I am entering my last four days of complete freedom before A) Doug is off for New Year's Day and B) I start Russian classes. Just a few days left to exercise before I start the sedentary life of a student. I realize that it has been 25 years since I've been a full time student. I hope I can get my mind wrapped around this. I'm trying the visualization that was so helpful in my move to D.C. I'm seeing myself attempting all the sounds and words even if I'm not confident. I don't think I have the leisure to wait for surety. I'm picturing myself practicing with Douglas in the evenings even though I don't always like it when he corrects me. I am preparing myself to be done with Christmas candy (BOO!) and snack on raisins and cranberries, drink water (no Pepsi). I'm going to pack my luches so I don't spend money and eat their (yummy) pizza every day at the cafeteria. Doug and I are planning on buying new bicycles (ours are in storage) so we can ride to the Foreign Service Institute together. His classes begin in March.
I really feel for my students now. You have no choice but to be in student mode. I had the option to study Russian or not; to take a quick, short set of classes or this lengthy course. I don't mean to make being a student sound negative, it's the whole freedom thing. In a way, I'm envious of my students. When you have no choice that can make discipline easier. You must answer to someone. You are accountable to more than yourself alone. Even our laws require education. I am accountable only to myself who, by the way, is the most important. Seriously. Our personal standards for ourselves should be the highest as long as we don't get unrealistic with perfection.
I don't have that problem.
I understand that the first day or two of language school is testing to see how we learn best. Am I a visual learner? Oral? Tactile? The teachers they hire are the best of the best. Each teacher is required to be a native speaker. If I do my work, I should be conversational by the time we leave.
When we get into the Russian itself, the classes are M-F approximately five classroom hours daily with apx. three hours daily independent study. We'll begin with learning the cyrillic alphabet for a week or two. I already know that alphabet which made me think, "Great. I'll be teacher's pet. I can relax." Then Doug wrote something in Russian in cursive. I've been printing and reading printing. I have to learn to write and read again. Imagine that, will you please? We are periodically required to get exposure outside of the classroom to our language of study. This may entail visiting a Russian Orthodox church service or renting a movie in Russian. My friend Rada speaks Russian and has offered to work with me. More on all that when I actually get into it.
This is random but, it was not lost on me that my first Winter in Minnesota brought the record breaking Halloween storm and my first Winter here in D.C. brought a record breaking snow. You may not know that my final summer in Phoenix brought record breaking heat (124 I think). I cant' wait to see what I do to Uzbekistan. Maybe it'll be positive and the Aral Sea will miraculously rise in water level. If you don't know the story of the Aral Sea, here it is in a nutshell. During our Civil War, cotton supply to Russia was cut off. We were busy. So they decided to grow cotton in a region of Uzbekistan. But they needed water, so they rerouted a river that emptied into the Aral Sea. Eventually this drained the sea which caused a catastrophic chain reaction of consequences including the dying off of the fish, an extraordinary amount of dust particles in the air, unclean water left behind, and on and on. As a result, people are unemployeed, sick and without basic resources. It is said that it is unfixable. Read about it if you get the chance, it is sadly interesting. It is a strong fable for our current behaviors and the effects on the environment.
I wasn't going to tell anyone this but if I say it, it's more likely to happen. Bobby McFarin (the singer who lives in Minneapolis) broke through to popularity with the song "Don't Worry; Be Happy". He made amazing instrumental sounds with his voice that most people had never heard before. When asked how he came up with that unique sound he once answered that he went into his basement, did not listen to other people's music for a period and just began playing with his voice. Surely this did not last only a few days to get the incredible sound he achieved but it gave me an idea, one I wish I had thought of months ago. I love telling stories. I love singing. Both use my voice. I am currently not singing with any group so I am out of practice simply because I'm not keeping myself well-vocalized. One of my goals in Uzbekistan is to share stories with the people. Here's my idea: I'm going to use all this alone time to play with my voice. I'm going to spend time each day singing. I'm going to practice telling the stories aloud and learn to listen to myself. I'll read and practice delivery and expression and timing. I can do this with many of the half-written stories I have and, perhaps, I can actually finish some of them.
Poor Douglas. I say that alot. This means, of course, that throughout the next few days I'll get all excited about this story or that story and he'll "just have to hear it." My captive audience. Ah, the blessing of a one-bedroom apartment.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Perspective
It snowed all day Saturday (and a good part of the nights on each side of it) so Doug and I were grateful to have nowhere to go except up two floors and down the hall for dinner. Rada and I met in the gym where we both exercise each morning. She and I are funny together because we each think that the other is sooooo beautiful; definitely a small mutual admiration society. Doug says if we ever got dressed up and went out together we’d be dangerous. I agree. The men would be helpless puddles at our feet.
Anyway, Rada made plov for dinner. Plov is a traditional Uzbek dish of spiced rice and any combination of chicken, lamb or beef (we had all three Saturday). Also invited was a man named Tim who had worked in Afghanistan with Peter (Rada’s husband). They showed us pictures they had taken during their time there.
I was a little distressed to hear either Peter or Tim – I don’t remember which – refer to one man with whom they had to deal as an idiot. I could tell by the way it was said that the man was either difficult (as in works differently than we do) or ignorant - neither which calls for referring to him as an idiot. At the end of the pictures I asked what made the man an idiot. Thankfully, Tim said he wasn’t an idiot he just had nothing to work with. The man had no electricity and no training for starters. This got Tim to talking about dealing with the Afghani people in general in our quest for peace and democracy there. At one point he said something like “How do you teach people democracy who don’t even know that the world is round?”
That weighed heavily in my thoughts the rest of the night. I hear about the lack of education in places like Afghanistan and feel for the ignorance of the people there. Saturday night I realized how ignorant I am. Some of the Afghan people only know their little desert corner of the world. They see Americans come in and try to fix things (build bridges, build schools that the Taliban blow up) but they don’t know where these people come from. And they don’t know where they disappear to when their tour or post is over.
Tim said they saw men with hands black from never having been washed. There was one photograph of Tim and Peter standing with two Afghan men dressed in layers with their heads wrapped. They looked like relatively well dressed men. Tim remembered how heavy their stench was as they posed for that picture. It’s not just personal hygiene. At a voting station, a 14 year old girl ran the booth even though she was too young to vote. She was the only one who could read. And she was stunningly beautiful. She was with one or two other girls about her age who would not have their picture taken nor would they uncover their heads. This girl did not wear her head covering for the picture. Some people who work building with the Americans actually work dually for the Taliban also. So they spend all week building a school then go off and plot and execute its destruction. God help them. We see this as counterproductive; they see it as survival.
But I’m going to go back to that shocking statement about working with people who don’t even know that the world is round. I tend to think of uneducated as being illiterate, unexposed to the sciences, unfamiliar with other cultures, etc. These people may know no more than what they have needed to survive in the deserts of Afghanistan. They may have never heard of Ireland or heard a recording of any kind. I guess in their contact with Americans they have seen their picture taken with a digital camera.
I know that the people I’ll meet in Tashkent will not be that uneducated but it still has me thinking. I’m not used to being the, uh, sharpest tack in the box shall we say. No laughing. Now I’m faced with quite possibly in some social situations being the worldly, knowledgeable one. That has great appeal. I, however, have spent a great deal of my past life judging others. I don’t want to find myself thinking of any one as “idiot” because of their circumstances and my frustrations with not being able to deal with the difficulty of communication in such situations. I also don’t want to get an over inflated ego. I need to learn how to expose them to as much as I can while humbly learning what I can from them which apparently is going to be a lot more than stories and cooking as I originally thought.
Doug is extremely patient with people who are ignorant. He has little tolerance of those who choose ignorance. This is understandable. We (you and I) live in a world in which almost all knowledge is ours at our bidding. We cannot learn it all but if we don’t put a concerted effort it is a shame. We can build up treasure and see it vanish to poor investments, mismanaged banks or our own lack of discipline. We can build up our bodies only to lose our strength to age or illness or an accident. If we build up our minds, it is ours to keep as long as we live. Ooh! Ooh! I’m on a roll here (if not original). If we build up our spirit it is ours for eternity.
Anyway, Rada made plov for dinner. Plov is a traditional Uzbek dish of spiced rice and any combination of chicken, lamb or beef (we had all three Saturday). Also invited was a man named Tim who had worked in Afghanistan with Peter (Rada’s husband). They showed us pictures they had taken during their time there.
I was a little distressed to hear either Peter or Tim – I don’t remember which – refer to one man with whom they had to deal as an idiot. I could tell by the way it was said that the man was either difficult (as in works differently than we do) or ignorant - neither which calls for referring to him as an idiot. At the end of the pictures I asked what made the man an idiot. Thankfully, Tim said he wasn’t an idiot he just had nothing to work with. The man had no electricity and no training for starters. This got Tim to talking about dealing with the Afghani people in general in our quest for peace and democracy there. At one point he said something like “How do you teach people democracy who don’t even know that the world is round?”
That weighed heavily in my thoughts the rest of the night. I hear about the lack of education in places like Afghanistan and feel for the ignorance of the people there. Saturday night I realized how ignorant I am. Some of the Afghan people only know their little desert corner of the world. They see Americans come in and try to fix things (build bridges, build schools that the Taliban blow up) but they don’t know where these people come from. And they don’t know where they disappear to when their tour or post is over.
Tim said they saw men with hands black from never having been washed. There was one photograph of Tim and Peter standing with two Afghan men dressed in layers with their heads wrapped. They looked like relatively well dressed men. Tim remembered how heavy their stench was as they posed for that picture. It’s not just personal hygiene. At a voting station, a 14 year old girl ran the booth even though she was too young to vote. She was the only one who could read. And she was stunningly beautiful. She was with one or two other girls about her age who would not have their picture taken nor would they uncover their heads. This girl did not wear her head covering for the picture. Some people who work building with the Americans actually work dually for the Taliban also. So they spend all week building a school then go off and plot and execute its destruction. God help them. We see this as counterproductive; they see it as survival.
But I’m going to go back to that shocking statement about working with people who don’t even know that the world is round. I tend to think of uneducated as being illiterate, unexposed to the sciences, unfamiliar with other cultures, etc. These people may know no more than what they have needed to survive in the deserts of Afghanistan. They may have never heard of Ireland or heard a recording of any kind. I guess in their contact with Americans they have seen their picture taken with a digital camera.
I know that the people I’ll meet in Tashkent will not be that uneducated but it still has me thinking. I’m not used to being the, uh, sharpest tack in the box shall we say. No laughing. Now I’m faced with quite possibly in some social situations being the worldly, knowledgeable one. That has great appeal. I, however, have spent a great deal of my past life judging others. I don’t want to find myself thinking of any one as “idiot” because of their circumstances and my frustrations with not being able to deal with the difficulty of communication in such situations. I also don’t want to get an over inflated ego. I need to learn how to expose them to as much as I can while humbly learning what I can from them which apparently is going to be a lot more than stories and cooking as I originally thought.
Doug is extremely patient with people who are ignorant. He has little tolerance of those who choose ignorance. This is understandable. We (you and I) live in a world in which almost all knowledge is ours at our bidding. We cannot learn it all but if we don’t put a concerted effort it is a shame. We can build up treasure and see it vanish to poor investments, mismanaged banks or our own lack of discipline. We can build up our bodies only to lose our strength to age or illness or an accident. If we build up our minds, it is ours to keep as long as we live. Ooh! Ooh! I’m on a roll here (if not original). If we build up our spirit it is ours for eternity.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Searching for My Soul - Is My Mind in the Way?
I like this spiritual emphasis I am in lately. It’s only been a couple of weeks (at this posting, it’s been several weeks) but I have found myself often looking forward to quiet times – prayer time - because I know I’ll get something lasting from them. I sometimes feel more a sense of obligation and sometimes dread – will I be able to focus? Am I insulting the Lord when I can’t? I’m learning to just ride those feelings out - no guilt, no defeat, just dread and worry.
What I had hoped would happen in these quiet times is, I believe, happening. I am ‘hearing’ God’s voice more clearly. I don’t mean like Moses at the burning bush, I mean the indwelling Holy Spirit communicating with me. Usually when I think I’m hearing from God it is a thought that slides into the front of my mind that I don’t feel like I could or would have come up with myself. It was given to me. I have always had the idea of prayer as being something concentrated between me and God or Jesus whichever aspect I’m thinking of at the time. That’s fine when my mind can stay there. But what about the days when it won’t park itself? I have discovered many ways to commune with God that are rewarding and very doable. Some days I just tune into my senses while walking around outside. I simply appreciate nature. Some days I meditate by sitting in a chair with my eyes half closed, perhaps a candle lit before me and I breathe for a half hour. That’s it; I send everything I can away in my breath. If I remember correctly, the root for the word spirit comes from breath so it may all be very intricately connected. Some days I have a topic I dwell on like my body being the temple of the Lord or my spirit/my soul – are they the same? Do I have access to them now? I have thought about how Muslims pray (I think) six times a day. At first that was overwhelming to me. But I have tried it and, frankly, for those of us with short attention spans, it’s nice to check in several times for a few minutes rather than trying to tune in for one longer period of time. The Bible says “pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17). I don’t know how literal that is supposed to be, but in checking in several times a day the thought is never far and just may be what the author had in mind. One day, I was having quiet time while on the treadmill. Someone came in next to me and we were introduced. I said hello then proceeded to ignore her. Not rudely, I just had nothing to say because I was in prayer. I felt a little guilty because she was visiting one of the few friends I have made here. Anyway, this voice inside me said that talking with others can be a fine way of spending quiet time as God dwells in all of us. I don’t mean to imply that any old thing I do constitutes time with God, I am learning that there are many surprising ways to do it that I can fit in to my current mood.
I watched on Oprah show one afternoon. Hillary Swank was on with a small group of women who were doing things outside their comfort zone (roller derby, sky diving and public skinny dipping). We were left with this thrilling feeling of putting ourselves out there for challenges so we could see what we’re made of. I watched the show quite pleased that right now I am preparing myself for just such a challenge. I have started learning Russian on my own (with Doug’s patient guidance) so I have a head start on the January class. Have I mentioned that this Russian class meets five days a week for five classroom hours per day plus three hours of independent study daily? I have also set high standards for myself which I am alternately keeping and not keeping.
One more thought today. Dreams. I have always dreamed very vividly and lucidly. Freud and Jung showed the importance of dreams in knowing oneself and in problem solving. Ancient tribes saw them as a second life one lived. The Bible has many accounts of God speaking to people through dreams.
I had two very telling dreams the other night; both recurrent in theme, both turning out very differently than the norm. In one, I am in the bathroom at my parent’s house, the door is closed and my sister is in the hall on the other side of the door. I am asking her something. I hear her but cannot understand what she is saying. After asking her several times I realize she is mumbling and laughing mockingly at me. I get frustrated in asking her repeatedly and finally give up. I then get worried that she’ll break into the bathroom and hurt me. I lock the door. Most of my bathroom dreams are of someone or several people not giving me privacy and I am unable to keep them out. For those of you who do not know, my sister and I are long estranged. I hurt her years ago and she is too hurt and comfortable in her life to talk it out with me. That is my opinion since I do not have her take on it. It was years before I could think of her without crying and conceiving ideas of what may get her to talk to me. Last July, after another failed attempt at meeting with her in hopes of resolution, I locked that door in my life. Apparently, my subconscious just confirmed that.
The second dream that night had me being pursued by a man. Usually in these dreams I cannot run and I cannot yell for help. In this dream, however, I ran fast and screamed bloody murder. The man kept pursuing me. I got a little ahead of him and dodged into a corner to collect myself. As I was in the corner, I decided to get him. I rose into the air (flying dreams are very common with me) and slowly moved toward him. I stared him down the entire time hoping to intimidate him. Unfortunately neither the staring nor the fact that I was floating put him off in the least. The dream ended. I was safe. Often in these dreams, I am frozen with fear, unable to run or make any sound. Also common is that I realize I’m dreaming and do all sorts of things to my antagonist. I was just pleased to be able to run and scream.
I encourage you to pay attention to your dreams. They aren’t all grand messages. Sometimes it’s jus the day’s leftover mental slop. Sometimes they are purely entertaining. But every once in a while there is a gem, and in that gem, a lesson or a revelation or acknowledgement. I’m working on a story called the Dream Interpreter. If anyone want to preview it, let me know and I’ll send it to you.
I hope your Advent season is a happy one. I hope you feel that there is much worth waiting for. And in the waiting I hope you encounter blessings you would have otherwise missed.
What I had hoped would happen in these quiet times is, I believe, happening. I am ‘hearing’ God’s voice more clearly. I don’t mean like Moses at the burning bush, I mean the indwelling Holy Spirit communicating with me. Usually when I think I’m hearing from God it is a thought that slides into the front of my mind that I don’t feel like I could or would have come up with myself. It was given to me. I have always had the idea of prayer as being something concentrated between me and God or Jesus whichever aspect I’m thinking of at the time. That’s fine when my mind can stay there. But what about the days when it won’t park itself? I have discovered many ways to commune with God that are rewarding and very doable. Some days I just tune into my senses while walking around outside. I simply appreciate nature. Some days I meditate by sitting in a chair with my eyes half closed, perhaps a candle lit before me and I breathe for a half hour. That’s it; I send everything I can away in my breath. If I remember correctly, the root for the word spirit comes from breath so it may all be very intricately connected. Some days I have a topic I dwell on like my body being the temple of the Lord or my spirit/my soul – are they the same? Do I have access to them now? I have thought about how Muslims pray (I think) six times a day. At first that was overwhelming to me. But I have tried it and, frankly, for those of us with short attention spans, it’s nice to check in several times for a few minutes rather than trying to tune in for one longer period of time. The Bible says “pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17). I don’t know how literal that is supposed to be, but in checking in several times a day the thought is never far and just may be what the author had in mind. One day, I was having quiet time while on the treadmill. Someone came in next to me and we were introduced. I said hello then proceeded to ignore her. Not rudely, I just had nothing to say because I was in prayer. I felt a little guilty because she was visiting one of the few friends I have made here. Anyway, this voice inside me said that talking with others can be a fine way of spending quiet time as God dwells in all of us. I don’t mean to imply that any old thing I do constitutes time with God, I am learning that there are many surprising ways to do it that I can fit in to my current mood.
