples; I have always been steeped in dichotomy. I guess I forgot that about myself.

I’ve made myself nuts trying to keep all my offshoots separate but equal, make sure every part of me gets the same amount of playing time. It doesn’t work like that. I’m everything I am, in all directions, all at once. Sometimes one strength dominates. Sometimes a weakness gets exercise. But they’re all me-- every last contrasting, exasperating, intricate bit.

And the depressing stuff-- stop letting it destroy me. There is yang in every yin. (Or... would it be yin in every yang? Well, whatever. Both are true.) There's a lot of hard in stepfamilies, but there's a lot of good too. Like everything else in the world, it will never be 100% good, or 100% bad. It will never be exactly how I want it, but it is what it is. Accept it. The yuck needs to be reabsorbed instead of rejected. Mistakes, come on back in. Just...take it easy on the carpet this time, okay? Regrets, you might as well come along too. But off to the side for a change. There’s room over there next to Worry. Happy? Joy? Focus? Ah yes, forgot about you three for a while. Front & center now.

There. That’s not so hard. Line all the mutinous thoughts up in a row and teach ‘em how to play nice. Like a Seurat, all those little bits of dark and light combine to create one vision. I just needed to take a step back to see it.

Thanks to Christina Katz & The Prosperous Writer for the perfect blog prompt.

Freedom? Yes, please.

I fled the increasing heat of the desert this week for cool Colorado, to wallow in some sister-and-her-toddler-time. Miss G is with her dad’s family, Miss L is with her mom’s, and Dan is working under his car. I was happy to leave town and couldn’t wait to play with my niece... but it’s also poking around mighty close to a big ol’ mess I don’t want disturbed.

The wrangling in my mind has been worse than usual. In this corner, we have a rookie contender: accepting my life in its current state and moving forward, sans future children. She’s fresh, and ready for a fight. But the incumbent champion-- babybabybaby-- packs a punch like George Foreman driving a Mack truck. It’s gonna be a night to remember, folks.

Would coloring all day with a cute li’l ankle-biter just underline the life I don’t have? Or would it remind me how busy babies are and help me appreciate the my comparative freedom?

So. This week.

Peep’s cheerful morning chatter drifts from under the nursery door. We eat graham crackers and read pop-up books together while I get drunk on baby-head smell. Our walks down the driveway take 47 minutes... one way. And there’s a thrill of fear upon entering any place of business so foolish as to keep breakables on low shelves. For a girl who wanted another baby so much it hurt, this week should have been the emotional equivalent of swallowing broken glass. Instead, I am swimming in... angstlessness. Whether it’s a word or not.

We’ve had a pile of crazy good fun that can only be summarized by the phrase ‘life with a toddler.’ My personal dilemma took a vacation during my vacation. I’ve been-- well, happy. There’s a little sad and a little regret mixed in with that, but it’s just makes the happy richer somehow. What’s that called again?

Mid-trip, my weekly newsletter from The Prosperous Writer showed up. This week’s blog theme is ‘joy.’ Ahhh-- thanks, Christina. Just the word I was looking for.

I’ve been drenched in joy this week.

Joy is Happy, after Happy goes through some serious shit and comes out standing fierce on the other side. It’s Happy, all grown up. Happy is a golden retriever, all slobbery and uncomplicated. Joy’s the greyhound.  

Joy is acceptance of my right now, regardless of what happens in that boxing ring upstairs, the sunlit birch against a dark sky. If I've succeeded at finding that, today is a true independence-from-baggage day.

Everything's a stupid life metaphor

"Most vines will quickly revert to a tangled mass of foliage on the ground if they are not given proper support and a reasonable amount of care and maintenance."

I stalled out on the Little Back Side Yard. It's always been very hard for me to finish projects, no matter how clearly I can see -- and want-- the carrot dangling in my mind's eye. Some folk say that taking the first step is the hardest one.  It's hard, I guess, but not nearly as hard as the second step.  And they're both impossible when I don't know which way to go.

"Often, when plants are purchased from the nursery they are already trained on a stake driven into the container." 

I'm jealous of people with unwavering ambition, and wonder what gene they have that I'm missing. My lack of direction is something I've never understood about myself.  It isn't that I shy away from hard work; I feel most alive when I'm really focused and fighting for something.  How is it that neither that feeling nor the goal itself sparks enough incentive in me to get anywhere?  These are things I want to change about myself, but it's mighty hard to change under the brutal regime of hard-to-start and never-finish-anything.

