Radio Silence

A friend gave me this magical cone, from a Cedar of Lebanon, of all things. It was tightly closed when she gave it to me. But it began to open, slowly and gracefully, over a period of a few days. Incredible, how powerful the life force is! The other day it popped. Every one of those things on the right side of the pic are Cedar of Lebanon seeds. What should I do with them?

....................................................................................................

No one who knows anything about me would consider me a woman of few words. Really, no one. Usually I'm like the mighty Mississippi River of words, pontificating and explaining all the Very Fascinating Things I've been thinking about. It's the one thing about me that seems more extraverted than introverted, the way I come into understanding about things through writing and speaking.

Believe it or not, before I write or speak, I spend a lot of time thinking, pondering, wondering, following the meandering paths of imagination, hopping various trains of thought. As a very slow processor of - well - everything, it takes awhile before what's going on becomes word ripe.

One of my friends who, by the way is not yet sixty, called this significant birthday an "inward journey." Perfect words. I'm grateful I didn't have to come up with that language since the word processing center in my brain seems to be on hold at the moment. The meandering path that leads to age sixty is challenging. It feels a little bit like a trek around Annapurna, in my mind/heart at least. There is a swirling in my mind/heart, but the shapes are vague and the colors ever changing. This birthday is potent!

Some friends have expressed concern that the river of words here has inexplicably slowed. All is well. I'm no longer on the verge of buying a ticket to Paris and the idea of getting a dog has been filed in the "Not Right Now" section of my priorities. I wouldn't say I'm exactly balanced again, but I'm getting there, surfing these last few weeks of the year of the Black Water Dragon as best I can.

What I'm doing lately, instead of radiating words, is a lot of cooking. I bought Deb Perelman's excellent Smitten Kitchen cookbook. She's a blogger. The book is written and presented like a blog; of course I love it. She is an excellent photographer as well as cook and writer. The pictures are exquisite. Here's her blog.

Everything I've made from her book so far has been wonderful. Last night I made a gallette of carmalized sweet onions and butternut squash. Absolutely yum. What should I make tonight?

Cooking is the perfect metaphor for my state of mind/heart these days. I'm cooking up a storm. As within, so without.

Shalom.

To dream the impossible dream, and then - wake up

Roses, in January. It ain't right.

One of my friends (who is 61) told me it's a sign of my emotional maturity that I was able to wake up from my impossible dream of the glamorous and lonely 60th birthday in Paris. I admit I still want to go. It's crazy, but ... oh well.

Today I woke up from another impossible dream. I ran into a neighbor of about my age, out walking her dog. She went on and on about how much she loves her dog and oh my that dog was so sweet. He did that thing of leaning into my leg while I scratched behind his ears. It is such a sweet feeling when dogs do that. When I tried to stop, the dog (whose name is Sandy), howled briefly, leaned harder into my leg. Could I resist that? No, I could not.

Initially I decided it was A Sign that I should get a dog, that a dog - yes - a DOG would in some way distract me from the immanent arrival of my 60th birthday. I parted company with the neighbor and her dog after a prolonged chat, thinking I should start looking for a dog ASAP. Two blocks further into my walk, I ran into another neighbor who preceded to tell me the Very Long Version of her latest vet story, how they wanted to do some special kind of suture on a wound her dog had sustained in the midst of a dog fight at Lincoln Park. She laid out the details of how much it cost her in the aftermath, mentioning almost in passing the trauma of having to break up a horrendous dog fight.

Of course after that I remembered why I actually do not want another pet. Good lord.

I'm so vulnerable right now. I know Brene Brown thinks it's the best thing in the world, but it doesn't work so well for me. When I'm all open hearted and easily wounded as I am at the moment, I can almost talk myself into the craziest courses of action. Almost is the key word.

When I wake up from these impossible dreams, the sense of relief I feel is rather thrilling. Right now is an inauspicious time to decide to do anything dramatic. And yet, I yearn to do just that. I really do.

It's a crazy time, but I'm making my way through it, almost doing crazy shit, almost.