I watched on Oprah show one afternoon. Hillary Swank was on with a small group of women who were doing things outside their comfort zone (roller derby, sky diving and public skinny dipping). We were left with this thrilling feeling of putting ourselves out there for challenges so we could see what we’re made of. I watched the show quite pleased that right now I am preparing myself for just such a challenge. I have started learning Russian on my own (with Doug’s patient guidance) so I have a head start on the January class. Have I mentioned that this Russian class meets five days a week for five classroom hours per day plus three hours of independent study daily? I have also set high standards for myself which I am alternately keeping and not keeping.
One more thought today. Dreams. I have always dreamed very vividly and lucidly. Freud and Jung showed the importance of dreams in knowing oneself and in problem solving. Ancient tribes saw them as a second life one lived. The Bible has many accounts of God speaking to people through dreams.
I had two very telling dreams the other night; both recurrent in theme, both turning out very differently than the norm. In one, I am in the bathroom at my parent’s house, the door is closed and my sister is in the hall on the other side of the door. I am asking her something. I hear her but cannot understand what she is saying. After asking her several times I realize she is mumbling and laughing mockingly at me. I get frustrated in asking her repeatedly and finally give up. I then get worried that she’ll break into the bathroom and hurt me. I lock the door. Most of my bathroom dreams are of someone or several people not giving me privacy and I am unable to keep them out. For those of you who do not know, my sister and I are long estranged. I hurt her years ago and she is too hurt and comfortable in her life to talk it out with me. That is my opinion since I do not have her take on it. It was years before I could think of her without crying and conceiving ideas of what may get her to talk to me. Last July, after another failed attempt at meeting with her in hopes of resolution, I locked that door in my life. Apparently, my subconscious just confirmed that.
The second dream that night had me being pursued by a man. Usually in these dreams I cannot run and I cannot yell for help. In this dream, however, I ran fast and screamed bloody murder. The man kept pursuing me. I got a little ahead of him and dodged into a corner to collect myself. As I was in the corner, I decided to get him. I rose into the air (flying dreams are very common with me) and slowly moved toward him. I stared him down the entire time hoping to intimidate him. Unfortunately neither the staring nor the fact that I was floating put him off in the least. The dream ended. I was safe. Often in these dreams, I am frozen with fear, unable to run or make any sound. Also common is that I realize I’m dreaming and do all sorts of things to my antagonist. I was just pleased to be able to run and scream.
I encourage you to pay attention to your dreams. They aren’t all grand messages. Sometimes it’s jus the day’s leftover mental slop. Sometimes they are purely entertaining. But every once in a while there is a gem, and in that gem, a lesson or a revelation or acknowledgement. I’m working on a story called the Dream Interpreter. If anyone want to preview it, let me know and I’ll send it to you.
I hope your Advent season is a happy one. I hope you feel that there is much worth waiting for. And in the waiting I hope you encounter blessings you would have otherwise missed.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Our Apartment
Oakwood apartments are primarily for temporary housing for professionals in transition or on temporary assignments. The State Department has a contract with them so many of the people living here are in the same situation as Doug and I.
They are huge, plain brick apartments buildings scattered around a common area with a pool, Jacuzzi (closed for the season), tennis courts (3) a sand volleyball pit, a gym with saunas in the locker rooms, playground and gas barbeque grills that are cleaned daily. It’s nice and we are treated very well. They have an activities director that plans events like s’mores night, lasagna night, game night and karoki night. Also offered are free exercise classes including tennis mixers, cardio jam, abs and more and yoga.
Our apartment is a one bedroom with colorless carpeting, baby poop brown walls, someone’s vacation pictures blown up hanging on the walls as art, appliances from the ‘70s, and doors (including cabinets) that cannot be shut quietly. We did not have the luck of the draw on apartments. We are on ground level so if we want to look out the nice arcadia door, everyone else gets to look in. I can (usually) live with that. Our view out back is the dog poop station. Out our front door is the fire alarm. I’m not inventing this to make you jealous. There are six drawers for clothing. My undies are in one, my tops in the next and my pants in the third. I have a sock shelf. This includes stockings (woolens, etc.) and exercise clothes. There simply is no organization possible there. It’s like I’d be if I were in a hotel for a week. I’d unpack all my clothes to “settle in” but it would be discombobulated.
Thank God for Angelina. She comes in Wednesdays to clean up after us. She cleans surfaces, dishes, the bathroom and sinks, vacuums and changes the linens. She works hard. She is around 55-60 (I’m guessing). She wears a support on her right forearm because is gives her lots of trouble and pain. When she works, I hear her breathe hard and I hear her breath catch when the pain hits her. It’s difficult for both of us in very different ways. She primarily speaks Spanish but is pretty good with English so we talk. One day we were talking about her arm and I have no idea how it led to this but we realized that we both had breast surgery. At first, I thought she had the same surgery I had so I moved my shirt and showed her my scar. She lifted her shirt and showed me where her breasts had been. Total masectomy. She had had cancer. Suddenly my little surgery was NOTHING. Occasionally she still will point at her chest and ask me how I am. We hug when she finishes. I bet we are the only two (housekeeper and tenant) who hug like that. She’s going to retire in January. I’ll miss her.
The entire staff here is great. I even wrote a short story inspired by one of the maintenance men. I’ve had to call maintenance a few times. This is really embarrassing but I had to call them to change a light bulb. Stop laughing. I can hear you from here. “How many piano teachers does it take . . .” Never mind. We are supposed to call them – okay? So Joachin shows up. He’s my favorite maintenance man. Joachin likes to talk. Every time he comes I get another story – the time he temporarily lost his eyesight from being in a strobe too long, the shopping experience at B.J.’s (which, he says, is like Costco but better) and there are plenty more where those came from. Remember – I like Joachin. But I had to take him to task one day which we both handled admirably.
My biggest pet peeve with hotels (and now apartments) is that housekeeping and maintenance don’t give you enough notice before they let themselves in your room. I have had quite the experiences here. Most of you know that I was married before Doug. Well, on Stan’s and my wedding night we got back to our room – the honeymoon suite – around midnight or so. I should tell you that Stan and I waited to do certain things until we were married. So we were READY TO GO. We had JUST begun consummating our marriage when there was a knock at the door and, before we could react, the door was open and in walked a maid of some sort who, of course, did not speak English. Stan and I were shouting and looking for things to throw. We were mad. It kind of spoiled the moment. It was, as I look back with perfect vision, an omen. I called the desk and demanded that the maid who did that was fired immediately – it was after midnight for crying out loud. Another time, I was at one of the storytelling conferences when I returned to my room between workshops. I needed to go to the bathroom. I really needed to go. When you opened the door to my room the bathroom was immediately on the left. I entered, turned and sat to go. Right away there was a knock on the door. “Just a . . .” The door opened before I could finish my sentence. Thank God women have strong off switches. I leapt up (no visuals, please) and slammed the door on the maid. I truly hoped I hurt her. I finished up then went outside to yell at her. She, of course, did not speak English. I know. You’re wondering “why don’t you lock the door?” Good question. I do lock and bolt the door and line up my luggage up (no kidding) in front of it. In that particular situation, remember, I really had to go. The point is, as I told Joachin after he walked in on me, they need to knock then wait then knock again. Whoever is inside may not hear the first knock. They may be busy or asleep. Then they need to open the door and say something loudly just to make sure it’s okay to enter. Please, someone, tell me I’m not asking too much here.
Joachin and I are cool now. He even got a pumkin pie from me to share with the other maintenance men.
MAKING DO
One of the goals I set for myself upon my move to the D.C. area was to cook more. When I taught piano M-F from apx. 3-7 P.M,. that made it difficult to cook for dinner. So I was looking forward to cooking here in our Falls Church apartment. I am making two or three main dishes a week. (Since it’s just Doug and I, there are lots of leftovers.) I make lots of soup and stew, a casserole – whatever sounds good and is healthful. If is not easy to cook when one doesn’t have good cooking supplies, however. All I have is what the apartment came with:
Three glass nesting bowls (Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear sizes)
One 9” round Pyrex cooking dish
One 9’ X 14’ cookie sheet that rusts when you soak it
Two skillets (one non-stick)
One soup/sauce pan
One larger pan
One extra large pot (no handle)
One colander
Set of dull knives (including kitchen shears – thank the Lord)
A plastic slotted spoon, narrow scraper, wire whisk (thank the Lord) and a
spatula
A 12 X 12 casserole dish (which we bought) and an 8 X 14 glass cake pan
My first challenge was steaming vegetables (yuck). I put some water in the Pyrex, boiled it in the microwave, put the vegetables in the colander and set them in the boiling water. Odd, but it worked.
The BIG challenge was Doug’s birthday cake. He loves Red Velvet Cake (Waldorf Cake?). So I was determined to make it. The first step was to beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. I had no beaters. Thank God for the wire whisk. My arms were pretty sore after that ordeal. Mixing alone took a couple hours I’d guess. The amusing part was selecting cake pans as the recipe was for a double layer cake. I wound up using the 12 X 12 casserole dish for the lower layer and the 9” round Pyrex for the upper layer giving the whole cake a sort of hat-like look. To keep the upper layer from sliding around, I used Q-tips (no toothpicks). It wasn’t pretty, but it sure tasted good.
I am also learning to make do with fewer distractions. I have fewer books, for instance. I may actually read a few cover to cover! It’s nice because it’s forcing me to be more focused and to work through complicated or dull passages in exchange for a complete reading.
We only brought a handful of CD’s with us along with our vinyl albums on the computer. A friend of mine put several of her albums on some little thingy which, when I stick it in my phone, is supposed to play that stored music for me. We haven’t gotten it to work yet. (Help, Miss Julie!)
My piano is in storage so I cannot practice or play. I brought my recorders with me but managed to not pack any music.
I have fewer pieces of clothing and am getting pretty tired of wearing the same thing. However, I have mixed different tops with different pants or skirts and been surprised of the new looks. That’s kind of fun. So is shopping. My biggest regret here is that all dressy clothes I packed are black but one.
We bank with ING online and Wells Fargo for checking. There are no Wells Fargo branches out here so getting cash is a bit of a challenge. When we first arrived, I had to depend on some cash my Aunt Katy gave us (thank you, Aunt Katy) some cash on hand from certain piano students. (Thank you Andreas, Hitzemans and Divitas!) Consequently, I am not eating lunch out or stopping for junk to munch on because I don’t like using a card for $5. And I’ve made a ruling on candy: I can buy a little at the grocery store when I do the weekly shopping but that is the only place I’m allowed to buy it. If I want to eat it all in one day (which I have not) fine, but that’s it for the week. Doug doesn’t like change (coins), so I get all his change. It’s enough to buy a Sunday paper and a weekly small Pepsi from Target.
I go into this much detail to try and show what a difference this is from my life in St. Paul. If I went with Doug to visit his parents on the other side of town, I’d take my “possible bag” with me. This bag contained anything I’d possibly want, usually a crossword, a couple of books, writing paper and pen and pencil, some candy and/or Pepsi, and sometimes a craft of some sort. That was for a short visit! From home, I would walk the couple of blocks to Cooper’s Grocer almost daily to buy what I was craving to eat. I really lived according to my mood with little discipline. Instead of thinking, “What do I want to eat?” I have now learned to ask myself “What is there to eat?” Oh, that’s so philosophical. I have learned to ask myself “What is there?” rather than “What do I want?” Ooh . . . I like that.
Our house in St. Paul was not a big house, but it did have a basement, main floor and a second level. There is no getting away from each other in this one bedroom job. If one of us needs quiet, the other cannot watch a movie. If I feel like doing Yoga, he has to watch me balance and position myself with my bum in the air. Doug has lots of computer work to attend to which means I must listen to it chug and chime daily. We have one bathroom, one sink and one mirror - enough said. When I can’t sleep at 2:00 in the morning it’s just plain hard. Where do I go? What do I do? I can’t roll around in bed and disturb Doug who has to be up at 6 AM (although I think it’s a King size bed, he may not notice). I can’t watch a good late movie. Being unable to sleep, by the way, is how I found out how squeaky the door to the bedroom is. Weekends are kind of tough because he has worked all week and wants to kick back. I have also worked, more freely and in my own way, but I have worked in the apartment. I want to get out. But we get by. So far we still like each other.
I am making do without my favorite places to hang out and visit. This is pretty easy because I am still in the discovery stage; just walking the neighborhood streets is still fun. There are a few paths nearby plus the metro to take me into D.C. quickly.
Making do without company and conversation is harder, but so far so good because I’m focused on my personal goals. Actually I can say I'm thriving here. All of the goals I set for myself need to be done by me, alone. There are some women who I see regularly at the gym. Rada we had over for dinner with her family – great time. Li Li and her husband will be going to Christmas Lessons and Carols with Doug and I. We are all in the same boat here at Oakwood so we understand the longing for company, the company of strangers.
They are huge, plain brick apartments buildings scattered around a common area with a pool, Jacuzzi (closed for the season), tennis courts (3) a sand volleyball pit, a gym with saunas in the locker rooms, playground and gas barbeque grills that are cleaned daily. It’s nice and we are treated very well. They have an activities director that plans events like s’mores night, lasagna night, game night and karoki night. Also offered are free exercise classes including tennis mixers, cardio jam, abs and more and yoga.
Our apartment is a one bedroom with colorless carpeting, baby poop brown walls, someone’s vacation pictures blown up hanging on the walls as art, appliances from the ‘70s, and doors (including cabinets) that cannot be shut quietly. We did not have the luck of the draw on apartments. We are on ground level so if we want to look out the nice arcadia door, everyone else gets to look in. I can (usually) live with that. Our view out back is the dog poop station. Out our front door is the fire alarm. I’m not inventing this to make you jealous. There are six drawers for clothing. My undies are in one, my tops in the next and my pants in the third. I have a sock shelf. This includes stockings (woolens, etc.) and exercise clothes. There simply is no organization possible there. It’s like I’d be if I were in a hotel for a week. I’d unpack all my clothes to “settle in” but it would be discombobulated.
Thank God for Angelina. She comes in Wednesdays to clean up after us. She cleans surfaces, dishes, the bathroom and sinks, vacuums and changes the linens. She works hard. She is around 55-60 (I’m guessing). She wears a support on her right forearm because is gives her lots of trouble and pain. When she works, I hear her breathe hard and I hear her breath catch when the pain hits her. It’s difficult for both of us in very different ways. She primarily speaks Spanish but is pretty good with English so we talk. One day we were talking about her arm and I have no idea how it led to this but we realized that we both had breast surgery. At first, I thought she had the same surgery I had so I moved my shirt and showed her my scar. She lifted her shirt and showed me where her breasts had been. Total masectomy. She had had cancer. Suddenly my little surgery was NOTHING. Occasionally she still will point at her chest and ask me how I am. We hug when she finishes. I bet we are the only two (housekeeper and tenant) who hug like that. She’s going to retire in January. I’ll miss her.
The entire staff here is great. I even wrote a short story inspired by one of the maintenance men. I’ve had to call maintenance a few times. This is really embarrassing but I had to call them to change a light bulb. Stop laughing. I can hear you from here. “How many piano teachers does it take . . .” Never mind. We are supposed to call them – okay? So Joachin shows up. He’s my favorite maintenance man. Joachin likes to talk. Every time he comes I get another story – the time he temporarily lost his eyesight from being in a strobe too long, the shopping experience at B.J.’s (which, he says, is like Costco but better) and there are plenty more where those came from. Remember – I like Joachin. But I had to take him to task one day which we both handled admirably.
My biggest pet peeve with hotels (and now apartments) is that housekeeping and maintenance don’t give you enough notice before they let themselves in your room. I have had quite the experiences here. Most of you know that I was married before Doug. Well, on Stan’s and my wedding night we got back to our room – the honeymoon suite – around midnight or so. I should tell you that Stan and I waited to do certain things until we were married. So we were READY TO GO. We had JUST begun consummating our marriage when there was a knock at the door and, before we could react, the door was open and in walked a maid of some sort who, of course, did not speak English. Stan and I were shouting and looking for things to throw. We were mad. It kind of spoiled the moment. It was, as I look back with perfect vision, an omen. I called the desk and demanded that the maid who did that was fired immediately – it was after midnight for crying out loud. Another time, I was at one of the storytelling conferences when I returned to my room between workshops. I needed to go to the bathroom. I really needed to go. When you opened the door to my room the bathroom was immediately on the left. I entered, turned and sat to go. Right away there was a knock on the door. “Just a . . .” The door opened before I could finish my sentence. Thank God women have strong off switches. I leapt up (no visuals, please) and slammed the door on the maid. I truly hoped I hurt her. I finished up then went outside to yell at her. She, of course, did not speak English. I know. You’re wondering “why don’t you lock the door?” Good question. I do lock and bolt the door and line up my luggage up (no kidding) in front of it. In that particular situation, remember, I really had to go. The point is, as I told Joachin after he walked in on me, they need to knock then wait then knock again. Whoever is inside may not hear the first knock. They may be busy or asleep. Then they need to open the door and say something loudly just to make sure it’s okay to enter. Please, someone, tell me I’m not asking too much here.
Joachin and I are cool now. He even got a pumkin pie from me to share with the other maintenance men.