"Remove the stake and any twist ties at planting."

Habits are embarrassingly powerful. I read somewhere it takes 21 days of doing something every single day for it to become a habit. That's encouraging for starting new habits (Three weeks?  No problem!). But then, it's disheartening to realize that the damaging habits are there because I've a) done them 21+ days in a row and/or b) haven't been able to NOT do them for 21+ days.

"Historically, vines were severely pruned at planting. Remove dead or damaged branches and shape the plant as needed."

Many people live their lives without being haunted by their past mistakes and bad habits. I am not one of them. I want to learn how to be; hard or not, changes need to happen, and I know I'm responsible for holding myself back. I feel dizzy from spinning in circles for the past 10 years. Or maybe the past 34 years. Everything in my life is upside down right now, and I desperately need to find solid ground.  It's been a crappy few months-- or few years-- or maybe a crappy decade-- and I want to shed all that and move forward. So where do I start, recovering the energy lost over that much time? How do I find a new path after so many years in the same groove? 

"New vines often need guidance in reaching the intended support."

So, I started seeing a counselor a few months ago.  I need objectivity and experience  to help me transition. Shifting from single mom to stepmom-- trying to build a family where there is none, fighting to stay sound and true in the face of internal and external quicksand-- has been the hardest thing I've ever tried to do. Then, on top of that stress, add the daily balancing act of juggling job and family, plus the stress of spotty work, continuing health problems from said work, touch-and-go finances, and an emotionally ravaging custody battle. I'm a pretty tough cookie, but that's at least one high-octane situation too many for me to handle without professional guidance.

I like my counselor. She's spunky, has a great sense of style, and gives me actual advice instead of the vague, "And how does that make you feel?" I think I'm getting some good out of the visits, and felt pretty positive about the whole thing--  until last week, when she told me I had to think of ways to change my negative thought patterns for our next session.  

Lady, if I knew how to do that on my own, I wouldn't be paying you.

"Use a short piece of string, netting, or stake to provide guidance to the lower portions of the support (trellis, fence)." 

But, okay. I'll give it a shot. It's not like I didn't know counseling would involve some serious soul-searching. I got home, pondered my homework, and tried not to glower. The cat wanted to go out to the Little Back Side Yard, and I went with him. It's peaceful out there; it's just dirt and rocks right now, but it's the one place in my life where I feel excited about possibilities instead of overwhelmed by just how to realize that potential. I noticed the vines were not properly climbing, and immediately set about to remedy the situation. Why train the vines at that moment, when I'd been putting it off for over a month already?  Who can say. This is exactly typical of how I manage to accomplish things: a combination of accident and impulse. 

I'd initially wrapped the vines loosely around the fenceposts, meaning to train properly in the next day or two , but I never had gotten around to it. In the weeks since then, they'd deliberately released the support of the fence and wrapped back around themselves, down into the dirt. They were starting to choke out their own bases. Exasperated, I wondered what the hell kind of plant doesn't instinctively grow upwards. Stupid vines.

Disentangling the tiny runners from themselves and re-wrapping them along string lines was a delicate and time-consuming business.  My initial irritation at the vines gave way to identifying with them exactly.

"The main reasons to prune established vines include: limiting vigorous growth, clearing around windows and doors, enhancing flower production, thinning branches, and removing dead or damaged wood."

It's so much easier to travel an established path than set out fresh runners on a virgin course. It doesn't matter that all the preceding vines have died out along the old road; the dead branches are convenient to hold onto and follow, much moreso than climbing up a sheer fencepost. Unless I clear out all the dead crap and provide easily accessible string freeways for their travels, they'll continue doing what their predecessors have done. What else do they know, after all? It's a growth habit years in the making. They need a fresh start.

"Spring-flowering vines are usually pruned after they finish flowering, while most other vines are pruned during the dormant season."

I need a fresh start myself. I'm taking time off from work right now precisely to clear out my mental bracken, extricate myself from whatever is holding me back. I can't skip this step, can't wander vaguely off on a new journey without pruning out the old growth first. Not eradicating the dead tangles from my life is exactly what's kept me circling the same old roundabout. New results never arise out of doing the same thing that's always been done.  

"A mass of new shoots may appear after severe pruning; select the strongest shoots and remove the rest."

