thoughts from the spiral

adventures in spinsterhood

2009-06-23T11:43:00.000-07:00

Today I was asked if I had ever been married. When I replied that I haven’t, the next question was, “How the hell did that happen?”

That’s a question I’ve been asked more often than you’d think.

The simple answer is that it’s taken me a very long time to find the right person. I’d like to think I’m with that right person now, but we’ll see. The not-so-simple answer is longer and considerably more complex — and a great deal more personal in nature than I’m willing to divulge in a blog post right now.

A few weeks before I graduated college, one of my professors asked if I was worried that I was about to leave the “best prospective suitor pool” available to me, when I was still unattached. He pointed out that I was entering a world where I wouldn’t be surrounded daily by people my own age who were also more likely to share my values and sensibilities. I honestly hadn’t thought about it, and so shrugged off the question.

As I approached my 25th birthday, my grandmother sat me down and informed me that I was being inducted into “the Order of St. Catherine’s.” That was a nicer way of letting me know that I was now an old maid. My grandmother had been 25 when she married and felt that she’d really pushed the limits on holding onto singlehood.

When I turned 30 and was still unmarried, my family assumed I had just put my career first, and that I’d be settling down any minute. But that didn’t happen, and suspicions began to percolate.

I was 33 when my younger sister got married, and that raised more than a few eyebrows. When a friend of my stepmother’s learned that I was the “unmarried older sister of the bride,” she cooed “Ooooh, the older sister” in a conspiratorial tone, then smirked at me and said, “I did that to my older sister, too.”

The only thing that bothered me about my younger sister getting married first was that it bothered other people — who then felt they had not only the right but the duty to make what I guess were supposed to be insulting or scandalizing comments.

When I was 38 and was visiting this same grandmother back East, she asked me point blank:

“Do you like boys, or do you like girls?”

My family will be relieved to know that I’m not a lesbian. The fact that such a possibility would have worried anyone troubles me. I wish I lived in a world where sexual orientation was truly more of a non-issue, and where all human beings have a right to get married and love whom they choose. We’re getting there, in small steps.

Now, I’m sliding toward 40. Yes, it’s just a number, but there is a weighty psychological milestone attached to it. I’ll admit to a momentary, whiny panic when I first awoke on my 39th birthday — that I was very likely to be still unmarried and childless when birthday Number 40 rolled around. But it wasn’t worth my energy, and it passed.

Truth be told, I’m looking forward to my 40s, which I envision as a decade of savvy refinement of who I am and my role in this world — a decade of action. My 30s have been involved with necessary exploration, experimentation and healing, and I intend to continue reaping the benefits of this rather arduous work as I move forward.

I’d love to be married. I’d love to have a committed partner with whom to share and enjoy life, and I’ll never know whether I’d be any good at marriage until I give it a try. But I’m not your typical chick, and I’m not a good fit for just anybody. I’ve never been on the receiving end of a marriage proposal, and I’ve no idea if anyone has ever considered making me such an offer. I have a hard time imagining myself getting married just to get married, or because it’s what was expected of me.

So — at least for the time being — I am continuing my adventures in spinsterhood. I have a wonderful man in my life, whom I dearly love, so I’m not sure if I fully qualify as an old maid anymore, even though I remain unmarried. There are pros and cons to being single — just as there are pros and cons to being married, and to pretty much everything in life. I may never have a pat answer to the question of, “Why did you never get married?” And for now, I’m not too worried about it.

happy new(ish) jewish year

2008-09-30T10:16:00.001-07:00

We’re into the first day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. L’Shana Tova!

As we welcome the year 5769 in the Hebrew calendar, I readily admit I have no idea what I’m doing. Unfortunately, this means I’m defaulting to doing nothing.

I’m a New Jew — or so I’ve dubbed myself. I’m still in the midst of a lengthy process of conversion to Judaism, which is happening steadily in fits and starts (if such a thing is possible), and is full of enthusiasm, doubt, determination and a fair amount of wondering what the hell I’m doing and why.

Many of the Jews I know — and admittedly I don’t know all that many — are taking time off of work to attend services, be with their families and otherwise observe this time of reflection and introspection. Rosh Hashanah marks the creation of the world, and the birthday of Adam. Or so I’m told. I’m still learning.

This is the time for considering the wrongs we have committed against others, the days when the Book of Life and the Book of Death are opened, when we make amends to one another — and hopefully also to ourselves — so that by the time Yom Kippur rolls around, we’ve secured a place in the Book of Life for ourselves in the coming year.

I’ve got a great essay I want to write about this. I’ve been thinking about it for a good six weeks now, but I’ve not yet done it. It may well be too late, though technically I suppose I’ve got a few more days if I’m looking to submit something to a newspaper in time for Yom Kippur.

But this just emphasizes to me that I’m not really doing anything out of my normal routine to mark the turning of the year. I’m still working. I’m here at my desk as I type this, with a story deadline tomorrow, and a few others I need to get a jump on. It’s uncertain as to whether this qualifies me for stoning.

I’m not at temple, and honestly even if I were, I’d have no idea what I was doing. I don’t know what to expect, having never celebrated or observed the High Holy Days, even from a distance — other than my obligatory fast last year at Yom Kippur, even though I spent most of the day either napping or reading at Borders. I did wear light colored clothing — I don’t own much in the way of white garments — and was careful not to wear leather shoes, but I wasn’t praying and I wasn’t spending time in Jewish community. At some point, I think I did slice up some apples for myself and drizzle them with honey, for what it’s worth.

If I did head downtown for services, I imagine I’d feel uncomfortable and lost, and probably bored and fidgety as, historically, any service of any kind that goes on for more than about 20 minutes leaves me feeling like I’ve got some kind of rash or stinging insect infestation on the inside of my skin. Yet I’m still disappointed with myself for not even giving it a try.

So I sit here at my desk, ostensibly working on these article deadlines, and feeling conflicted about the onset of the Days of Awe. I want to find my own path within Judaism, something that brings who I am to these centuries-old traditions, and vice versa. I feel very much on my own with this. I was not born Jewish. I’m not especially close to anyone who is Jewish. I live alone and don’t have a family framework for observing holidays, much less Shabbat. I will blaze my own trail, and there will no doubt be mistakes made and pitfalls encountered along the way.

I just hope that not too many more cycles of holidays will pass me by in the meantime.

11 September 2008

2008-09-11T09:11:00.001-07:00

I’m hesitant to post my thoughts on this anniversary, given how much “remembrances” are filling the news media today — and how far too many outlets are capitalizing on grief. A Twitter acquaintance of mine has referred to this as “emotional pornography,” and I don’t think he’s too far off the mark.

But what I’m remembering here this morning is the total disconnect I saw in my community on 11 September 2001 and in the days that followed.

I was working that morning, sitting at my computer in my home office, with NPR’s morning coverage on the radio in the background. First there was a report of a single airplane crashing into one of the World Trade Center towers. Either they weren’t giving details — or I wasn’t listening too closely — because I thought they were talking about a small aircraft like a Cessna or something. I thought it sounded tragic, and assumed it was some kind of pilot error. I kept working.

When reports came in about a second plane crashing into the towers, it still didn’t occur to me that something more deliberate was at work. Again, I assumed they were talking about small aircraft. I started wondering if there might be some magnetic or electrical interference with the planes’ instruments.

NPR cut away from New York to a reporter who was at the Pentagon, covering some meeting or military initiative. Something like that. I don’t remember. I do remember that during the man’s report, sirens sounded in the background. The NPR host asked what was going on, and the reporter responded that the Pentagon was on fire. Both men laughed nervously, as if they were thinking, “Great. What next?” It was such a crazy morning, with so much going wrong, and the pieces weren’t being put together yet.

By the time I flipped on the television, it was obvious that the United States was under terrorist attack.

