Sounds of Silence

One of the things that I've noticed since I retired, is how much more quiet time I have.  After having 3 younger siblings growing up, living with a pianist who played most of his waking hours at home, and then raising kids and teaching young children for the last several decades, the noise of daily life had become completely normal.

I treasure silence. When I am home alone, as I am on most days, I don't very often listen to music or play the radio or tv.  I used to.  It seemed like I needed to have music playing ---- particular kinds for different activities ----- or I'd have NPR on throughout the day.  Nowdays, more and more, I only hear the grandfather clock ticking, the dogs snoring or tussling, the keets pecking around in their cage, the fridge turning off and on.  I like how the silence fills my ears and quiets my mind.

It makes me wonder how much of the busy-ness and bustle of daily life is fed by aural and visual stimulation.  I try to imagine life in centuries past, when I would never have known or cared about distant world happenings, or most likely even the political and social ups and downs of my own nation and state.  News did not travel fast and I don't imagine it felt very immediate.  Music was made by people present in the room ---- you made your own or you listened to another person who was right there with you.  The opinions and ideas that mattered most were those of people you were in actual contact with, rather than disembodied voices over the airwaves.  I like Jon Stewart, but I don't know him, and I never will.  Isn't that odd?

I've been thinking about the place of the written word as opposed to spoken word.  It used to be that writing was the only other form of communication besides speaking.  If I had stories to tell or ideas to launch, I either had to stand in the room with the recipients or somehow get printed words into their hands.  I don't think that broadcast or broadband are just extensions ---- I think they introduce entirely new pathways of processing information.  In some regards, it's almost inescapable.  Advertising is nearly impossible to avoid, whether you're driving in your car, riding on the bus, watching tv or hanging out on facebook.  Both the saturation of written language and the babble of constant noises and sounds contribute to the general level of arousal in people, that may not have been present even in urban environments 100 or 150 years ago.

So my quiet house is my oasis.  What I'm discovering is that in the silence, I can hear myself think.  I feel my body slow down, my breathing deepen, my shoulders and neck muscles loosen.  I don't need distraction and, in fact, don't want it.  There are times when I choose to listen to music or decide to listen to a certain program, turn on a particular show. Then it's deliberate. It's not the same as having it on all the time in the background, taking up bandwidth in my brain.

The silence gives me the chance to cultivate peace.  Serenity. Creative ideas.  I thought, for awhile, they were lost to me forever, but I'm discovering they were there all the time.  I just couldn't hear for all the noise.

Reclaiming my inner girly-girl

Even in my heyday, I don't think you could have called me high maintenance.  I've been around that kind of girl --- hair, make-up, nails, jewelry, designer clothes.  Maybe it's the ol' drunk in me, but I could never hold it together long enough to pull that off.  When I was inspired, I would go through streaks of remembering to put in earrings, wearing little dresses and most of all, heels.


I had the model.  My mother taught kindergarten in full skirted dresses and high heels, just like on tv.  And stockings, not pantyhose.  They hadn't been invented yet.  I never saw her without lipstick, even at home, and she always had long, red fingernails.  I loved to watch her get dressed, tugging at the girdle, carefully pulling on the stockings, and clipping them with those little rubber and metal clips.  She only wore powder and lipstick on her face, and a little dab of perfume behind each ear and at her throat and wrists.  I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. 


My big, special present when I turned 13 was lipstick, nail polish and a compact.  It was bat mitzvah in a cosmetic bag.  I could finally be a woman, too.  There was a stretch of about ten years after that when I tried to emulate my mother and Jackie Kennedy.  I could never be consistent about it, and after getting married five months short of my 19th birthday, it didn't seem as necessary.  After all, wasn't the goal of all that girly stuff to secure a husband?  Anyway, it was the sixties and if your skirt was short enough, that's all you needed.


From time to time, especially when I was between relationships, I'd haul out the make-up and the  curling iron.  Lots of times it was fun, like playing dressups in my mommy's shoes.  When I got my first salaried job in my twenties, I went to a department store cosmetics counter and had my face done and bought a ton of stuff.  Some of it is still probably kicking around under the bathroom cabinet.


Living in San Francisco was my first introduction to urban womanhood.  My expenses were low enough and my salary sufficient to cover some decadent living --- at least it seemed decadent to me.  I bought shoes that weren't "buy one, 2nd pair half price" and had my hair cut at a Gore Vidal salon.  I bought more department store cosmetics and started seeing a trendy chiropractor on a regular basis.  I was quite the lady, I thought.


