joy diet

I've lost my joy. She ran off a few months (years?) ago and was last seen skipping down the sunny path with my old companions serenity, grace, and gratitude. I miss her, miss all of them, my old friends. It took a lot of years to find them and to get rid of my bad old bar pals, anger, despair, and emptiness. It's been so long since I felt like this that the old sense of calm and wonder I used to live with every day seems like a dream. I see from that post I was struggling with the same thing in 2008. It's worse now, my connection with the Universe having fallen into serious disrepair like a pretty house long left behind by those who loved it.
Yesterday, as I was leaving home, I grabbed a book I've had forever in case there was a line at the bank. There was, of course, and so I opened Martha Beck's The Joy Diet for the first time.

Somewhere in these boxes that were going to Mexico, I've got another of Beck's books, Finding Your Own North Star. There are several of these helpful volumes around the house, wisdom filled tomes I've always imagined would jump start my spiritual practice if it ever lapsed. The thing about lapsing, though, is it's hard to notice when it's happening. Only when I am settled into old habits and patterns do I look around and realize my sweet friends have moved on and the old ugly crew's slavering at the gate. Googling a little this morning, I see that Martha Beck's books are big with Oprah and her crowd. I'll try not to hold that against her as I commence the once a week reading of a chapter in Beck's book.

Let me repeat: once a week. One chapter a week, with practice in between. One. Seriously? I quickly finished the first chapter in the bank line yesterday and was advised by the calm, focused Ms. Beck that I need to be still for 15 minutes once a day. My monkey mind slaps its tail and screeches its outrage at the very idea.

Stillness is not in my current repertoire of states of being. I am jumpy and easily startled, feeling on high alert every waking moment. Late at night, I've been practicing the beginning positions of Tai Chi with a friend. We've been running through the positions over and over, fast as we can, trying to get it down. Beck's introduction includes the suggestion that I use her book as I would learn Tai Chi, practicing one single form for an entire week before moving on to another. Ja! Ja ja! One form, one movement, for a week. I mentioned this to my friend and was pleased to see that his incredulous response to this absurdity was similar to mine, a big-eyed "What? One??"

A few years ago, I acquired a horrific case of poison ivy. Driven by the desperate itch to consult a dermatologist, I was shot up with antihistamines and put on a Prednisone dose pack. I find the energy and focus that comes with steroids quite intoxicating. My voice takes on a seductive huskiness reminiscent of old movie stars. I sleep two hours a night and leap from my bed at first light unrefreshed, but caring not one whit. The aches and pains of mid-life vanish and in their place comes a tight thrumming sensation in my muscles. Alas, that wondrous feeling of being all speedy without the speed is complicated by a barely-under-the-surface rage. When I found myself bellowing about the misdeeds of a juvenile court judge in the courthouse, a ranting, raving, public diatribe rich with words like "cocksucker" and "fucking bastard," I realized something was amiss.

That is how my brain feels of late, as if I am ramped up on a dose pack, a wide eyed, no sleeping, can't focus, monkey minded dervish in constant motion, running, running, running. I have to stop. I know this on an intellectual level, and I think I got a feel for it yesterday when Beck's suggestion to practice silence resonated with the part of me that cherishes my old connections with joy, serenity, grace, and gratitude.

The monkey's bounding around right now, ricocheting off the inside of my skull, brandishing lists of things to do, frenziedly pointing at this task and that one, every bit of it needing attention right now. Sit in silence for 15 minutes a day? For a week? As Beck says, "I chafe wildly at this agonizingly incremental way of learning," but learn I must. I think it will be easier this time because I'm re-learning, and it's not all new. As we say in AA, "you already know more than you will ever use, now you have to put it into practice." I know how to get that connection back, I just have to do it. I hope Beck's book will help.

stakeout success, part II

For a moment, they just stared at us. Karen and I were eyeballing the older woman, assessing height, weight, age. She looked to be in her late '70s, early '80s, a beautiful woman with snow white hair, smooth complexion, sparkling blue eyes. She was the first to smile, looking at me and saying "I know you, you're Audrey's baby girl."

