This is not Law and Order

Death came to the neighborhood today.  It's startling.  I know, of course, that domestic violence can break out in any neighborhood.  After all, look how much press goes into the high profile murders between rich husbands and wives.  But here, on our quiet little street full of hard-working people --- a street of families and folks of many backgrounds --- it feels garish, out of place, hard to comprehend.  It's a friendly neighborhood, but not up-in-everybody's-business friendly.  More like wave and shout hello friendly. Meet in the street to talk about the tornado or the big snowstorm friendly.There are a few more individual connections than that, but no block parties, no trading babysitting and dogsitting, no gossiping about the neighbors.  So who knew?  Who knew there was trouble in the tidy white house down the street?  After all, the yard was cut, the dogs were cared for.

I've had several conversations lately with people who wistfully remember the "old days" when they were young.  It seems that can range from the 1930s to the 1990s.  Back then, kids were safe in the neighborhood.  People looked out for each other.  You knew about your neighbors and everybody helped each other.  Back then, people took cakes to the new family that moved in and casseroles when somebody died. The kids played outside, the old people sat on the porch, the dogs didn't bark and it only rained on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  No wait.  That's Camelot.

The problem is, when we were growing up, whatever the decade, it WAS different.  Not only that, we were kids.  We didn't know that Mr. Jones had a drinking problem and Sally across the street was inviting the delivery boy in during the day.  We didn't have to worry about paying the mortgage and the light bill, or whether the city would tell us take down that tool shed, or getting the neighbor's teenager to quit playing loud music.  Those weren't our concerns.  If somebody was acting weird by the swingset, we could tell our parents and they would take care of it.  We got to keep playing.

Things always change and they always stay the same.  There are people who have terrible anger problems.  Mix that with alcohol and drugs, and it doesn't matter where you live or how much money you earn, it's a disaster in the making. It was like that in 1492 and it's like that today.

What truly befuddles me though, is why we have so many, many firearms on the loose. I don't know what happened in the house three doors down.  But I do know that it involved a couple and a gun.  It is one thing to get angry, really angry, vein-popping, yelling and screaming, pushing and shoving mad, and it's another thing to shoot someone with a gun.  If there had been no gun, would she be alive now?  It seems like, too often, the easy availability of firearms is what makes the difference between a really bad, horrific fight, and a murder.

Many people's lives changed this morning.  And yours came to an end, dear neighbor.  Rest in peace.

Teensy Weensy Baby Steps

OK.  If I'm not going to carry the scepter and wear the mantle of Queendom, and I most assuredly am not, what shall I do instead?

This morning I decided to take inventory. That has a nice, organized ring to it. Sounds like someone who's ready to take charge, make changes, forge ahead --- all that good stuff.  Because nothing happens in my world without  a great many words attached, I took out my journal and wrote several analytic pages before actually making the inventory chart.  Simple, though.  Three columns: Positive things now, Negative things now, What's next. Fill out one column at a time, left to right.

I was surprised at how many positives there were.  They flowed easily from the tip of my pen. The negatives in the next column flowed just as fast.  Oh well.  I wound up with 17 in each column, quite by accident.  At a glance, that would appear to mean that overall, it balances out.  But that's not true.

The final column, Solutions, or What to do Next, took a little more thought, but was not too difficult.  It came in at 12 items, with rather a long sublist under number 9.  I took off the cover sheet that I used to prevent me from jumping back and forth from one column to another, and just sat with the visual presentation.  Lots of words, as usual.

As I read it over I realized several things.  First of all, I was glad I used that format.  It's similar to the format for a 4th step inventory in AA, which gave me confidence in the process.  The next thing that struck me was that there is not a lot of big change to be done.  I'm not going to suddenly make huge changes in my life, and I don't need to.  That's reassuring.  What I need to do is simply bring things back into balance.  I'm spending too much time on some things and not enough on others, so my teeter-totter is all out of whack.

I also realized that I don't have to do everything on the list all at the same time.  If I do, it won't work.  That's unbalanced, too.  Baby steps, that's what it takes.  And what's more, I can organize it make it as entertaining as I want to.  So yes, there WILL be gold stars. And glitter. And probably some colorful, shiny fabric as well as trips to the dollar store.  This is MY project. To hell with intrinsic motivation.  I'm going for the extrinsic rewards!

One of my third column items was to spend more time outdoors. Doesn't matter doing what, just being outside. My baby step today was to take the book I'm editing and a pen and doing it at the table on the deck.  That's all.  But it led to eating both breakfast and lunch outside, and playing stomp and run with Buddy for a little bit, and chit-chatting with Jill as she puttered around in the yard.  It also meant I didn't even turn on my computer until 4 o'clock --- another one of those column three items: less facebook and game-playing on the computer.


Gold stars?  That's next.  I've got a whole box of stars, stickers, glitter, fancy paper, and award certificates upstairs in my teaching materials.  If it's good enough for seven-year-olds, it's sure as hell good enough for me!

Vacancy: Queen of the Universe

Due to the unexpected departure of the current monarch, this position will be filled with all due haste.  The successful candidate will be well-versed in management techniques, crowd control, supervisory experience, caretaking, and rescue operations, as well as mindreading, prophecy and fortunetelling.