MAKING DO
One of the goals I set for myself upon my move to the D.C. area was to cook more. When I taught piano M-F from apx. 3-7 P.M,. that made it difficult to cook for dinner. So I was looking forward to cooking here in our Falls Church apartment. I am making two or three main dishes a week. (Since it’s just Doug and I, there are lots of leftovers.) I make lots of soup and stew, a casserole – whatever sounds good and is healthful. If is not easy to cook when one doesn’t have good cooking supplies, however. All I have is what the apartment came with:
Three glass nesting bowls (Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear sizes)
One 9” round Pyrex cooking dish
One 9’ X 14’ cookie sheet that rusts when you soak it
Two skillets (one non-stick)
One soup/sauce pan
One larger pan
One extra large pot (no handle)
One colander
Set of dull knives (including kitchen shears – thank the Lord)
A plastic slotted spoon, narrow scraper, wire whisk (thank the Lord) and a
spatula
A 12 X 12 casserole dish (which we bought) and an 8 X 14 glass cake pan
My first challenge was steaming vegetables (yuck). I put some water in the Pyrex, boiled it in the microwave, put the vegetables in the colander and set them in the boiling water. Odd, but it worked.
The BIG challenge was Doug’s birthday cake. He loves Red Velvet Cake (Waldorf Cake?). So I was determined to make it. The first step was to beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. I had no beaters. Thank God for the wire whisk. My arms were pretty sore after that ordeal. Mixing alone took a couple hours I’d guess. The amusing part was selecting cake pans as the recipe was for a double layer cake. I wound up using the 12 X 12 casserole dish for the lower layer and the 9” round Pyrex for the upper layer giving the whole cake a sort of hat-like look. To keep the upper layer from sliding around, I used Q-tips (no toothpicks). It wasn’t pretty, but it sure tasted good.
I am also learning to make do with fewer distractions. I have fewer books, for instance. I may actually read a few cover to cover! It’s nice because it’s forcing me to be more focused and to work through complicated or dull passages in exchange for a complete reading.
We only brought a handful of CD’s with us along with our vinyl albums on the computer. A friend of mine put several of her albums on some little thingy which, when I stick it in my phone, is supposed to play that stored music for me. We haven’t gotten it to work yet. (Help, Miss Julie!)
My piano is in storage so I cannot practice or play. I brought my recorders with me but managed to not pack any music.
I have fewer pieces of clothing and am getting pretty tired of wearing the same thing. However, I have mixed different tops with different pants or skirts and been surprised of the new looks. That’s kind of fun. So is shopping. My biggest regret here is that all dressy clothes I packed are black but one.
We bank with ING online and Wells Fargo for checking. There are no Wells Fargo branches out here so getting cash is a bit of a challenge. When we first arrived, I had to depend on some cash my Aunt Katy gave us (thank you, Aunt Katy) some cash on hand from certain piano students. (Thank you Andreas, Hitzemans and Divitas!) Consequently, I am not eating lunch out or stopping for junk to munch on because I don’t like using a card for $5. And I’ve made a ruling on candy: I can buy a little at the grocery store when I do the weekly shopping but that is the only place I’m allowed to buy it. If I want to eat it all in one day (which I have not) fine, but that’s it for the week. Doug doesn’t like change (coins), so I get all his change. It’s enough to buy a Sunday paper and a weekly small Pepsi from Target.
I go into this much detail to try and show what a difference this is from my life in St. Paul. If I went with Doug to visit his parents on the other side of town, I’d take my “possible bag” with me. This bag contained anything I’d possibly want, usually a crossword, a couple of books, writing paper and pen and pencil, some candy and/or Pepsi, and sometimes a craft of some sort. That was for a short visit! From home, I would walk the couple of blocks to Cooper’s Grocer almost daily to buy what I was craving to eat. I really lived according to my mood with little discipline. Instead of thinking, “What do I want to eat?” I have now learned to ask myself “What is there to eat?” Oh, that’s so philosophical. I have learned to ask myself “What is there?” rather than “What do I want?” Ooh . . . I like that.
Our house in St. Paul was not a big house, but it did have a basement, main floor and a second level. There is no getting away from each other in this one bedroom job. If one of us needs quiet, the other cannot watch a movie. If I feel like doing Yoga, he has to watch me balance and position myself with my bum in the air. Doug has lots of computer work to attend to which means I must listen to it chug and chime daily. We have one bathroom, one sink and one mirror - enough said. When I can’t sleep at 2:00 in the morning it’s just plain hard. Where do I go? What do I do? I can’t roll around in bed and disturb Doug who has to be up at 6 AM (although I think it’s a King size bed, he may not notice). I can’t watch a good late movie. Being unable to sleep, by the way, is how I found out how squeaky the door to the bedroom is. Weekends are kind of tough because he has worked all week and wants to kick back. I have also worked, more freely and in my own way, but I have worked in the apartment. I want to get out. But we get by. So far we still like each other.
I am making do without my favorite places to hang out and visit. This is pretty easy because I am still in the discovery stage; just walking the neighborhood streets is still fun. There are a few paths nearby plus the metro to take me into D.C. quickly.
Making do without company and conversation is harder, but so far so good because I’m focused on my personal goals. Actually I can say I'm thriving here. All of the goals I set for myself need to be done by me, alone. There are some women who I see regularly at the gym. Rada we had over for dinner with her family – great time. Li Li and her husband will be going to Christmas Lessons and Carols with Doug and I. We are all in the same boat here at Oakwood so we understand the longing for company, the company of strangers.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Advent
Advent, the season of waiting. Doug and I have already been waiting for months so entering the Advent season seems redundant except that Christmas follows at its heels. In the Christian faith, we are waiting for Christ’s birth. Again, this seems a bit redundant as Christ was born centuries ago. I started a poem yesterday called “Jesus is an Old Man Now”. It’s not finished, but if anyone wants to read it, let me know and, when it’s ready, I’ll send it to you.
So we’re really waiting to celebrate Christ’s birth. I do enjoy trying to put myself back in biblical times when it was all just happening. So many of my piano students are Mary’s supposed age at the time of the annunciation (when Mary was told she would be Jesus's mother). As for me at that age, I was not yet against having children so I may have felt honored. I think, though, that I would have had stars in my eyes; what will everyone think of me? That’s a tough age to be selfless. I picture Mary and Joseph riding to Bethlehem and wonder what they talked about. I hear Joseph lamenting, “So much for abstinence until marriage.” There is a precious carol that is not as well known called the Cherry Tree Carol. In it, Mary and Joseph are riding and Mary sees a cherry tree. She asks Joseph to pick her some cherries because she is with child. Joseph must have been in a mood because he replies, ‘Let him who made you with child pick you cherries.’ God, of course, heard this and caused the tree to bow down to her so she could reach them. Be careful what you ask for. . .
But we are living today so what are we really waiting for? I’ll be honest; I’m waiting to eat my Christmas candy – fudge and fondant. I wish I could offer something more spiritual but that’s the truth. I’m trying to hold off making the candy until next week. One year, I ate so much I put on five pounds in a single month. I have spent the last three months disciplining myself so hopefully I can enjoy the candy sanely. I've been cooking things like Tangy Lentil and Chickpea Soup so that if I can't resist 18 pieces of candy one day at least there were only about 50 calories in my meal.
The Advent season is the start of the church year. We tend to look at the start of our year as a time to get going. We set goals and take off with the best of intentions to better ourselves and our life. It is interesting to me that the church year begins with waiting. Like we’re supposed to THINK or something before we get going.
Advent is also for preparation. In the Christian faith we are preparing ourselves for Christ’s birth. today, we could easily translate that for preparing for His second coming. That’s easy to see. But that has been coming for SOOOOOO long that who really believes that it may happen this year? I don’t. So what are we to ready ourselves for? That answer comes easily to me in my life now. I’m readying myself for Russian classes that begin January 4. For five hours a day, five days a week I’ll be in class. I should mention the three hours of daily homework/lab work. This will be a full time job. I’ve never sat still for that long for a single subject. I truly don’t know if I’m physically and mentally capable of it.
Last Sunday, Doug and I attended Advent lessons and carols at the National Cathedral. We were pushing it on time when we were walking up to this enormous church. We didn’t know where to go. I saw another couple who had crossed the street from the neighborhood and asked them if they were going to the service. They were and said they’d show us the way. Who were we walking with? The Norwegian Ambassador and (we assume) his wife who is one of the canons at the Cathedral! We enjoyed talking with them after the service. If you have never gone to a lessons and carols service – go. Particularly if you have never been to church or it’s been a while. It’s a low key service. There is singing interspersed with readings (some scripture, some poetry, it depends on the church) and prayers. There is normally no communion (or Eucharist) for lessons and carols so if you don’t partake in that, there will be no awkwardness in skipping it.
I tell you this because the priest used another word to describe the Advent Season: yearning or longing. Some people don’t like the Christian scriptures because they are full of “don’ts”. I like the “do’s”. We are told to love. We are told to rest one day a week and do no labor. The Advent season seems like our chance to anticipate. If we allow that the preparation of the season is internal rather than external, we could really get in a nice rest. Doug and I don’t know what we’ll do for Christmas this year. We will be away from our family and friends. Though Doug’s classmates invited us (and others) for Thanksgiving, Christmas seems to me more intimate and I don’t expect an invitation. This will be a good chance for us to truly have a holy Christmas. Since we have no expectations and no one has any of us, we can relax. Think about this as you say to yourself “There’s too much to do, I can’t relax now.” Be honest and answer: What expectations do you put on others at Christmas time? What expectations are truly put on you? You may be doing much more than is necessary. When I was a child, I expected gifts from my parents and I expected certain food. So, certainly, there may indeed be expectations. What would it be like to celebrate a different Christmas? Who would really miss having EVERY particular food item on the table? Let those preparations you must have (like the fudge and the fondant) be a participatory activity. If your family or friends don’t like that idea, tell them the story of the Little Red Hen.
I actually look forward to making candy. I thoroughly enjoy making the fudge. The fondant is a mixed bag. It’s hard work. There is an incredible amount of stirring the thick cream center. The rolling and dipping must be timed just right and it gets tedious after a few dozen. But as I see the shiny dipped chocolates with the cherry or walnut on, top it’s such a happy sight it makes my mouth water – NO! I mean it makes me want to continue and (with the proper frame of mind or Christmas music playing) the tedium becomes a blessed ritual. What else can I do that with in my life? What tedium can you make blessed ritual? What expectations can you release? What will Christmas be this year?
So we’re really waiting to celebrate Christ’s birth. I do enjoy trying to put myself back in biblical times when it was all just happening. So many of my piano students are Mary’s supposed age at the time of the annunciation (when Mary was told she would be Jesus's mother). As for me at that age, I was not yet against having children so I may have felt honored. I think, though, that I would have had stars in my eyes; what will everyone think of me? That’s a tough age to be selfless. I picture Mary and Joseph riding to Bethlehem and wonder what they talked about. I hear Joseph lamenting, “So much for abstinence until marriage.” There is a precious carol that is not as well known called the Cherry Tree Carol. In it, Mary and Joseph are riding and Mary sees a cherry tree. She asks Joseph to pick her some cherries because she is with child. Joseph must have been in a mood because he replies, ‘Let him who made you with child pick you cherries.’ God, of course, heard this and caused the tree to bow down to her so she could reach them. Be careful what you ask for. . .
But we are living today so what are we really waiting for? I’ll be honest; I’m waiting to eat my Christmas candy – fudge and fondant. I wish I could offer something more spiritual but that’s the truth. I’m trying to hold off making the candy until next week. One year, I ate so much I put on five pounds in a single month. I have spent the last three months disciplining myself so hopefully I can enjoy the candy sanely. I've been cooking things like Tangy Lentil and Chickpea Soup so that if I can't resist 18 pieces of candy one day at least there were only about 50 calories in my meal.
The Advent season is the start of the church year. We tend to look at the start of our year as a time to get going. We set goals and take off with the best of intentions to better ourselves and our life. It is interesting to me that the church year begins with waiting. Like we’re supposed to THINK or something before we get going.
Advent is also for preparation. In the Christian faith we are preparing ourselves for Christ’s birth. today, we could easily translate that for preparing for His second coming. That’s easy to see. But that has been coming for SOOOOOO long that who really believes that it may happen this year? I don’t. So what are we to ready ourselves for? That answer comes easily to me in my life now. I’m readying myself for Russian classes that begin January 4. For five hours a day, five days a week I’ll be in class. I should mention the three hours of daily homework/lab work. This will be a full time job. I’ve never sat still for that long for a single subject. I truly don’t know if I’m physically and mentally capable of it.
Last Sunday, Doug and I attended Advent lessons and carols at the National Cathedral. We were pushing it on time when we were walking up to this enormous church. We didn’t know where to go. I saw another couple who had crossed the street from the neighborhood and asked them if they were going to the service. They were and said they’d show us the way. Who were we walking with? The Norwegian Ambassador and (we assume) his wife who is one of the canons at the Cathedral! We enjoyed talking with them after the service. If you have never gone to a lessons and carols service – go. Particularly if you have never been to church or it’s been a while. It’s a low key service. There is singing interspersed with readings (some scripture, some poetry, it depends on the church) and prayers. There is normally no communion (or Eucharist) for lessons and carols so if you don’t partake in that, there will be no awkwardness in skipping it.
I tell you this because the priest used another word to describe the Advent Season: yearning or longing. Some people don’t like the Christian scriptures because they are full of “don’ts”. I like the “do’s”. We are told to love. We are told to rest one day a week and do no labor. The Advent season seems like our chance to anticipate. If we allow that the preparation of the season is internal rather than external, we could really get in a nice rest. Doug and I don’t know what we’ll do for Christmas this year. We will be away from our family and friends. Though Doug’s classmates invited us (and others) for Thanksgiving, Christmas seems to me more intimate and I don’t expect an invitation. This will be a good chance for us to truly have a holy Christmas. Since we have no expectations and no one has any of us, we can relax. Think about this as you say to yourself “There’s too much to do, I can’t relax now.” Be honest and answer: What expectations do you put on others at Christmas time? What expectations are truly put on you? You may be doing much more than is necessary. When I was a child, I expected gifts from my parents and I expected certain food. So, certainly, there may indeed be expectations. What would it be like to celebrate a different Christmas? Who would really miss having EVERY particular food item on the table? Let those preparations you must have (like the fudge and the fondant) be a participatory activity. If your family or friends don’t like that idea, tell them the story of the Little Red Hen.
I actually look forward to making candy. I thoroughly enjoy making the fudge. The fondant is a mixed bag. It’s hard work. There is an incredible amount of stirring the thick cream center. The rolling and dipping must be timed just right and it gets tedious after a few dozen. But as I see the shiny dipped chocolates with the cherry or walnut on, top it’s such a happy sight it makes my mouth water – NO! I mean it makes me want to continue and (with the proper frame of mind or Christmas music playing) the tedium becomes a blessed ritual. What else can I do that with in my life? What tedium can you make blessed ritual? What expectations can you release? What will Christmas be this year?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Thanksgiving
In my life, I have been very good at remembering the wrongs done to me by various people. I think that, while it's not the healthiest stuff to carry around in our minds and hearts, it's natural. As I was walking and having quiet time (me and God) this afternoon, it occurred to me that I should be more mindful of harboring the good deeds done to me. So with that in mind, I started thinking back over my life of the range of people who have done something that still brings me joy today.
Joyce Hurley, my chorus teacher in Andalucia Elementary School taught me great songs that I still can sing. Mrs. Hurley cussed in front of me one time. I’ll never forget that. I was playing Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady in the 7th or 8th grade. We were talking about the fact that the show was double cast. I don’t recall exactly what we were discussing but I know that she told me that Debbie (the other Eliza) was “damn good and I knew it.” I actually thought I was much better. She put me lovingly, and in an adult way (she said “damn”!) in my place. I maturede a lot that season.
Lucy Linder, my French teacher at Alhambra High School hired me to housesit for her. My own place! In HIGH SCHOOL! I treasured the privacy and independence of having my own place for weeks at a time (Miss Linder took long trips). The drawback was she had a minimum of nine cats at a time. I remember one other funny thing about house sitting for her. She recommended me to the dean of girls at our Alhambra. I did not know this. I only knew that I was summoned to her office one afternoon. You did not get called to see Mrs. (Juanita) Lipton unless you had been caught smoking something or skipping something (like a class or a period). I sat outside her office while she berated some girl for something. I was running over all the possibilities of why she wanted to see me. Did Sandy, Debbie, Carolyn and I take too long at Taco Bell for lunch? Did I park in her space? When she called me in, she was all smiles and asked me if I’d house sit for her. Whew . . .
Pastor Bud Abrams taught me a couple of priceless lessons. During my junior year in high school things went bad between me and my best friend. We went in to see Bud for advice. He asked us to write down our grievances on paper which he furnished. I needed a second page, much to my friend’s dismay. When we finished writing he took the pages. We anxiously awaited him to read them and lay into the other. He folded them both up and tore them. Our jaws dropped. We protested. He calmly told us that this is what God does everyday with our sins and other shortcomings and we needed to learn how to do it too. We were united not only in our astonishment of what Bud had done, but in our love of Bud, God and, truly, always and still, each other. It got hard and I remember asking Bud how to carry on through such troubles. (A brief synopsis of what I was going through – my friend decided to start drinking and sleeping around in high school and shunned my friendship for other girls who behaved the same way.) Bud told me to “Sit back and let God love you.” Sounds simple but look at your own life and see the power of love.
If it weren’t for My piano professor at Grand Canyon College, Dr. Paul Paige, I may have never taught piano. He flat out told me one day that I should teach and handed me a name and phone number and that, my friends, is where it all began. He also got me this incredible job turning pages for the Sun City Fine Arts Society which put me at the keyboard of many fabulous players (and one harpist). I got to meet some huge artists like Chrisopher O’Reilly and Joshua Bell.