Like so many other Americans, I was glued to the television and radio, trying to make sense of what was happening. There were frantic calls between me and my mother as we tried to reach my sister, living in New York City. I heard military jets screaming through the skies overhead, scrambling out of Langley and headed north.

When I finally reached my sister, she described the surreal experience she was having. Standing in her office’s conference room, she could look out one window and see smoke billowing from the World Trade Center area, and then glance out another window to watch runners and families in Central Park, going about their business as though nothing extraordinary was happening.

After several hours of panicked television coverage — and endless replays of footage of the second plane slamming into the tower, and of the towers collapsing — I knew I had to get out of the house. I turned off the television and the radio, and I sat outside for a while. But the military jets were still streaking overhead every so often, so I went to the grocery store in search of comfort food. I drove to my local Ukrops, parked my car, and stepped inside.

The place was absolutely silent. It was full of people, shopping in a kind of haze, on automatic pilot. There was some small talk here and there, forced laughter. But no one was talking about what was happening. No one mentioned the attacks, the planes, the towers, the deaths, the fear.

I got angry. I don’t know why my reaction to other people’s silent shock and confusion would be anger and frustration, but it was. I very nearly broke out into the “Star Spangled Banner” in the middle of the produce section — one, to give some hope and to remind myself and everyone at Ukrops that we’re Americans, dammit. We’re resilient and strong and can come back from just about anything. But I also wanted to jolt people out of their disorientation, to wake them up from auto-pilot and get people to start talking to each other, to embrace and weep if they had to. To get them to come together and stop insulating themselves in their individual bubbles of fear.

But I didn’t start singing. Everyone deals with trauma in his or her own way. I had no right to force my process on anyone else. So I paid for my groceries — probably some green beans and Goldfish crackers — and went home.

On Friday, 14 September, a nationwide candlelight vigil had been organized — light a candle at 7 p.m. and keep it lit for one hour. All across the United States, Americans were lighting candles and putting them in their windows. They were lighting candles and sitting on their porches and gathering in front yards and on sidewalks and in community green spaces to come together as neighbors and support each other through anger, grief and grasping at understanding.

I lit a candle and carried it out to my front steps. I settled it down beside me and sat down on the bricks. And waited.

No one else in my neighborhood — at least no one within sight of my house — lit a single candle. A few cars went by. A few people made appearances at their doors to pay for pizza delivery. Other than that, my community was shut up tight. After an hour, I carried my candle back inside.

Over the next year, I noticed a lot of six- and eight-foot-high privacy fences going up in my neighborhood, where three-foot chain link fences had sufficed before. There were more bickering voices behind closed doors, more anger and apathy in the community at large.

With the relentless airing on television of footage of the attacks, we became an entire nation dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder. We retreated into our homes in fear, stocking up resources and supplies against possible future attacks. Our military bombed Afghanistan, lashing out in a mostly futile attempt to vent the anger and panic roiling inside us all. We were desperate for someone, something to blame, and we found and even invented scapegoats aplenty.

Our president led us into a holy war, drawing a line in the sand and challenging the rest of the world to declare their allegiance: “You’re either with us or against us.” Such an uncompromising stance doesn’t allow for healing, or for really anything other than more division, more fear, more suspicion…. Pretty much setting the stage for more violence.

As someone who’s dealt with her own trauma and victimization, I recognized what was happening. These were classic attitudes and behaviors in the aftermath of outrageous violation — similar to what survivors of rape and domestic abuse experience — but it was happening on a national scale.

And it still is. We’ve not given ourselves any real room or pathway for healing. As a nation, we’re still setting ourselves at odds with the rest of the world, when in reality it’s a relatively small (though powerful) fundamentalist organization that has targeted us. The United States’ response has been way over the top, and it has trickled down into communities across the country.

I moved from Virginia to Oregon in 2004, and I’ve seen evidence of this lingering PTSD on both coasts. We want to come together, but we’re still afraid. We want to rise up as one, to repair the damage to our hearts and souls, but we’re often too busy being self-righteous and miming confidence. And so we bicker amongst ourselves. Communities and neighborhoods that were already strong and tight before 11 September 2001 have come through this even stronger and tighter and often more optimistic and proactive than ever. But others are falling apart at the seams.

We’re disconnected as a nation, as communities, as neighbors and as human beings. And we’ll remain that way until we take the courageous step to heal, to take fearless inventory of our own shortcomings and contributions to the residual crisis, to make amends for our actions and behaviors and to make the choice to see the world differently, so that we can all together experience a world that is not fiercely pitted against us but which is a global community — with its own troubles, differences and strife — that is waiting to welcome us with open arms.

NaNoWriMo 10th Anniversary

2008-09-05T10:00:00.001-07:00

Yep. 2008 marks the 10th anniversary of National Novel Writing Month.

They've got special t-shirts and everything.

What?! You've not yet participated? Why the bloody hell not?

You keep saying you want to write that story you've been mulling over for most of your adult life, but you never seem to get around to putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Here's your opportunity, and it comes around every November. Imagine that.

50,000 words in 30 days. It sounds intimidating. Impossible even. But it can be done -- novelists all over the globe make it happen every year. Hell, I've done it every year since 2004. I've found it a challenge every time, but well worth it. You can write 1667 words per day, every day. Or you can write 12,500 words every weekend and take the weekdays off. Or you can procrastinate most of the month and not even start until November 23rd, and still get it done. Whatever floats your boat.

It's hard work, and it's its own brand of literary insanity. It's tremendous fun, and at the end of the month, you've actually accomplished something -- even though this is a first draft, and all first drafts are crap. Really. It's true. Take my word for it.

One of the most popular features of the NaNo website is the online forums. They've got a discussion group for pretty much everything in there, and threads on topics you'd never dream up on your most colorful acid trip. Need an expert to tell you the how to test the age of primitive artifacts carved from igneous rock? Chances are there's another writer on the boards who is also a geologist or archaeologist. (I had this exact problem back in 2005, and I had no fewer than ten fellow writers jump in to help.)

Made a funny typo -- or just wrote something that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever -- and want to share it? There is a HUGE thread devoted to these "Nanoisms," and reading these postings often leaves me in tears, I'm laughing so hard. And surfing that thread is a great way to procrastinate doing actual writing.

Want to challenge your writing buddies? Make a pact that whoever gets to the 50,000-word goal last has to scrub everyone else's toilets. Or sit down together to write, after you've each drunk two liters of Mountain Dew, and whoever has to get up to use the bathroom first has to streak across the parking lot shouting, "I am a Greek God!" at the top of his/her lungs. Or find a funny character or phrase and challenge your buddies to include that in their plots. I successfully met Terri's challenge last year of including the word "gastronomically" in a story about vampires; I'm still waiting for her to throw a couple of were-monkeys into one of her tales.

Want to get together with fellow NaNo'ers in your area for a write-in at a local coffee shop? They've got these going on all month, all over the world. Portland, Oregon, has its own forum, and we historically have one of the largest writer contingents on the planet. If your city or town doesn't have its own forum, start one.

So, tell me again why you're not jumping in to do this? Afraid you might not make it? Well, of course you won't, not with that attitude. Plenty of writers try and fail each year with NaNoWriMo, and they're back again the next year, and the next. The point is committing to it and giving it an honest shot.

You won't be sorry.

You've got almost two months to prepare for this. Go find a copy of NaNo founder Chris Baty's "No Plot? No Problem!" -- a great guide for writers in general, but specifically geared toward NaNoWriMo.

And when you sign up on the NaNoWriMo website, let me know. I'd be happy to add you as one of my buddies.

breathing room

2008-06-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

Around the middle of May, I was struck by the rather surprising realization that I want marriage and a family. More accurately, I was struck by anxiety and something approaching panic when I juxtaposed that realization with my age: I’m 38, and was half-way convinced that I was already out of time.

