Cold Motives

I am not a fan of snow, and I am certainly not a fan of these cold New England winters. (Though I live in New York, which is technically not New England, I do live a mere stone’s throw from the edge of it, and therefore get the full benefit of those harsh winters.) The price of propane at Ina Hall is literally breaking me as I struggle to keep my nose from running inside my house. My moon boots occupy a permanent spot at the front door. It has been many weeks since I ventured outside without them.

Katie has gone walk-less, and Biscuit must wear a sweater. But perhaps most affected in my household is Carter, who has spent many nights alone and cold atop his refrigerator cabinet. The thermostat is set to drop at bedtime, which affects the dogs and Willie and I not at all as we chill together under our electric blanket. Carter freezes solo downstairs as the heat rises up to my bedroom.

The Face of My Avatar

I have missed my Carter. As everyone knows, he has banished himself to the cabinet over the fridge for the past 9 months, coming down only use the facilities in the night, or when the dog is out walking. Frightened of Katie, he leaves himself out of family cuddle time. Instead, he watches from the fridge in the evening, peeking through doorways to stare at me on the couch with my pile of dogs.

The Importance of Being Ernest…and Libby

They were in it for life, from the very beginning. Though they would sometimes grouse and grumble, we all knew that their love was the ideal to which we aspired. Unfortunately for most of us, it was an impossible standard to meet. Finding that kind of love is rare, and recognizing it when it comes is downright miraculous. No one gets that kind of love. But Grandma and Granddaddy had it. And when his life ended, hers ended along with it.

Ghosts of Holidays Past

Today’s travels took me to the Troylet, the armpit of the Capital Region, to have lunch with an old friend. I found him largely unchanged, and going through a crisis of confidence similar to the one I experienced between Hallowe’en and New Years. Because we are similar in many ways, I know that he will pass through to the other side of his crisis, and that he will get his proverbial shit together. That knowledge doesn’t alter my level of sympathy or my worry for him. He deserves to be happy, every bit as I do.

Feeling nostalgic after our lunch was over–hours later–I decided to stop at my old Big W store for a few basic items…and to see how far removed I felt from that world.

Everything Old is New Again

Some things in life are irreplaceable. I remember when fire took (we thought) most of what Patrick and I owned, and as we finally sank into a strange bed that night, we felt nothing but grateful–that is, until I began viewing my mental picture of what had been lying loosely around the house.

I thought of the high school art projects that had stood against the wall in our guest room. Some of my best, most meaningful work had been in the open, exposed to soot and water and stink. Many hours spent, focused and feeling, creating wonderful things as I enjoyed time with my favorite teacher Elaine Walter, who was now gone as well. The tears finally flowed as I remembered my masterpiece, Winter Soul, and realized it was gone forever. These were the things that no insurance policy, no restoration effort, could salvage.

The Road Back to Happytown

As I’ve made my way back from being (famously) one exit past Happytown, I’ve learned some important lessons. I’d have to say that most of them were learned the hard way. But I can’t say I regret a minute of it.

This past autumn was one of the most difficult seasons on my personal record. Nothing was right in my life, and the one thing that seemed to be–my so-called “relationship”–was actually making me sicker than all the others. I was literally wasting away. I didn’t want to go to work, and had no affection for it at all. My dog was mysteriously ill. My finances were rapidly sinking. I had no goals, nothing to look forward to. I had lost all hope of ever finding my way back.

Tears from Ashes

When I was a child, my favorite sight was the star-filled black of the world’s biggest sky, as seen from our yard. My favorite smell was my mother’s potroast. And my favorite sound was the southwest Kansas wind through leaf-covered giant ash trees in summertime.

Acupuncture therapy has brought some spiritual healing to my somewhat splotchy soul, but it has also presented me with some challenges. One of the consistent instructions Marc has given me is to “stop thinking, stop trying to control your mind” while filled with needles. I’ve been resistant to letting go and being an observer in my own mind. On the rare occasions I have, I’ve found myself pulled to the same place, time after time: those trees on the farm.

Just a Little Nudge

Winter in this neck of the woods is far-removed from the mixed bag of Midwestern weather-mood swings. The seasons here are amazingly consistent and long. The results are predictable–for everyone except the local weathermen–and the road crews are well trained. Unfortunately, when the snow exceeds a couple of inches in depth, they are well trained to plow that snow directly into my driveway.

Good Times…Good Times

One of the joys of my life recently has been the re-entry of long-lost friends into my daily routine. My healing process has included re-examining who I was as a child. The best way to do this, it turned out, was to open a dialogue with those who knew me best back then. I have never been so grateful for “time-wasting” technology!

