Maybe a steady diet of saltines and store-brand sports drink for three days was the tipping point.
Maybe it was two days of sitting and lying down, not needing to do anything else, or thinking there was anything else to do (which was good, because I couldn't do it anyway).
Maybe it's a combination of good medications.
Maybe the moon is in its seventh hour.
Faithful readers will remember that I've had my ups and downs with chronic anxiety and its cousin, depression. I've probably been dealing with them for the better part of my life, but only recently with a full onslaught of better living through chemistry. And while things have improved, the nagging sensation remained that this is as good as it's going to get. The best I could hope for was an absence of outright pain, with a few enjoyable (albeit temporary) moments thrown in randomly. I didn't seem to see evidence of it getting better than that. What has been happening was all that was going to happen. Not because I didn't deserve it, or was unworthy, but...that was it. No feelings of impending doom, although the thought of another possibly 40 years of bleh didn't exactly charge my battery either.
If you've met me in real life prior to the last two years, this would probably surprise you. I've always been relentlessly optimistic. Perhaps foolishly so, and in several situations, naively so, but somehow I always knew that things were going to be OK...and probably a damn sight better than OK as well. And if they weren't, I just knew it was a temporary situation. Everything would come out in the wash. Even when I got divorced: it was painful, it was confusing, it was round one of major depression, it was self-isolating while I tried to figure which way was the hell up. But through it all, I knew this wasn't "me" forever. My friends circled around me, never leaving, but giving me room. They were there when I came up for air, and still there when the sun rose again. I knew things would get better.
This time, I couldn't see it. The situation so thoroughly shook my foundation that I wondered if I even had one anymore-or ever did to begin with. My friends were still here, but I couldn't come up for air like I did before. I managed to drag myself out of the deepest pits, and knew I was done being there. But that's where I felt I stopped. I wasn't in free-fall, but I wasn't moving forward. I began to feel like this was "me" forever. The wash had already come out, and someone ran black jeans in with the white towels. Both are still perfectly functional, but neither will ever be quite the right color again.
Then Wednesday happened. Yesterday. Around 4:00, literally. I realized that my body felt different. I sat for a moment, wondering if this was a new wave of nausea, but it wasn't. I sat a little more, and found that the space above my heart felt different. As in, space between my heart and my breastbone. Breathing room. As if a weight, like a ten-pound bag of flour had been lifted from there. Something came in that hadn't been there for a while, and that's why it took me a little to recognize it.
I'm not sure what exactly it is that was taken, but I feel no need to find it and pick it up again. I don't need its suffocating closeness, or its false sense of security. Whatever it is, it's gone. And what keeps going through my mind is, "That wasn't me forever."
I don't know what the future holds. I'm pretty sure that all my problems will not instantly be solved (obviously, or they'd be gone already, seeing as this happened yesterday). I'll still have to go to work, and teach lessons, and find a way to make time to do the things that make my heart sing in between. But my heart has room to sing again. A sense of possibility has returned, and while I don't know exactly where the road is going, I am able to see a road in front of me once more. if I squint a little, it looks like it's heading into a meadow of flowers.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Facelift
Time for a new look over here at Herself. What do you think? I like it. The old harbor background had nothing to do with anything, other than not being a plain blank page. I'm also home today with the latest version of a stomach bug that's going around school. I think I started coming down with it Sunday; as soon as I started feeling wonky, I stopped eating (except for Saltines and Vitamin Water). I believe this has kept me from kneeling before the porcelain god, but the constant waves of queasiness are not conducive to productive teaching. Yesterday I survived because my afternoon is all small-group lessons, and I could stay sitting down. Not so today. Sitting still seems to be helpful, and when updating with Blogger, you know there's plenty of that.
The picture in the header is yarn that I dyed with indigo, cochineal, walnut hulls, and such. I plopped it in a basket and trotted it down to my LYS to see what happened. With pretty much no effort, over the course of a year, I sold almost all of it (which is fine, because I didn't need to pay the electric bill with it). I was mainly interested in recouping the cost of the yarn plus a little, since it was all experimental. I promptly spent the profits at the very same LYS.