Turns out I’ve got quite a bit more “reproductive breathing room” than I’d anticipated.

Something I like to do — some nights when I’m feeling particularly wired and am not ready for bed, even as the late night of one day slides into the early morning of the next — is research family history and genealogy. That’s how I finally pieced together my Jewish ancestry last year.

I was caught up in one of these genealogy marathon sessions three or four weeks ago and started looking more closely at the reproductive histories of my ancestors — specifically, how old these women were when marrying and giving birth, and how their children fared. What I uncovered was surprising.

I grew up hearing how my great-great-great-grandfather had had twenty-one children by two wives. His first wife had a single child before she died, and he’d remarried and had twenty children by his second wife. I was curious about the details. That second wife, my great-great-great-grandmother, had her first child at the age of 17, and her last at the not-so-tender age of 45.

45 years old! In the first half of the nineteenth century, no less. Seventeen of her twenty children survived to adulthood — two died at birth (or were stillborn), and another died in infancy. She did not die in childbirth but lived into her 60s. Her sons were the soldiers of the Civil War.

But I was more interested in her daughters. Some married early, some later, some not at all. Those who did become mothers themselves also bore children into their 30s and 40s, in the mid-1800s.

I’d no idea women at that time were giving birth so late in their lives. I’d assumed that was more of a modern trend, but apparently it was a regular practice in my family.

So I’m not so worried, not anymore. When my great-great-great-grandmother was my age, she still had another seven years of childbearing in front of her. This is the stock that I come from. If they could do it — and do it rather successfully — then so can I. If I get to be 41 or 42 and am still in the same boat as I’m in now — single, with no real prospects (I’d rather be childless than be a single parent) — then maybe I’ll give myself permission to get a little nervous.

In the meantime, I’m much more relaxed.

As a side note, I’ve only once had my “biological clock” go off. That was ten years ago. Out of nowhere, I felt suddenly driven to have a baby. It made no rational sense, but I started looking into artificial insemination — I wasn’t seeing anyone at the time — and costs of childcare. I was on the fast-track in IT, had a stable career and was making more than enough money to support a family, so I started making plans. I even told my boss about it, and he was very supportive. After about two weeks or so, however, the reproductive drive vanished into thin air. It hasn’t resurfaced since.

shabbat in the park

2008-06-23T09:54:00.001-07:00

When it comes to shabbat services, I’m more of a Friday evening gal. I enjoy the smaller gathering, the lighting of the candles and the more meditative feel of winding down the week and welcoming sacred time and space. It’s a peaceful and relaxing way to let go of whatever has been weighing on me and to make room for reflection and some degree of serenity. It also sets the stage for spending at least part of the weekend enjoying the outdoors — which is my true temple.

I was all set to head to the shul this past Friday evening, when I discovered that the Saturday morning service was to be celebrated in a local park. Perfect timing for the summer solstice. I made a quick call to Mom — who was going to be in town anyway — and brought her along to her first Jewish service ever.

We couldn’t have asked for a better day. There was a brief sprinkle of rain in the early morning, but the clouds quickly gave way to warm sunshine. A group of picnic tables under some trees had been reserved for us, and folks trickled in — on foot, on bikes, with strollers — as we set up camping chairs and picnic blankets.

Plenty of passerby stopped to watch us as we started singing — I guess a bunch of Jews in the park isn’t something you see every day — and I slipped off my shoes and pressed my bare feet into the grass. Children laughed and played throughout the service — one of the things I love about going to temple is that the kids aren’t commanded to sit still and be quiet, as we were always instructed in chapel growing up. It’s very family-friendly, and gathering in the park only emphasized that.

It was so freeing to be outside in spiritual community — and in the company of flowers and trees — to feel the sun on my skin and breathe the clean air, rather than being inside while following the same order of service. I prefer natural surroundings to man-made ones. The earth beneath my feet and the open sky overhead create the most sacred space I know of.

We weren’t the only people celebrating in the park that morning. Two different groups of Neo-Pagans set up their own circles within sight of our gathering to mark the midsummer holiday of Litha. The rabbi commented, “Well, we’re all pagans, aren’t we?”

Talking about the service later, Mom shared how much she had enjoyed the event and the people. I’m so glad her first visit with my shul was a positive one, and am grateful for those few hours spent with my spiritual community in natural surroundings. I held this experience up to Mom as a more tangible example of the “roots and wings” I’ve been yearning for.

I’m not sure I’ll join them for next month’s “Shabbat in the Pool”…. Perhaps I’ll instead head over solo to the grove of trees not far from my home, and mark my own observance there.

It’s the beginning of another work week, and I’m already looking forward to Friday evening — when I can sit outside, light candles and take time to enjoy and appreciate the ready-made sanctuary just outside my door.

dog fight update

2008-06-16T12:27:00.000-07:00

I wanted to give a quick update on the dog fight from a week-and-a-half ago.

My neighbor has been released from the hospital, and I went to visit him and take him some soup. He had his family with him and seemed to be in good spirits, though he’ll require some recovery time. At the time that I saw him, he still had no memory of what had happened.

I gave him an overview of the details. He was glad to hear that Lakshmi is alright. Indeed, Lakshmi is healing nicely and finished her round of antibiotics this morning. I hope to get her back to the dog park some time this week, as she’s been anxious to get out and play again.

My neighbor’s daughter let me know that his dog, who had attacked Lakshmi, had been put down. She had apparently been showing signs of increasing aggression toward family members, and this incident with my dog was the last straw. I’m sad that this was the outcome for the dog — though it would have take some very special circumstances and a lot of time and energy to try to rehabilitate her — and am sorry for my neighbor to lose another companion.

In the aftermath of this canine altercation, and under the crunch of work and some other projects and turbulence, I’ve not been as personally active online as usual. If you’ve tried contacting me lately and you’re not an editor, you probably haven’t heard back from me for a week or more — other than quick-hit e-mail exchanges, I owe replies to most of my friends and family. I did take off some time last Friday afternoon and Saturday, to get away from the computer and catch up on some reading, but then was back at work Saturday night and into Sunday.

It’s still crunch time for my writing work, but I’m starting to catch up. I think Lakshmi and I both could use some time at the dog park.

improve the world

2008-06-12T09:03:00.001-07:00

This morning, I’ve had a particular piece of wisdom on my mind:

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.

— Anne Frank

Rather than waxing philosophical on the power of mere existence — and how every person’s every action is like that small stone thrown into the pond, the impact rippling outward to touch even the farthest shore — I thought I’d instead think up a couple of quick, simple ways to put this truth into positive, constructive action.

So, how can one person start to improve the world right here and now?

* Say, “I love you,” and mean it.
* Take a deep breath and appreciate being able to breathe.
* Be generous to other drivers merging and changing lanes in traffic.
* Offer your seat on the bus or train to someone who needs it more than you do.
* Say, “Hello” and share a smile with a stranger.
* Treat your body to a glass of clean water and a fresh piece of fruit.
* Take a five- or ten-minute break to get outside. Take a walk, touch a tree and the grass, literally stop to smell the roses.
* Wave to the children on the school bus as they go by.
* Take a box of languishing items — clothing, housewares, books, etc. — to a local charity.
* Turn off (and even unplug) household and office lights and appliances when you’re not using them.
* Pick up a piece of litter and make sure it gets to a trash bin.
* Greet neighbors and co-workers as they come and go through the day.
* Say, “Thank you” to your librarian, postal carrier, street sweeper, retail cashier, teacher — anyone — to express appreciation for his/her service.
* Think of a favorite game from childhood — whether it’s Red Light Green Light, Twister, Hide-and-Go-Seek, Crazy 8s or chess — and make a play date with your friends.
* Register to vote, if you haven’t already.

It would be easy to spend the rest of the morning coming up with more ideas, but you get the drift. I’d rather spend that same time actually making a difference.