It was not my mother, this beautiful woman in the cemetary, but it was my mother's stepsister, my aunt, whom I've not seen since the 1960s. The woman with her was my cousin, and the gentleman her husband. They were delighted to see us and we spent over an hour talking and laughing and hugging each other.

It was wonderful to hear them talk about my grandfather and how much they loved him. They were leaving these flowers on my grandmother's grave for Curtis long before he died. It was wonderful to hear them discuss his fierce protectiveness over his five children, how he divorced a woman who mistreated them while he was out on a run. This was comforting, because we've often wondered if he had any idea what my mother suffered at the hands of that bastard in Medicine Lodge. I am certain now that he did not know, that he would never have left her in that house if he'd had any idea.

Curtis told them that May loved purple, so the blossoms were always selected with that thought in mind. They told us how much they adored my mother, spoke of her sweet personality, her kindness, her love for her kids, her sharp wit and intelligence. Of course we talked about her disappearance, and the shock of it, how unexpected, how certain they were that she had to be dead, or she could never have left "those little girls."

They told us they had often thought of us over the years and that, in combination with a few other incidents from this weekend, started me thinking about the depth and persistence of people and their attachments to one another. Karen and I discussed at length how we are oddly unattached, how we seem to be able to leave friendships and acquaintances with little thought after the leaving is done. Was it abandonment that created this ability to simply unplug and disconnect? It's impossible to know, but when I hear of two people I'd not thought of in 40 years telling me they had long wondered how I was doing, it's an eye opener.

The same thing happened with one of my mother's dear friends, a next door neighbor I've written about before. Dot was thrilled to see us out for breakfast Sunday morning, grabbing me and hugging me repeatedly, telling her friend that I was "Audrey's precious little girl." She told me with tears in her eyes that she missed us terribly and thought of us often. I have thought of Dot since May Day of this year, when I wrote a post about leaving flowers on the doors of neighbors. But I can't say I've thought of her in the last 32 years since I moved from home and left Elmwood behind.

At church, my sister was accosted by several people who assured her they had been missing her, she who has not lived in that town since 1972. I find it so strange, almost as if I've been living on the surface of a life that has depths of which I've been unaware. How many people are out there who think of "Audrey's baby girl" and wonder how she's doing these days? I have no friends left from grade school, from high school, college. It feels like I'm leaving a wake of relationships, connections, lost loves, all trailing behind me as I sail through this life. The really strange thing, and Karen agrees, is that we don't feel anything missing. Maybe we are more disconnected than we know, even from ourselves? It doesn't feel that way, it feels self sufficient and independent and appreciative of time spent in solitude. Lots to think about. In solitude. Heh.

But back to the newfound aunt and cousin: we've exchanged addresses and will keep in touch. I made a short film of all of us discussing the events leading to our reunion. I am humbled by the thought of people so caring that they would continue adorning the graves of people related by marriage alone almost 40 years after death. My "new" aunt, Miss Dorothy, is a belle and our belle hearts connected on a different level. I admired her superb French manicure and we discussed how badly our hair was blowing about in the damp wind. I will go visit her, because I would like to spend more time with her, find out about her life and more about my mother.

So it was grand and exciting and we were immensely relieved we didn't have to sit another day. We have new kin and I am not disappointed because I never truly imagined my mother could be alive after all these years. It was an exceptional weekend, an exceptional experience. Perhaps I'll figure out something about myself, about this strange ability to just walk away from people and places. Maybe I'll talk it over with my newfound aunt, a woman who clearly knows much about attachment, when I go see her at home later this summer. Oh, and next year, I'll be at the cemetary placing flowers on the graves of my grandparents, honoring the memory of these good people, reconnecting with a past that was lost to me.

This undeserved life

I don't even know what to call this because it's going to be a rant and I have to get rid of it so I can go to bed. It's long and ugly but it gets better just by writing it out.

I am a helper by nature: little miss fix it, help it, make it better. I don't know if it's some thwarted mothering instinct which would have been spent had I ever given birth. I don't know what it is, it's just been with me all my life and, like so many things, it's hell and it's not, this urge to help.