There is always a danger, when bringing old relationships into the present, that wounds will be reopened. Not every memory is happy. Not all reconnections are medicinal. But most are, and often I find that even those memories we thought were painful can bring us comfort when we find ourselves seeking a connection to who we were/are. Details long hidden from internal view can spring back like fresh green switches, startling us into focus.

Revenge, Best Served Sweet

By now, the whole world knows that I now know what the whole world already knew I didn’t know: Daniel Tarquino is a lying, womanizing piece of garbage.

The magic of modern technology is this: everything you need to know, you can absolutely find out by clicking your mouse just the right number of times. I’m a master clicker. When I have a suspicion or a theory, nothing can stand between me and the information I seek. The Colombian has learned this the hard way.

Meenadirtqueena Soup

As part of the healing process associated with my acupuncture therapy, I’ve been advised to make and eat soup.  Lots of soup.  I have always avoided soup.  I did not know how to make soup.  I did not want to make soup.  I did not want to eat soup.   But I did want to heal.

Ironically, my learning to make soup involved The Colombian.  Growing up in Colombia, his family was not well-off, in a country even less well-off.  Soup was a staple food at nearly every meal.  It was cheap to produce, easy to load with nutrients, and easy to create many different varieties using only a few basic ingredients.  Having spent a lot of time in the kitchen with his mother, and then becoming a chef in adulthood through his European mentors, The Colombian became a master of soups.

I didn’t know who else to ask.  I realized that using the source of my pain as the co-creator of my medicine might have been foolish; but the soups I ate growing up were not apetizing to me whatsoever.  I wanted the best medicine, and the best teacher.  And he is the best I know.

I never got any in-person lessons.  I did get some offsite tutoring, and access to “phone-a-friend” in soup emergencies.  He taught me the basics, and gave me the confidence to embrace experimentation…within limits, of course.  I was advised not to “cook” my initial ingredients, but to only “sweat” them.  I had no idea what that meant, nor what would be the consequence of cooking them fully.  Apparently, the consequence is a loss of taste.  Who knew?

He walked me through the basics of varieties made with chicken versus beef stock, the delicate process of cream soups and bisques, and how to create a proper roux.  But his own favorite soups would not meet my needs.  His soups are made to satifsy the palate, and are full of indulgent ingredients.  My soup was to be aimed at health, and was required to be low on meat, and heavy on root vegetables.  Our soup-making styles were forced to part company, as were we.

My first soup was simple and somewhat tasteless.  My main ingredient was yams, which are as rooty and experimental as I get.  I knew they would taste good with ginger and brown rice.  My second soup had a beef-stock base, and a few more veggies.  I even used barley for the first time!  My third soup was a cream of sweet potato, made (as suggested) with cream cheese.  It was my finest creation yet!  By the end of the second week, I had mastered chicken (white meat, of course!) and rice.  I was on a roll.  So I decided to experiment with tomatoes and Mexican spices.

I shouldn’t give the impression that all my soups were fabulous.  They were not.  In fact, I did not enjoy any but the cream of sweet potato.  Each and every time, I went a little too far with one ingredient or another.  The thing is, I actually knew before I tasted the end result that I had done something wrong.  I would actually see myself adding the ingredient, and I would say to myself, “I shouldn’t be doing this….”  And I would regret it.

But that’s the problem with soup–or with anything, really.  Once you’ve gone a step too far, it’s not as though you can just reach in there and pull it out.  It’s in there.  It’s in the soup for good…or bad.  You just have to roll with it and hope for the best.

At my acupuncture appointment today, Marc asked how I was doing as he was filling me with needles.  I was lying on the table, toasty warm, having just described all the good things that are going on in my life.  I’m eating again.  Work is going smoothly.  I’m reconnecting with old friends.  But, for some reason, I began to cry.  My crocodile tears flowed down my temples, carrying little boats of itchiness to my ears.  I could not possibly scratch with needles sticking out of my hands.

“It’s just this thing with Dan.  I finally understand the rage, the anger, why it’s happening,” I blubbered.  “But it just doesn’t make it stop.”  I didn’t try to control my tears.  I needed to release the emotions.

“Understanding it with your mind is not important.  That is not the same as accepting it with your heart.  It’s not something you can intellectualize, it’s just something you are going through.”  I tried to look at him through tears.  He’s too freaking smart.  “So go through it.  People make the mistake of thinking that they are made up of their thoughts.  We are really made of our experiences.  Experience it.  Honor your feelings and allow them to pass.”