My piano students were a constant source of joy. I know, dear students, that I spent plenty of time harping on your not practicing or doing this or that right, but listen to this. One of my favorite memories is when one of you would prove me wrong. I’ll explain. Many times a student would request a song that was levels too difficult for them. I would often acquiesce with the warning that it may be too much. I loved returning the next week to see progress, especially when it turned into a recital or other performance piece. I appreciate every meal offered and given. I am humbled to remember how many times I was greeted at the door with smiles when I was 30 minutes late or had flat forgotten to show up the previous week. I cherish every picture, drawing, flower, piece of candy and gift of any sort ever given to me. I would wear them, eat them, hang them up (whichever was appropriate) with pride and joy.
My parents showed the kind of love and devotion that, I believe, only parents can have. When I was in high school there was a summer during which I was house sitting for Lucy Linder on the east side of town and starring in a musical in the community theater on the west side of town. These were the days when Phoenix had two freeways. One ran north-south and was located rather centrally, the other ran east-west and was located far south. The theater and Lucy’s house were north. This meant that every night, my full-time working parents had to take turns picking me up from practice on the west side after 10 PM (when we finished on time) and drive me the 30 or so minutes to Lucy’s house. They then had to pick me up the next day from Lucy’s house and drive me back for rehearsal. What did I get out of this? The temporal glory of a starring role in a musical and income for house sitting. What did my parents get? Sleepless nights.
To my students who are older and still living at home. Thank your parents more often. I look back at that time and I’m honestly not certain I even thanked them. It’s easy. Repeat after me, “Thanks, mom.” “Thanks, dad.”
Most of all I treasure all the people who have told me the truth. I mean the nitty-gritty difficult truth when it wasn’t easy on either of us. I am a better person because you did. If you had not told me that I was out of line, rude, negative, expecting too much, etc. I would still be the self-absorbed, selfish, vindictive, demanding monster I was in my twenties. We need to be able to tell each other the truth, especially when it is wrapped in love and concern. We have to be able to hear the truth and think on it. There are so many people who cannot talk with their neighbor, their son or daughter or friend if they do not agree on the topic. These are the same people who want world peace.
These things are so much better to keep lingering in our hearts than old gossip, lies and assorted abuses.
Happy Thanksgiving. I love you all.
P.S. During the time between Thanksgiving and the New Year I will NOT, repeat, NOT be reporting any of my dietary decisions. Thank you for your understanding.
Joyce Hurley, my chorus teacher in Andalucia Elementary School taught me great songs that I still can sing. Mrs. Hurley cussed in front of me one time. I’ll never forget that. I was playing Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady in the 7th or 8th grade. We were talking about the fact that the show was double cast. I don’t recall exactly what we were discussing but I know that she told me that Debbie (the other Eliza) was “damn good and I knew it.” I actually thought I was much better. She put me lovingly, and in an adult way (she said “damn”!) in my place. I maturede a lot that season.
Lucy Linder, my French teacher at Alhambra High School hired me to housesit for her. My own place! In HIGH SCHOOL! I treasured the privacy and independence of having my own place for weeks at a time (Miss Linder took long trips). The drawback was she had a minimum of nine cats at a time. I remember one other funny thing about house sitting for her. She recommended me to the dean of girls at our Alhambra. I did not know this. I only knew that I was summoned to her office one afternoon. You did not get called to see Mrs. (Juanita) Lipton unless you had been caught smoking something or skipping something (like a class or a period). I sat outside her office while she berated some girl for something. I was running over all the possibilities of why she wanted to see me. Did Sandy, Debbie, Carolyn and I take too long at Taco Bell for lunch? Did I park in her space? When she called me in, she was all smiles and asked me if I’d house sit for her. Whew . . .
Pastor Bud Abrams taught me a couple of priceless lessons. During my junior year in high school things went bad between me and my best friend. We went in to see Bud for advice. He asked us to write down our grievances on paper which he furnished. I needed a second page, much to my friend’s dismay. When we finished writing he took the pages. We anxiously awaited him to read them and lay into the other. He folded them both up and tore them. Our jaws dropped. We protested. He calmly told us that this is what God does everyday with our sins and other shortcomings and we needed to learn how to do it too. We were united not only in our astonishment of what Bud had done, but in our love of Bud, God and, truly, always and still, each other. It got hard and I remember asking Bud how to carry on through such troubles. (A brief synopsis of what I was going through – my friend decided to start drinking and sleeping around in high school and shunned my friendship for other girls who behaved the same way.) Bud told me to “Sit back and let God love you.” Sounds simple but look at your own life and see the power of love.
If it weren’t for My piano professor at Grand Canyon College, Dr. Paul Paige, I may have never taught piano. He flat out told me one day that I should teach and handed me a name and phone number and that, my friends, is where it all began. He also got me this incredible job turning pages for the Sun City Fine Arts Society which put me at the keyboard of many fabulous players (and one harpist). I got to meet some huge artists like Chrisopher O’Reilly and Joshua Bell.
My piano students were a constant source of joy. I know, dear students, that I spent plenty of time harping on your not practicing or doing this or that right, but listen to this. One of my favorite memories is when one of you would prove me wrong. I’ll explain. Many times a student would request a song that was levels too difficult for them. I would often acquiesce with the warning that it may be too much. I loved returning the next week to see progress, especially when it turned into a recital or other performance piece. I appreciate every meal offered and given. I am humbled to remember how many times I was greeted at the door with smiles when I was 30 minutes late or had flat forgotten to show up the previous week. I cherish every picture, drawing, flower, piece of candy and gift of any sort ever given to me. I would wear them, eat them, hang them up (whichever was appropriate) with pride and joy.
My parents showed the kind of love and devotion that, I believe, only parents can have. When I was in high school there was a summer during which I was house sitting for Lucy Linder on the east side of town and starring in a musical in the community theater on the west side of town. These were the days when Phoenix had two freeways. One ran north-south and was located rather centrally, the other ran east-west and was located far south. The theater and Lucy’s house were north. This meant that every night, my full-time working parents had to take turns picking me up from practice on the west side after 10 PM (when we finished on time) and drive me the 30 or so minutes to Lucy’s house. They then had to pick me up the next day from Lucy’s house and drive me back for rehearsal. What did I get out of this? The temporal glory of a starring role in a musical and income for house sitting. What did my parents get? Sleepless nights.
To my students who are older and still living at home. Thank your parents more often. I look back at that time and I’m honestly not certain I even thanked them. It’s easy. Repeat after me, “Thanks, mom.” “Thanks, dad.”
Most of all I treasure all the people who have told me the truth. I mean the nitty-gritty difficult truth when it wasn’t easy on either of us. I am a better person because you did. If you had not told me that I was out of line, rude, negative, expecting too much, etc. I would still be the self-absorbed, selfish, vindictive, demanding monster I was in my twenties. We need to be able to tell each other the truth, especially when it is wrapped in love and concern. We have to be able to hear the truth and think on it. There are so many people who cannot talk with their neighbor, their son or daughter or friend if they do not agree on the topic. These are the same people who want world peace.
These things are so much better to keep lingering in our hearts than old gossip, lies and assorted abuses.
Happy Thanksgiving. I love you all.
P.S. During the time between Thanksgiving and the New Year I will NOT, repeat, NOT be reporting any of my dietary decisions. Thank you for your understanding.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Road Trip
After leaving our house (for perhaps the last time) we drove to Doug’s parents’ house to stay the night. It was fairly late and we were tired – not good company for what may be the last time we see them. I stayed out of the way and let Doug have time with them. We left the next morning, Saturday before Labor Day.
We mad an unusual stop in Rochester. We went to a Barnes and Noble to buy a book, blue highways by William Least Heat-Moon. Least Heat-Moon (whose father is Heat-Moon and older brother Little Heat-Moon) drove what is basically the perimeter of our nation avoiding at all costs the interstates. It is delightful to read particularly when you are driving the very roads he drove back in 1980 or so. It’s fun to read because he can write well making me laugh out loud at times and making me very somber at others. It’s an adventure complete with danger, odd encounters of humanity and self discovery. It is written in short chapters that require little commitment from the reader. I periodically read to Doug as we drove the roads.
Doug and I love road trips. He loves driving and seeing country he’s never seen before. I like road food (translate, fast food like Taco Bell and Subway), stopping for a drink (Pepsi) because I’m thirsty and “having” to eat out because we’re on the road.
We are a good pair on the road. Neither of us like noise so the radio is usually off and we rarely play CDs. I think we played two CDs the entire week we drove. I like to talk. Doug is funny here. If I want to guarantee conversation with Doug, all I have to do (at home) is pick up a book, get comfortable and start reading. All of a sudden he’s Mr. Chatterbox. BUT sit the two of us in a car for hours on end and it’s a one woman show. I remember one road trip he wanted to take. Two weeks out, I agreed with the stipulation that he would talk to me while he drove. Well, the day came and we sat down in the car. For the next hour and a half or so he never stopped talking. I was polite outwardly but inwardly was thinking “Who put a nickel in him?” and “For pity sake shut up!” It was then that I remembered my stipulation. He was fulfilling his end of the bargain. I praised him, thanked him and relieved him of duty. This roundabout trip to D.C. was a good balance of two-way conversation.
I say roundabout trip because we did not drive straight to Falls Church. I have two aunts and a cousin in Kentucky we visited. Doug has a friend from the service in the Gatlinburg area we met with over dinner. We also have a friend in Virginia (a couple hours outside D.C.) we stopped to have lunch with. It was a nice drive to see the country for the last time in quite a while.
If you have never driven the Blue Ridge Parkway, do it. Choose a non-touristy time of year so you don’t get totally frustrated with the single lanes backed up with nature gawkers. There are plenty of places to pull off and take pictures (and eat lunch from your ice chest). There are mountains and trees as far as you can see. The leaves were just barely starting to turn when we were there. We drove past many roads that shot off into the trees to someone’s unseen house.
There have been times of my life that the off roads would have tried my patience. You roll through small towns that set the speed limit at 30 for a couple or few miles. What set this trip aside is that we had almost no time commitments. We needed to be in Falls Church by the 13th of September. We could stop whenever something looked interesting or we had a hankering for a drink or snack. Once in a while we’d drive behind someone who was in less of a hurry than we were and we’d get sick and tired of looking at their bumper. Passing is tough because the road winds constantly. That’s when I’d read or we’d try to peek up those side roads to see what we could see.
Our time together in the car that week was good preparation for our months together in the apartment in Falls Church. More on that in a later posting.
The government paid for accommodations and food for direct travel to Falls Church. We weren’t sure what we’d be reimbursed for since we were taking an entire week and going so far out of the way so we were frugal. We loaded up an ice chest with leftovers from our refrigerator and ate those. The only meals we ate out were with my family and Doug’s friend and our other friend who we saw the day we arrived in Falls Church. We were doing so well eating leftovers I thought we should be eating out just to get the reimbursement. (Sometimes I don’t think very straight.) I will say I was pretty disciplined considering that this was the last week before Laura’s boot camp was to begin. I had very little Pepsi and only two small bags of dark chocolate M&Ms. I also exercised each night at the hotel. I also exercised in the car but that’s another story.
We mad an unusual stop in Rochester. We went to a Barnes and Noble to buy a book, blue highways by William Least Heat-Moon. Least Heat-Moon (whose father is Heat-Moon and older brother Little Heat-Moon) drove what is basically the perimeter of our nation avoiding at all costs the interstates. It is delightful to read particularly when you are driving the very roads he drove back in 1980 or so. It’s fun to read because he can write well making me laugh out loud at times and making me very somber at others. It’s an adventure complete with danger, odd encounters of humanity and self discovery. It is written in short chapters that require little commitment from the reader. I periodically read to Doug as we drove the roads.
Doug and I love road trips. He loves driving and seeing country he’s never seen before. I like road food (translate, fast food like Taco Bell and Subway), stopping for a drink (Pepsi) because I’m thirsty and “having” to eat out because we’re on the road.
We are a good pair on the road. Neither of us like noise so the radio is usually off and we rarely play CDs. I think we played two CDs the entire week we drove. I like to talk. Doug is funny here. If I want to guarantee conversation with Doug, all I have to do (at home) is pick up a book, get comfortable and start reading. All of a sudden he’s Mr. Chatterbox. BUT sit the two of us in a car for hours on end and it’s a one woman show. I remember one road trip he wanted to take. Two weeks out, I agreed with the stipulation that he would talk to me while he drove. Well, the day came and we sat down in the car. For the next hour and a half or so he never stopped talking. I was polite outwardly but inwardly was thinking “Who put a nickel in him?” and “For pity sake shut up!” It was then that I remembered my stipulation. He was fulfilling his end of the bargain. I praised him, thanked him and relieved him of duty. This roundabout trip to D.C. was a good balance of two-way conversation.
I say roundabout trip because we did not drive straight to Falls Church. I have two aunts and a cousin in Kentucky we visited. Doug has a friend from the service in the Gatlinburg area we met with over dinner. We also have a friend in Virginia (a couple hours outside D.C.) we stopped to have lunch with. It was a nice drive to see the country for the last time in quite a while.
If you have never driven the Blue Ridge Parkway, do it. Choose a non-touristy time of year so you don’t get totally frustrated with the single lanes backed up with nature gawkers. There are plenty of places to pull off and take pictures (and eat lunch from your ice chest). There are mountains and trees as far as you can see. The leaves were just barely starting to turn when we were there. We drove past many roads that shot off into the trees to someone’s unseen house.
There have been times of my life that the off roads would have tried my patience. You roll through small towns that set the speed limit at 30 for a couple or few miles. What set this trip aside is that we had almost no time commitments. We needed to be in Falls Church by the 13th of September. We could stop whenever something looked interesting or we had a hankering for a drink or snack. Once in a while we’d drive behind someone who was in less of a hurry than we were and we’d get sick and tired of looking at their bumper. Passing is tough because the road winds constantly. That’s when I’d read or we’d try to peek up those side roads to see what we could see.
Our time together in the car that week was good preparation for our months together in the apartment in Falls Church. More on that in a later posting.
The government paid for accommodations and food for direct travel to Falls Church. We weren’t sure what we’d be reimbursed for since we were taking an entire week and going so far out of the way so we were frugal. We loaded up an ice chest with leftovers from our refrigerator and ate those. The only meals we ate out were with my family and Doug’s friend and our other friend who we saw the day we arrived in Falls Church. We were doing so well eating leftovers I thought we should be eating out just to get the reimbursement. (Sometimes I don’t think very straight.) I will say I was pretty disciplined considering that this was the last week before Laura’s boot camp was to begin. I had very little Pepsi and only two small bags of dark chocolate M&Ms. I also exercised each night at the hotel. I also exercised in the car but that’s another story.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Pack Out
The State Department pays for us to relocate to Washington D.C. for Doug’s training. They pay movers to come pack our belongings into two separate shipments. A smaller shipment called unaccompanied baggage (a total of apx. 450 pounds between the two of us) which is sent to our apartment in Falls Church, Virginia and an enormous shipment of everything else (except what Doug and I pack in his car for the road trip).
I am not a very organized person. (Stop laughing, my dear students. At least I can admit it.) So when I found out that we were required to inventory our belongings I was a little overwhelmed. You’ll see the word “overwhelmed” many times in my writings of these days. I decided to begin right away. I started with what I considered easy, books. I listed every book Doug and I owned. Next I listed my clothes since I had to go through them anyway to get rid of pieces. I then moved to smaller groups like kitchen items, games, camping gear, pictures, furniture, etc. Do you want to know how many socks I have? How many frames we own? I can tell you. I was so pleased with myself. I was organized! I should have known that punishment loomed in my future.
I was instructed (more than once) that on the day the movers packed us, Doug and I were required to supervise the packing and keep an inventory of what was placed in each box. Doug and I discussed this one. I was concerned that movers would not appreciate us looking over their shoulder, that they may be offended that we thought they’d steal from us. I wanted the movers to like us so they’d do a good job. He assured me that these movers were informed as to these requirements and that they had done pack outs for other Foreign Service families. Great!
With all that in mind, I gathered items that needed to be packed together and marked them for long term storage, unaccompanied baggage or (a third category) storage ready to be transferred to wherever we were posted. For instance, all my renaissance festival stuff was in a pile, all our exercise equipment, our instruments, etc. This way, I thought, inventory would be easy as would packing and unpacking. On certain shelves of books, I marked long term storage on other shelves I marked store for overseas. Same with my music.
When the movers showed up, I was ready with my little pad of paper and pencil. I reminded the movers that we were required to watch the packing and inventory each box (I was still concerned about offending them). I was then told that no, I did not have to stand over and write down every item. The movers said that they inventoried the boxes. I was skeptical, but Doug assured me that I did not have to. Okay, less work for me. So, as we walked through the house with the supervisor, I pointed out the piles and my labeling system. He said he understood. We did switch labels to colors – yellow for items to be stored for easy access to be shipped overseas and red for long term storage. Easily done.
About halfway through the second day of packing, I saw one of the movers grabbing things from this pile and that pile and putting them in one box. I pointed out that he was mixing piles.
“Oh.” That was his response. “So you want the piles separate?”
“Yes!” I was nervous now. “That’s why they are labeled and separated!”
I started looking through the box he was packing. In it were things from my childhood, renaissance festival garb and an instrument or two. NO!!! I breathed deeply.
“I had these separated into clearly marked piles of items that need to be packed together.” I went over to the instruments and asked him where particular instruments were. He did not know. I looked at his “inventory” of each box he had packed. Each box read “basement, miscellaneous”. That’s an inventory??? All these boxes need to be repacked, I said and I ran to the supervisor. Had he not explained this to his fellow packers? Apparently not.
I get very frustrated – sometimes just plain livid – when I pay attention in life, act responsibly only to somehow, in the end, be punished for it. I learn too often that it does not matter what I do, fate will step in, swing its ugly hand around and what will happen, will happen regardless of my actions. This is one of those attitudes I’m working on in boot camp.
I want to say that I believe that packer was genuinely distraught over the situation. He spent the day looking for those two instruments and informed me when he found them. He had to unpack and repack eight boxes. Later, he came to me and said “Don’t forget, we’re here for you. If there is anything not right, speak up.” I believe he did that of his own accord and was sincere. Good man. It took the movers two full days to pack us out.