I couldn't keep it up forever, it's just not my nature, I guess.  Over the years, I would dash to the store to find a new outfit for special events, usually unhappy with my overall presentation and not sure what to do about it.  Money was an inhibitor, I thought.  Age became a factor.  I have a horror of appearing as mutton dressed like lamb.


When I finally came out of the closet and looked around at the lesbians my age, I was so relieved  to feel like I could unabashedly be myself.  Or could I?  Looking for clues to a new cultural identity, I made some quick (and inaccurate) decisions.  Out went the long skirts and peasant blouses.  Off went the hair ---- that was a relief!  The holes in my ears grew together from neglect and my earrings were relegated to the bathroom drawer.  Jeans, t-shirts, boots or sandals.  What else would a middle aged lesbian need, I ask you?  I could even wear my spare tire without shame.


And now?  Who knows.  My closet is stuffed with beloved things that don't fit and clothes for every eventuality.  I still live in t-shirts and jeans or shorts and flip-flops, but I'm eyeing some of these summer shift-like dresses in bright colors.  I can't say I don't care at all, but I'm far more able to check with my mood, my sense of fun, the projects for the day, and go from there.


The nail polish bottles are lined up because I love to paint my toenails. The toe rings, ankle bracelets, necklaces and earrings are showing up again, and delighting me with their sparkle and color.  I can wear swishy skirts and even some heels, and it both reflects and creates a mood for me.  Since I'd rather not spend money on haircuts, my hair is longer than it's been in years, almost touching my shoulders. And sometimes, once in awhile, I even put on the lipstick.


Jill just laughs and takes me as I come.  I think it's really true, what she says.  She loves me from the inside out.  I kinda do too.

I am a New Woman

 Yesterday, I finally approved the printed copy of my novel, The New Women.  It took three proofs and lots of changes and corrections, but I think it's more or less done.  IT'S NOT PERFECT. I've been over it and over it, but I know in my heart there are mistakes. I'm trying to let that go.  

I thought approving the proof would be the last step in making it available for purchase, but I was woefully, dreadfully wrong.  I have yet to 'personalize my estore' or figure out how to put up images.  Do you have any idea how long that will take me to figure out?  Let's just say that it's a good thing I'm retired.
 
Growing into something or somebody new has its aches and pains. Every step I'm taking on the road to publication has a steep learning curve and hidden headaches.  I somehow got the idea when I was growing up, that I was already supposed to know things before I learned them.  The learning process was just to smooth it out and make it perfect.  Perfection was required.

I have since been able to convince myself of the futility of that position, though sometimes it still catches me unawares.  The corollary of that is, if you can't get it perfect, it wasn't meant to be, like algebra or drawing faces.  You didn't need to do that anyway.

It's an odd conundrum, and I know where it came from (Thanks, Dad) but still I let it hold power over me.  So let me start fresh.

Computers are like cars or blenders.  You turn them on and hit the right buttons and they do what you want them to do.  If, for some odd reason, they don't behave as expected (yes, I'm very big on anthropomorphizing machinery) you take them to the Expert.  The Fixer Person performs some sort of esoteric hidden spell and you're back in business.  Or else, with a doleful countenance, the Expert pronounces it unable-to-be-revived, and it is up to you to dispose of the remains.  That's a whole 'nother can of worms.

I want to be able to do what needs to be done without having to spend hours at a stretch staring at the screen, retracing my steps, and consulting help screens that are as incomprehensible as the task itself. In other words, I want some MAGIC!

In my perfect world, all I would have to do is think it and SNIP! SNAP! there it is on the screen.  If it doesn't look the way I thought it would, another wave of the wand and it changes.  Unfortunately, (to my way of thinking) the Universe doesn't work that way.  I get to learn sooooooo many more lessons than computer basics.  Patience. Perseverance. Tolerance of Frustration. Owning my own feelings. 

Last night, after working her second of four weekly 10 hour shifts, Jill unsuspectingly walked into a hornet's nest.  For all of the wisdom I could dispense by text messages to her at work, when it came to my own self, the Harridan took over. Distracted. Resentful. Petulant. Impatient.  All she wanted was supper --- not an unreasonable expectation at 6:30 PM.  I've spent the entire day on the couch with a computer in my lap, after sleeping in till 10.  How can she expect so much?

And so the Old Woman took over the New Woman and I had amends to make.  Friends assure me that I'm just human.  I expect that is true.  If I didn't have my ups and downs and pains and being a pain in the ass sometimes, I would never be able to create human characters in my books.  And that is what I like to do best.

So there you go. New, Old, Petticoats or Purple Socks ----
Let's hear it for being Human!
 