A couple of months ago I got a call on a Saturday morning from a guy wanting to know if I had some work for him in packing and shipping. Very long story short, I hired him and I adore him. He's smart, energetic, runs circles around my main warehouse/shipping guy. Circles. He's sweet, funny, I like this man. He's the cousin of a guy who used to work for me, and the nephew of another, both of whom are hopeless alcoholics and had to be let go.

This kid (I say kid, he's 38!!) tries so hard. He's sweet. People take advantage of him. I think he's kind of lonesome so he allows all sorts of trash into his life and since he works and works hard, makes money, keeps a home, has something of a stable life, he attracts users. He is Seminole and Creek and he and his family suffer the triad of afflictions so common to Native Americans in this state: profound poverty and discrimination and alcoholism. I don't know if our native population will ever overcome the effects of this country's efforts to destroy their culture with the boarding schools. That policy was a travesty no amount of reparations will ever make right.

He lost his apartment three weeks into working for me because the aunt he was living with spent his rent money on dope; had to move. He gets anxious, obsessive. I know these traits. He's an alcoholic, sort of non practicing, sort of, most of the time. I'm an alcoholic, definitely not drinking ~ geeze, just realized for 24 years December 6. He's done some time on a couple of occasions; it was sheer luck that I was not locked up for any number of reasons. So I helped him with the apartment thing ~ just a little, with transportation, some extra furniture.

Then the electric goes off. Apartment's cold. Some loser cousin used his name to get utilities, didn't pay and now this kid (38!!) owes big $$. I helped. Gave him his Christmas bonus early. Electric's on. Yea. Let's work!!

I hold back part of his money each week so he'll have it to pay rent. He took his check last week while we were in Mazatlan and got his holdback monies too. Before he got his rent paid, he met up with a cousin fresh out of the pen, and got drunk to "show him a good time." Ended up staying drunk all weekend. His female cousins took his money. Some other cousin took his phone. When he realized he'd lost all his money and his phone, he just got drunk again. What the fuck. I know that feeling. I advanced him the rent money without his having asked. Poor people get so thoroughly fucked in this world. A day past due and it's another $25, then $25 per day until paid. By the end of the week he'd have been so far in the hole his entire check wouldn't have covered it.

But then there was the phone. The phone is this man's lifeline. I think it's the way he keeps the lonesome at bay and stays connected to other people. He's frantic without the phone. We have been working on this fucking phone all week. Needs a new Cricket (and I have nothing but dirt to dish on those users, fucking Cricket). Three phones later, nothing had worked. There was one across town, he was sure of it, for $50. We're running all over, all day long, trying to get the fucking phone on so we can actually do some work.

At 4:30 I gave up and said let's just go buy you a new one, we have to stop this madness somewhere, we've wasted days trying to get a used one, it's not working and I'm losing my mind. Four days lost for him and a good 10 hours of my life trying to set up broken phone after broken phone, all donated by worthless cousins of this sweet kid I now want to strangle and run over with my truck.

We got the phone and he instantly relaxed and I was pissed ~ enraged, actually ~ at wasting a day until I got home and headed up the rock path to my front door. There was a fire going ~ I could see the flickering of the flames in the stained glass windows in the living room. As I opened the door, I heard a yip and the thumping of little feet on the oak floors as my puppies came running. The big cat was sitting on the sideboard making blinky eyes at me in welcome.

The house smelled marvelous. My husband was in the kitchen cooking tenderloin, asparagus and a pilaf. He came to me with a smile and hugged me, giving me warmth and comfort on this very cold, dark night, asking if I was okay, if all had gone well, I was late, he was worried, so happy to see me my sweetheart.

I felt so fortunate, so filled with gratitude, so blessed by this life filled with love and the luxury of living without any real struggle, with financial security, safety, companionship, comfort, resources, support. I too often take these things for granted and I realized it at that moment in Mike's arms.

I feel ashamed sometimes of my good fortune. I express this upon occasion and am always told "well you work hard, you went to school, you you you you." But it's really not about me and what I did. I did some things, true, but I was able to do those things because of the sheer happenstance of birth. I was born into a family with resources, a family that valued education, work, steadiness, honesty. Mine is family with good values, so good and so never ending that even when I strayed wildly from the way I was brought up, I still had that foundation to return to. I could be rehabilitated because I had something to go back to, something solid, real, good.