Like many kitchen dyers, I'll admit I harbor fantasies of a little naturally-dyed yarn empire springing forth from my efforts. However, I fully realize that this is a fantasy, at least during the school year. Whether you use acid or plant dyes, dyeing rather chains you to the stove/microwave/crockpot when you do it. I just don't have that kind of time until about July.
I do love the process of natural dyeing. I love not quite knowing what's going to come out. (Have I talked about this before? I should read my own archives.) Just because the dyestuff is one color doesn't mean that's what you'll get. Red onion skins don't give you that purple-y color that they are when you peel them. You can make an educated guess, and then you can even temper your results by adding mordants. I haven't played around with those much yet. I've been too happy with what I've gotten, doing what I'm doing. I need to experience the joys of test skeins. Remember the "Perfect is the enemy of the good" post? Right there. Test skeins are not wasted materials.
I probably have more stockpots in my collection than the average bear, and I need to get a couple of smaller ones for testing. Luckily, I live just up the hill from the Corning-Revere-Corelle Factory Store, where things like that turn up all the time, for not much money. I need to bug a glass artist to set me up with some glass rods (though Pyrex would be even better...hmmm...I know they aren't at the factory store, but I know people who work in the labs at Corning Inc.) for stirring. Spoons + wet yarn = nightmare. Even spoon handles. Even plastic spoon handles. (ESPECIALLY wooden spoon handles.)
Some days, the planning is as good as the doing. Well, almost...but particularly on days where you know the doing would probably make you barf. Off for more Gatorade...
The picture in the header is yarn that I dyed with indigo, cochineal, walnut hulls, and such. I plopped it in a basket and trotted it down to my LYS to see what happened. With pretty much no effort, over the course of a year, I sold almost all of it (which is fine, because I didn't need to pay the electric bill with it). I was mainly interested in recouping the cost of the yarn plus a little, since it was all experimental. I promptly spent the profits at the very same LYS.
Like many kitchen dyers, I'll admit I harbor fantasies of a little naturally-dyed yarn empire springing forth from my efforts. However, I fully realize that this is a fantasy, at least during the school year. Whether you use acid or plant dyes, dyeing rather chains you to the stove/microwave/crockpot when you do it. I just don't have that kind of time until about July.
I do love the process of natural dyeing. I love not quite knowing what's going to come out. (Have I talked about this before? I should read my own archives.) Just because the dyestuff is one color doesn't mean that's what you'll get. Red onion skins don't give you that purple-y color that they are when you peel them. You can make an educated guess, and then you can even temper your results by adding mordants. I haven't played around with those much yet. I've been too happy with what I've gotten, doing what I'm doing. I need to experience the joys of test skeins. Remember the "Perfect is the enemy of the good" post? Right there. Test skeins are not wasted materials.
I probably have more stockpots in my collection than the average bear, and I need to get a couple of smaller ones for testing. Luckily, I live just up the hill from the Corning-Revere-Corelle Factory Store, where things like that turn up all the time, for not much money. I need to bug a glass artist to set me up with some glass rods (though Pyrex would be even better...hmmm...I know they aren't at the factory store, but I know people who work in the labs at Corning Inc.) for stirring. Spoons + wet yarn = nightmare. Even spoon handles. Even plastic spoon handles. (ESPECIALLY wooden spoon handles.)
Some days, the planning is as good as the doing. Well, almost...but particularly on days where you know the doing would probably make you barf. Off for more Gatorade...
Monday, January 25, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Dichotomy
It's a tremendously beautiful day here. Mid-30's, blue sky, no wind, and plentiful SUN. I just got back from a walk up at the nature center, where I haven't been in a while. Probably should wear my hiking boots instead of my ducks next time for a little extra grip, but no bones were broken.
I've also bought paint for my bedroom. "Polaris Blue," a darker smoky blue. I'm trying to decide if I want to start tomorrow afternoon and get one wall done (knowing I won't be able to do any more until next weekend at the earliest) because I can't wait to see how it looks; or wait until I know I can spend a whole Saturday getting one coat on the entire room. This is assuming I could then spend the Sunday immediately following getting the second coat up. A third coat will probably be necessary, too. We'll see.
The Trickey Dickey was finished last night, and it's just right. I'm just about onto the eight inches of ribbing for the hat (it folds in half for two 4" layers). No spinning yet, but there's time.