Realio Trulio Lesbians

I know it may be hard to believe, but this blog is written by and about real, born-girl lesbians.  I do all the writing and poor Jill, as is the fate of every writer's spouse, is the collateral damage.  Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly and writers gotta write about what and who they know.

Since party politics and popular culture are things that I am irresistibly drawn to and simultaneously detest, it is only natural that blogging would follow.  How would a person, a writer, have the temerity to put words in print without the thought that somewhere, somehow, someone would want to read them?  The ego of it all!

This is my creative outlet, the one most suited to my nature.  I haven't developed the eye of a visual artist, nor the ear of a musician.  I certainly do not have the physical proclivity for movement and dance.  But words ---- they flow as naturally and easily as water in a stream.  My greatest fear, given that both of my parents have had Alzheimers, is that the words will slowly disappear.  Who will I be then?

Sitting on my couch spot, computer in my lap, coffee or iced tea gently nudging my nervous system, dog's nose against my leg ---- this is how I spend my days for now.  I make myself get up from time to time, just to make sure my heart is still beating and my legs don't buckle under me.  I know it's terrible for my health and well-being.  I'm probably shortening my life --- I can practically hear the minutes ticking away and falling off the other end and crashing into the urn.  But now, right now, this is it.

From time to time, my web-surfing and political rambling bring me to the point of action, and I'll load Buddy into the car and turn out for a rally.  I posses the requisite beliefs, though maybe not the inclination, to lift my voice in chants or songs and demand change for the public good.  In between, I post and repost pertinent articles and videos, mainly preaching to the choir, and write pithy letters to the editor or to elected officials.  I can accomplish that level of activism with my feet elevated and the ceiling fan running.

What I am finding out, at this stage of the retirement journey, is that I am susceptible to information overload.  Since I'm demonstrably addictive (30 years in recovery, for starters) I am in danger of crossing that 'invisible line' of web-content consumption.  How different is it from other substances, when I imperil my physical health, put off creative writing, ignore Buddy's pleas for outdoor play and throw together dinner at the last minute?  The negative consequences haven't overwhelmend me, and I hope they won't.  I actually do attempt to strike some kind of balance in my days.  But the lure is there, the hypnotic effect of the screen.  Just one more link.  Just one more game.  This is absolutely the last video of baby fainting goats on you-tube.

Hm.  I started this post because I just read about the second man posing as a lesbian blogger to be uncovered and exposed this week.  On the one hand, who DOESN'T want to be a lesbian?--- Really!  On the other hand, did I need to know that piece of information?  Do I really need to know 95% of the factoids and opinions that I suck into my brain every day?

I think I'll get some iced tea and give that some thought.

The Wheel of Life

When I was growing up in the 1950s in Iowa, I had grandparents and great-grandparents and I had Aunty Ann.  She was a force of nature and the imprint she left on me was enormous.  It wasn't because I spent so much time with her, though she was living in the household I was born into.  My parents lived with my father's folks, including Aunty Ann, who ran the household and took care of her invalid sister, my grandmother, and her dying husband.  It was August in Iowa, which meant relentless heat and no air conditioning.  My mother was a diminutive, hearing-impaired, 19 year old shotgun bride when they moved in with his parents. She also had ruined his life, or so the story goes.

I watch enough old movies and read enough books to have an idea of what it was like for her during the six months before my birth.  I wasn't in her shoes, exactly, but I was sharing stress hormones with her.  I know it was less than an ideal start to the marriage.

Aunty Ann was my great-aunt.  She was born in Germany in the last decade of the Nineteenth Century. When people use the phrase "old school" they aren't talking about Aunty Ann.  She predates old school.  


Remember the book entitled "Everything I need to know I Learned in Kindergarten"?  Well, with Aunty Ann, I learned all the basics, good and bad, that I carry with me to this day.  Untangling some of that mess has paid the rent for several therapists.  I cannot relate them all, and wouldn't want to go into some of the old world beliefs and prejudices that peppered her world view.  However, here are some of the basics:


1. Don't wear shoes unless you have to. You'll wear them out.
2. Hang the sheets on the outside lines and the underwear on the inside, so the neighbors can't see them.
3. Rinse your hair in rainwater from the barrel outside.
4. Pay attention and keep your fingers out of the wringer.
5. Fold the buttons inside before they go through the wringer, or you'll be the one sewing buttons on later.
6. Whining won't make it cooler.  Lie still in front of the fan.
7. Wash your hands, face and feet before you go to bed.
8.  Don't wear underwear with your nightgown.  You have to let it breathe.
9. Noxema will cure just about anything.
10. Never complain about your food or throw any food away.  Be grateful you even have food.
11. Ants on the potato chips is no reason to throw them away.  Put them in the oven and all the ants will die and fall to the bottom.
12. There are no monsters in the closet, the basement or the bathroom, and you don't need to waste electricity turning on all the lights.
13. You look good enough without looking in the mirror.
14. No dessert until you clean up your plate; no bedtime treat till after prayers.
15. Just ignore it.  It will go away.