Somehow, soup is supposed to help me do this.  Or, I should say, it is helping me do this.  I can intellectualize the soup all I want, plan the perfect ingredients, chop everything just so… but each and every time, I make some sort of mistake.  And once the mistake is in the pot, it’s in there.  There is no changing it.  There is only acceptance, and trying to do better next time.

Cream of...a bunch of stuff

Today’s soup was a challenge.  I had stopped to see Dan after my appointment.  Dan was not ready to see me.  He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be part of my healing process this time.  He would not come out.  He told me this over the phone. 

So I went to the grocery store and bought some new ingredients.  I chopped all my vegetables just so, and cut two different kinds of potatoes as my main ingredient.  I became distracted in the initial stages, and over-cooked my celery, carrot, and onion.  I added too much barley.  I forgot the bay leaf.  I didn’t reduce it properly.  I didn’t let my cream cheese-broth mixture thicken properly.  I had cut way too many potatoes.  As I always do with Dan, I went a little too far.

I made a lot of that soup.  More than I could possibly eat in a week.  It is awful soup, and I made too much.  All there is to do now is eat it anyway, and wait it out.  I have to go through it.  It cannot be wasted, and it cannot be ignored–though perhaps I could arrange for Katie to steal some.

Someday, I hope to get some face-to-face soup tutoring.  Someday, he will be ready, and I will be ready, and I’ll learn how to properly make soup.  But not yet.  Until then, I’ll stop regretting what I’ve already thrown in the pot.  It’s in there, and there’s no fishing it out.

Moe, Hairy and Curly

For most of my adult life, I’ve been known by two different hair identities:  super-short and sassy Rocker Chick; and long and curly Sexpot.  The times in between the two are fraught with confusion and sadness, either waiting for my “self” to grow back in, or cooking up the nerve to chop it down to the nubs.

Today I visited my friend Bessy, the unemployed hairstylist, to inch my way toward Sexpot.  Having spent the past year growing my hair out, I was ready to say goodbye to the doldrums of plain Jane straight hair.  I needed a change.  I need a spring back in my step.  I need to be noticed, and not to be lonely.  Bessy had decided to give me a perm.  (And yes, people still do that!) 

Bessy is an interesting cat.  A twenty-five year old mother of two, she lives with her baby’s daddy, who was actually her first love…when she was thirteen.  He was 21.  After a fling with another man gave her her first child seven years ago, a stint in rehab for an opiates addiction put a fine point on the end of that relationship.  She made her way back to her sweetheart a couple years ago.  I met her when she was already pregnant with the baby.  Her life story came pouring out of her.  I immediately wanted to adopt her.

Though she is a licensed cosmetologist, she is terrified of getting a salon job.  It took years for her to complete her schooling, and even longer to finish her required apprentice hours.  I think the idea of being rejected by a potential boss is too much for her, and the idea of being rejected by potential clients is even more daunting.  So I went to the trailer park to have my hair done in her kitchen.  I didn’t want her to have to hire a sitter. 

Bessy was embarrassed by her home’s condition.  Rooms were unfinished.  Ceilings were missing.  There were no cabinets in the kitchen.  Little did she know, I would have felt exactly the same way had our roles been reversed.

The interesting thing about social classes is this:  they are entirely imaginary.  For as much as she and her partner struggle with money, worry about buying food and paying the mortgage, and wonder how they will heat their home, I fear all the same things.  My paycheck is larger, my vocabulary more sophisticated, my house a little grander; but the worry is the same.  And for all the bad luck Bessy’s had in relationships, with mental illness and addiction, I have endured my own struggles.  As much as my family and education have given me advantages over her in life, she is no less wise and no less happy than I.  As Oprah often says, “All pain is the same.”

Though I am older, and by most standards more successful, I felt free to tell Bessy about the crazy behavior I’ve exhibited of late, and the conflicted feelings I still fight in regards to The Colombian.  She felt free to give me advice.  In between crying baby, unruly seven-year-old, and not knowing where her partner was, she had the composure to advise me on the foolishness of stalking, and to school me on the toxic evil of men who use women.  As she rolled my hair, she soothed me with her knowledge of men who are dogs.

Sometimes I wonder whether there are really any differences that matter in life.  We treat one another with suspicion and coldness, using our different classes as great dividing lines to keep us separate from our neighbors.  But I wonder whether we might find that we all fight the same demons, if we faced our shields in the same direction.

When Bessy was done, my hair was a pound less heavy, and much larger.  My long-missed curls had returned, just in time for a new season of dancing and meeting new people.  But of  course I will not do those things.  My Sexpot hair will take itself to work, and will come home to pine for The Colombian.  It will earn me a compliment or two, from local businessmen and retirees who do not interest me in the least.  And Bessy will laugh at me for following none of her advice.