What are you doing today to have a positive impact?

tv log and territorial spider

2008-06-10T08:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, a friend announced that he and his family were giving up their paid television service and would simply rely on what they can receive via antenna — and will keep watching their favorite cable shows on BitTorrent and iTunes.

I did the same thing from 2000 to 2004, but with no TV-on-internet supplement. I’d worked for MediaOne (formerly Continental Cablevision, later AT&T Broadband, and now Comcast) 1996-1999, and like all full-time employees had gotten full cable service as part of the standard benefits package. My TV had quickly become a black hole. Living alone, I found myself too easily settling into the comfort of having the television keep me company.

I’d pull myself away from it and would deliberately keep it turned off for days at a time while I got back to living my life — what life I had, outside of my 80-hour work week, wasn’t much. At the very least, I was reading more. But it was still all too convenient to switch on the box as I was cooking or doing housework, sewing dance costumes or working out.

So when I left the company — and they finally remembered to shut off my service — I wasn’t all that sorry to see it go. I did miss access to 24-hour international news, but I’d more frequently turned to public radio for that anyway, and I had a VCR and DVD player for watching movies. I’d like to say that I was generally happier and had more breathing room in my life.

Then I moved to Oregon — where I wouldn’t have access to locally broadcast Atlantic Coast Conference games. And, the Olympics were coming that summer! I simply had to have multi-channel, 24-hour access to Olympic and other sports coverage, or so I told myself. I was the only woman I knew who chose her satellite service package based on what sports channels were offered. (Yes, last week I even watched all four hours and thirty-eight minutes of Game 5 of the NHL championships, Pittsburgh Penguins vs. Detroit Red Wings.)

But the service package comes with a lot more than just sports channels, and that’s the problem. I’ve got a whole lot of nothing being aired all day every day. I’m paying for it whether I watch it or not. I don’t watch it, of course, but it still seems like a huge waste.

A la carte service is not available because of the deals that media corporations make with the distribution companies. They’re under contractual obligation to offer blocks of channels and programming, rather than just individual networks — which means the end consumer doesn’t get to pick and choose either. But I’m wondering…. If I made a list of the programming I wanted to view on a regular basis, and calculated the costs of getting that programming via my computer rather than via a satellite/receiver, it would be interesting to see how that monthly cost would stack up against what I’m paying DISH Network every month.

So while my friend and his family are going cold turkey on paid TV service, I’ve started making a television viewing log. I just want to see what my TV habits really are, what I’m watching, and what — if anything — it’s contributing to my life.

I’ve only been keeping this log for a day, and I’m not sure I want to post the results regularly online, but here’s the log from yesterday:

Monday, 9 June 2008
1:05 p.m. - 1:26 p.m.: CNN’s The Situation Room
While eating lunch. Have there always been so many commercials on CNN? Seems to be more advertising than programming/news.

5:19 p.m. - 6:16 p.m.: Friends/Law & Order/Ocean’s Twelve
Channel surfing while making and eating dinner, and while running upstairs periodically to check e-mail.

8:57 p.m. - 9:59 p.m.: Sex & the City/ER
Post-painting in the bedroom. Just wanted some mindless entertainment to wind down the evening.

(I have a tendency to skip around between channels whenever there’s a commercial break. One reason I love my DVR service is that it allows me to skip over commercials — saving both time and annoyance.)

I’ll keep this log running for at least a week. Admittedly, knowing that I have to write down my viewing behavior will very likely act as a deterrent to too much TV viewing, but I’d still like to see where my TV time is going, and then use this to make a “real use” calculation to compare to my monthly subscription service.

And yes, the Olympics are coming, once again…. Gotta have those sports channels.

On another, somewhat curious, note: While painting the walls of the bedroom last evening, I encountered a spider that was hiding in a small crack between the wall and ceiling. Initially, it was rushing out as if to challenge the paint brush that was sweeping closer and closer to its hiding place, but it finally retreated. At first, I found this a little amusing — a spider battling against a paint brush — but I’m also concerned about having such an aggressive spider in my bedroom, even way up high.

dog fight

2008-06-07T09:34:00.000-07:00

While out walking yesterday morning, Lakshmi was attacked by a neighbor's Rottweiler-Lab mix. I am uninjured. Lakshmi has some puncture wounds which the vet has tended to. The other dog is fine.

My neighbor, however, is in the hospital with a brain contusion. He is an older gentleman, and when his dog first lunged for mine, he was pulled to the pavement and hit his head.

I just wanted to let everyone know why I've been quiet, and may be off-line for a while. All of the stress of the day -- screaming for help; trying to wrestle the Rottie off of my dog's throat; chasing after Lakshmi when she ran off, terrified; etc. -- has left me feeling like I've been hit by a truck.

And I'm very worried about my neighbor, a dear man who has had a rather bad run of luck lately. I'm told that this has happened before -- getting knocked down by his dog -- but that it had occurred on grass and so hadn't caused injury.

If you're a praying person, I'm sure he'd appreciate the good thoughts.

osiris warms up

2008-06-03T14:06:00.000-07:00

Osiris, my five year-old black cat, has always been a bit stand-offish.

He was easily startled as a kitten and didn’t appreciate being brought into a home with two rather curious — and large — dogs in residence. He eventually settled in, by degrees, but remained overly cautious. He’s still rather jumpy, and doesn’t like to be picked up or held.

In the last few months, however, he’s gotten a lot more snuggly than he ever was before.

As a kitten, he was very serious about heavy kneading when he was purring, and I sometimes awoke to what felt like shiatsu massage, care of this little kitten. As the weather got warmer and the blankets got lighter, these greetings weren’t nearly as welcome as his claws easily penetrated the bed linens to my skin. Still, he’d wait until I was asleep, and until the other kitten and the pups had settled down for the evening, and then would find an empty spot on the bed to curl up.

But he’s suddenly decided to stop being quite so distant.

At first, I’d thought it was the cold winter weather that was driving him to curl up next to me so quickly and so closely. He easily displaced Kenobi (the smaller cat, of the same age) at the head of the bed, nearest my face and torso, and even occasionally climbed up on the sofa with me, careful to lie down a short distance away from me, just out of reach.

Kenobi and Osiris

But now it’s June. Sure, this is Portland, so it’s still occasionally rainy and rather chilly as we move into summer, but Osiris is getting more and more snuggly even as the warmer weather makes its appearance.

As soon as I head to the bedroom — whether I’m retiring for the evening or just feel like taking a quick nap — Osiris is there. He’s on the bed as soon as I am, and curls up very close to me before my head even touches the pillow. He’s lately started jumping into my lap on the sofa — something he’d never done before — and while he won’t actually curl up on me, he snuggles right up against me.

It’s likely not the weather. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been feeling rather low these past few weeks — as I’d grieved for Nanook and then Journey recently, Osiris similarly became more attentive. This sweet and rather large kitty — the King of the Cats, the Pharaonic Feline — has been tending to me, letting me know that I’m loved, keeping me company. At least, that’s what I’d like to think he’s doing.

Or maybe he’s just finally warming up to me, and is after five years at last coming out of his shell.

swamped, and color therapy

2008-05-29T21:49:00.001-07:00

As with last evening, there will no -- or few -- deep thoughts or reflective musings from me tonight. I am quite literally swamped with work -- good in a way, though on a short-term, immediately temporary basis. Other freelancers and independents will likely understand what that means.

There has been no additional painting, as much as I'd wanted to get back to that today. I have conducted an unprecedented number of interviews today, all on little or no notice. My call and e-mail volumes were enormous.

To top it off -- because, after all, when it rains, it pours -- I have family coming into town tomorrow evening, and have just gotten word that an old friend from Virginia is in Portland this weekend for a conference. All this is happening while I absolutely have to do a large amount of work over the weekend.