Now, onto the post title. I wanted to be sure I started with the not-philosophical stuff.
I'm kind of lonely. Not lonely for People. I spend every day except my weekends up to my neck in People. Well, some of them only come up to my waist, but you know what I mean. I even spend extra time after my regular job with more People. I like these people, and I'm grateful to have them in my life. I know many of you spend 24 hours a day with such People, and perhaps are thinking, "Well, at least you have time to yourself. I'd kill for that." Yes and no. I'll explain.
I'm lonely for a Person. And I don't know how to meet one. Or any, apparently...not ones who aren't already married, or looking for someone to raise their three children from two marriages, or in their 40's looking for a 25-to-35 year-old Greek goddess, at least.
The only advice I seem to get is, "You have to get Out There and look!" My first question is, where the hell is Out There? The bar scene? Right. Online dating? Sure. Three months on eHarmony seeing all of those "matches" either never contact me, or never respond when I contacted them...that did my self-esteem wonders, and I had the privilege of paying for it. Art openings and wine tastings and such? Well, here the problem is two-fold:
1) I have yet to go to one of those things where there's someone else looking for company. Generally speaking, you go to them WITH a date or a mate. I'm acutely aware of being The Single One in these groups. Others probably aren't, but I am.
2) And there's the other side of the People problem. By the time I get done with a week of work, I am Peopled out. I've put so much into work, both through the kids and the adults, that I don't have much left. I'm on the introverted side of the scale. Once I've hit my People limit, I start to withdraw, and it's extremely difficult (and rarely successful anyway) for me to fake being social. I know it, and it makes me even more uncomfortable, and the circle continues. I'm not likely to be putting my best foot forward when I'm that strung out, such as it is. I'm not physically tired for the most part, but I'm mentally toasted.
Quitting my day job isn't an option, of course, and financially, I need to keep teaching privately for a while still. This may be faulty logic, but that leads me to believe I won't be meeting anyone anytime soon, given my personality quirks, and I don't like that. I'm tired of going to bed and waking up alone every day for the last three years. I'm not talking just about sex. I'm talking about going to social events alone, and coming home alone, and cooking supper for one. I have friends and family over; like I said, I'm grateful for their presence in my life. But they go home, too. Even I reach my limit of No People, Please. I'm not a hermit or agoraphobic. I take my hikes, and do my shopping, and stop at the LYS and chat. It would be nice to have a lap to rest my head in now and then, too. A Person. For me.
I've also bought paint for my bedroom. "Polaris Blue," a darker smoky blue. I'm trying to decide if I want to start tomorrow afternoon and get one wall done (knowing I won't be able to do any more until next weekend at the earliest) because I can't wait to see how it looks; or wait until I know I can spend a whole Saturday getting one coat on the entire room. This is assuming I could then spend the Sunday immediately following getting the second coat up. A third coat will probably be necessary, too. We'll see.
The Trickey Dickey was finished last night, and it's just right. I'm just about onto the eight inches of ribbing for the hat (it folds in half for two 4" layers). No spinning yet, but there's time.
Now, onto the post title. I wanted to be sure I started with the not-philosophical stuff.
I'm kind of lonely. Not lonely for People. I spend every day except my weekends up to my neck in People. Well, some of them only come up to my waist, but you know what I mean. I even spend extra time after my regular job with more People. I like these people, and I'm grateful to have them in my life. I know many of you spend 24 hours a day with such People, and perhaps are thinking, "Well, at least you have time to yourself. I'd kill for that." Yes and no. I'll explain.
I'm lonely for a Person. And I don't know how to meet one. Or any, apparently...not ones who aren't already married, or looking for someone to raise their three children from two marriages, or in their 40's looking for a 25-to-35 year-old Greek goddess, at least.
The only advice I seem to get is, "You have to get Out There and look!" My first question is, where the hell is Out There? The bar scene? Right. Online dating? Sure. Three months on eHarmony seeing all of those "matches" either never contact me, or never respond when I contacted them...that did my self-esteem wonders, and I had the privilege of paying for it. Art openings and wine tastings and such? Well, here the problem is two-fold:
1) I have yet to go to one of those things where there's someone else looking for company. Generally speaking, you go to them WITH a date or a mate. I'm acutely aware of being The Single One in these groups. Others probably aren't, but I am.