This isn't to say I can't or won't make mistakes going forward; I will. But I can choose to learn from them instead of dwell on them. I can honor the lessons learned instead of resent that I had to learn them at all. And the flipside of this sentiment is not feeling guilty that I'm not accomplishing things as quickly as I could, or think that I should. The Little Back Side Yard will get there, and I'll get there too.

Excerpts from Training/Pruning Vines by Erv Evans © 2000, used by kind permission of NC State University.

Mint

I've been on a mission to get a veggie garden in our front yard, but it's been obstacle after obstacle.  Pretty soon it will be too hot for plants to want to sprout, and we haven't even tilled the manure in with the soil yet. It's hard to coordinate schedules;  Dan is working on house projects for his folks, and it never seems like a good day to spend hours digging holes. It's making me crabby.


I decided to take my frustrations out on the little side-yard out back of our bedroom door.   It's a disaster;  it's been run over by weeds and Bermuda grass which has grown thigh-high.  It's beyond the mower's capacity to tame at this point, so I scrounged up my gardening gloves and hand shears, popped in some ass-kickin' music, and hunkered in for the weekend.


Hacking out unwanted growth is fantastically cathartic.  My aggravation eased up with every yanked root.  Within an hour, I was happy in my productive solitude, unearthing various "yard treasure" (as Dan calls it):  a tiny green army man, bayonet shouldered and ready for action;  a green marble;  a boring attachment for a drill.  I also found some near-smothered vines with pretty white flowers;  star jasmine, I think... they'd poked through their way through fence slats from our neighbors'.  I gently disentangled them from the barbed Bermuda grass runners and re-wrapped them around the fence post.  


Then I smelled nostalgia, and paused.  Mint? 


The Minnesota cabins where we'd spent our family summers growing up had mint running wild on the beach.   The smell of fresh spearmint  is forever tied to bare feet and beach walks and artesian well water.  There were only two rules in summer:  Don't yell "Help!" when you're swimming unless you actually need help.  And no wearing bathing suits at the table.  


When we bought our current house, I was happy to find our neighbors had mint growing up by the sidewalk.  I break off a leaf whenever I walk by.  Some of it must've migrated.  I hunted in the tangle in front of me, and-- yes, there it was: a defiant little patch of mint.  I freed it from the oppressive overgrowth and thought for a minute, looking again at the fencepost, with its curling vines and fragrant mint.  


I'd planned on just lining the whole thing with pavers and maybe set some planters out here and there. The mint changed my mind.  This funny little back side-yard needs to be a garden, a real garden, overrun with trailing vines and moss-edged flagstones.  It's just enough shade back there for plants to survive the oppressive desert summers.  Daisies, lavender, maybe a little fountain.  Enough room for an Adirondack chair just there, in the corner.  


I've been feeling a little strangled in overgrowth and choked out by runners myself these days.  But if the mint can find its way in all this tangle, surely I can find my way too.

Remembering how to fly

We discovered this weekend that Dan and Miss L had never seen the movie "Hook." This was a situation that had to be rectified immediately.

If you don't know the movie, the plot is that Peter Pan has left Never Land and grown up. Cap'n Hook has kidnapped Peter's kids and brought them back to Never Land to force Peter into a duel. Only, Peter doesn't remember that he's Peter Pan. He thinks he's Peter Panning, attorney at law. It's up to Tinkerbell and the Lost Boys to remind Peter who he really is, so he can rescue his kids from Hook.

It's one of my faves. Robin Williams as Peter, Dusin Hoffman as Hook, what's not to like? Miss G and I have watched it about a million times. But last night, it hit me particularly hard, because I've been feeling way too grown-up lately.

My favorite line in the movie is delivered by Phil Collins, in a brilliant little cameo. He plays the inspector who comes to the house when it's discovered that the children are missing. As he's talking to Peter and his wife, they are interrupted by Toodles, one of the original Lost Boys (now an old man who has lost his marbles). While the inspector has been talking, Toodles has been staring at him suspiciously, then bursts out, "You've forgotten how to fly!"

Phil Collins answers gravely: "Yes, well. One does."

We all forget to fly. We forget to not push our kids aside to answer the phone. We forget what it feels like to be the pushed-aside kid. We forget to play Monopoly more and nag less. We make sure kids stay up late to finish homework, but not to read bedtime stories. In between the teeth being brushed and bike helmets being worn and school lunches being packed, there are not enough forts being built, fashion shows put on, or cookies being made together.

This week's homework: find happy thoughts.