When Doug first found the house we lived in, we were just dating. I remember him telling me about it and taking me to see it. It was locked so all we could do was walk around it, stand on the porch and peer in the front window. To this day, I can still see what I saw in the house that day. That’s funny because I was just dating him and really didn’t think much of the house. If I were to buy a house, I’d want more than a few feet between it and the next house. Anyway, I do remember that day vividly. So after the movers were long gone and we had relaxed on the front stoop eating leftover pizza, we got up, held hands and walked to the front window and peered in one last time.
I am not a very organized person. (Stop laughing, my dear students. At least I can admit it.) So when I found out that we were required to inventory our belongings I was a little overwhelmed. You’ll see the word “overwhelmed” many times in my writings of these days. I decided to begin right away. I started with what I considered easy, books. I listed every book Doug and I owned. Next I listed my clothes since I had to go through them anyway to get rid of pieces. I then moved to smaller groups like kitchen items, games, camping gear, pictures, furniture, etc. Do you want to know how many socks I have? How many frames we own? I can tell you. I was so pleased with myself. I was organized! I should have known that punishment loomed in my future.
I was instructed (more than once) that on the day the movers packed us, Doug and I were required to supervise the packing and keep an inventory of what was placed in each box. Doug and I discussed this one. I was concerned that movers would not appreciate us looking over their shoulder, that they may be offended that we thought they’d steal from us. I wanted the movers to like us so they’d do a good job. He assured me that these movers were informed as to these requirements and that they had done pack outs for other Foreign Service families. Great!
With all that in mind, I gathered items that needed to be packed together and marked them for long term storage, unaccompanied baggage or (a third category) storage ready to be transferred to wherever we were posted. For instance, all my renaissance festival stuff was in a pile, all our exercise equipment, our instruments, etc. This way, I thought, inventory would be easy as would packing and unpacking. On certain shelves of books, I marked long term storage on other shelves I marked store for overseas. Same with my music.
When the movers showed up, I was ready with my little pad of paper and pencil. I reminded the movers that we were required to watch the packing and inventory each box (I was still concerned about offending them). I was then told that no, I did not have to stand over and write down every item. The movers said that they inventoried the boxes. I was skeptical, but Doug assured me that I did not have to. Okay, less work for me. So, as we walked through the house with the supervisor, I pointed out the piles and my labeling system. He said he understood. We did switch labels to colors – yellow for items to be stored for easy access to be shipped overseas and red for long term storage. Easily done.
About halfway through the second day of packing, I saw one of the movers grabbing things from this pile and that pile and putting them in one box. I pointed out that he was mixing piles.
“Oh.” That was his response. “So you want the piles separate?”
“Yes!” I was nervous now. “That’s why they are labeled and separated!”
I started looking through the box he was packing. In it were things from my childhood, renaissance festival garb and an instrument or two. NO!!! I breathed deeply.
“I had these separated into clearly marked piles of items that need to be packed together.” I went over to the instruments and asked him where particular instruments were. He did not know. I looked at his “inventory” of each box he had packed. Each box read “basement, miscellaneous”. That’s an inventory??? All these boxes need to be repacked, I said and I ran to the supervisor. Had he not explained this to his fellow packers? Apparently not.
I get very frustrated – sometimes just plain livid – when I pay attention in life, act responsibly only to somehow, in the end, be punished for it. I learn too often that it does not matter what I do, fate will step in, swing its ugly hand around and what will happen, will happen regardless of my actions. This is one of those attitudes I’m working on in boot camp.
I want to say that I believe that packer was genuinely distraught over the situation. He spent the day looking for those two instruments and informed me when he found them. He had to unpack and repack eight boxes. Later, he came to me and said “Don’t forget, we’re here for you. If there is anything not right, speak up.” I believe he did that of his own accord and was sincere. Good man. It took the movers two full days to pack us out.
When Doug first found the house we lived in, we were just dating. I remember him telling me about it and taking me to see it. It was locked so all we could do was walk around it, stand on the porch and peer in the front window. To this day, I can still see what I saw in the house that day. That’s funny because I was just dating him and really didn’t think much of the house. If I were to buy a house, I’d want more than a few feet between it and the next house. Anyway, I do remember that day vividly. So after the movers were long gone and we had relaxed on the front stoop eating leftover pizza, we got up, held hands and walked to the front window and peered in one last time.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Allow me to introduce Lulu
I haven’t written about my neighbor Lulu yet. I think that’s because if I write about her, I must think about her intently and that makes me miss her. I met Lulu, whose given name is Josephine, when I was about 40 and she was about five. She would come across the street (at the direction of an older brother or her mom) when she’d see me out working in the yard. She always wore Red cowboy boots which both she and her mom, Kathy, swore she never owned, but in which I can clearly see her. Sometimes I was delighted to have Lulu visit and chat with me while I weeded, raked, and planted, other times I was in one of my Marlene Dietrich moods and just wanted to be alone. Sometimes I would be working and barely hear a soft voice say “Hi, Laura.” Sometimes I’m sure she’d say it several times before it registered to me that I was hearing someone for real. It was so soft. I’d wave or call “Hi” back to her. She’d then proceed to talk to me in that same soft voice. I had no idea what she was saying. Occasionally I’d cross the street to find out; other times I’d just cast a well timed smile her direction. She liked to ask questions. I can remember her watch me answer them as though it wasn’t the answer she was after, just conversation. It was never annoying.
As Lulu grew older, she started asking genuine questions to which she wanted answers and what impressed me was how thought out her questions were and how she remembered the answers. Lulu is a thinker who pays attention to what is going on around her. What she lacked in fashion sense those days she made up for in smarts. Doug and I used to look forward to watching across the street to see what Lulu was wearing that day. I wish I had kept a log because, unfortunately, I haven’t the memory Lulu has. I do remember a frilly, fancy nightgown sort of thing she wore as she rode a skateboard or scooter. And she always had those mythical red cowboy boots on until they no longer fit her.
At a certain age she’d see our light on late at night and call. This would amaze me because I had piano students older than her who would not come to the phone if I called them. We’d talk and look out our front windows and wave at each other. I miss that. She went through a short stage where, I swear, she was watching our house and when I came home from teaching or if I was in sight in the yard she came right over to visit. I really like my alone time and this was difficult for me. I liked Lulu. She completely won me over when she started bringing over books to practice her reading. We’d sit together on the loveseat and she’d point and read very slowly. I love those memories. We read to each other for years. Reading to each other is something Doug and I have always done. I think that’s rare and valuable. I don’t remember all the books that she brought over except Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books and the Twilight series. After that, we came to an agreement with her visits: If she rang the bell twice and I did not answer, I was busy and would not answer. Her mom, I think, coached her to ask me if it was a good time for a visit when she came over. She did this faithfully. Another trait I admire in Lulu is, when it was not convenient, she never tried to talk her way in. While definitely a little girl, she showed maturity. I eventually started to call to see if she wanted to come over and I’d visit her and her family.
As the move got nearer Doug and I got busier and Lulu still wanted to visit. Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t want the visits, I just had a lot to do. I am easily distracted and adding any variables to the mix meant I didn’t get as much done. So I started a Lulu Do list. Because she was willing to do absolutely anything all sorts of things went on this list: tear down these boxes for recycling, find all the candles in the house and put them in this pile, put these magazines in chronological order, etc. Sometimes I didn’t have anything for her to do so she’d bring over her clarinet and play for me. She was also learning some pieces on the piano from me so she’d sit and practice while I worked. True friendship is when you can be anything your friend needs. That’s what we had.
I held my breath every time I sent Lulu home those days because I usually sent her home with something that was too special to give away but I didn’t want to keep. I was afraid Kathy would say “Enough!” She didn’t. Lulu got books including my old Bible (the one with the hand tooled leather cover my father made for me), my keyboard (in hopes she’d keep playing), a pile of board games and food from our cupboard that couldn’t practically go with us and which we couldn’t give to just anyone. I offered her a dress I no longer wore but she declined. That was another defining moment for Lulu. As a child, I don’t know if I could have said no to something offered to me. I would have felt too uncomfortable. The dress I offered her was pink based and flowery. Not Lulu. Too froo-frooey. I was wondering if she’d be one of those girls who never wore dresses, but that is not the case. Read on.
We decided to have a concert so we practiced some duets and solo pieces on piano and clarinet. We made up a program, set a date and time, invited people and practiced and practiced. We set up our dining room as a recital hall, passed out programs and performed. I don’t remember what I wore but Lulu had on a purple paisley (if I remember correctly) dress with spaghetti straps and a jagged hem and strappy heeled sandals. My little pinky flowered dress was clearly not sophisticated enough for Lulu.
The young people in my life made such a huge impact on me. I loved our lesson time but I also looked forward to the more relaxed time we shared outside of lessons. The parties. Many of my piano students have met Lulu at our annual Halloween party. There was one year that she wanted to come to the party. I said no. It was just for piano students. The next year she helped me decorate for it. As we were decorating a mini van pulled up. One of my families (with four kids) was an hour early. I was not dressed. The house was not totally ready. AAAAHH! We greeted each other and laughed at the error in time and the mother asked if she could help. I stuttered not knowing what to ask of her. Lulu made a suggestion and off they went. I went upstairs to dress. By the time I came back down they had everything ready. The mother said something to the effect of “I just did what she told me to do.” Lulu stayed and partied with us that night.
There is not a day that goes by that I don’t remember my students. I still am on the lookout for this year’s Christmas gift. Habits. As I face the difficulties in personal discipline, I remember how I advised you and that moves me into action. (In other words, some of you will delight to know – my words have come back to bite me.) I started to learn the Russian alphabet last week. I had 33 index cards with a letter on each. I used the same games I taught you when you were learning to say your musical alphabet backwards, say it in thirds (skips) etc. I had the alphabet down in about three days. Dang! I was a good teacher!
As Lulu grew older, she started asking genuine questions to which she wanted answers and what impressed me was how thought out her questions were and how she remembered the answers. Lulu is a thinker who pays attention to what is going on around her. What she lacked in fashion sense those days she made up for in smarts. Doug and I used to look forward to watching across the street to see what Lulu was wearing that day. I wish I had kept a log because, unfortunately, I haven’t the memory Lulu has. I do remember a frilly, fancy nightgown sort of thing she wore as she rode a skateboard or scooter. And she always had those mythical red cowboy boots on until they no longer fit her.
At a certain age she’d see our light on late at night and call. This would amaze me because I had piano students older than her who would not come to the phone if I called them. We’d talk and look out our front windows and wave at each other. I miss that. She went through a short stage where, I swear, she was watching our house and when I came home from teaching or if I was in sight in the yard she came right over to visit. I really like my alone time and this was difficult for me. I liked Lulu. She completely won me over when she started bringing over books to practice her reading. We’d sit together on the loveseat and she’d point and read very slowly. I love those memories. We read to each other for years. Reading to each other is something Doug and I have always done. I think that’s rare and valuable. I don’t remember all the books that she brought over except Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books and the Twilight series. After that, we came to an agreement with her visits: If she rang the bell twice and I did not answer, I was busy and would not answer. Her mom, I think, coached her to ask me if it was a good time for a visit when she came over. She did this faithfully. Another trait I admire in Lulu is, when it was not convenient, she never tried to talk her way in. While definitely a little girl, she showed maturity. I eventually started to call to see if she wanted to come over and I’d visit her and her family.
As the move got nearer Doug and I got busier and Lulu still wanted to visit. Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t want the visits, I just had a lot to do. I am easily distracted and adding any variables to the mix meant I didn’t get as much done. So I started a Lulu Do list. Because she was willing to do absolutely anything all sorts of things went on this list: tear down these boxes for recycling, find all the candles in the house and put them in this pile, put these magazines in chronological order, etc. Sometimes I didn’t have anything for her to do so she’d bring over her clarinet and play for me. She was also learning some pieces on the piano from me so she’d sit and practice while I worked. True friendship is when you can be anything your friend needs. That’s what we had.
I held my breath every time I sent Lulu home those days because I usually sent her home with something that was too special to give away but I didn’t want to keep. I was afraid Kathy would say “Enough!” She didn’t. Lulu got books including my old Bible (the one with the hand tooled leather cover my father made for me), my keyboard (in hopes she’d keep playing), a pile of board games and food from our cupboard that couldn’t practically go with us and which we couldn’t give to just anyone. I offered her a dress I no longer wore but she declined. That was another defining moment for Lulu. As a child, I don’t know if I could have said no to something offered to me. I would have felt too uncomfortable. The dress I offered her was pink based and flowery. Not Lulu. Too froo-frooey. I was wondering if she’d be one of those girls who never wore dresses, but that is not the case. Read on.
We decided to have a concert so we practiced some duets and solo pieces on piano and clarinet. We made up a program, set a date and time, invited people and practiced and practiced. We set up our dining room as a recital hall, passed out programs and performed. I don’t remember what I wore but Lulu had on a purple paisley (if I remember correctly) dress with spaghetti straps and a jagged hem and strappy heeled sandals. My little pinky flowered dress was clearly not sophisticated enough for Lulu.
The young people in my life made such a huge impact on me. I loved our lesson time but I also looked forward to the more relaxed time we shared outside of lessons. The parties. Many of my piano students have met Lulu at our annual Halloween party. There was one year that she wanted to come to the party. I said no. It was just for piano students. The next year she helped me decorate for it. As we were decorating a mini van pulled up. One of my families (with four kids) was an hour early. I was not dressed. The house was not totally ready. AAAAHH! We greeted each other and laughed at the error in time and the mother asked if she could help. I stuttered not knowing what to ask of her. Lulu made a suggestion and off they went. I went upstairs to dress. By the time I came back down they had everything ready. The mother said something to the effect of “I just did what she told me to do.” Lulu stayed and partied with us that night.
There is not a day that goes by that I don’t remember my students. I still am on the lookout for this year’s Christmas gift. Habits. As I face the difficulties in personal discipline, I remember how I advised you and that moves me into action. (In other words, some of you will delight to know – my words have come back to bite me.) I started to learn the Russian alphabet last week. I had 33 index cards with a letter on each. I used the same games I taught you when you were learning to say your musical alphabet backwards, say it in thirds (skips) etc. I had the alphabet down in about three days. Dang! I was a good teacher!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The Long Goodbye
Telling my students and their families that we were moving in the near future was not what I had imagined. I knew that they would be disappointed yet happy for Doug and I, which they were. I did not expect genuine hurt and sorrow. The week after I had told them all that we were leaving one of my students asked me how she would get her lessons from me after we moved. I was quiet (stunned, really). I gently told her that there would be no more lessons after I moved and that she could get a new teacher. She quietly took this in. The next lesson she was defiant and irritating. “What is the matter with you?” I wondered aloud. I figured it out after I left her house. She was hurt and probably a little angry that I was leaving.
An adult friend of mine was particularly down one day when we were talking about our move. She said “You’re excited, but it is really hard on those you’re leaving behind.”
I thought, “Back off. Don’t try to guilt me.” My defenses went up until I thought about it. She was right. I was leaving people behind. By choice. It was the right choice to make and they all supported us but that did not change the fact that I was leaving my friends behind. And that became the single most difficult aspect of this long goodbye that Doug and I had before us. I told the news of our move with a broad smile on my face, “He passed! We’re moving! We get to travel the world!” Translate “He passed! I’m leaving you! I’m getting out of here to see what else there is to see. I’ve had enough of this place!” And it was all true.
I love my students so I was careful to tell them that, although I was very excited, I knew that the sorrow of my leaving would set in at some point. I explained that all I could see immediately was the opportunity, the adventure the romance of it. I imagined that when I arrived to Falls Church and sat in that empty apartment and realized that I knew no one that I would miss not only teaching but miss my students as my friends. Many times I just wanted to get it over with, quit teaching, ready myself and the house and leave. The long goodbye was wearing.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will prepare myself for a lifetime membership to AA. It depends.
Doug left Olup and Associates to come home and ready himself and the house for our move.
As far as readying the house, I (with the help of a dear neighbor – more on her later) worked in the kitchen, lower bathroom and the upstairs painting over the rental house white that was so cheap it came off if (and that’s a big if in our case) you wiped it with a wet cloth. Doug hired people to tuck point the house and trim dead branches from our trees.
If that sounds like the work distribution was a little uneven, it was not. Doug spent hours each day filling out the mounds of paperwork required by the State Department, researching and hiring a management company to rent our house, advertising various items of value to sell on Craig’s list - including my Jeep (sniff), going through the years of records he has meticulously kept for us to weed out what we no longer needed, and visiting his parents as he could. He did the brainy work; I did the busy work.
It was not a little discomforting to realize that we had been living in a house that would not meet basic rental standards and codes. What was the matter with us? How could we have lived without window coverings for 12 years? Why would we watch (and listen to) the plaster falling off the basement walls until you could practically see the bare earth and not do anything about it? How could we look at marked up, unpainted walls and deteriorating (otherwise gorgeous woodwork) every day and not pick up a paint brush, a piece of sandpaper or stripper or whatever and work a little bit? Anyone?
Here’s an idea for you. Pretend that you are going to move in four months. First, look around and get rid of what you don’t want to take with you. It feels good to donate and give things to charities and friends and you can make some money on Craig’s list and at Half-Price Books. Next, examine your house and make a list of repairs and polishes it needs. Do one thing everyday toward those repairs. It’s not that difficult. I’m sure the impetus of the impending move and the excitement over all the possibilities our futures held helped motivate us. I’m certain or we’d still be sitting in a curtainless house with black streaked, pop-splattered walls with holes between the outside bricks and only an occasional wall in the basement.