2) And there's the other side of the People problem. By the time I get done with a week of work, I am Peopled out. I've put so much into work, both through the kids and the adults, that I don't have much left. I'm on the introverted side of the scale. Once I've hit my People limit, I start to withdraw, and it's extremely difficult (and rarely successful anyway) for me to fake being social. I know it, and it makes me even more uncomfortable, and the circle continues. I'm not likely to be putting my best foot forward when I'm that strung out, such as it is. I'm not physically tired for the most part, but I'm mentally toasted.
Quitting my day job isn't an option, of course, and financially, I need to keep teaching privately for a while still. This may be faulty logic, but that leads me to believe I won't be meeting anyone anytime soon, given my personality quirks, and I don't like that. I'm tired of going to bed and waking up alone every day for the last three years. I'm not talking just about sex. I'm talking about going to social events alone, and coming home alone, and cooking supper for one. I have friends and family over; like I said, I'm grateful for their presence in my life. But they go home, too. Even I reach my limit of No People, Please. I'm not a hermit or agoraphobic. I take my hikes, and do my shopping, and stop at the LYS and chat. It would be nice to have a lap to rest my head in now and then, too. A Person. For me.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Ahh, Friday.
This is the first one in about three weeks that doesn't feel like I need an entire additional Friday to feel caught up. While not absolutely everything is done, what wasn't finished can be filed under "manageable" instead of "hide under my desk and suck my thumb." I believe starting the first week after the holiday break by receiving some truly fabulous new technology (a SMARTBoard, for those interested) put me behind the eight-ball right away. Because once the board was delivered, it was discovered that my computer didn't have enough whatsie to run the necessary software (to which I said to myself, NO KIDDING). We also discovered that day that my phone, while not ringing in my room, was making the night doorbell by the main office ring. (It would have been OK with me if they didn't fix it, but I was outvoted.)
Finding a place for the board meant removing a bulletin board and moving a whiteboard into its place. That meant patching the holes and removing another smaller bulletin board, only to discover the previous wall color was "used Band-Aid pink." Which, of course, meant painting the wall.
Hanging the board where I did meant placing the cart with the projector on it in just the right place (eventually it'll be mounted from the ceiling). That meant moving my instrumentarium so that the kids could sit and see the board. Which meant moving my desk.
The only place to put my desk then became the front corner of my room, which was great, except for the piano that usually sits there. Once I discovered that the piano actually fits quite tidily into a closet I have (I don't use it much for classes...I hate playing standing up and I can't hear the kids sing over it anyway. I use my guitar), all was solved. Regular classes and lessons happened all around this, of course, and the dust and filth that was stirred up didn't help any. I just couldn't get settled in to do what really needed to be done until this week. I feel a lot better, much less antsy.
So, this weekend I plan to finish up a Trickey Dickey from EZ's Knitting Around; I finished it once, but I cast on too many stitches and the neck was heee-YOOGE. I'm using some handspun Peruvian Highland wool and I lurve it. (No, not "love." LURRRRRRRVE it. Two-ply bulky soft deliciousness. Natural grey. Pictures when it's done.) I have that hat from the winter Vogue that's on its fourth incarnation; I should have gone down one needle size the last time, when I went down two. I went from having a snood to having a kippah, neither of which were acceptable in this application. I really want to spin more, too. Might just happen.
Finding a place for the board meant removing a bulletin board and moving a whiteboard into its place. That meant patching the holes and removing another smaller bulletin board, only to discover the previous wall color was "used Band-Aid pink." Which, of course, meant painting the wall.
Hanging the board where I did meant placing the cart with the projector on it in just the right place (eventually it'll be mounted from the ceiling). That meant moving my instrumentarium so that the kids could sit and see the board. Which meant moving my desk.
The only place to put my desk then became the front corner of my room, which was great, except for the piano that usually sits there. Once I discovered that the piano actually fits quite tidily into a closet I have (I don't use it much for classes...I hate playing standing up and I can't hear the kids sing over it anyway. I use my guitar), all was solved. Regular classes and lessons happened all around this, of course, and the dust and filth that was stirred up didn't help any. I just couldn't get settled in to do what really needed to be done until this week. I feel a lot better, much less antsy.
