Solitude Lost?

Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.

May Sarton

Sometimes I take a different route just to see where it leads. Sometimes I question my thinking when I make these decisions, because it might have been easier to look at a map. Or a guidebook. Sometimes those resources aren’t at my fingertips, or I have no patience to find them, and my curiosity gets the best of me. Besides, what's the worst that can happen? I’m growing more and more curious regarding this employment venture that begins next week. How will it change my life? What might I truly enjoy about it as well as what will I miss most about my old life?

There is some apprehension--that questioning. At times the old, familiar road overwhelms the possibility for the new. For I’m already thinking my solitude will suffer the most. I get along quite nicely with myself. And it took quite an evolution to get to that point.

Yesterday, I took myself out to breakfast at the Magnolia Café and ordered their most decadent omelet – The Magnolia: two eggs, black olives, avocado, and tomatoes with a lemon crème sauce. I sat in the booth and free wrote in my journal, remembering the days I brought my young sons to the restaurant. They filled up on pancakes or French toast and then we’d head out to find a new swimming hole or park or visit a museum or theater production.

With kids in the house, I forgot what solitude might entail. What it might be like to go to the bathroom alone, read a book in longer stints than three paragraphs, or write more than five words before someone or something needed my attention. The silence of the house overwhelmed me when my youngest child went off to school, but I’ve adapted quite well to being alone all day.

I don't notice the quiet.

My writing and editing, my reading, my denial of housework, and my puttering around at my own pace has offered an opportunity I rarely squander. I’m not sure how I’ll do being with people all day long, pursuing someone else's agenda.

A few months ago, I told my oldest son about a fun party invitation we had received, but that I didn’t want to attend.

“Why wouldn’t you want to go?” he asked.

“Well, you have to talk to people and have fun and stuff.”

He shook his head at me. “If it weren’t for Dad, you’d be a hermit.”

I had to think about that. Quite unlike the young woman who craved companionship and conversation in college. Or the woman who stood before a classroom or in a boardroom addressing business issues to a well-attended table. Or the new stay-at-home mom who stood in the driveway and asked every woman walking by with a stroller if she wanted to be her friend.

I sincerely appreciate my friends and sometimes have to remind myself not to take them for granted. To come out of hiding and BE a friend. I’m thankful for the friends who remind me to do that.

But I’m so good at listening for the door to close behind my family heading out to begin their days, and then taking a breath. For now I can attend to me before I take on anything else. Yes, it should be most interesting to discover what will happen when the door closes with me on the other side.

Remind Me What Friends Are For?

I've always said that in politics, your enemies can't hurt you, but your friends will kill you.

Ann Richards

Last night, two of my girlfriends and I walked to the corner Wag-A-Bag for a bottle of wine. That we were walking should not be an indication of our condition. At all. Anyway, while walking on the sidewalk in front of them, my friend JC said,

“I think your exercise is working, Julie. Your ass isn’t as big as it used to be.”

“Yeah,” KO said. “It’s not nearly as wide as it was in that picture when you mooned us at the beach.”

I gazed up into the street light above, trying to decide how to receive these, these comments. As I recalled, I wasn’t the only one catching a breeze that day at the beach. I distinctly remember a line of us, like four old broads testing the hypothesis that women over 50 are invisible. And I truly believe the camera that caught that flash of mid-life girlfriend's weekend-at-the-beach-tomfoolery had a faulty lens. No way was that my real rear end.

But since these women and I have been friends for almost twenty years, and I know them well enough to know this was their way of giving me a compliment, I only nodded, and said a simple "Thank you."

Guess I really will have to keep going to the Y.

No Parking

But I wouldn’t have fared any better at a secluded writer’s colony in the woods, because I was the ideal candidate for writer’s block. All the classic defects converged in me—inexperience, impatience, perfectionism, confusion, fear. Above all I suffered from a naïve view that writing should be easy. I thought that words were supposed to come unbidden.

From The Tender Bar – J.R. Moehringer

This is the fifth post I've started this afternoon. Trying to find a good topic, like writing about my list of things to accomplish before I start work next week or the fruit turning red on the potted tomato plant outside my window, is simply not working. Nor can I find all the lists of ideas for this column. Slips of paper scattered here and there, none in reach of where my rear end is parked at the moment.

I’m thinking this might be punishment for not having been to the YMCA yet today and it is now almost 4pm. If I am going to learn how to adjust my schedule and exercise later in the day, this might be the precise time to drag my butt over there. In fact, I can feel that butt getting wider the longer I sit in this chair.