In addition, she taught me how to snap beans, shell peas, tell when veggies are ripe in the garden, can fruits and vegetables, water indoor plants, sweep and mop correctly, scrub a bathtub, wash the porch and . . . embroider with a hoop.  She took me downtown on the bus to go shopping and she took me to Colorado on the bus to visit relatives. She did a lot more talking than listening, but she liked to hear me sing.


When I was 29 and she had been dead a couple of years, I had a "near death experience" during a routine medical procedure.  I know this is something that many people pooh-pooh, and if it hadn't happened to me, I probably would too.  But I know what I experienced, call it what you will.  It was Aunty Ann who came to tell me I had to go back, that it wasn't time yet, I still had work to do and a child to finish raising.  I was sorely disappointed ----- I was in the middle of the most indescribably loving space imaginable ----- and afterwards, I was pretty pissed.  For the next several months, Aunty Ann was hanging around nearby.  I'm not saying I saw apparitions; I was just acutely aware of the essence of who she was to me, influencing my thoughts and behavior. As I became grounded and productive once more, she faded.


It was also Aunty Ann who came to get Dad when he made his transition.  He had Alzheimers Disease and was in the very final stage, down to the last day.  The family had gathered and we were staying with him in shifts.  The others had gone for food and Ralph and I were with him, each holding a hand and talking to him and each other, though he was unconscious.  I joked that "Where is Aunty Ann when you need her?" and we both talked about her and called for her to come, until we noticed, within minutes, that his labored breathing had stopped.  Aunty Ann had responded.

This was a week of comings and goings.  Several people I care about were touched with death this week.  Two new babies were born, as well. There is a continuity and an unpredictability about life that has made me think about what is important and what is not.  Our bird's nest was twice raided by Buddy, twice he killed a half-grown baby.  Buddy was doing what dogs do.  The wrens were doing what wrens do.  Life and death and birth and growth are inextricably linked and then shaped by how I hold them. Not bad.  Not good. Simply part of the interdependent web that is shared by us all.

The Soul of a Cockroach

I did not grow up on a farm, but I did grow up in the farm country of Iowa.  Most of my friends and some of my relatives lived on farms.  My mother spent her formative years in the country with cows and chickens and chores.  Farm mentality, when it comes to animals, is quite different from suburban pet mentality.  The very thought of treating a dog or cat with chemotherapy would be unimaginable.

We did not have pets when I grew up, unless you want to count the series of dimestore turtles the year I was seven, or several goldfish my sister got in sixth grade.  They met a dramatic, untimely end at a science fair, but that's another story.

All of this is prologue to my train of thought today.  My unconscious, unquestioned attitude about animal life placed people at the top of the pyramid, housepets a distant second, farm animals next, and the rest of the animate world simply as window dressing.  Though I knew people who loved their dogs and cats, I never knew anyone who was truly committed to animal welfare until well into my middle years.  Come to think of it, it's probably when I started hanging out with lesbians.

One of my earliest arguments with Jill, back when we were getting to know each other, was over the rightful place of animals, and the theoretical question of whether animals have souls.  It's a silly thing to argue about, souls in anyone.  How can it be settled, after all?

Over the years I've come to accept her at her word, that she actually likes animals better than people.  We've negotiated some tough decisions and undoubtedly will face more as our menagerie continues to age.  I have come to respect that she follows words with action: she used to carry a shovel in her truck to move or bury dead animals killed by cars.  We send money every month to an animal welfare charity. And the only times I've seen her really angry with our dogs is when they kill and bring home trophies in the form of birds, mice or even rats.

I will probably never have anywhere near the devotion to animal life that she has, but she has taught me by example to be a much better companion-animal mom than I was.  And I may continue to choke on the extraordinary amount of birdseed that every bird in North Raleigh finds at Chez Jill, but I am grateful for the quiet moments we spend watching and listening to wild birds every day.

As for souls, I'm not even convinced that people have souls, let alone dogs, cats, horses, robins, cheetahs, guinea pigs and snakes.  And mosquitoes?  Flies? Cockroaches?  Don't get me started.