Celebrating

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Seriously, if I spoke all of this week’s typed words aloud, my throat would hurt.  Actually, my throat does kind of hurt.  The lovely Maren, my Arts & Letters partner in crime, is in town and we’ve been having fun adventures and yakking it up, though not a single word about A&L.  How funny is that?  Our conversations take place everywhere but there.  Yakkety-yak and a jolly good time.

Speaking of jolly good times, the hubster and I spent Tuesday evening at the Willamette Week’s Secret Supper for Restaurant of the Year, Podnah’s Pit.  It’s a beyond delicious barbecue joint in a beautiful space in Northeast.  I must admit I was a tad disappointed with the choice because it is somewhere I’ve eaten numerous times and kind of wanted a new experience.  However, both of the other restaurants local eaters love and felt more deserving of the honor, St. Jack and Little Bird, are places the hubster and I have enjoyed equally stellar meals. So, no matter what, it would have been a repeat for us.  What are you gonna do?

That being said, it didn’t make it any less fun or crazy delicious.  We were lucky to be sandwiched between some really nice people, software developers and non-profiters on one side and psychiatrist wine makers on the other.  I know – interesting combination! The wine, beer, and conversation flowed, majorly (Not a word?  Really?) so, and we chatted like high schoolers in the cafeteria while digging into a meal that can only be described as epic and bordering on the hedonistic.

There was wedge salad with creamy chunky blue cheese, corn bread, mac and cheese, collards (the only item I didn’t like – I want beans with my BBQ, not limp greens!), brisket, prime rib, pulled pork, and ribs, which maybe doesn’t sound like a lot when in small portions (or if you’re a linebacker), but the plate was absolutely piled with food.  We had to get strategic so as to keep everything on the plate and still eat.  I ate all I could and felt full and belchy (classy!) until the end of Last Call with Carson Daly, which, just in case you aren’t in the know, is over at 2:35 in the AM.  That’s a meal and a half, my friends.

The photo is what we took home, the heaviest to go box of our lives: lunch and dinner for the hubster on Wednesday, a late morning snack for me, and lunch again for the hubster on Thursday.  Like I said, epic.

Part of the magic of the evening was that we knew not a soul, yet felt wholly at home with our table mates.  Portland is chockablock with neat-o people.  I love you, Stumptown.  We also had a small world moment when I discovered that one of the psychiatrists at the table (for my family – think half Joe, half Bush 43 wearing Daddy’s cowboy hat!) practices in the same building as a doctor I saw years ago.  What are the chances?

Sadly, however, Dr. Newton died just two weeks ago.  It came as quite a shock, and my heart ached at the news.  Here was this guy who helped me through a very dark period, a psychiatrist without feeling like one.  He talked about the outdoors and visiting Yosemite and getting sun in winter.  We talked about everything, big things, but mostly little things, triggers, and ways to overcome them.  Minor shifts in perspective that created great breakthroughs in my overall wellbeing.  “Instead of thinking that roadkill is dead, think of it as sleeping, forever.  Oh look, that squirrel is sleeping!”  He was the first psychiatrist to make me laugh (squirrel!) and truly help me see that I was okay and needn’t take drugs to feel better or worry so much or bury myself in guilt or doubt.  I was and would be fine.  And I am with much thanks to you, Dr. Newton.  Peace to you in the sweet hereafter.

Let’s just keep the love going a moment – thanks to you ALL for reading and being my friends.  Big hug!

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Nature will bear the closest inspection.  She invites us to lay our eye level with her smallest leaf and take an insect view of its plain.

Henry David Thoreau

Happy Birthday Grandpa and Mari!

Let your love be like the misty rains, coming softly, but flooding the river.

Malagasy Proverb

Happy Birthday, Buddy!

My rain, flood, sun, and stars…

 

Afternoon, friends.  How are you this fine Wednesday?  I am well, and, I think, officially middle aged.  Is forty middle aged?  Or does the saying, “Fifty is the new forty” mean I’ve got ten more years?  Oh bother.  I’m forty, four-zero, shaken-not-stirred, straight-no-chaser (a la Thelonious Monk), with new wrinkles to prove it!  Seriously, I think the skin on my face lost a millimeter or two of elasticity in the last two weeks.  And here I thought I was Ms. Fancy Pants!