We came up with a new rule for ourselves during this time. Actually two. Let me step back a few years to our first such rule. Throw away any item of clothing that has a hole in it. Period. Except favorite work jeans. I will rationalize wearing anything torn or stained as long as the tear or stain is under my arm (just don’t lift my arms), under where my hair hangs (just don’t pin my hair up) or – for pants – under a long enough top that would cover it (just don’t lift my arms which would lift the top . . .) So we cleaned out our drawers and closets years ago ridding ourselves of all holey clothing. God bless us. In the process of purging for this move we made countless trips to St. Vincent de Paul with carfuls of goods.
First new rule: Do not keep or use any item that St. Vincent de Paul refuses to put on their shelves or even in their freebie box. How embarrassing. “What do you mean you won’t take this pan with half the Teflon worn off? I just cooked dinner in it last night! I’m still standing! Poison, bah.” Now, I will say that the interesting thing about St. Vincent de Paul standards is this: It seems that they will take any baby doll. I had some dolls that looked like they were horror movie props: one eye closed, hair half trimmed, naked and written on – even one with a stuffed body though they won’t take stuffed animals. Go figure.
The other new rule is, for decency’s sake, don’t live in a house that won’t even meet standard rental codes. We all deserve better than that.
Emotionally things did not relax for long when we learned that he was approved. There was always something else to wait for; something else dependant on something else and on and on. As with any job, there is a salary range for newbies into the Foreign Service. One possibility is a salary match (to certain degree, I’m sure) to your previous job if you are employed full-time within 30 days of the start of your training. While we wanted to get going, say our goodbyes and move on to our new lives, we had a lot of work to do to prepare. And while we needed more time, Doug was no longer employed full time and needed to get to that September training. I was quite anxious. Doug had already taken a significant pay cut working for Olup and we didn’t want that to happen again coupled with the fact that I would not be working at all. So as not to appear to be lazy here, we knew that our time in Washington D.C. would last anywhere from apx. four to eleven months so my taking on work under such uncertain circumstances was not practical.
So, where was I? Oh, yes I was feeling anxious. I try to be careful abut what I present to God in prayer; not too selfish (oh, Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz), not too unrealistic (world peace). So when I prayed that Doug would get called to the September training to he could get the salary match I felt I was wasting my time and God’s. At first I thought I was being selfish, then I realized it was different. Here I sat before the Lord worried about money. After all Doug and I had recently been through I was worried about money. I laughed. As Bill Cosby said to the Lord as Noah, “Right.” I relaxed again.
An adult friend of mine was particularly down one day when we were talking about our move. She said “You’re excited, but it is really hard on those you’re leaving behind.”
I thought, “Back off. Don’t try to guilt me.” My defenses went up until I thought about it. She was right. I was leaving people behind. By choice. It was the right choice to make and they all supported us but that did not change the fact that I was leaving my friends behind. And that became the single most difficult aspect of this long goodbye that Doug and I had before us. I told the news of our move with a broad smile on my face, “He passed! We’re moving! We get to travel the world!” Translate “He passed! I’m leaving you! I’m getting out of here to see what else there is to see. I’ve had enough of this place!” And it was all true.
I love my students so I was careful to tell them that, although I was very excited, I knew that the sorrow of my leaving would set in at some point. I explained that all I could see immediately was the opportunity, the adventure the romance of it. I imagined that when I arrived to Falls Church and sat in that empty apartment and realized that I knew no one that I would miss not only teaching but miss my students as my friends. Many times I just wanted to get it over with, quit teaching, ready myself and the house and leave. The long goodbye was wearing.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will prepare myself for a lifetime membership to AA. It depends.
Doug left Olup and Associates to come home and ready himself and the house for our move.
As far as readying the house, I (with the help of a dear neighbor – more on her later) worked in the kitchen, lower bathroom and the upstairs painting over the rental house white that was so cheap it came off if (and that’s a big if in our case) you wiped it with a wet cloth. Doug hired people to tuck point the house and trim dead branches from our trees.
If that sounds like the work distribution was a little uneven, it was not. Doug spent hours each day filling out the mounds of paperwork required by the State Department, researching and hiring a management company to rent our house, advertising various items of value to sell on Craig’s list - including my Jeep (sniff), going through the years of records he has meticulously kept for us to weed out what we no longer needed, and visiting his parents as he could. He did the brainy work; I did the busy work.
It was not a little discomforting to realize that we had been living in a house that would not meet basic rental standards and codes. What was the matter with us? How could we have lived without window coverings for 12 years? Why would we watch (and listen to) the plaster falling off the basement walls until you could practically see the bare earth and not do anything about it? How could we look at marked up, unpainted walls and deteriorating (otherwise gorgeous woodwork) every day and not pick up a paint brush, a piece of sandpaper or stripper or whatever and work a little bit? Anyone?
Here’s an idea for you. Pretend that you are going to move in four months. First, look around and get rid of what you don’t want to take with you. It feels good to donate and give things to charities and friends and you can make some money on Craig’s list and at Half-Price Books. Next, examine your house and make a list of repairs and polishes it needs. Do one thing everyday toward those repairs. It’s not that difficult. I’m sure the impetus of the impending move and the excitement over all the possibilities our futures held helped motivate us. I’m certain or we’d still be sitting in a curtainless house with black streaked, pop-splattered walls with holes between the outside bricks and only an occasional wall in the basement.
We came up with a new rule for ourselves during this time. Actually two. Let me step back a few years to our first such rule. Throw away any item of clothing that has a hole in it. Period. Except favorite work jeans. I will rationalize wearing anything torn or stained as long as the tear or stain is under my arm (just don’t lift my arms), under where my hair hangs (just don’t pin my hair up) or – for pants – under a long enough top that would cover it (just don’t lift my arms which would lift the top . . .) So we cleaned out our drawers and closets years ago ridding ourselves of all holey clothing. God bless us. In the process of purging for this move we made countless trips to St. Vincent de Paul with carfuls of goods.
First new rule: Do not keep or use any item that St. Vincent de Paul refuses to put on their shelves or even in their freebie box. How embarrassing. “What do you mean you won’t take this pan with half the Teflon worn off? I just cooked dinner in it last night! I’m still standing! Poison, bah.” Now, I will say that the interesting thing about St. Vincent de Paul standards is this: It seems that they will take any baby doll. I had some dolls that looked like they were horror movie props: one eye closed, hair half trimmed, naked and written on – even one with a stuffed body though they won’t take stuffed animals. Go figure.
The other new rule is, for decency’s sake, don’t live in a house that won’t even meet standard rental codes. We all deserve better than that.
Emotionally things did not relax for long when we learned that he was approved. There was always something else to wait for; something else dependant on something else and on and on. As with any job, there is a salary range for newbies into the Foreign Service. One possibility is a salary match (to certain degree, I’m sure) to your previous job if you are employed full-time within 30 days of the start of your training. While we wanted to get going, say our goodbyes and move on to our new lives, we had a lot of work to do to prepare. And while we needed more time, Doug was no longer employed full time and needed to get to that September training. I was quite anxious. Doug had already taken a significant pay cut working for Olup and we didn’t want that to happen again coupled with the fact that I would not be working at all. So as not to appear to be lazy here, we knew that our time in Washington D.C. would last anywhere from apx. four to eleven months so my taking on work under such uncertain circumstances was not practical.
So, where was I? Oh, yes I was feeling anxious. I try to be careful abut what I present to God in prayer; not too selfish (oh, Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz), not too unrealistic (world peace). So when I prayed that Doug would get called to the September training to he could get the salary match I felt I was wasting my time and God’s. At first I thought I was being selfish, then I realized it was different. Here I sat before the Lord worried about money. After all Doug and I had recently been through I was worried about money. I laughed. As Bill Cosby said to the Lord as Noah, “Right.” I relaxed again.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Once again, it depends
My recovery from the surgery was easy and disappointing. I didn’t get to play the sympathy card nearly as much as I had looked forward to doing. I was in some pain and had to move easily and slowly for a few weeks but that was it. I immediately started concocting stories as to how I got the scars. “I was stabbed in a bar brawl.” “A playful lion cub at the Belize zoo got me.” “Pumpkin carving got out of control this year.” The biopsy on the lumps came back negative.
The man who was assigned to our security clearance finished two weeks early. We both received our medical clearances. Some time later, there was a phone message from the man assigned to ur security clearance. He had some questions for me. Yikes. I sweated and my heart raced. I called him right away to get it over with. He apologized and said that someone in the State Department wanted clarification of something. He was looking over the application that Doug had turned in and said "He says that during his period of unemployment he was home looking for work. Is this true?" "Yes." "Alright, then. That's all I need." WHAT??!! That's it? Really, what did they think I'd say, "No he was out prostituting himself. I'm just a piano teacher and we really needed the money." Jeez. We received the final security clearance soon after. The last hurdle was the "Final Suitability". This is where someone goes through his file with the proverbial fine toothed comb to see if there is any reason he may not be a good fit. This is considered a formality by many, however some have been turned away at this point. Doug had been reading of a couple of cases. One involving someone who had experimented with drugs years ago and another who was dismissed from an employer under suspicious circumstances from which they were later acquitted. It was enough to keep them out of the Foreign Service.
The smattering of good news-bad news and the unknown left me feeling a bit unstable at times. I’d overreact. I’d under react. I would give everything I did one chance. If it didn’t work I’d declare any efforts on my part fruitless; what would happen would happen regardless of my input and I’d peacefully wander on. I wouldn’t be in this life that much longer anyway.
We spent our 2009 Memorial Day weekend on the road to the Chicago area to meet with two couples who had served for years in the Foreign Service and one couple in our position as new hires. We were able to hear their stories and ask questions. It was very soon humorous because every (no exception, no kidding) answer began with the words “Well, it depends.” “Do we need to take our furniture with us?” “Is the job 9-5 or 24/7?” “Will I be able to work?” “Will we have a house or an apartment?” “Can I get around and see the country while Doug works?” You get the idea. And that has been a huge frustration as well as serious patience builder. Everything depends on something else. It’s cosmic, man.
Even though we knew that Doug was in, we still didn’t know when he’d get called to the training class. More waiting. It was like being in the theater; you’re on! Go! Perform! Now sit in the wings and cool your heels for the next hour or two. 3-2-1 Go! In a way we needed time at home; time to say goodbye, time to fix up the house to be a rental property, time for us to visit our out of state families. In another way, we just wanted to move on.
I was (and still am) quite concerned about fitting in and being the proper image for my new life and Doug’s new career. I have sat in front of a mirror watching myself eat. If you want a serious Miss Manners wake up call, do this. At age 47, I threw out the last of my college clothes (see? I told you I don’t have a weight problem) and went shopping at places like Talbots (thank you, Marna). I figured that at least I’ll look the part. What happens after my mouth opens is in the cards, but I’ll look good so help me.
Speaking of opening my mouth, I’ve been practicing using it less. I love the word practice. I’ll probably be using it a lot. Practice indicates determination but not necessarily ability. On our last Sunday at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church I gave the homily at the early service outdoors and Doug did so at the late service indoors. I asked the people gathered there to complete this sentence: Practice makes _____. Of course they said perfect. I asked them if they truly believed that. They laughed. I told them that I believe practice makes permanent. So I do a lot of practicing with great hopes. I have practiced thanking Doug for pointing out the obvious to me before I even have a chance of demonstrating that I already know it (like take off the parking brake before backing up). Thank you. When someone has interrupted me or is not answering the question I asked, I have practiced hearing them out before I have my say. I have practiced saying a variety of truly colorful words rather than vulgar, (the old definition of common) foul swear words. And these things take practice, dear reader; they do not come easily. I have noticed that what happens is I realize the act is not so difficult or painful, it is laying no blame that is hard. But nog it (one of the truly colorful expressions) if I don’t look good while setting that all important good example. If that sounds boastful, forgive me. I do not always set that good example. I have, however, learned from many who have, at the right time, set a good example for me. So I know what it looks like because I’ve seen it. Their lesson live on. Thank you.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, everyone’s medical clearance levels, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will stay at home and become a fat drunk. It depends.
___________________________________________
The man who was assigned to our security clearance finished two weeks early. We both received our medical clearances. Some time later, there was a phone message from the man assigned to ur security clearance. He had some questions for me. Yikes. I sweated and my heart raced. I called him right away to get it over with. He apologized and said that someone in the State Department wanted clarification of something. He was looking over the application that Doug had turned in and said "He says that during his period of unemployment he was home looking for work. Is this true?" "Yes." "Alright, then. That's all I need." WHAT??!! That's it? Really, what did they think I'd say, "No he was out prostituting himself. I'm just a piano teacher and we really needed the money." Jeez. We received the final security clearance soon after. The last hurdle was the "Final Suitability". This is where someone goes through his file with the proverbial fine toothed comb to see if there is any reason he may not be a good fit. This is considered a formality by many, however some have been turned away at this point. Doug had been reading of a couple of cases. One involving someone who had experimented with drugs years ago and another who was dismissed from an employer under suspicious circumstances from which they were later acquitted. It was enough to keep them out of the Foreign Service.
The smattering of good news-bad news and the unknown left me feeling a bit unstable at times. I’d overreact. I’d under react. I would give everything I did one chance. If it didn’t work I’d declare any efforts on my part fruitless; what would happen would happen regardless of my input and I’d peacefully wander on. I wouldn’t be in this life that much longer anyway.
We spent our 2009 Memorial Day weekend on the road to the Chicago area to meet with two couples who had served for years in the Foreign Service and one couple in our position as new hires. We were able to hear their stories and ask questions. It was very soon humorous because every (no exception, no kidding) answer began with the words “Well, it depends.” “Do we need to take our furniture with us?” “Is the job 9-5 or 24/7?” “Will I be able to work?” “Will we have a house or an apartment?” “Can I get around and see the country while Doug works?” You get the idea. And that has been a huge frustration as well as serious patience builder. Everything depends on something else. It’s cosmic, man.
Even though we knew that Doug was in, we still didn’t know when he’d get called to the training class. More waiting. It was like being in the theater; you’re on! Go! Perform! Now sit in the wings and cool your heels for the next hour or two. 3-2-1 Go! In a way we needed time at home; time to say goodbye, time to fix up the house to be a rental property, time for us to visit our out of state families. In another way, we just wanted to move on.
I was (and still am) quite concerned about fitting in and being the proper image for my new life and Doug’s new career. I have sat in front of a mirror watching myself eat. If you want a serious Miss Manners wake up call, do this. At age 47, I threw out the last of my college clothes (see? I told you I don’t have a weight problem) and went shopping at places like Talbots (thank you, Marna). I figured that at least I’ll look the part. What happens after my mouth opens is in the cards, but I’ll look good so help me.
Speaking of opening my mouth, I’ve been practicing using it less. I love the word practice. I’ll probably be using it a lot. Practice indicates determination but not necessarily ability. On our last Sunday at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church I gave the homily at the early service outdoors and Doug did so at the late service indoors. I asked the people gathered there to complete this sentence: Practice makes _____. Of course they said perfect. I asked them if they truly believed that. They laughed. I told them that I believe practice makes permanent. So I do a lot of practicing with great hopes. I have practiced thanking Doug for pointing out the obvious to me before I even have a chance of demonstrating that I already know it (like take off the parking brake before backing up). Thank you. When someone has interrupted me or is not answering the question I asked, I have practiced hearing them out before I have my say. I have practiced saying a variety of truly colorful words rather than vulgar, (the old definition of common) foul swear words. And these things take practice, dear reader; they do not come easily. I have noticed that what happens is I realize the act is not so difficult or painful, it is laying no blame that is hard. But nog it (one of the truly colorful expressions) if I don’t look good while setting that all important good example. If that sounds boastful, forgive me. I do not always set that good example. I have, however, learned from many who have, at the right time, set a good example for me. So I know what it looks like because I’ve seen it. Their lesson live on. Thank you.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, everyone’s medical clearance levels, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will stay at home and become a fat drunk. It depends.
___________________________________________
Friday, October 30, 2009
On April 7 the Gregorian Singers sang a Tenebrae service or what If call the hour and a half one-note-Samba worship service. It was what I needed. I was empty of the basic truths. Truths like we are paving the road for Christ with our palms.
This was Lent. It was not an uplifting, prosperous, celebratory season. But that is part of the experience. Will my body’s imperfections that chose this moment in time to reveal themselves keep Doug out of the foreign service? I don’t know.
WARNING – Medical information skip the following two paragraphs if you want. This information is not as much about me as women in general. It does give parents a good springboard into discussing sex with their daughters.
I went to the Mayo clinic and got a cervical biopsy. No fun but he did use a camera and I got to watch the whole thing on a monitor which was very interesting. I learned something I never knew from the gynecologist who did the biopsy on me. I have since shared it with some of my piano students (with mom’s permission) and with the girls in my Sunday school class. I hope I relate this accurately. One of the reasons young girls are told to wait to have sex is that their cervix is not mature. When a girl is sexually active too early, it can break down the walls of or around the cervix and leave it more open and susceptible to disease. If you ever need a doctor and live near enough to a Mayo clinic go there. They are respectful, thorough, and knowledgeable and they share that with their patients. And they’re expensive. Brace yourself. The biopsy came back negative and a few months later I had a normal pap. Thank God.
As to the lumps in my breasts, I opted for a surgical biopsy. I didn’t want to be in Kazakhstan and wonder if those lumps were bigger or in Rwanda and need surgery or chemotherapy. I was trying to live in the moment and not be too distracted by future possibilities to live my best life in the here and now. I still have not figured out how to live in the moment while not thinking about impending realities like surgery. As time passed, I wasn’t too nervous about the surgery. I scheduled it for a Friday so I would miss fewer students. I fasted from Thursday night eight p.m. for what turned out to be 1 or 2 p.m. surgery on Friday. I laid around the hospital with black exes drawn on my breasts and an i.v. inserted for about four hours. I came out of the anesthesia easily and was wheeled back to the room where Doug was waiting. I was not allowed to leave the hospital until I had urinated and eaten something. The attending nurse asked me what my level of pain was on a scale of one to five. I called it three though I hate all pain and wanted to say four and a half. The Vicodin worked well and I came through addiction free. In fact, I only took one full dose and still have pills left over. I did what I had to do to leave and we drove home. When I got home, I stepped on the scale thinking that not only had I fasted but I had two lumps removed-maybe I’m down a pound! (I’m such a woman.) I had gained five pounds. I shrieked. How can I fast, have something removed from my body and gain five pounds in one day? My more medical, scientific, biology-minded friends informed me that the i.v. pumped me full of fluids. Okay.