But I am not complaining (much). I do love my work. I just wish it were steadier, rather than these waves of crunch time followed by more quiet troughs, but I am working toward a more even flow.

I did notice, however, that with the official beginning yesterday of the house painting project(s), there was a definite shift in my personal energy. This could be due to the fact that the color in the master bathroom -- and I've also started in on the bedroom now, with the same color -- is one of my favorites and easily has my house feeling much more like my own space. The existing colors of this place have been a constant, if unconscious, reminder of previous residents. My home is finally becoming my own.

But I'd also colored my hair recently -- I tend to make changes to my hair when dealing with heartache -- and even this has me feeling more like myself. I am really rather witchy looking.

Reclaiming myself through color. What a concept.

painting, day 1

2008-05-28T20:35:00.000-07:00

Not much of a blog entry from me this evening, I'm afraid. I am covered in "Roslyn's Blue," a color I picked out yesterday for the master bedroom and bathroom.

I went to work on the bathroom a few hours ago, thinking that it's a small space and should go quickly. "The best laid schemes of mice and men gang oft agley," as the saying goes. Small space, sure, but lots of corners, cabinets, and fixtures to negotiate. I'd not even considered trying to paint behind the toilet tank, but I did it. I covered every square centimeter of that wall, without removing the toilet. And I have the paint in my hair, on my clothes, and on my skin to prove it.

There remains a fair amount of space over the sink to be painted, as well as the walls surrounding the shower, but I think I'm done for the evening.

I'm glad I started this project, however. I'll finish up the bathroom in the next day or two, and have already started on the bedroom -- if painting about six square inches of one wall counts as having started. The master bedroom is huge, and there's still the entire downstairs to paint as well -- and there are several gallons of "Falling Rain" awaiting that project start.

It's a lot of work, but I'd forgotten how much I enjoy these household projects. It's all about making a house a home.

Now it's time to try to wash this paint out of my hair, and to try taking a shower with the ladder still dominating the bathroom.

home holding pattern

2008-05-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

I’ve been reading the first book of Jim Butcher’s “Dresden Files” series — Storm Front — and just this morning, I’ve come across the following passage:

Here had lived someone else who knew that the only thing waiting at home was a sense of loneliness. Sometimes it is comforting. Most often, it isn’t.

This got me to thinking again about this “intentional vacuum” I’m creating in my home, clearing out that which no longer serves me as a means of inviting in more of the life I choose to create for myself.

I’ve been living very much a “bachelor” lifestyle, for lack of a better term — granted, my home and schedule are significantly more organized and livable than those of many (but not all) bachelors I’ve seen. It wasn’t until reading this passage in Butcher’s novel about a wizard private investigator that I realized that my house doesn’t feel very much like a home — at least, it doesn’t feel like the home I want to live in.

In recent months, I’ve found myself reminiscing about the house I left behind in Virginia. I loved that house. I owned and lived in it for seven years, and I’d absolutely made it my own. I replaced major appliances — including switching the house over form oil to gas for heating — tore down walls, stripped wallpaper off of every wall and ceiling in the place, rebuilt the screened porch, planted a garden…. That place was a real home, and I loved it.

I’ve been in this condo now for almost four years. I’ve made some changes — ripped up the downstairs carpet, painted the kitchen, installed central air, planted some herbs, and the like — but for the most part, I still haven’t made this place my own. I’ve not made the investment of my time, energy, and vision into creating a home for myself here.

I suppose I kept thinking of this place as being temporary, that I’d stay here until I found something better, until I found my mate, until I moved on. All of that is absolutely still the case — after all, today is merely the space and time connecting yesterday to tomorrow — but it has given rise to rather tenuous feelings and circumstances in my life as a whole. Not to mention that my house doesn’t feel like my home.

To build the life I want for myself tomorrow, I have to commit today. If I’m living a life of waiting, then the forecast for tomorrow will similarly be more waiting. To create the home life I envision for myself moving forward, I’m going to have to get to work right here, where I am now. That means finally picking a couple of paint colors and making some choices about what rugs, artwork, and pieces of furniture to keep and what to give away, instead of waiting around to “see what happens” before making any decisions.

I’m not sure how or why I got myself locked into such a holding pattern, but one thing’s for sure: My house is not a waiting room. I choose to make it my home.

optimism

2008-05-26T19:19:00.000-07:00

A friend wrote late last night in response to yesterday’s “intentional vacuum” blog entry to tell me how much he admires my optimism.

I responded that in all honesty, if it weren’t for my optimism, I’d probably be dead by now.

The people who know me reasonably well will understand that statement. Maybe this has to do with something a spiritual counselor I know calls “potentiality” — the ability to see the highest potential a person has within him/herself, even if that person isn’t embodying it at the moment. Somewhat along the lines of what Anne Frank wrote in her diary:

Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.

Or maybe it’s because looking for the bright side in just about everything is an easy way to keep sane.

For instance, even though I’m in the midst of getting my heart broken, I’m keeping focused on the positive aspects of my most recent relationship. For one, even though I’d not been with anyone in a long time and had been afraid of getting involved again, I discovered that I’m actually rather good at being close to someone. It’s comfortable. I like it. That was a happy surprise. Also, I learned that I do want to marry and raise a child with my husband — again, something I’d not known previously.

These are good things to know about myself, and this allows me to hold a vision of what I want to create moving forward.

The tricky part of that, however, is not getting emotionally attached to specific outcomes. Building a vision of what I want that involves specific institutions, objects, people, places, timelines, or other details can fuel expectations that more often than not will get dashed on the rocks. It is, as my mother likes to say, a matter of holding the vision alongside the mantra, "This, or something better."

So I’m still generally hopeful, and am becoming more practiced — through trial and error — in the art of detached optimism.

intentional vacuum

2008-05-25T10:09:00.001-07:00

Nature abhors a vacuum.

That certainly explains the state of my house. ;) When I get stressed or am feeling doubtful and uncertain -- in the absence of tranquility -- my house has a tendency to get cluttered. Things really got out of control after Nanook's death, and the chaos came home to roost in the midst of Journey's illness and then in my dealing with Lakshmi's anxiety and socialization problems. After that, I suppose it was a matter of inertia; even though my living space was uncomfortable, I was exhausted and addressing organization required more energy than I had to expend.

But I've slowly been crawling back out of this. Before I lived with animals, my living space was very tidy. I can assume I'm naturally orderly. Unfortunately, I didn't develop too many new organizational skills to adapt to living with the four-footeds.

I'm taking some time now to more actively pursue the life I choose to create for myself. I've learned through recent experience that I do want a loving partnership. I want marriage and a child. As I'd been growing older, and was still single more often than not, I'd gotten very comfortable not making space for anyone else. It's absolutely appropriate that we fill the gaps in our own lives (and not expect someone else to do that for us), but as with any new venture, we do have to carve out the time and space necessary to let the new energy in.

When I was in college, a good friend of mine gave me his perspective on why he thought I was still single. He told me that I was absolutely what he and many other men were looking for -- attractive, smart, vibrant, confident, funny -- but that my life seemed so full that he wasn't sure where or how he'd fit into it. Part of that is reflex -- filling my own time with my own pursuits, since there wasn't anyone around to share in it -- but I hadn't seen how I'd unintentionally been edging out what I wanted.

More recently, I was honestly surprised by how much time and space my relationship required. And even though that is on hiatus now, or possibly even over, I got a wonderful taste of not only what I do absolutely want in my life, but of the fact that I need to get better about making room for it.

In my neighborhood, there are between two and four people living in condos the same size as mine. There are also quite a few singles, like myself, but these are typically older women who have family regularly come to visit. Sure, no one else has a banshee dog like I do, but I still look around my space and wonder where a family would fit. (Ideally, I wouldn't be living here with my family -- but would be somewhere with a fenced yard -- but that's beside the point.)

