Ever After

I grew up a child of Disney. Not today’s Disney, the manufacturer of tween celebrities, but the animated Disney of the past -- Cinderella, Snow White, Bambi. Though these tales always began with a tragedy (typically the death of the mother) they invariably ended in happily ever after. All Disney tales follow the same simplistic formula; tragedy, foe, rescue of protagonist by a prince, knight or other likely hero and finally happily ever after.

These animated fables led me to believe I’d have one life challenge and once the challenge was met never-ending happiness would ensue. But my life hasn’t followed Disney’s allegorical blueprint. Sparrows do not tie my bonnets nor do dwarves swoon over my every move. I have not (yet) suffered a major personal tragedy. Rather life has been a series of obstacles; periods of hard work and sacrifice followed by brief moments of bliss. The bliss, however, is short-lived because the next hurdle unfailingly comes into sight. I know, I know ... life is not a fairy tale. Nonetheless it remains difficult to accept that happily isn’t ever after.

I continue to wait; to naively hope that infinite happiness lurks around the next corner. After this hurdle is cleared, after that problem is solved, then I’ll be truly and irrevocably happy. I want this to be true. And yet I know joy can not exist without sorrow. These seemingly contrary emotions will always wax and wane just like the ebb and flow of tides. Yet I’m unwilling to give up my guileless hope.

It’s quite possible I’m a slow learner. After all I still get excited about the daily mail though it brings nothing but bills and junk. Another misguided throw back from my childhood. Today when the mail truck comes I’ll grab my keys and run to the mail box. I’ll sort through the bills and the adverts and once again stifle my disappointment that no treasures arrived.

The irony of my hope is it has always been misguided. Most fairy tales, in their original inception, did not end happily. Charles Perrault killed off Grandma and Little Red Riding Hood. These hapless characters were not rescued by a heroic huntsman. The moral of the story? Don’t talk to strangers and don’t dilly dally or you will be eaten -- literally.

I can’t help but wonder if the original versions of these stories would be better suited versions for our children. Had I grown up assuming my life might end in the stomach of a wolf then perhaps I’d be grateful to be alive instead of longing for the ever after. Then again I'd rather not live my life in constant fear (as if the nightly news doesn't already serve this purpose).

I suspect a moderate tale, such as Grimm’s alternate Riding Hood might provide a happy medium. In Grimm’s second version Little Red Cap met a wolf on the way to Grandma’s house. This time, however, Red Cap heeded her mother’s advice and did not talk to the beastly creature. Instead she hurried to Grandma’s, warned her about the danger and together they outsmarted the beast. The evening was saved and the girls partook of tea and cake. Ms. Red Cap, however, remained diligent and on her toes as she traveled home. She was not bothered again because of her careful ways. No knight in shining armor or huntsman necessary. In other words, her life and subsequently her happiness was in her own hands.

It is time I took responsibility for my own happiness. It's unlikely a prince will come and scrub my floors which today would make me happy (it is however possible I'll find a frog). Instead of waiting for my prince to come I’m going to put on some music and pick up this mess. Then I’ll sit down and write a letter to mail to someone special -- me. And tomorrow I'll wait with bated breath for the mail arrive. After all it might contain something good.

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Night Shift

I apologize in advance for the imagery. My mind is, on occasion, warped. This job, this life, will do that to you.

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I lie on the futon and stare at the ceiling with its fluorescent lights, acoustic tiles, and sprinkler head. The futon is definitely a step up from the abandoned gurney with mold creeping along the bottom of the pad; a gurney no longer fit for man and therefore donated to beast. We, however, did not differentiate between man and beast and returned the gurney to man, or woman as it were, as temporary sleeping quarters. Thankfully this used futon has taken its place.

Musty cologne wafts from the pillow case. I know who worked the night before and contemplate changing the sheets. Instead I close my eyes and picture dust mites, eight legs a piece, crawling in and out of the fabric like maggots burrowing through rotten flesh; with each breath millions of microscopic creatures are torn from their nests and plunged into alveoli then ripped from tissue and flung into space. In and out, in and out; I breathe steady with knowledge. The carnage is mine.

Computer beacons penetrate eyelids; constant reminders that I am not home. I pull the threadbare blanket over my head and wonder how many animals died nestled in its creases; how much urine and vomit caressed the stitching? What organic matter was set free in the wash and what remains?