As I am not a super celebratory kind of gal, we had a yard sale on the big day, which was, now that I think about it, a bit of a party.  We chatted it up and had laughs with many neighbors, strangers, and friends.   The hubster and I shared high-fives and danced a couple of jiggety-jigs after getting rid of quite an accumulation of stuff we no longer needed, also freeing a rather large portion of our basement from a cumbersome burden.

This included nearly our entire CD collection (we’ve gone digital!), which, at times, made me a little misty-melancholy, as someone put a rather fine selection into their purchase pile and my mind traveled to places we’d been together: driving in my 1981 Toyota Celica listening to Joy Division, chilling on the sofa to Miles Davis, singing at the top of my voice to the Doors and Rolling Stones.  Ahh, nostalgia.

To to top it off, the peonies are blooming (hello Coral Charm!) and we partook of some Late Night Snack, the very yummy Jimmy Fallon flavor from Ben and Jerry’s.  Salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy, it is a perfect flavor and texture combination.  I expect nothing less from Mr. Fallon.

So, forty feels fine: older, wiser, sillier, more supple, yet obstinate, too.  How are you?

I fell down the stairs a few years ago.  It really hurt, and I got a nasty bruise on my back, but I didn’t really think about it much.  I do that, move right along once the initial pain subsides.  I’ve got things to do, places to go, people to see!  The trouble is, my back never really healed properly, even though it felt okay.  It got itself in a bit of a jumble that’s caused other problems, more irritating and insidious.  I’ve tried visiting a chiropractor and acupuncturist to get rid of it, but nothing seemed to work.  I’ve recently been working with a massage therapist, and she said, rather casually, that problems like these, ones that should heal but don’t are often the result of not being able to let go of something painful.  This idea gave me pause.  Is it true?  Is there something I’ve been unwilling to loosen from my grasp?

I talked to my former student, now friend, Daniel last night.  He’s coming for a short visit and wanted to be sure we saw each other, which we will.  It’s nice to be thought of like that, wanted.  I like it.  Anyway, during our conversation, we talked about life and what we’re doing, and whether the work we do means anything or is going anywhere, despite the hours, days, weeks, and months we’ve been at it.  In particular, I was thinking about my blog and the fact that my last post was the 500th (Zowie!).  I’ve come to this space five hundred times, put myself out there as honestly and earnestly as I can, yet what is it doing, really?  Where is it going?  What is it about? What kind of blog is it?  Honestly, I have no idea.  I only do what feels right at the time.

I was at the library the other day, in a section I don’t normally browse, and found a sweet little book called Start Where You Are, by Pema Chodron.  It’s about meditation and how to practice and cope with whatever life brings, mostly by letting go.  I brought it home (along with a giant stack from the sections I do normally browse – libraries are awesome), and I’ve really been enjoying it.  She writes in a very accessible style, with many personal anecdotes.  I find myself laughing a lot and agreeing with her words, especially these: Give away what you don’t want.  Give away what you most want.  Nothing is concrete. There are no definitive answers.  There’s only this moment and this breath.

Then, yesterday, I popped in a bonus Shiva Rea DVD, again, like the book, something I wouldn’t normally browse, and watched an interview with Shiva about the practice of yoga.  At the beginning she said, “With yoga, you start where you are.”  Well, the light bulbs went off friends.  I thought about how true it is, especially in reference to Pema Chodron’s book.  Nothing is concrete.  Each moment is new.  With each yoga practice, I start where I am.  Sometimes, I am strong and steady, moving with grace and ease through the postures.  Other times, like yesterday, I fall on my ass doing what is normally pretty simple.

Then I got to the big picture thoughts that have been weighing heavily on my mind.  I’ve written five hundred blog posts and am nearly forty years old.  This is a big deal, isn’t it?  Something significant, concrete, should be happening, right?  Fireworks?   I should know what I’m doing, where I’m going, what I’m going to be.  I should be making money.  It’s about time.

Then, finally, it’s back to my massage therapist’s words and the book.  Letting go.  Everything is a passing memory.  I’ve had these ideas and expectations my whole life.  I’ve been holding on to the notion that I should know what I’m doing, be successful, that my back shouldn’t hurt, that I should like everyone.  It’s all very concrete and solid, like the knots in my back.  But what if I looked at life differently?  What if I allowed a space for softness, for not knowing, not grasping.  What if I let go of all the stories?  What if I start where I am right now, again and again, no destination, no need to be anything different than what I am.  What will happen then?

I guess I will see.

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