My bedroom closet -- built for two -- is full, mostly of clothes I no longer wear. My bookcases are stacked with volumes I've not touched in years. And so on. If I were going to share my living space with a partner -- either having him move in here, or my packing up to join him -- I would certainly want to pare down my possessions. So why not begin that process now? Why not start, today, to clear the space -- in my life and in my home -- for the reality I want to bring into being?

Nature abhors a vacuum. Isn't it reasonable to assume, then, that creating space in my life for what I want is a more active invitation? I should tackle that closet anyway -- there are perfectly good clothing items in there that simply aren't being used -- and in the process, I am also clearing the way for my partner's clothes, literally and symbolically. Just as making a clean sweep of my desk when completing one project makes room for the next, so too can de-cluttering my living space help to attract real love and light into my life, and make it welcome.

plastic windows

2008-05-24T22:02:00.000-07:00

Up until this evening, I firmly believed that the plastic windows in paper envelopes could not be recycled. I suppose that must have been the case when I first started recycling -- back in the Stone Age, apparently.

This is good to know. I just wish I could get back the untold hours I've spent "processing" the vast amounts of junk mail I received each week, all in the attempt to remove plastic that turns out can be recycled.

Doh!

co-working trial

2008-05-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

Wednesday afternoon, I headed over to Souk in downtown Portland. Stories about co-working — independents like myself converging on office space to work in parallel — have been frequently in the media in the past several weeks, and I’d been curious about trying this out.

To accommodate a video being made for one of the Meredith publications, Souk was offering free hot desk space to anyone who wanted to come down and "work" while the video shoot was going on. It was the perfect opportunity.

Co-working is not foreign to me. For several years, I’ve been regularly packing up my computer and heading out to a coffee shop or to the library to work remotely, at least for a few hours, sometimes several days each week. Working alone in a home office can be very isolating — particularly when you also live alone — and sometimes I just crave being around other people.

Coffee People had a wonderful set-up, with plenty of table space, free WiFi, occasionally adequate access to electrical outlets, friendly staff, and no limit on how long “remote workers” could hang out and be productive. They even let you bring in outside food and beverages — as long as it didn’t come from Starbucks. There was a core group of us who would descend on the coffee shop at various times, and we built up our own casual little network. We’d help each other out if someone had a question or was experiencing technical difficulties. We referred each other to friends and colleagues for goods and services. It was great.

But then Starbucks bought Coffee People. It’s just not the same. The re-designed space isn’t at all conducive to productivity, the Coffee People baristas and managers have all moved on, and the WiFi connection requires a paid subscription.

I’ve been hunting out other spaces and found a few — Bella Espresso, Longbottom Coffee, and the Hillsboro Library — but they’re just not the same.

So when co-working venues started appearing in the news, I paid attention. Of course, excitement quickly turned to disappointment when I discovered that none of the co-working spots in the metro Portland area are located anywhere close to me. Souk — in downtown — is the nearest one, and requires an hour-long light rail commute, each way. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, even on an occasional basis.

But, a free hot desk for an hour or so made it worth my while to try it at least once.

When I arrived, the video crew was already setting up equipment and rearranging the main room. I settled in at one hot desk, resolved some problems connecting to the WiFi network, and started working. A few minutes later, I was asked to move to one of the hot desks in the center of the room, where they’d be shooting video. Apparently, I was just part of the "background" for those shots, as the action focused on three men sitting together at a table in front of me. In reality, these Portland professionals had never met before and spent their time introducing themselves and talking about their work, but in the video, they appear to be having an interesting and productive meeting.

A few minutes later, I was asked to move again, this time to one of the conference rooms. Souk offers several conference rooms as well as private offices to those who need them. For a while there, I appeared to be a conference of one, until a few other people were relocated into the room with me. A restaurant manager and I both had our Mac laptops and were doing actual work while also contributing to the pretend business meeting. One guy stood up at a white board and pointed to words like "national," "marketing," "energize," and "global."

I asked if there was any possibility of expanding the business galactically, which started the conversation on how to set up franchises on Jupiter and what the plan was for full solar system domination. It was a fun couple of minutes. Then they shut off the cameras, and we were free to leave.

Souk has a nice space. It’s clean and open, and I can imagine how this could really help people to connect to boost their productivity, while also encouraging more focus and motivation in a professional setting. Trust me, I often feel like anything but a professional when I’ve got cats pushing file folders off the desk onto the floor, the dog is barking and dashing in and out of my office, my neighbor is standing in his courtyard yelling at someone on the phone, and I’ve just barely gotten myself dressed before sitting down behind the computer.

Other than the location — ideal for some folks, but definitely not for me — there were only a few drawbacks I saw at Souk. One was that the windows in the open hot desk area are higher up toward the ceiling, so the only view you have is of the sky and the upper floors of surrounding buildings. Also, the desks — and everything on them — vibrated whenever someone walked across the floor. These are hardly deal-breakers but were jarring in the short term. Also, the WiFi network seemed sluggish.

I’m glad this idea of co-working is catching on. If a similar space became available closer to me, I’d be a charter member. In the meantime, you can still find me on occasion at a local coffee shop or the library.

keep on keeping on

2008-05-21T10:18:00.001-07:00

I’ve missed the past two days in the May blogathon. There’s been a kind of personal crisis that’s gotten in the way of quite a bit lately.

Which brings me to today’s blog topic: sometimes all you can do is just keep on keeping on.

Moving to Portland was a huge change from Richmond, Virginia — where I’d grown up and where I’d lived as an adult for more than a decade. In many ways, this relocation was very good, but this change also presented some unexpected challenges. There are some things I’ve been grappling with since I got here, not the least of which was the untimely death of my beloved Alaskan husky, Nanook — followed several months later by the trials of Lakshmi, an illness in one of my cats, and the severe diabetes, seizures and ultimate death of my dog, Journey.

It’s been a year since Journey’s passing — that anniversary was this past Sunday — and there are parts of my life that are still recovering from those very difficult months of prolonged trauma and grief. My life was impacted in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and it has been a struggle to come back from all of that, as well as from some other hits I’ve taken.

But that’s life.

In the past several months, things have really begun looking up, on several fronts. It was wonderful to feel my optimism at last being rewarded. Things weren’t perfect, of course, but good things were happening, and I was really enjoying myself. I felt like I was finally firing on all cylinders in the three most important areas of my life — my work, my love life, and my health.

And then a huge wrench got thrown into the works — something completely outside my control, and I’m still not sure what the outcome might be. In the meantime, there’s frustration, anxiety, and pain involved, along with a great amount of compassion. I feel very much in limbo. The temptation to ignore pretty much everything but this current crisis is rather strong, to sink all my energy into fixing this. But I don’t have that option. It’s not my problem to fix. It’s not easy to turn my attention to the rest of my life and just let this sit, but sometimes that’s all I can do.

I grew up in a home of high drama and didn’t learn at an early age that giving something room is not the same as ignoring it, and that backing off is not necessarily the same as abandonment. I had to learn on my own that some things take time, that some problems really do need to be tackled head-on with full force, but if I find that I’m beating my head against a wall, a better strategy is to take a step back and look for a doorway through. And that no measure of love or good intention gives anyone the power to solve other people’s problems.

So I’m keeping on keeping on, or trying to. I’m working on investing my efforts in areas where I can have positive and productive impact — in hopes also of gaining a more balanced perspective on what is not within the realm of my control. I simply have to trust that the rest will work itself out.

twitter

2008-05-18T23:16:00.001-07:00

About three weeks ago, I joined Twitter.

I’d been hearing about Twitter for several weeks, but had no idea what it was. Even when a friend and fellow writer tried to describe it to me, it still didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why would I want to post tiny little descriptions about where I was and what I was doing, and read similar offerings from other people? It sounded like a self-indulgent waste of time.