A dog cries out. He’s been rebuilt. His pelvis more metal than bone. That doesn’t diminish the pain of being turned; rotated every four hours to prevent bed sores. He’s been here a week. He’s still not walking. Is it worth it to continue the fight?

What have I done? How did I get here? What am I doing? I need to rest. Soon the phone will ring and I’ll be called into action; expected to be lucid and intelligible while cohorting with the moon. I lie on the futon in a modified savasana, a corpse pose, and dream of sleep.

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Wackadoo Wednesday

One would think knitting, unless in the framework of a knitter’s circle, would be a solitary endeavor. Not so. I’ve come to realize that anytime I choose to knit in public I am on display; a live museum exhibit. I should carry an easel with an illustration of the final product and adequate copy such that the basic knitting process is explained. This is a knit stitch. This is a purl stitch. Felting is the process of knitting a very large object and shrinking it - think Shrinky Dinks. Perhaps I should also don a bonnet, long dress and apron to complete the effect.

I also need to catalogue a set of witty knit related anecdotes to share with my adoring public. As it stands my conversations are incredibly dull and go something like this:

Yes, I’m knitting.

What?

No, I’m not knitting booties.

Oh it’s a felted bag. You knit it large and then shrink it.

Yes, ha ha, knit purl, knit purl.

I don’t think my grandmother knew how to knit.

Yes, knitting is a good occupation for mothers.

And on and on . . .

And a gentleman did say that to me today ...”knitting is a good occupation for mothers.” After he left I pondered his comment. What is a mother? In the rawest sense a mother is a woman who has had sex. At least that’s how most of us ended up in this predicament. (For those of you who still believe in the stork I’m sorry for the spoiler. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are all real. Trust me.)

So a mother is a sexual woman. We all know there are other factors such as conception, pregnancy, etcetera that are necessary to complete the picture. But I began to wonder - is knitting a good activity for only mothers or for all sexual women? And if so what is the sex to knit ratio? Do sexual activity and knitting increase in tandem?

If these occupations have a direct linear relationship then one would expect “working girls” to have a thriving side business in knitwear. However I’m having trouble proving this theorem. For the life of me I can not find Mabel’s Knitting and Whorehouse on Etsy.

Therefore I must assume an inverse ratio exists between knitting and sex, which, truth-be-told, makes more sense. I mean, really, who has time for both? And if knitting and sexual activity hold an inverse ratio we can also extrapolate that knitting is a good activity for mothers because mothers should not be having sex. This too makes sense because knitting mothers ought to be wearing aprons and bonnets. And really who wants to have sex with someone in an apron and bonnet?

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Happy Wednesday everyone! Anyone else feeling wackadoo?

Estate Sale

The room is full of books, all four walls lined with dusty volumes: spines cracked and corners folded. Space remains only for the hollow door and bare aluminum window. The simple desk, scattered with papers, waits for your return. But you are not coming back, at least not back here. Instead I'm here to score a morsel for my collection.

I am not interested in the rest of the house. Except, of course, for the sunken tub, tiled red and buried in the bathroom like an upright barrel. How did you get in? And, for that matter, how did you get out? Did you not worry about frail bones shattering on ancient linoleum? Or had you come to terms with your own mortality? The world be damned! I want an upright tub. Tile it red, my dear, for red is the color of blood. Is it, I wonder, easier to read in an upright bathtub?

Your house is sparse with threadbare carpet and outmoded furniture. There are expensive paintings from China and elegant Indian tapestries but these are not for me. These are not my memories nailed to the wall; physical remnants should the mind falter and forget the road from there to here.

But here, in this room, I feel it. I’ve crawled inside and am plucking at grey matter, spreading the pages of your being. You and I are walking the same path. Buddhism Without Belief. Spirituality in a Scientific World. Good doctor, for I see your diploma, where have you gone? Body in flames I am picking at your soul, inspecting the medical reference section, the psychology section and the shelf and a half of buddhist works. Clearly you believe in the concrete, in evidence, in proof. But where is the proof in the Now?

Were you scared? Did you falter? Did you question Him? Or were you ready; ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I’m taking you with me. The cost was minimal. What a deal; two souls merged between the pages of Essential Crazy Wisdom and Glimpses of Abhidiahrma. From your shelf to mine we become one. You have been reincarnated.