Perhaps there was a reason for this parking spot, though. My middle son just called from college in Arizona and had I been out and about, would have missed it. (My boys normally don’t call unless something is awry. Probably stems from their younger, sibling fight days when I told them to only come get me if one of them was bleeding.) Hopefully I had a few words of comfort for this boy's worry about a test that had not gone well. Nice to know they know they can still call home.

Off to sweat…and ponder a more interesting post for another day, when the words do arrive unbidden.

Exercise is Absolutely an Ugly Word

When I feel like exercising, I just lie down until the feeling goes away.

Robert M. Hutchins

Long ago, way before the newspapers and magazines talked about it, I noticed Michelle Obama’s toned arms. I wondered. Was she one of those lucky people who had a body like that simply because some beefy god awarded it to her randomly? With no work required on her part?

Yesterday, the true answer arrived. I read she gets up at 5:30am to work out. Crap! What a message that sends. I don’t know about you, but exercise and I don’t click early in the morning. In fact, if I ever find myself getting out of bed early to go to the YMCA, someone please slap me. For it will mean I’m living someone else’s life or something too strange has altered my normal makeup. I can’t handle that much change.

I am so not a morning person. But I am an exercise person. My brain tells me that it is good for me, therefore, I do it. But I hail to the Flabby Arm Club.

I've tried to ditch that group, to no avail. Last December, a fellow member of the arm club and I marched from the bar to the Y and signed up for eight sessions with a personal trainer. I’ve dabbled in exercise through the years, even did the Danskin Triathlon in 1997 (where I finished the ½ mile swim in 19 minutes, thank you very much.) But, excuse me, where you actually have to exercise while someone stands beside you saying “Only eight more and 500 sets left” doesn’t compare with a Sangria Margarita at Jardine’s.

Needless to say, my midlife world has put some weight on me. Yet after three months and a dedicated effort at this exercise gig, I can honestly say that so far I’ve gained four pounds. Working for me, wouldn’t you say?

Two to three times a week I lift weights and two to three times weekly I either swim a mile, sprint on the elliptical machine, or aqua jog. A measurement a month ago said I had lost 4 ¾ inches.

Do I look any different? No.

Do my pants fit better? No.

Are my boobs smaller? Of course.

But I remained undeterred. Surely my heart must be healthier. And somewhere under these lumpy body parts, there must be some muscles. Right?

RIGHT?

Which brings in an entirely different discussion. Starting next week I begin working 8-5. Getting my ass out of bed, dressed with hair combed and teeth brushed is going to be an exercise in itself. Tell me how I keep my dates at the Y? I’m thinking I need to drive there directly from work. But my life doesn’t always allow for nightly exercise. i.e. people to feed, baseball games to attend, other mom/wife/friend/life activities.

Anyone want to share their methods for work, toned arms and gut? Please, I already see that getting up at 5:30 is a good answer. Ain’t my thing. I’m still trying to figure out how to get to sleep before 2am so I can get out of the house by 7:15. All suggestions considered.

Sweet Harmony

“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

William Shakespeare

Did anyone notice the sliver of moon last night, with Venus right beside it, descending into the horizon together? That scene followed a beautiful sunset of oranges and pinks, jet trails colored by the light as their streaks glided much longer than normal into the sunset. Seems like whenever I see such a sight, I’m certain it is the first time I’ve ever seen anything like it. Gave me such a happier heart. Or maybe a lighter one. Most welcome.

Two days by myself have put some life back into my step. Been walking with both feet in front of each of other since yesterday and I can’t quite recall what had made them so heavy the other day. My husband and youngest son arrived last night and it was good to see them. So far today, we have done nothing, which is perhaps exactly what we needed to do.

The cold front blew in yesterday while I was reading in my hammock. Had shorts and a t-shirt on when I suddenly felt chilled. Last night, wrapped in a blanket and sitting on the dock, fish jumping, ducks floating quietly beside us, my husband and I watched the stars. I decided running away from home isn’t always such a bad thing.

Taking a Breath

A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.

Anais Nin

Yesterday I ran away from home. I couldn't quite decide whether to do it or not. I participated in my usual stutter step. This time the guilt stutter step. Like is it fair of me to escape out to the lake? Should I leave my husband and that youngest son to fare for themselves? Not like they both haven't had a hellacious past few weeks. But helping prop their spirits while job seeking has put me in a place where I yearned for escape. I'm so glad I took a detour.