Shalom, y'all, from strange, unnerving and pleasant, summery Washington DC.


Looks like it's wearing a bow tie.

Do the math, Reya

Farragut Square

I had a great internist, but then she retired. I don't blame her.

I've been a little slow to pursue a relationship with a new one even though I believe whole heartedly that if you have already established a rapport with a healer, things go far more smoothly when you actually need them for something.

That truth, and the fact that I'm about to turn 60, spurred me to join a very cool practice and schedule a physical. It won't kill me to bleed into tube, have my blood pressure taken and such, right? In fact I'm curious to see how it goes. In this practice they are committed to spending time with the patients. The fact that this is revolutionary is very sad.

In the past, follow up meetings after exams have gone like this.

Doctor: Your blah-blah is (insert number), but I'd like it to be (insert second number).  

Me: ... Oh. 

Doctor: However, your blah-blah-blah is (insert number). That's a very good number. Etc. More numbers. 

Me: Huh?

When the Sufi acupuncturist talks to me, I understand everything he says, but the western model for medicine, while great in emergencies, is completely bewildering to the likes of me. In emergencies, I don't care that I don't understand, such as when I developed pneumonia a few years ago. I was so happy to swallow the antibiotics. However for the mundane exigencies of regular life, it makes no sense whatsoever - to me.

However I'm going to submit to the exam and when I go back for the numbers, I will smile politely and nod my head, as if any number really means anything in and of itself. Does it? I guess so! The number 60, for instance, has got me scared to death.

It's kind of hilarious, really. I'm beginning to see, from speaking with my many Very Wise friends that this is a tight spot, an inward journey - it is. In a few weeks I'll wonder what the big deal was.

The other thing I'll be feeling in a few weeks is relief that I didn't press the "buy ticket" button on the Air France website. Whew. I'm going to buy a new computer instead, on which I'll actually be able to see my photographs. Thank you Jesus for my ability to wake up from that glamorous, lonely and very expensive dream.

Onwards and upwards. Shalom.


Discarded Christmas tree, shiny car.

This and that, briefly

In my dream last night I was in a barn yard. There were many kinds of animals milling around, but what I remember looking at were the donkeys. As I prepared to leave the farm, a beautiful turkey approached. The bird was somehow able to hold up one of its feet, as a dog would, to shake hands. Its foot was soft, covered with fine white feathers. What a funny dream.

I wonder if it was inspired by one of Julia Child's cookbooks (which I've been reading and enjoying) or referred to the citizens of Washington DC: donkeys and turkeys. Probably both, yes?

Life in the "real" world is almost as surreal as the dream world. We are experiencing another non-winter in DC. Today and for the rest of this week, through the weekend we will see clear skies and temperatures around 60 F. If this was April, I would be so happy. Except it's January. 

But I'm not complaining. Really, I'm not. Do you believe me?

Shalom.

Past, Present, Future, Pt. II

This morning, the Voice in the Shower told me, Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. None too original, I know, but it made sense, as it was in response to what I was thinking about while washing my hair.

One of my great teachers posted this on Facebook:



I agree that time is absolutely not linear, but remarked that it isn't this pretty. But she says it is, from a distance. Actually she was careful to say time, from a distance, is beautiful, not so much pretty. Hence the Voice in the Shower's remark is interesting. How can she behold time from a distance? Here's what she said:

"At the end of Chaucer's Troilus, after five volumes of much happiness and much dreadful grief, the dead Troilus ascends to the 7th sphere (I think it's the 7th) and looks back on the earth and laughs. That's where I'm at."

She's a professor of medieval literature, so she gets away with saying shit like this. Still, I wondered, How Does She Know? Because she is currently embodied, living within time. I guess so was Chaucer. 

I can't imagine time as beautiful right now, probably won't be able to for at least a few weeks. I'm closing in fast on age 60 and in a bit of a tizzy about it. I realize, as the Spokesperson for the Fabulousness of Aging, I'm not supposed to be freaking out.