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Excerpt from Essential Crazy Wisdom:

"...Taoists and Zen masters listen for the rhythms of the natural world and adjust themselves to those beats. Staying in touch with nature's power and mystery reminds them continually of how little they know and how small they are. Issa's* haiku demonstrates the type of lessons that nature offers on how to live and die:

Simply Trust --
Do not the petals flutter down,
Just like that?

Elevating human civilization above the natural world may be a fatal hubris."

*Kobayashi Issa

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Not bad advice for fifty-cents.

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Today is Love Thursday over at Shutter Sisters. This week I'm loving estate sales, Essential Crazy Wisdom and, of course, nature!

Falling down on the blog

Hello blog. How are you? I'm sorry I've not been around. I've been busy. We took a little vacation. And the kids are out of school.

We also have swim lessons Monday thru Thursday. We spend a good three hours at the pool. Then we come home and complain about how bored we are. So so bored. There is absolutely and totally nothing to do. We are tired and grumpy and hungry and no we don't want to eat anything in the house and no we don't want to clean our rooms and no we DO NOT WANT TO READ A BOOK!

And then, of course, there is the little matter of employment. We remain employed. We should not complain. We are lucky to have jobs. Many others are not so fortunate. We should be effervescent - Hi Ho, Hi Ho! And yet it is difficult to feel perky when the alarm starts blaring on a holiday morning. Yes, yes. Woe is me. And yes I see that. Of course I know what it is. A tiny violin. Yes, I get it. Ha, ha. Such wit. Really you astound me.

Oh and though I've also been negligent in recording it, I'm still training for a triathlon. It takes place two weeks from today. Will I be ready? I sure hope so. I need to put on my wet suit and jump in the river. I'll have to swim around the teenie boppers floating on their rafts; string bikinis struggling to cover their adolescent flesh. Hopefully these lacksidazical youth won't bludgen me thinking Nessie has come to America.

So, dear blog, you've been ignored as has flickr. I am an equal opportunity ignorer. Don't take it personally. I'll be back soon. I promise.

All my love, Me

He’s singing. Over there with the mariachi band. He knows all the words. He’s clapping along cigarette hanging from his mouth, balanced in his lips, filling the void of missing teeth.

His family sits next to me. A daughter, perhaps, and son-in-law. They’re speaking Spanish excluding their young son; the strange third generation child who knows only English. The child wants his mother’s attention. He poking her, butting in, “Is it a mar-eee-ah-chee?” he demands, “Is it? Is that what it’s called?” The parents continue talking ignoring the child’s interjections.

Me? I’ve forgotten a book and am passing the time between order and food delivery watching this family. I’m also watching hoards of people meander along the river walk.

The river is murky. It is concrete. Man made waterfalls cascade down and tropical plants line the walk. I’m sure the landscaping intent is genuine but it doesn’t feel natural. I feel like I’m in a zoo; a passable facsimile of the real deal.

It is hot. Not as hot as the streets above but hot nonetheless. Most tourists sweat and wipe their brow. Humidity, heat and a herd of people do not make for comfortable skin.

I, too, am being watched. Intent pigeons eye me greedily waiting for my attention to wane. My chips are in jeopardy. I assume my margarita is safe, at least from the avian population.

My food arrives, chicken mole enchiladas. There’s too much cheese and the chicken is dry. But the sauce is good.

Suddenly two ginormous boobs bounce my way. Too bad my husband isn’t here, I think, he’d appreciate those. I feel slightly homesick. Then slightly sick. I’m alone and I’m a boob watcher. But who could help it? They were huge.

I am full. I did not eat my rice and beans. The singer has returned. He engages me in conversation, typical questions; Where are you from? What brings you to town? He is clearly bilingual. I wish I spoke Spanish.

Then he surprises me. Caught off guard I don’t immediately answer. He repeats his question, “You done with that? Mind if I have it?” He wants my rice and beans. I hand them over to the embarrassment of the younger set and disgust of the waitress. I was done after all. The food was going to go to waste.

I stand to leave and merge into the herd of people along the path. I’m seeking refuge in the air-conditioned hotel. “Goodbye,” he hollers after me as I walk away, “Welcome to San Antonio!”