I don't begin my new job for another week and it has occurred to me that adopting myself to an employer's pace is definitely going to bring change. Not that raising three kids hasn't put me on someone else's schedule. (I discovered that during three natural childbirths when I so wanted a five minute break just to catch my breath.) I more than understand many/most women already juggle all this. But allow me a moment to whine and I'll share my escape through a few pictures my dear friend the travel writer sent me just this morning.

Three years ago, my husband and I fulfilled a longtime dream and bought a place on a lake in the Hill Country. Close to home, we have filled the cabin on weekends with over 150 people to share this rest area. But last night and today, I escaped by myself. I've spent the time working at my own pace. Doing for myself. Taking a breath.

It is warm in Texas right now. Like 85 degrees warm. Cold front due tomorrow. But for those of you still in the midst of winter, take a few moments to loll with me on the dock. That's where my book and I are headed. Tomorrow I'll go back to being a responsible, contributing member of society.

Gas and a Candy Bar

temporary adjective

lasting for only a limited period of time; not permanent : a temporary job.

“So now that you have a job, will you still do your blog?” Only my wise ass friend, Beth, would ask that question. Remind me that I forgot to mention in the last post that my new job is only temporary. Like nine weeks temporary. Like they might have more projects after the one I’m on, or they might not.

So, yes, I do need to continue this trip as I've only been granted a pit stop on my road to employment. Sort of like a quick bathroom break where there is no line and you're not quite ready for a full tank of gas. Maybe a small bag of Doritos or a salted nut roll. That nine weeks of employment isn’t going to be the end of this road trip by a long shot.

Okay, now back to my glass of wine.

Underwear Required

job noun
a paid position of regular employment

I am the recipient of a new job. After two of the most boring hours I have spent in quite some time, I was handed a W4 and given a date to report for work. Remember those pictures of women lined up sitting next to each other at tables with sewing machines? The sweatshop? That will be me. Only instead of a sewing machine and hundreds of pieces of material to form into the same design, I will have a laptop and hundreds of essays of high school students to grade, in the same manner.

Still reeling from the events of last Thursday. I was right not to have been nervous for the interview. And I’m thinking I probably could have shown up naked and still got the job. I don’t mean to sound negative or ungrateful, but really. I think the only requirement was a Bachelor’s degree and a pulse. In other words, there is nothing I have done in the past 30 years that qualified me for this job beyond that. Hard for me to reconcile that.

Bad attitude? Perhaps. Do I need to adjust that? Absolutely. Do I plan to? You betcha! But in the meantime, I rant. And now the dust has settled and I’m ready to move forward. Why do I do that? Why do I always have to go through that little stutter step before I can put that next foot in front of the other?

Along with a paycheck, the other good thing? I don’t have to buy any new clothes. Casual attire is acceptable as long as I wear underwear. I can do underwear.

Pajama Queen

One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know.

Groucho Marx

Tomorrow I have a job interview. I’m not nervous as it has been so long since I’ve had one, I don’t know any reason for worry. But it did occur to me a few moments ago that I should consider what I might wear. No question I should be digging through the files at this moment looking for my college degree (for proof I’m not imagining I graduated.) Also I need to find my passport for proof of citizenship and there was something else on that list of what I’m supposed to bring. Where did I put that list? The one with the directions?

But rather than finding that, I’m looking at my closet. Thinking I should have cleared it out long before now for time to do that will not be on any list I make in the near future. Somewhere in there is a pair of black pants and a black top with designs and a gray jacket. How boring that sounds. If only I could go in my pajamas. Now that would send a message of what I’m all about.

Comfort has long been my mantra. Long ago, in lands far away from Texas, I wore business suits. Panty hose, high heels. Even makeup. But life with three boys didn’t garner me any direction toward the fashion highway and let’s face it, when you’re raising kids, not wearing something they’ve eaten is a mark of a woman who pays attention to herself.

No surprise that on the day my youngest rode his bike to school alone, and I could settle next to my computer with my coffee cup, my style blossomed. Tucked securely away in the warmth of my nightwear and in the writing world, I closed out society, often not noticing the time of day until that youngest son came back in the door from school.

At night, I shopped via catalog for comfortable sleepwear. Warm for the winter, cool for the summer. Only requirement? Thick enough material on the top to hide my nipples from three sons and possibly the mailman if he came to the door with a large delivery. Over time a large collection of pajamas became an established commodity in my dresser drawers. Don’t get me started on how comfortable life became when I purchased a laptop and the bed became my desk. So much room to spread everything out there.