My current strategy is to go with the flow of this tizzy. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. A friend of mine who turned 61 last fall says it was a tight spot, passing through to age 60, but afterwards, things settled down and she hardly thinks about it now. She said she is enjoying life, and hopes to linger a bit longer.

I'm going to try to hang on to that piece of wisdom because I, too, hope to linger a bit longer in this beautiful, crazy, troubling, intoxicating, endlessly fascinating thing we call life. Oh yeah.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Indeed!

Back to Square One

I have a notebook in which I write by hand, in pencil, everything I believe is best not said aloud, ever, not to anyone. When the notebook is full, I shred and recycle it. You wouldn't believe the things I hear in the treatment room. I also pencil thoughts I consider to be potentially embarrassing. For instance, just the other day I wrote, 'I don't want to grow old alone.'

Right after that I decided the best way to turn sixty (which is, in my mind at least, the beginning of early old age) would be to pay what is a fortune for me so as to come of early old age in the presence of a bunch of hauty Parisians. If that isn't the absolute essence of growing old alone, I can not imagine what is.

I want to make sixty very special but I keep thinking of honoring this important birthday in terms of what is customary in our society. First I thought I would have a party, until a friend quickly disavowed me of the urge by reminding me how much I hate parties. I really do.

My next least favorite activity is traveling. Hence, though romantic and cinematic as an idea could ever be, this plan to go to Paris for a few days was ill conceived.

I knew the second I woke up this morning that Paris for my birthday sounded right, looked great and glamorous on paper and received a tremendous groundswell of support among my friends. Except it would be all wrong for me, the person I actually am.

Paris is off the table until after my sister retires later this spring (she is very interested in going). I sent my passport in for renewal anyway. It's a good idea to be ready to flee the country at a moment's notice, but it won't be Paris for my birthday. Unless I change my mind again.

I know I am very odd. At least I'm funny.

Shalom.

All signs point to allez

Above the clouds on the way back from Kansas City a couple of weeks ago.

Happy new year. Welcome 2013.

Believe it or not, and I don't quite believe it, I'm thinking seriously about going to Paris for my 60th. It's ridiculously extravagant. I live low on the food chain; it is rather insane to even consider this idea, but I am, I really am.

The idea is as compelling as it is irrational. I would rent a tiny apartment (they all are) with a kitchen so I could indulge in the spiritual experience of buying and cooking French food. Grocery shopping is one of my favorite things, but in Paris it is a transcendent experience. The last time I was there, in the early 2000s, my aunt sent me out to buy a few things at an épicerie around the corner from her apartment. It was one of the best parts of my visit.

I know, I am so weird.

I have no interest in rushing all over the city to tourist destinations. What I want to do is ... no drum roll needed ... walk around and take pictures. I want to sit in cafes and listen to people speaking French, I want to connect with that ancient, earthy culture. I'd like to eat some shrimp with their heads still intact, drink wine, oh and drink coffee. Coffee is another transcendent Parisian experience.

If possible, I mean, if I can find it, I would like to visit my aunt's grave, after which I would pack my things and get back on the airplane, home to DC. Is it crazy? Is this urge of mine an early-old-age crisis similar to a mid-life crisis? You tell me.

I did find a RT airfare that is no more money than it would cost to visit my sister in Oregon. So far I have not had the nerve to click the "buy ticket" button on the Air France website. But I did find my passport.

There are so many other things I could be thinking about.

Turning sixty is huge, good lord. Comments on my last post from others my age confirm that this birthday is a serious rite of passage, not just for me. I have a very short bucket list of places I would like to visit before I die. I hate traveling, as a rule. But I would really like to see Paris again.

So what am I waiting for? Age 70? 80? It feels like now or never, but I am the dramatic type, hence I am going to think this through just a little longer before making the commitment.

I have to decide tomorrow, because I need to renew my passport and if I'm going I need to study, find a place to stay, figure out how to get from the airport and such. Every time I think about this possible trip, I smile widely, inadvertently. When I imagine being there, a nice chill runs up and down my spine. The body never lies. I really want to go. But ...

Oui ou non? I'm going to sleep on it. Morning is always more clever than evening.

Shalom.