All this played out inside of me in chunks of anger; anger at fate (which has become very real to me in the past few years) anger at my young self for any foolish behavior or diet that could have led to this and anger at myself now for acting so deserving of ease in life. I stopped myself short of being angry with God although I always wonder where fate steps out and God steps in and vice-versa. Am I really angry at God but just too scared or timid or well-raised to admit it? At its worst, I rationalized that if Doug couldn’t go into the Foreign Service because of my health I could still try to have that baby. Oh, brother. Oh, I almost forgot. I was angry at the government too. I always am. I figured that if they’d disqualify me on medical reasons such as these I was dealing with that they were being sexist since they’d never disqualify a man for any common male ailments like . . . oh, yeah-there are none.
This, dear reader, is a mere sampling of the unruly nonsense that was occupying my mind as I tried to focus on being a piano teacher. Later, after we knew we were going to D.C. and the world beyond, I came too close to just offering everyone free lessons until we moved I - felt so scattered. I guess that would have been my self imposed penance for acting so above all these common woes.
This was Lent. It was not an uplifting, prosperous, celebratory season. But that is part of the experience. Will my body’s imperfections that chose this moment in time to reveal themselves keep Doug out of the foreign service? I don’t know.
WARNING – Medical information skip the following two paragraphs if you want. This information is not as much about me as women in general. It does give parents a good springboard into discussing sex with their daughters.
I went to the Mayo clinic and got a cervical biopsy. No fun but he did use a camera and I got to watch the whole thing on a monitor which was very interesting. I learned something I never knew from the gynecologist who did the biopsy on me. I have since shared it with some of my piano students (with mom’s permission) and with the girls in my Sunday school class. I hope I relate this accurately. One of the reasons young girls are told to wait to have sex is that their cervix is not mature. When a girl is sexually active too early, it can break down the walls of or around the cervix and leave it more open and susceptible to disease. If you ever need a doctor and live near enough to a Mayo clinic go there. They are respectful, thorough, and knowledgeable and they share that with their patients. And they’re expensive. Brace yourself. The biopsy came back negative and a few months later I had a normal pap. Thank God.
As to the lumps in my breasts, I opted for a surgical biopsy. I didn’t want to be in Kazakhstan and wonder if those lumps were bigger or in Rwanda and need surgery or chemotherapy. I was trying to live in the moment and not be too distracted by future possibilities to live my best life in the here and now. I still have not figured out how to live in the moment while not thinking about impending realities like surgery. As time passed, I wasn’t too nervous about the surgery. I scheduled it for a Friday so I would miss fewer students. I fasted from Thursday night eight p.m. for what turned out to be 1 or 2 p.m. surgery on Friday. I laid around the hospital with black exes drawn on my breasts and an i.v. inserted for about four hours. I came out of the anesthesia easily and was wheeled back to the room where Doug was waiting. I was not allowed to leave the hospital until I had urinated and eaten something. The attending nurse asked me what my level of pain was on a scale of one to five. I called it three though I hate all pain and wanted to say four and a half. The Vicodin worked well and I came through addiction free. In fact, I only took one full dose and still have pills left over. I did what I had to do to leave and we drove home. When I got home, I stepped on the scale thinking that not only had I fasted but I had two lumps removed-maybe I’m down a pound! (I’m such a woman.) I had gained five pounds. I shrieked. How can I fast, have something removed from my body and gain five pounds in one day? My more medical, scientific, biology-minded friends informed me that the i.v. pumped me full of fluids. Okay.
All this played out inside of me in chunks of anger; anger at fate (which has become very real to me in the past few years) anger at my young self for any foolish behavior or diet that could have led to this and anger at myself now for acting so deserving of ease in life. I stopped myself short of being angry with God although I always wonder where fate steps out and God steps in and vice-versa. Am I really angry at God but just too scared or timid or well-raised to admit it? At its worst, I rationalized that if Doug couldn’t go into the Foreign Service because of my health I could still try to have that baby. Oh, brother. Oh, I almost forgot. I was angry at the government too. I always am. I figured that if they’d disqualify me on medical reasons such as these I was dealing with that they were being sexist since they’d never disqualify a man for any common male ailments like . . . oh, yeah-there are none.
This, dear reader, is a mere sampling of the unruly nonsense that was occupying my mind as I tried to focus on being a piano teacher. Later, after we knew we were going to D.C. and the world beyond, I came too close to just offering everyone free lessons until we moved I - felt so scattered. I guess that would have been my self imposed penance for acting so above all these common woes.
Monday, October 26, 2009
You may not want to read this
I’m going to share some intimate medical and marital information now. I realize that not everyone wants to hear this from others so you can skip the rest of this entry if you prefer. I’m normally not too much of an exhibitionist with my private life. I do know that some things I’ve been through have been made much more mentally manageable when I hear of other people’s attitudes they were able to present while going through harsh times. So here we go. My pap test was abnormal and there was a suspicious lump in each breast. Great. I was angry. I was a little scared but at the core I was angry at the world. Why this year? Why not last year or next year? Why now when so much is hanging on it? Why me?
Here’s a little background. Doug wanted to become a father. I had no interest in motherhood. We foolishly married knowing this about each other. It came to a head one fall. We argued. The first and last argument we have ever had. I think I even remember offering through tears to step aside if he wanted someone else. We went round and round for hours and were exhausted. Finally he suggested separating (not a real separation, just for the afternoon). I didn’t like the idea of parting during such a vulnerable time. So I found us a project to do together. We wrapped Christmas presents that we had stockpiled throughout the year. This took us a couple of hours, distracted us and settled our minds. The compromise we reached, by the way, was I would go off birth control for a year to see what happened. If unemployment and the application process to the Foreign Service was Doug’s longest year, this was mine.
I tell you that intimate story to continue telling of my emotions during the medical screening. I prayed that I would be healthy, not for selfish reasons but because I had already had a hand in preventing one of Doug’s dreams from coming true and I did not want to stand in the way of this one.
It turned out that I was diagnosed with what is considered a sexually transmitted disease. I was shocked. I was disgusted. I am faithful to Doug. Doug is faithful to me. I was told that it can lie dormant for years blah blah blah. I was also told that I likely got it from Doug. That I couldn’t believe. I may have contracted it from the #*!!%*& piece of &&*(^$# who raped me on my 40th birthday. I was even told that it can be transferred by a toilet seat. A toilet seat!?!?!? I found that one really hard to believe. But listen to this: I have a theory. For those readers who gross out easily, skip to the next paragraph now. Okay, ye strong-minded readers, hear this. I think that these automatically flushing toilets need to be outlawed and removed from all public bathrooms. Just two days ago I sat down to winky-tink and before I even began, it flushed - spraying me where I did not want to be sprayed (not that there is anywhere I’d accept being sprayed by a toilet). I stood up halfway, waited, sat back down and relieved myself. As I stood up, it flushed again. It flushed a third time while I was washing my hands! (No one else was in the bathroom.) I’m not a doctor, scientist, biologist or whatever one should be to spout such opinions but I’m convinced that germs live in toilet bowl water and that is one way disease can be spread. I did see a medical show that warned women to stand before flushing to avoid risk of gastrointestinal something-or-another. So it stands to reason that HPV, VD – who knows what - gonorrhea or other diseases of that sort could be spread the same way. I don’t know for sure. I’m not a doctor; I only play one on line.
Here’s a little background. Doug wanted to become a father. I had no interest in motherhood. We foolishly married knowing this about each other. It came to a head one fall. We argued. The first and last argument we have ever had. I think I even remember offering through tears to step aside if he wanted someone else. We went round and round for hours and were exhausted. Finally he suggested separating (not a real separation, just for the afternoon). I didn’t like the idea of parting during such a vulnerable time. So I found us a project to do together. We wrapped Christmas presents that we had stockpiled throughout the year. This took us a couple of hours, distracted us and settled our minds. The compromise we reached, by the way, was I would go off birth control for a year to see what happened. If unemployment and the application process to the Foreign Service was Doug’s longest year, this was mine.
I tell you that intimate story to continue telling of my emotions during the medical screening. I prayed that I would be healthy, not for selfish reasons but because I had already had a hand in preventing one of Doug’s dreams from coming true and I did not want to stand in the way of this one.
It turned out that I was diagnosed with what is considered a sexually transmitted disease. I was shocked. I was disgusted. I am faithful to Doug. Doug is faithful to me. I was told that it can lie dormant for years blah blah blah. I was also told that I likely got it from Doug. That I couldn’t believe. I may have contracted it from the #*!!%*& piece of &&*(^$# who raped me on my 40th birthday. I was even told that it can be transferred by a toilet seat. A toilet seat!?!?!? I found that one really hard to believe. But listen to this: I have a theory. For those readers who gross out easily, skip to the next paragraph now. Okay, ye strong-minded readers, hear this. I think that these automatically flushing toilets need to be outlawed and removed from all public bathrooms. Just two days ago I sat down to winky-tink and before I even began, it flushed - spraying me where I did not want to be sprayed (not that there is anywhere I’d accept being sprayed by a toilet). I stood up halfway, waited, sat back down and relieved myself. As I stood up, it flushed again. It flushed a third time while I was washing my hands! (No one else was in the bathroom.) I’m not a doctor, scientist, biologist or whatever one should be to spout such opinions but I’m convinced that germs live in toilet bowl water and that is one way disease can be spread. I did see a medical show that warned women to stand before flushing to avoid risk of gastrointestinal something-or-another. So it stands to reason that HPV, VD – who knows what - gonorrhea or other diseases of that sort could be spread the same way. I don’t know for sure. I’m not a doctor; I only play one on line.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Three
I began writing this blog weeks before I began posting it. Now events are piling up. I'm going to continue to go chronilogical while interspersing (hopefully sensibly) more current events. Today I begin with Sunday October 18 then back up to where I left off at my last posting. If this new format makes you crazy, let me know and I'll try something else like a post-a-day until I catch up.
In my studies of fairy tales I’ve learned a little about the significance of the number three. Think of the fairy tales you know and how many things happen in threes: a man is granted three wishes, there are two failed tries to accomplish a task and there is success on the third try, three little pigs, three ugly stepsisters, and on and on. The number three is considered holy and perfect. Consider the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit or the elements of earth, air and fire. There is lore as to multiples of three also; I’m not as familiar with them - 666 comes to mind.
My five-week boot camp was supposed to end with Doug’s training last Friday (October 16) but I have decided to prolong it indefinitely. I am continuing the exercise and healthful eating and adding a spiritual focus. Sunday, when I did yoga, I held the various poses for a count of six breaths– three doubled. As I held each pose I did not count 1-2-3-4-5-6, rather, I thought Father, Son, Holy Spirit, my body, my mind, my spirit (the last three I borrowed from the YMCA’s motto of a healthy body, mind and spirit). As I worked through the poses with these words repeating in my mind I thought of the connections between them. Not just the connection between the first three and the last three but between all of them. God is one; God is three; God is three in one. I am one; I am three; I am three in one. Are God and I six in one?
During my two hours of walking yesterday (running errands to Target, the grocery store and the library) I prayed. Walking is when I do my best communion with God. If I try to pray before bed, it does not usually last long. I fall asleep. I’ve tried meditating with moderate success but I get very sleepy. Same with kneeling, plus my legs get tired of being knotted up and they miss their blood supply. So when I really want to talk to God, I walk.
I prayed for my faith to get stronger and that I would learn to listen for the ‘voice’ of God and recognize it better so that when I got to this strange, predominately Muslim country I would be ready to listen and learn of their faith in all confidence that I was on the right track. Not, note, that I would be right and all others wrong. No. Just as I said, so I would be comfortable in my own faith as the right direction for me. I prayed that I could learn, discerning without judgment, about the Muslim faith.
I should tell you that when I was in my twenties I prayed for my future husband, whoever he was. So yesterday I prayed for the people who I would be meeting in Tashkent. I prayed that they would be able to learn from me while discerning without judgment. I prayed that I would know how to handle the local police whom, I have read, are corrupt. Should I smile? Greet them? Ignore them? Avoid them? My fear with the police situation is that I will either live there in constant anger of getting illegally shaken down for money at every turn, never leave home for fear of them or get thrown in the pokey for sassing off to them (read - telling them the truth).
Great perspectives are drawn out of prayer. Our minds are so much more intensely powerful than we know. We spend so much time doing mundane, repetitious, unchallenging things that we rarely realize the impact they can have not only in our own lives but the lives of those around us. The reason I entitled this blog “If I Can . . .” is to show one woman’s progress in hopes that it will encourage others to go for something important no matter how challenging. Sometimes I feel boastful. I do not like that and do not mean to relate these stories as a boast. You who have known me know my weaknesses (chocolate, candy, chocolate, Pepsi, chocolate . . .) so if I can sit and eat broccoli everyday (hate it) there is something you know of that you can do. Most of you have seen me in a more formal, professional setting (piano lessons, choir practice, class) so you may have never seen me shoot off my mouth. I lost a dear, dear student to that once. When I relate that I handled a situation well, I am proud because I know how crass I was for so many years. When I say for the twentieth time how glad I am to keep up exercise every day it’s because I am truly amazed that I can teach myself new habits and learn a discipline at age 47. This has all come about from this amazing combination of God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, my body, my mind and my spirit. It takes a village. . .
At last post, I left you with Doug and I going through the medical clearance process. I hope to someday learn to communicate effectively with those around me. I want to speak their language. I want them to understand me and respond intelligibly to me. Evidently I’m asking too much. I make the hour and a half drive to the Mayo Clinic rather than going to a local physician for good reasons including the inability of local physicians to recognize a broken finger in the x-ray of a piano teacher, their administration’s lack of understanding the definition of the word “prevention” in billing and their staff’s incompetence in making appointments. Details by request only, I’m sick of the entire matter. Suffice to say, if I have an infected hangnail I will drive to the Mayo clinic before I’ll seek any more local help.
I have sung Mayo’s praises. Gods work at the Mayo center. As all bubbles are destined, mine popped today. I’m sure it’s my fault. The doctor I saw last year wasn’t available so I made an appointment with another. Mistake number one on my part. This new doctor didn’t receive the information we sent the week previous to the appointment nor did she bother to read my file (her admission, not my assumption – she’d been on vacation). The single day of appointments turned into a day and a half. No big deal. Everyone errs – even the Mayo gods. This doctor did not order one of the tests we specifically requested because, “It’s really expensive.” No kidding. I stared at her and said I need that test as part of the medical clearance requirement. “But it costs something like hundreds of dollars.” “I . . . NEED . . . it.” Anyone else not getting this? It took this doctor a while. That’s what kept us there the extra day and sent needle-phobe me twice to have blood drawn. Fie.
In my studies of fairy tales I’ve learned a little about the significance of the number three. Think of the fairy tales you know and how many things happen in threes: a man is granted three wishes, there are two failed tries to accomplish a task and there is success on the third try, three little pigs, three ugly stepsisters, and on and on. The number three is considered holy and perfect. Consider the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit or the elements of earth, air and fire. There is lore as to multiples of three also; I’m not as familiar with them - 666 comes to mind.
My five-week boot camp was supposed to end with Doug’s training last Friday (October 16) but I have decided to prolong it indefinitely. I am continuing the exercise and healthful eating and adding a spiritual focus. Sunday, when I did yoga, I held the various poses for a count of six breaths– three doubled. As I held each pose I did not count 1-2-3-4-5-6, rather, I thought Father, Son, Holy Spirit, my body, my mind, my spirit (the last three I borrowed from the YMCA’s motto of a healthy body, mind and spirit). As I worked through the poses with these words repeating in my mind I thought of the connections between them. Not just the connection between the first three and the last three but between all of them. God is one; God is three; God is three in one. I am one; I am three; I am three in one. Are God and I six in one?
During my two hours of walking yesterday (running errands to Target, the grocery store and the library) I prayed. Walking is when I do my best communion with God. If I try to pray before bed, it does not usually last long. I fall asleep. I’ve tried meditating with moderate success but I get very sleepy. Same with kneeling, plus my legs get tired of being knotted up and they miss their blood supply. So when I really want to talk to God, I walk.
I prayed for my faith to get stronger and that I would learn to listen for the ‘voice’ of God and recognize it better so that when I got to this strange, predominately Muslim country I would be ready to listen and learn of their faith in all confidence that I was on the right track. Not, note, that I would be right and all others wrong. No. Just as I said, so I would be comfortable in my own faith as the right direction for me. I prayed that I could learn, discerning without judgment, about the Muslim faith.
I should tell you that when I was in my twenties I prayed for my future husband, whoever he was. So yesterday I prayed for the people who I would be meeting in Tashkent. I prayed that they would be able to learn from me while discerning without judgment. I prayed that I would know how to handle the local police whom, I have read, are corrupt. Should I smile? Greet them? Ignore them? Avoid them? My fear with the police situation is that I will either live there in constant anger of getting illegally shaken down for money at every turn, never leave home for fear of them or get thrown in the pokey for sassing off to them (read - telling them the truth).