The reality of it has proved far different.

I don’t have a huge number of followers, nor am I following all that many people on Twitter. There’s not a whole lot one can say in 140 characters or fewer, so I choose my words and phrasing carefully, and I don’t post every little thing that comes to mind. Sometimes it is pure whimsy, but mostly it’s about some of the smaller details of life that I’d just like to be able to share.

Rather than being a source of distraction and procrastination — big reasons I don’t keep IM windows open when I’m trying to work — I’ve found Twitter instead to be a means of motivation. Many of the folks on my follower/following list are other writers, and I like reading about what they’re up to during the day. The mundane and sometimes even tedious daily tasks of the writing life make sense to me, and there’s a kind of solidarity in keeping abreast of other writers’ activities, and in posting updates of my own.

And when I do start feeling various diversions and interruptions pulling at me, knowing what my fellow writers are doing can even help me stay on task — not so much out of competition, but more in the spirit of right association. When those around me are being productive, it’s easy for me to be productive as well, and vice-versa. Hearing about other authors’ book signings, e-mails from editors, and book proposals in process can inspire me to dive into some of my own query and proposal work that I’ve been putting off. Even reading complaints about sources and PR people is a comfort when I’m dealing with the consistent frustrations and tedium that come with writing professionally.

I’ve also found Twitter a fun way to stay in touch with “real friends” as we all go about our days, and to learn from relative strangers who are skilled in areas of expertise that are completely foreign to me. I may not have the intimate and far-reaching international network that others have built, but I’m enjoying myself all the same.

I’ve not yet added my “Twitter feed” to the Ravenwald website, but I’ve been thinking about it. For now, you can find my Twitter page and profile here: http://twitter.com/jenwillis

I’ll keep twitting away.

blogathon

2008-05-18T01:15:00.001-07:00

Some of you may be wondering why I’ve suddenly been blogging so frequently. I’m part of a blogathon — sponsored by fellow writer (and fellow Portlander) Michelle Rafter. All participants are posting new blog entries every day for the entire month of May.

(Of course, I didn’t find out about it until 7 May, so I’m about a week behind everyone else.)

I’d initially started this blog with the idea of posting once each week. For the first week or so, that was a piece of cake. I was actually having to hold myself back from posting daily. That was in autumn 2004. After a short while, I found my entries were less frequent, and my blogging motivation was waning. I wasn’t sure what to write about, and what to keep to myself. Plus, I was convinced no one was reading this thing anyway.

More time went by, and I was sometimes lucky to post one new entry per month.

This year, I’d been getting better about returning to the once weekly blog schedule, but it was still way too easy to slip. That’s why I joined in on Michelle’s challenge. Post at least once a day. About anything. Even if all I’m throwing up here is the ingredients list from my dog’s breakfast. (Interesting to note that “dog’s breakfast” has also been used to euphemistically refer to the human brain.)

The logic is similar to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), in which I’ve participated annually since 2004. Write 2,000 words a day, every day, for the month of November. By the end of the month, you’ve got a first draft of a new novel. It’s hard work, but it’s wicked fun.

I figured that writing once a day, about anything, would be a good exercise — not only in revitalizing my blog (assuming I’ve not frightened anyone away with my strange range of subject matter of late), but in spurring on other creative juices, too. And I have to say it’s going rather well. I started out the process by typing up a tentative list of topics I thought I might cover during the month, yet I’ve scarcely had to refer to it. Enough comes up each day that I generally still have to pick and choose what to write about. No dearth of material here.

Save for this evening, perhaps. This is my Saturday post, which will actually be going online in the wee hours of Sunday morning. I’d not factored in a cook-out with my boyfriend’s pals, followed by back-to-back hockey games. My apologies.

I’m not sure that I’ll keep up this same pace after 1 June, but I won’t have any doubt that I’d be able to continue blogging daily, if I wanted to. This is also a good indication that I have plenty of material for regular podcasts, too — it’s just a matter of working podcast writing and production time into my schedule. Sometimes, once you’ve decided to just dive into the middle of a challenge, it’s not nearly as difficult as you’d anticipated.

hot puppy

2008-05-16T16:39:00.001-07:00

It’s wickedly hot here. For May, and for the Pacific Northwest.

Although it was snowing just a month ago, the mercury hit 87-degrees (F) yesterday, and has passed 97 today. I’ve finally broken down and turned on the AC — mostly for my poor husky puppy, who has been clinging to me, panting and whimpering most of the afternoon.

I had central air put into the house shortly after I moved in. Most homes here in Portland don’t have air-conditioning — for the most part, it’s unnecessary — though it does feel like it’s getting a bit warmer here a bit sooner each summer. As an eco-conscious gal, I dislike even having AC — much less using it — but it’s becoming more and more of a necessity, even though I use it sparingly. Turning it on before it’s even June really doesn’t make me feel good.

My last full year in Richmond, Virginia, it first hit the 90-degree mark in April. Our last over-90-degree day that year was in October, so we effectively had six months of summer. Both the heat and humidity were getting harder and harder for me to take, and each summer I spent increasingly long hours and days lying around on the bed — even with the AC running — because I simply couldn’t function. When I get hot, I run fevers and get sick to my stomach — thanks to some problems with heat exhaustion when I was a teenager.

One summer in Richmond — I think it was 1995 — we had an atrocious heat wave that lasted about three days. I was living in an old house without AC and not much in the way of window ventilation, either. I remember spending the entire weekend lying on the floor, with my cat and Alaskan husky stretched out nearby. Occasionally, I’d get up to change out the water bowls and ice cube trays I’d set in front of the box fans. I was exhausted and dehydrated, but I was still better off than being outside.

A move to the cooler weather of the Pacific Northwest greatly appealed to me, with its mild, dark days and frequent rainfall. Even the winters are easier here — though it first snowed in November, and then again last month…. Five months of winter?

Yesterday’s high temperatures took me by surprise, and not in a good way. But I had fair warning that we’d be even hotter today. I got as much work done before 10:30 a.m. as I could, then ran errands before my brain officially melted — but I was already sweating by 8 a.m., and we cracked 80 degrees soon after 9. I bought every popsicle mold Bed Bath & Beyond had in stock, and — as I type — I have orange juice, cran-grape, limeade and Dr. Pepper popsicles setting in the freezer.

The cats were first curled up in dark corners of the house, but in the afternoon have taken to stretching out across the floor. I’ve been unable to think all that straight and so was just lounging on the couch, having a rather unpleasant pseudo-dream about being alone in a mini-sub that was being attacked by a shark. Maybe something I could turn into a screenplay for the Sci-Fi Channel.

It’s getting later in the afternoon, but the heat is holding. I thought I could just hang out on the couch and try my best not to move until after sunset. But my dog was increasingly in distress. This poor Siberian-wolf has a thick fur coat she can’t take off. It’s nearly 90-degrees inside the house right now, and it could take a while for the cooling system to really have an impact, but at least it’s getting better for her.

That’s the hot and steamy report for this afternoon.

little patients

2008-05-15T10:21:00.001-07:00

This past Tuesday, I was at Legacy Emanuel Hospital for a media event put on by the Children’s Cancer Association, Nike, and the Portland Trailblazers. The unveiling of the Music Rx media cart was held in the Infant and Toddler’s playroom, and in addition to the planners, designers, basketball players and reporters, there were cancer patients present.

And they were all children.

One of the Nike designers, who is a friend of mine, said he had no doubt that these children were chosen for the morning’s presentation because they looked pretty good at this point in their treatment and were able to be cheerful and smile for the press. My friend had been in and out of the hospital for several months working on this project, and he admitted that the process had been tough.