This position requires extraordinary attention to the problems, complaints, whining, and ramblings of everyone in her presence.  She will be expected to listen avidly, assess and evaluate quickly, and react compassionately, while maintaining an unassailable attitude of understanding and acceptance.  Her advice and solutions should always be followed by her subjects, hence the necessity that she be held to the highest level of competence. There is no room for error; consequences of failure are severe.

While the requirements are stringent, the benefits are generous. The successful Queen is held in the highest esteem, at least until her plan is is undermined by wayward subjects. Presiding as Queen of the Universe allows the monarch to avoid the discomfort of recognizing any of her own problems or concerns, encourages the concealment of her own shortcomings and doubts from general knowledge, and provides ample diversion from attending to her determined goals and dreams. The most gratifying perquisite of this position is the unobstructed illusion of control over people and circumstances of all description.

Compensation is commensurate with the expectations and experience of the candidate. Busybodies and martyrs need not apply.


                                        I QUIT!

Too cool for school

It's arrived.  I believe that autumn is here, or at least in the neighborhood.  And not a moment too soon to suit me.

I went out for my 7AM walk this morning and it was barely even light.  The air was quite cool, delightfully cool.  The sun was barely skimming the horizon. My walking buddies were in good form.  I am certain that the exercise of walking is secondary to the spirit-lifting laughter and talk as we circle the empty soccer field.

Yoga came next, my first day in class with long pants instead of shorts. My classmates are all 20 or 30 years older than I.  We each bring our own strengths and limitations to the circle.  Creaky hips, sore shoulders, stiff fingers, and low energy are offset by strong thighs, firm stance, inside jokes and foreign tongues.  And laughter.  There is plenty of gentle teasing and shared recognition; if nothing else, we all can breathe.

At times, these days, I feel lost in a sea of other people's needs and pain.  It's a helpless feeling that leaves me wondering what I can do, how I can help, even when I know I'm consigned to the sidelines.  I can offer a hand, drive the car, listen and smile, but there's nothing, not one damn thing, that I can fix. My mother's  Alzheimers will claim its own and the inexorable progression can only be observed. As for the other, my own sweet Jill, I can offer tidbits to tempt her appetite, I can go to appointments and take the notes, keep the calendar, remember directions.  I can offer the backrub or the cold drink or a listening ear, but none of it touches the pain or the misery that is hers alone.

Maybe it's left over from being a Mommy.  Kiss the booboo, hug him tight, calm the fears, dry her tears.  I know how to be the mom and take care of day-to-day problems of childhood.  Perhaps it inflated my ego, made me think I'm more powerful than I am.  Now, when my power is limited to band-aids on gaping wounds, I feel ineffective.

Uncertainty is unsettling.  The cool winds of autumn lift the leaves and part the clouds.  It won't be long till the days are short and the nights are cold, till snow swirls in the lamplight and icy roadways counsel the cars to stay home. Will the wind howl in the chimney?  Will the wolf howl at the door?

This field is fallow for the moment

I didn't think this would happen, but I think I'm suffering from writer's block.  How very trite of me!

Usually, I can put my fingers on a keyboard and out it comes.  I don't know where it comes from, but the flow is there and I'm the conduit.  Lately, it's like pulling hen's teeth.  I'm trying to finish my NaNo book from last November, and it's already at about 65,000 words, but I've come to a dead standstill.  As a matter of fact, I threw out the last chapter I wrote, with nothing to replace it.  That's a little like quitting a job before you have another one.

I've always been fascinated by the "creative process" --- an overused phrase if ever there was one.  I eagerly listen to interviews with authors and read writers' blogs or articles to see how they do it.  Not surprisingly, they all have their own ways, just as I do.  They talk about how it varies, about often having to simply get started, even when the muse seems to have gone AWOL.  They also talk about being in the flow, feeling the creative high, watching it happen as if someone else were doing it.  All of those things happen to me as well.  The thing is, when I'm in a block ---- or perhaps I should say a fallow period ----- I am fearful that it's all dried up and will never come again.  I'm struck dumb.

Now I know that's not true.  It never has been yet, and actually, I have a very exciting idea on the back burner, bubbling away and trying not to scorch before I can get to it.  It's my own sense of order that says I need to finish what I'm working on first.  Step one.  Step two.  Step three.  Don't put the cart before the horse.

So instead, what do I do?  Hang out clothes, sweep floors, browse recipes, waste time on facebook.  I text my daughter and call a friend.  I zone out and take a stealth nap. None of that brings me any closer to finishing the task at hand.

One writer in an interview said he? she? sets a timer for an hour and sits at the computer, whether or not anything happens.  That sounds too much like being forced to sit at the table until ALL that dinner was eaten, especially the vegetables.  I can still feel the misery and hopelessness of that scenario!

Almost 40 years ago I had a car that had trouble starting on a regular basis.  This was one of a string of cars I owned that I bought for $150 or less.  In order to start this car, I had to remove the air filter and pour gasoline into the carburetor, then fire the engine.  It usually worked.  Once it caught fire and I poured baking soda into it to put out the fire, but that's another story.

This blog post is the gasoline.  I'm hoping it will get things moving without starting too big a fire.  I've got baking soda standing by.