Great perspectives are drawn out of prayer. Our minds are so much more intensely powerful than we know. We spend so much time doing mundane, repetitious, unchallenging things that we rarely realize the impact they can have not only in our own lives but the lives of those around us. The reason I entitled this blog “If I Can . . .” is to show one woman’s progress in hopes that it will encourage others to go for something important no matter how challenging. Sometimes I feel boastful. I do not like that and do not mean to relate these stories as a boast. You who have known me know my weaknesses (chocolate, candy, chocolate, Pepsi, chocolate . . .) so if I can sit and eat broccoli everyday (hate it) there is something you know of that you can do. Most of you have seen me in a more formal, professional setting (piano lessons, choir practice, class) so you may have never seen me shoot off my mouth. I lost a dear, dear student to that once. When I relate that I handled a situation well, I am proud because I know how crass I was for so many years. When I say for the twentieth time how glad I am to keep up exercise every day it’s because I am truly amazed that I can teach myself new habits and learn a discipline at age 47. This has all come about from this amazing combination of God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, my body, my mind and my spirit. It takes a village. . .
At last post, I left you with Doug and I going through the medical clearance process. I hope to someday learn to communicate effectively with those around me. I want to speak their language. I want them to understand me and respond intelligibly to me. Evidently I’m asking too much. I make the hour and a half drive to the Mayo Clinic rather than going to a local physician for good reasons including the inability of local physicians to recognize a broken finger in the x-ray of a piano teacher, their administration’s lack of understanding the definition of the word “prevention” in billing and their staff’s incompetence in making appointments. Details by request only, I’m sick of the entire matter. Suffice to say, if I have an infected hangnail I will drive to the Mayo clinic before I’ll seek any more local help.
I have sung Mayo’s praises. Gods work at the Mayo center. As all bubbles are destined, mine popped today. I’m sure it’s my fault. The doctor I saw last year wasn’t available so I made an appointment with another. Mistake number one on my part. This new doctor didn’t receive the information we sent the week previous to the appointment nor did she bother to read my file (her admission, not my assumption – she’d been on vacation). The single day of appointments turned into a day and a half. No big deal. Everyone errs – even the Mayo gods. This doctor did not order one of the tests we specifically requested because, “It’s really expensive.” No kidding. I stared at her and said I need that test as part of the medical clearance requirement. “But it costs something like hundreds of dollars.” “I . . . NEED . . . it.” Anyone else not getting this? It took this doctor a while. That’s what kept us there the extra day and sent needle-phobe me twice to have blood drawn. Fie.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
He passed, but I'm about to pass out
Late August, Doug was informed that he had passed the written examination, he felt more comfortable telling people. It was all so futuristic and based on “if” (if he passes the orals, if he clears security, if we pass our physicals) that the conversations carried a dreamlike quality with them.
If the applicant passes the written exam then someone at the State Department looks at their application (the one he had turned in months previous). If they find you acceptable on paper they ask you to sign up for an oral assessment which takes place in either D.C. or Atlanta. Doug signed up for his oral assessment in March to coincide with my mission trip to Belize. The oral assessment is an all day experience. Each applicant is teamed up with 4 or 5 others and given sample projects to present to the group. The group is given a budget which will only allow so many of the projects to be funded. You must sell your project while recognizing that one of the others may be more important and, therefore, ready to concede your own. Translate: do you work and play well with others? You are interviewed one on one. The nice thing about the orals is they give you the result that day. You’re either in or you are out. Those who fail the orals must begin the entire process again with the initial application. Those who are in begin security screening.
In addition to my 38 piano students (I lost two due to a job loss in their family), I started back to teaching the junior high students each Sunday morning at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church with one change: this year, the senior high teacher quit and they asked me if I’d take on junior and senior high. Together. In one room. In the early morning. For some reason I agreed.
First I had to find a topic that appealed to a sixth grader as much as a senior in high school. I chose money. There’s a wonderful book called “The Richest Man in Babylon” by It is written in a series of short stories following a few characters around ancient Babylon learning the secrets to great wealth from a friend and from other chance acquaintances. I wanted to keep up the storytelling format I had used last year so each week I told the story of each chapter then we discussed it. Then we held debates. The juniors chose the topic of student selected curriculum in school and the seniors chose lowering the drinking age. Last year I wrote my students during the week to keep their minds on what we were discussing in class. That, unfortunately, happened very little this year.
With Doug having been back to work for a while, I decided to return to St. Thomas for a piano class - this time private piano, one of the pedagogy requirements. The teacher, Kathy Faricy is smart and tough.
We did not even touch the piano during the first lesson. We talked of posture, of sitting at the instrument and of my basic make up as a person. The second lesson I played one key at a time with one finger at a time using a new technique – a technique, for the duration of our time together that only Kathy could spot as being correct or incorrect.
She assigned me a Bach Invention, a Clementi Sonata and a Chopin Prelude. I was to record my practice each day – exactly what I practiced and for how long. I was to practice one measure at a time, one hand at a time until I could play each three times in a row correctly. Then I was to practice it hands together until I could play it three times in a row correctly. And thus I was to proceed through each piece. If I got through four measures one day, I was to begin at measure #5 the next day and not back up until I met a goal of x number of new measures. I took to that method of practice much better than I expected.
The Bach Inventions are just plain hard. They are sort of like playing a round with yourself; one hand begins then the next hand begins a few beats later. And I don’t like them. They are impressive. I wish I could play them. But I don’t like them even when I hear them well played. The Clementi was not too difficult but it was boring. And it would get stuck in my head for the day the way a bad commercial jingle will. But the Chopin I loved. It did, however, take a lot of focused time and, as things were beginning to move quickly toward us relocating, that became extremely difficult. What with the wedding and all . . . I didn’t mention the wedding, did I?
I was hired to play piano for the wedding of the daughter of one of the women in our church. I played one wedding a long time ago. I’m not a wedding pianist. The bride-to-be called me and told me that I came recommended. I tried not to laugh when I asked her who had recommended me. It was a woman from our church. There is only one thing I can figure. When Doug was Senior Warden for a year at St. Anne’s I would occasionally go to the church with him on Saturday and play on the grand while he worked in the office. Once or twice the altar guild ladies were there setting up for the next day’s service. I must have been playing one of my better pieces when this woman overheard me. Anyway, it was a good challenge for me; one I took on before we knew Doug had passed his exam. It was just too much work to perfect the wedding pieces (about ten or twelve) while learning these three new pieces with the new technique Kathy was teaching me. I approached Kathy about dropping the Bach, Clementi and the Chopin in consideration of all this and working on the wedding pieces. She said okay. A world of pressure was lifted from me.
Doug passed the oral assessment yet still the Foreign Service was not a certainty. We still had to pass security and medical screenings. The process of the security clearance began. This involves filling out somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 papers requesting current phone numbers for everyone from your pre-K class to the guy you asked directions of when you were in Moscow 19 years ago to someone in a suit knocking on the doors of those individuals, your neighbors and your employer and asking lots of questions about you face to face. Meanwhile we each went to Mayo for physicals for the medical clearance.
The period during the security and medical clearance was the most difficult for me. It was highly emotional. I have always had clean examinations with one exception decades ago. Just two years ago, Mayo was singing my praises; I was so healthy! Then came the one exam that made a difference and I had trouble. In just about every part of me that makes me a woman, I had trouble. Fie! (That’s old world speak for “fuck”, which would upset my mother and piano students if they read this, and I’ve decided to rid myself of such speech. As a side bar, since I’m posting this months after the facts, I have succeeded in ridding myself of such base speech as part of my personal boot camp. More on that later. )
If the applicant passes the written exam then someone at the State Department looks at their application (the one he had turned in months previous). If they find you acceptable on paper they ask you to sign up for an oral assessment which takes place in either D.C. or Atlanta. Doug signed up for his oral assessment in March to coincide with my mission trip to Belize. The oral assessment is an all day experience. Each applicant is teamed up with 4 or 5 others and given sample projects to present to the group. The group is given a budget which will only allow so many of the projects to be funded. You must sell your project while recognizing that one of the others may be more important and, therefore, ready to concede your own. Translate: do you work and play well with others? You are interviewed one on one. The nice thing about the orals is they give you the result that day. You’re either in or you are out. Those who fail the orals must begin the entire process again with the initial application. Those who are in begin security screening.
In addition to my 38 piano students (I lost two due to a job loss in their family), I started back to teaching the junior high students each Sunday morning at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church with one change: this year, the senior high teacher quit and they asked me if I’d take on junior and senior high. Together. In one room. In the early morning. For some reason I agreed.
First I had to find a topic that appealed to a sixth grader as much as a senior in high school. I chose money. There’s a wonderful book called “The Richest Man in Babylon” by It is written in a series of short stories following a few characters around ancient Babylon learning the secrets to great wealth from a friend and from other chance acquaintances. I wanted to keep up the storytelling format I had used last year so each week I told the story of each chapter then we discussed it. Then we held debates. The juniors chose the topic of student selected curriculum in school and the seniors chose lowering the drinking age. Last year I wrote my students during the week to keep their minds on what we were discussing in class. That, unfortunately, happened very little this year.
With Doug having been back to work for a while, I decided to return to St. Thomas for a piano class - this time private piano, one of the pedagogy requirements. The teacher, Kathy Faricy is smart and tough.
We did not even touch the piano during the first lesson. We talked of posture, of sitting at the instrument and of my basic make up as a person. The second lesson I played one key at a time with one finger at a time using a new technique – a technique, for the duration of our time together that only Kathy could spot as being correct or incorrect.
She assigned me a Bach Invention, a Clementi Sonata and a Chopin Prelude. I was to record my practice each day – exactly what I practiced and for how long. I was to practice one measure at a time, one hand at a time until I could play each three times in a row correctly. Then I was to practice it hands together until I could play it three times in a row correctly. And thus I was to proceed through each piece. If I got through four measures one day, I was to begin at measure #5 the next day and not back up until I met a goal of x number of new measures. I took to that method of practice much better than I expected.
The Bach Inventions are just plain hard. They are sort of like playing a round with yourself; one hand begins then the next hand begins a few beats later. And I don’t like them. They are impressive. I wish I could play them. But I don’t like them even when I hear them well played. The Clementi was not too difficult but it was boring. And it would get stuck in my head for the day the way a bad commercial jingle will. But the Chopin I loved. It did, however, take a lot of focused time and, as things were beginning to move quickly toward us relocating, that became extremely difficult. What with the wedding and all . . . I didn’t mention the wedding, did I?
I was hired to play piano for the wedding of the daughter of one of the women in our church. I played one wedding a long time ago. I’m not a wedding pianist. The bride-to-be called me and told me that I came recommended. I tried not to laugh when I asked her who had recommended me. It was a woman from our church. There is only one thing I can figure. When Doug was Senior Warden for a year at St. Anne’s I would occasionally go to the church with him on Saturday and play on the grand while he worked in the office. Once or twice the altar guild ladies were there setting up for the next day’s service. I must have been playing one of my better pieces when this woman overheard me. Anyway, it was a good challenge for me; one I took on before we knew Doug had passed his exam. It was just too much work to perfect the wedding pieces (about ten or twelve) while learning these three new pieces with the new technique Kathy was teaching me. I approached Kathy about dropping the Bach, Clementi and the Chopin in consideration of all this and working on the wedding pieces. She said okay. A world of pressure was lifted from me.
Doug passed the oral assessment yet still the Foreign Service was not a certainty. We still had to pass security and medical screenings. The process of the security clearance began. This involves filling out somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 papers requesting current phone numbers for everyone from your pre-K class to the guy you asked directions of when you were in Moscow 19 years ago to someone in a suit knocking on the doors of those individuals, your neighbors and your employer and asking lots of questions about you face to face. Meanwhile we each went to Mayo for physicals for the medical clearance.
The period during the security and medical clearance was the most difficult for me. It was highly emotional. I have always had clean examinations with one exception decades ago. Just two years ago, Mayo was singing my praises; I was so healthy! Then came the one exam that made a difference and I had trouble. In just about every part of me that makes me a woman, I had trouble. Fie! (That’s old world speak for “fuck”, which would upset my mother and piano students if they read this, and I’ve decided to rid myself of such speech. As a side bar, since I’m posting this months after the facts, I have succeeded in ridding myself of such base speech as part of my personal boot camp. More on that later. )
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
One day Doug and I were walking and playing the “What would you do if you won the Lottery?” game. Doug said that he would travel the world and learn languages. He then said, offhandedly, “I should join the Foreign Service.” As the days passed he decided that he should join the Foreign Service and the long arduous process began.
Briefly, the first step towards being hired by the State Department to work in the Foreign Service is to fill out a lengthy application which, if I remember correctly, has lots of blanks to fill in, bubbles to color in and even an essay question or two. Doug turned in his application in May of 2008 and waited. No one at the State Department looks at these applications, but it is the first required step.
We were both excited about the possibility of Doug working for the State Department but also realized that this would not happen in a week or two. He had now been unemployed for about five months. Ever vigilant, Doug researched unemployment at his stage in life and career and it found out that the average time period looking for a job was a year and a half.
He turned in many applications, most of which were completely ignored (a sad state of corporate America and general cordiality). Those who did respond found themselves unable to categorize him. In his past jobs he oversaw accounting, human resources, facilities and anything else he saw that needed attended to that no one else was doing. However, he was not an accountant or a human resources specialist. His double major was Political Science (focusing on the then Soviet Union) and International Relations. He also has an MIM (Masters of International Management). For the many positions he applied, they deemed him overqualified. He couldn’t do anything (short of lying) to prevent them from seeing him as overqualified but he could bring some focus into his resume. He decided to get certified in Human Resources.
In the meantime, in keeping with our new dedication to free offerings, we stood in line outside a Chris and Rob’s the day of their grand opening in hopes to be one of the first 100 customers who would receive a free hotdog once a week for a year (no purchase necessary!). We got it! It was so fun walking the few blocks each week to get our free hotdog. I missed eating lunch out and this filled the spot.
The next step towards the Foreign Service was to take a scheduled written examination which is offered in a variety of locations. Doug took his at the University of Minnesota on July 12, 2008. This test covers local and international knowledge of politics, geography, culture and arts. It includes things we should remember from school, things we would know if we were really paying attention and some more obscure facts. I looked for about a half hour trying to find sample questions and had no luck. I know that somewhere online there is a place but it eludes me. After this examination the applicant waits. After about three months the test results are revealed.
Doug was hired by Olup and Associates in June of 2008 (happy birthday to me!) He didn’t want to tell anyone about applying to the Foreign Service just in case he was rejected. Kind of like when a woman is only two months pregnant she doesn’t say anything just in case. In Doug’s good conscience, he felt uneasy working for Olup and not only working toward but hoping to be hired into the Foreign Service. The fact that he started the process to join the Foreign Service before he was hired by Olup did little to relieve that.
I am struck by the many requirements to becoming a Foreign Service officer. I have always looked to Senators, Representatives, Governors, etc. with a little bit of awe (and a LOT of other stuff) but I realize they just had to get elected. Not that that is easy, I’m sure it is not. But elections can be bought and one can lie their way into a position of authority and power. There is no faking or buying your way into the foreign service.
On a light note, those of you (and I know two of you) who are considering the foreign service – listen to this: It is the best dating pool you will ever find. Think about it. 1. You know your fellow worker is intellectually equal. 2. You know they have been screened extensively for security so they have no major skeletons in their closets. 3. They had to pass a physical so you know they are healthy. You can’t get much safer than that.
Briefly, the first step towards being hired by the State Department to work in the Foreign Service is to fill out a lengthy application which, if I remember correctly, has lots of blanks to fill in, bubbles to color in and even an essay question or two. Doug turned in his application in May of 2008 and waited. No one at the State Department looks at these applications, but it is the first required step.
We were both excited about the possibility of Doug working for the State Department but also realized that this would not happen in a week or two. He had now been unemployed for about five months. Ever vigilant, Doug researched unemployment at his stage in life and career and it found out that the average time period looking for a job was a year and a half.
He turned in many applications, most of which were completely ignored (a sad state of corporate America and general cordiality). Those who did respond found themselves unable to categorize him. In his past jobs he oversaw accounting, human resources, facilities and anything else he saw that needed attended to that no one else was doing. However, he was not an accountant or a human resources specialist. His double major was Political Science (focusing on the then Soviet Union) and International Relations. He also has an MIM (Masters of International Management). For the many positions he applied, they deemed him overqualified. He couldn’t do anything (short of lying) to prevent them from seeing him as overqualified but he could bring some focus into his resume. He decided to get certified in Human Resources.
In the meantime, in keeping with our new dedication to free offerings, we stood in line outside a Chris and Rob’s the day of their grand opening in hopes to be one of the first 100 customers who would receive a free hotdog once a week for a year (no purchase necessary!). We got it! It was so fun walking the few blocks each week to get our free hotdog. I missed eating lunch out and this filled the spot.
The next step towards the Foreign Service was to take a scheduled written examination which is offered in a variety of locations. Doug took his at the University of Minnesota on July 12, 2008. This test covers local and international knowledge of politics, geography, culture and arts. It includes things we should remember from school, things we would know if we were really paying attention and some more obscure facts. I looked for about a half hour trying to find sample questions and had no luck. I know that somewhere online there is a place but it eludes me. After this examination the applicant waits. After about three months the test results are revealed.
Doug was hired by Olup and Associates in June of 2008 (happy birthday to me!) He didn’t want to tell anyone about applying to the Foreign Service just in case he was rejected. Kind of like when a woman is only two months pregnant she doesn’t say anything just in case. In Doug’s good conscience, he felt uneasy working for Olup and not only working toward but hoping to be hired into the Foreign Service. The fact that he started the process to join the Foreign Service before he was hired by Olup did little to relieve that.
I am struck by the many requirements to becoming a Foreign Service officer. I have always looked to Senators, Representatives, Governors, etc. with a little bit of awe (and a LOT of other stuff) but I realize they just had to get elected. Not that that is easy, I’m sure it is not. But elections can be bought and one can lie their way into a position of authority and power. There is no faking or buying your way into the foreign service.
On a light note, those of you (and I know two of you) who are considering the foreign service – listen to this: It is the best dating pool you will ever find. Think about it. 1. You know your fellow worker is intellectually equal. 2. You know they have been screened extensively for security so they have no major skeletons in their closets. 3. They had to pass a physical so you know they are healthy. You can’t get much safer than that.
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