So, this weekend I plan to finish up a Trickey Dickey from EZ's Knitting Around; I finished it once, but I cast on too many stitches and the neck was heee-YOOGE. I'm using some handspun Peruvian Highland wool and I lurve it. (No, not "love." LURRRRRRRVE it. Two-ply bulky soft deliciousness. Natural grey. Pictures when it's done.) I have that hat from the winter Vogue that's on its fourth incarnation; I should have gone down one needle size the last time, when I went down two. I went from having a snood to having a kippah, neither of which were acceptable in this application. I really want to spin more, too. Might just happen.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I prefer...
Gleefully stolen from "Life in A-Town" over thar in the blog list...
Wool to anything else.
Tea to coffee.
Whisky to wine.
Double-treadle to single, worsted to woolen, combed to carded, double-drive to Scotch tension.
Bamboo to nickel-plated.
Clogs to heels.
Bare feet to clogs.
Baths to showers.
Crunchy to smooth.
Chocolate to vanilla.
(Is there really a choice on that last one?)
Wool to anything else.
Tea to coffee.
Whisky to wine.
Double-treadle to single, worsted to woolen, combed to carded, double-drive to Scotch tension.
Bamboo to nickel-plated.
Clogs to heels.
Bare feet to clogs.
Baths to showers.
Crunchy to smooth.
Chocolate to vanilla.
(Is there really a choice on that last one?)
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Why I Don't Watch Network Television Much
It's Sunday, about 9:20 here at Herself. I'm watching the one network program a week that I choose to watch: "CBS Sunday Morning." Not surprisingly, so far this week's program is about the disaster in Haiti. I won't go into the details; only if you're living under a rock do you not know what's going on there.
After the first segment, a commercial break (also not surprising). The definition of "bliss" according to this garbage? Smooth, sexy LIPS.
Lips.
Without Blistex, bliss is out of my reach.
The juxtaposition of the description and images of Haitians injured, without shelter, food or water, or even a place to bury their dead, and a lineup of super-slim, ultra-hip, perfectly groomed models is beyond the pale.
I'm not the first person to question what on earth Madison Avenue is peddling. I'm not the first to be ashamed of what I worry about, when in reality, I have more than I need and just about everything I want. I'm not the first to wonder what the world might be like if we consistently put our attention towards the well-being of our fellow human beings as often as we did the condition of our lips. I know it's more complicated than that. We can't control the events that have shaped what Haiti has become now, and couldn't then.
But the one thing I know is this: nothing will change as long as we have that damn box telling us day after day, that smooth lips, and wrinkle-free faces, and toned abs, and new furniture, and expensive cars with red ribbons on them in the driveway for Christmas are the true keys to happiness. That being sassy, smart-mouthed, clever, and addicted instead of compassionate, thoughtful, patient and gentle is the model for real people, the ones who get ahead and make "things" happen.
They can have it.
After the first segment, a commercial break (also not surprising). The definition of "bliss" according to this garbage? Smooth, sexy LIPS.
Lips.
Without Blistex, bliss is out of my reach.
The juxtaposition of the description and images of Haitians injured, without shelter, food or water, or even a place to bury their dead, and a lineup of super-slim, ultra-hip, perfectly groomed models is beyond the pale.
I'm not the first person to question what on earth Madison Avenue is peddling. I'm not the first to be ashamed of what I worry about, when in reality, I have more than I need and just about everything I want. I'm not the first to wonder what the world might be like if we consistently put our attention towards the well-being of our fellow human beings as often as we did the condition of our lips. I know it's more complicated than that. We can't control the events that have shaped what Haiti has become now, and couldn't then.
But the one thing I know is this: nothing will change as long as we have that damn box telling us day after day, that smooth lips, and wrinkle-free faces, and toned abs, and new furniture, and expensive cars with red ribbons on them in the driveway for Christmas are the true keys to happiness. That being sassy, smart-mouthed, clever, and addicted instead of compassionate, thoughtful, patient and gentle is the model for real people, the ones who get ahead and make "things" happen.
They can have it.
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