The email/snailmail life made it easy for me to maintain my slug attire. I often found myself sneaking out to the mailbox, hoping no one driving by would notice my working clothes. Although, that couldn't have been any worse than the day I found myself at the office supply store having run out of the house to quickly purchase computer paper. Saw some lady next to me give me the once over and looked down to see myself clad in purple running shorts, winter clogs, and a Green Bay Packer sweatshirt. I stood tall though. I had dressed for the day.

To tomorrow, I sigh. I guess I’ll have to brush my hair, too.

Breaking Through the Muck

"Your best is whatever you can do comfortably without having a breakdown."

From The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer

Have you ever looked back on the week that just passed and want to forget most of it? Did that last week. Experienced a lack of motivation, an absence of productive output. A week where I just seemed to go through the motions and tried not to feel for fear of keeling over. I looked back at my journal from the week (something I never do, but it seemed necessary to reclaim the time) and saw several redundant words– uncertainty, depression, non-restive night, fear. Yuck! Glad that week is over.

I did accomplish a few things, however. I arranged an interview for a temporary job. Sent out several job applications. Did our taxes. Finished reading three books. Last week was also my social week for the month – my Bunco group (we’ve met the second Tuesday of the month for the past 19 years and haven’t played Bunco in ten years) and my book club. Drank a bunch of wine with some friends after working out at the YMCA. Seems like I should have had fun with all of that. Maybe that’s what it was—I was too busy having fun. Or maybe, that is all I was able to concentrate on last week. Sometimes you just have to float where the river runs and hope faster waters will help shake off the muck you collected while idle.

This morning’s journal entry has a better word glued to the page – Rediscover. Don’t know why today seems brighter, but it does. Perhaps I needed to circle back to get down the right road.

Firing Darts

To win a race, the swiftness of a dart availeth not without a timely start.

Jean de LaFontaine

I just spent the past two hours perusing job sites, tossing the various forms of my resume out to prospective employers. Taking the advice of a friend, I shot darts to see where they land. This isn't the first round of aimless tossing. I've had a few no-thank-you or job-already-filled responses to queries, but a most lovely reply arrived from a part-time accounting job for a non-profit rowing organization. Apparently I was one of 100 to apply for the position. Although they wanted to hire us all, they did offer a brief reprieve from job hunting to come down and go on a two-hour rowing trip, for free. How cool is that! I know how to row.

Meanwhile, I'm sorting the year's paperwork to configure our taxes. Mild distraction, but hopefully a profitable one. With paper all over the room, it looks like I'm doing something.

To Thine Own Self Be True? Or Not?

Janie saw her life like a great tree in leaf with the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone. Dawn and doom was in the branches.

From Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

More to this job hunt business than I thought. Perhaps I shouldn’t be putting so much thought into it. But after years of pursuing my passion and seeking contentment within myself, seems I should be able to employ the skills and smarts I’ve compiled in the past twenty years. How do I bottle that and put it out for sale?

I recently completed a study on individuation. A Carl Jung word created to describe the process of becoming aware of oneself and discovering your true being. I am not a philosopher. Nor am I a big fan of the entanglement of long words. Saying the word “individuation” tripped me up, hindering my understanding of what I was supposed to be learning.

As I searched for a simpler definition it finally dawned on me that this concept wasn’t anything different than a year-long study I completed some eleven, twelve years ago. Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach – a book that changed my life. Prior to that journey, several moves, nine years of diaper changes and hours spent pushing boys in a swing brought me to an eclectic mix of uncertainty regarding myself: a lover of Andrew Wyeth as well as the light and color of Renoir. Lover of the tall spires of a larkspur along with a compact bed of waving pansies. Lover of Earl Gray tea or a shot of tequila.

By following the simple processes Breathnach proposed, like listing daily gratitudes (which some days consisted of 'The sun came up' or 'Thank God the dog only goes into heat every six months’) and the illustrated journal (magazine pictures of things I loved or simply caught my eye), I noticed a pattern. A road map of sorts, that even though I was all over the place, a connection of my sundry likes existed. With that new knowledge of inner self, I pursued many of my passions—like writing—and found gratification and comfort in the pursuit.

Where does that success serve me in finding a job? Can I find work with a steady paycheck that holds true to my authentic self? My passion? My progress in the individuation process? Do I sling hamburgers for a paycheck? Or does it simply depend on how hungry we get? What's your answer?