“Even though you’re there to work on the project, you’re surrounded by these sick children,” my friend said. He watched healthy-looking children deteriorate rapidly from one week to the next. “These kids look okay today, but if you saw them again in a week, you wouldn’t recognize them. The treatment takes such an incredible toll.”

Some of the kids looked perfectly healthy. Then there was Faith, all of perhaps five or six years old and the spitting image of her father. She enjoyed playing with the toys and giving and receiving hugs. She had a huge smile on her face during the entire event. But her skin was a sickly grayish-tan color, and she weighed only a fraction of what she should — and she had a feeding tube taped to the side of her face and running up through one nostril.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. She was so obviously happy, and yet so obviously unwell. I had to physically turn away from her so I couldn’t watch her. I concentrated instead on what the fabricator was telling me about the materials design process, and fought back the tears I could feel welling up.

These children didn’t ask to be sick. It’s hard enough coming into a world that is increasingly complicated and frightening, particularly when you’re little and are totally dependent on the big people around you to take care of you, but to get smacked with a life-threatening illness right out of the gate is just plain cruel. Of course, the parents didn’t sign up for this, either. Who adopts or conceives a child with the fervent hope, “Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if my child develops cancer!”?

I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d talked to everyone I needed to talk to and just couldn’t do anymore glad-handing. I stepped out into the hallway, out of the crush of people — cancer-riddled children, healthy adults, and freakishly tall basketball players alike — and checked my voice mail. I sent out a few superfluous text messages. I sat down on the couch and busied myself with taking notes.

That’s when a young mother rolled over my way with her son. He was all of perhaps 18 or 24 months old — it’s difficult to tell a child’s age when s/he is sick — and he was riding in a big red wagon, complete with pillows, comfy blankets, an IV stand and other monitoring equipment. The scant hair on his head was scraggly and growing in patches. No doubt the rest had fallen out. He had scabs on his arms and chest from where tubes had formerly been inserted, and surgical tape holding down the current lines and tubes. He was fussing, crying, uncomfortable and in pain.

His mother sat down in the chair beside me and called her husband on her cell phone while one of the hospital volunteers brought her a piece of cake from the event still going on in the playroom.

Her son was in too much discomfort to even listen to his father’s voice on the phone. The young woman placed the piece of cake inside the wagon with her son and stood up to continue rolling him down the hall. Then this little boy did something that nearly made me burst into tears.

He reached for the plastic fork, carved a big chunk out of the piece of cake, and held it up to offer to his mother.

In the midst of his own dis-ease, this little child’s simple act of generosity and love toward his mother just floored me. Like Faith’s unwavering smile, the spirit of these children remains steady and undaunted.

the jewish thing

2008-05-14T10:20:00.000-07:00

“Why do you want to convert to Judaism?”

I get this question a lot, sometimes several times from the same people. I was asked this again last evening — while at the rock gym with a new climbing buddy (that in itself is likely a separate blog entry) — and I realized that I’ve probably not adequately answered such a query on this blog.

So here goes.

I was a student at a Montessori School from the ages of 2 to 9. While there, I was exposed to many different perspectives, cultures and religions. We celebrated anything and everything. It was fantastic. I learned the commonality of faith, rather than the separateness of traditions. Of course, I also had no idea that Christmas and Hanukkah were two different holidays, that a menorah and a Christmas tree don’t naturally go together.

It was when I transferred to St. Catherine’s Episcopal School for Girls as a fourth grader that I learned I wasn’t Jewish. It was rather disappointing.

Around that same time, I turned ten. As was the family tradition, my father’s father presented me with a leather-bound edition of the King James Bible — “Words of Christ in Red” — with my name embossed on the cover in gold. I still have that Bible. As a child, I used to read the Book of Genesis over and over again, and the story of Abraham was a particular favorite. I loved the idea of being called out into the wilderness, away from the safe haven of the city and previous belief, out into the unknown. Indeed much of my life has mirrored that very pathworking. But I’d get to the part about Joseph heading off into Egypt, and I’d lose interest and go back to the beginning again.

At that same age, I was asked to speak one morning in our Lower School chapel service — something each student had the opportunity to do at one time or another. I prepared a short talk on the Golden Rule — “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” — and emphasized that as the core of moral behavior and a common tie among all people. Not bad for a ten-year-old! At the time, I had no idea that was THE foundation — or the “on one foot” description — of Judaism.

There were other experiences I had along the way, such as going to a Friday evening, student-led Shabbat service when I was at Duke. I felt immediately welcomed by the other students, and it was so soothing and peaceful that I thought this was a great way to round out the week. I started studying Judaism on my own, but had no idea that conversion was possible.

The seeds for my conversion had been sown long before I actively began this process a year ago. But that still doesn’t answer the question of, “Why?”

I’m in a place in my life where I’m looking to put down roots, at long last. I am attracted to the strong community that Judaism offers, as well as the deep grounding in age-old tradition. But I’m probably most excited about the eternal questioning that Judaism not only encourages but practically requires — it’s not about accepting anything on blind faith, but instead is about really turning something over and over in your own mind, to find your own wisdom and to make the question itself a part of your personal experience and understanding.

This emphasis on study and experience appeals to my own questing self, the drive that has led me to pursue religious studies in a variety of academic and spiritual venues. A focus on action and social justice also obviously appeals to me. A deep tradition in mysticism speaks to the more esoteric side of me that yearns for illumination and communion. Add that to the fact that difference of opinion within Judaism is viewed more as an opportunity for learning and deeper development — rather than as a divisive threat to order and stability — and the attraction is pretty clear.

As I’ve stated earlier, my personal beliefs — which tend more to the Universal than the religious — are very much the same and are continuing along the same trajectory of growth and discovery. It’s simply that this is the first time in my life that I’m actively choosing a community and an affiliation. There have been rough patches — dealing with the misunderstandings and sometimes outright prejudice of family and friends — and times when I’ve wondered just what the hell I’m doing. I’ve worried about anti-semitism and don’t yet know my own position on zionism.

But I’m a year into this process now, and I’m still excited about it. So that’s my not-so-brief attempt at an answer this morning.

badges

2008-05-13T20:22:00.000-07:00

I was at a press event this morning. All of the official greeters had badges. The public relations people had badges. The designers and fabricators — of the new product being rolled out — had badges. Even the celebrity guests had badges.

You know who didn’t have badges? The members of the press.

Standing around at this event, watching the demonstration and then talking with folks afterwards, I kept thinking of that episode of “The Brady Bunch” where Peter decides to become a reporter, starts calling himself “Scoop” Brady, and sits behind his typewriter with a card reading “PRESS” stuck in the brim of his hat.

Sure, I wasn’t the only member of the press who wasn’t armed with visible credentials. Like I said, you could easily look around the room and identify who was with the media, because we were the only ones there without badges. But I started wondering about making up my own photo ID to be laminated and suspended on the end of a lanyard.

It could say whatever I wanted it to, within reason. I doubt I’d make up something that said, “Jennifer Willis, Pulitzer Prize Winner” or some similar fantasy. But a simple, “Jennifer Willis, Freelance Journalist” — along with a list of my professional memberships and featuring a recent photo — might at least help me feel more official, and might even open some doors for me. (Figurative doors, of course. Even if I put a fake magnetic stripe on the back of my self-created ID badge, I doubt it would get me through even the simplest security system.)

On a more serious note, I remember hearing from my fellow interfaith ministers who were on the scene in the immediate aftermath of the September 11 attacks on New York City. Those who had ID cards identifying them as ministers — even when they had created these cards themselves — were allowed unfettered access to Ground Zero in order to minister to the rescue workers and to the wounded and dying.

If another such tragedy or other momentous event were to arise…. It might not be a bad idea to look into freelance press credentials — to find out if any of the professional organizations I belong to offer such a thing, and/or to consider creating my own.

(And I got all the way to the bottom of this entry without once quoting, “We don’t need no stinking badges!”)