It's not really possible to rehabilitate someone who has never been habilitated to begin with. It's too hard. The making of a functional citizen is a lifetime process that begins at birth. A lot of what's needed happens in those first 12 years. This boy's family members are the main ones cheating him, lying to him, using him. My family lifts me up, they're always there for me, loving me, supporting me. They would never, never, not ever use me in any way. They love me. It is pure chance that I got my family and he got his.

When I am irritated with helping someone who struggles so, I find myself consumed with my mad and think fuck all of this, fuck you, fuck all you losers who can't keep it together. The feeling behind that comes from the selfish bitch who inhabits a bit of my soul. I am not doing what I want or need to do and the initial feel good that comes from being able and wanting to help another dissipates as the process drags on.

I am unselfish by instinct and my first impulses are good, but if it takes too long to help you the great I gets in the way and the bitch gets out and I think fuck you. Fuck you. I want, give me, my time, me, me, me, me, what about me!

Recognition turned my mad turned into glad and then to gratitude and an awareness of this shame or embarrassment or something I have about my undeserved blessings. This time of year when it's so cold and the nights are dark and the comforts of home are so exquisite, I am mindful of those who have so little and I say a prayer for all of the struggling people of the world. I say a prayer, too, that I will be a cheerful giver when the next opportunity presents itself. I know it will come, it always does. I will do what I can.

Life is so intrusive

How is a girl to get anything done for herself with life always getting in the way? Sometimes I feel like such a baby because I go and go and go and then I start feeling a little weary of it all. Start thinking of that sun-filled upstairs single room in the old Victorian rooming house in some unnamed southern town in the Smokies. Imagine my four hour a day coffee shop waitress job, how divine it would be to work a bit and be done with it, have no one else to deal with or take care of. Just free and quiet and by myself in heaven.

Whaaa whaaaah. Ugh. I am whining because I have to go to Mazatlan in a week. Family members will be arriving all of this week in preparation for Thanksgiving. The boys at the shop are useless without pretty constant direction. I hate to fly. We're behind at work and no real time, as crazy as it sounds, in the next eight days to catch up. And I have not been to the gym because of all this stuff. It's frustrating. Somehow I have to turn all of this around and get grateful.

My gratitude list: personal health, husband's survival and stable health, wonderful family, great business, sweet nest of a home, precious animals, good finances, good friends, the sun is shining, I'm eating healthy even if I can't get to the gym today, I could help a stranger and did. Suggestions, anyone, beyond read and reread?

Big Ass Belle again

When I left off writing at Notes On My Life to start focusing on my health, it was in part because I'd become so despondent over our political climate that I couldn't focus on anything else.

I started this blog as a means of accountability. I know that accountability works and is a necessary part of my recovery as a food addict. So here I am being accountable again.

It is a pattern in my life to set aside the maintenance of me to pursue other things: work, the health needs of others, other folks' crises, disasters of one kind of another, work, work and, most often, work.

Once again, I've repeated this tired and destructive pattern. It started with my mother-in-law's estate sale and then continued as we neared the mid-term elections with too much focus on a new employee's difficult living situations and my anxiety over the outcome of the vote.

I asked my husband the other day why he thinks it is that I have this almost insurmountable need to help. It's true that many, many people in the world could use a little help, but it's really not necessary that Little Miss Fix-It jump into every untenable situation to provide a solution. It's not. I did make a career of helping, but. I. retired. It's so hard to remember that. I'm not a child abuse investigator anymore. I sell antiques. Got to get it through this noggin.

So Little Miss Big Ass Fix-It is turning around once again to take a look at herself and what she needs. She needs to eliminate some of the "too much" crap going on at work. She requires regular doses of quiet time. She needs time with puppies sleeping on her lap. She needs to get back to the gym, and she needs to take enough time to be able to eat healthy.

Can I fix myself? I've done it before. I'm not broken, but I need a tune-up. I also need Help and will ask for that. We'll see what happens.