Posts Tagged ‘spritituality’

Maintenance

September 11, 2017

And slow movement  forward.

I have to give myself some credit here.

Even though I did not leave the environs of the Outer Sunset.

Oh mama, did I do a lot of stuff.

Sometimes my brain will give me grief, you’re moving too slow, you’re not going fast enough, there is stuff that needs to be done.

And sometimes I can let that old harangue take a back seat to all the spectacular, albeit small things, that I did do in my day.

All I have to do is look at my sumptious bed.

I made it.

That’s a big deal.

I put fresh sheets on my bed and washed all my linens and all the clothes in my laundry basket, I made my bed and all the pillows are lined up and it looks comfy and cozy and beckoning.

I’ll get to slide in between soft, clean, fresh, sweet smelling sheets at the end of my day.

Which is not too far off.

I love my bed.

I have a nice mattress.

I have a bed frame.

I have five fucking pillows.

Who the hell am I?

Remember?

I do.

Remember being a kid and having one flat, stained, squashed pillow?

Or.

When I upgraded to two pillows when I was a junior or senior in highschool.

I forget which, but I remember how I would double up those pillows and prop them just so underneath my head so that I could read late into the night whatever novel I was busy seeking refuge in.

I escaped in reading a lot.

Reading was my way out and the feel of those pillows, each folded in half, to prop up my head is a memory that I won’t forget soon.

Then.

There were the times when I didn’t have a pillow of mine own at all.

Or a bed, for that matter.

Sleeping on couches, in the back seats of cars, or the passenger side.

Being homeless on again and off again for years, squashing myself onto a friends love seat with broken springs, sleeping in a tent, “but I was camping,” I told her and she laughed, “we call that being homeless.”

Sleeping on a sheet of plywood on the ground.

Or.

When I moved up a little in that world, on a sheet of plywood that was being held up by a couple of plastic milk crates and there was a sleeping bag.

Homeless, on the abandoned airforce base in Homestead, Florida, just outside of Miami, in the early 90s after Hurricane Andrew had devastated the city, living in a hooch.

Good times.

How I got there is a story in and of itself.

But a bed.

Just seeing my bed, that it’s not a mattress on the floor, but a real live bed, is something that I don’t take for granted and when I think I’m not doing enough, well, just look at my amazing bed, so pretty with its duvet and big fluffy pillows.

So pretty.

So yeah, digress much, I made my bed today.

I went to yoga.

I took a shower.

I washed my hair and deep conditioned it and ate a lovely breakfast and drank a nice latte and wrote morning pages.

This takes time and sometimes I wish my morning routine were not quite so long, but I do savor having some time to look over e-mails and do my writing and I did my morning prayers and readings too, important stuff, small stuff, in its own manner but really necessary.

I feel better for having the routine.

I also went grocery shopping.

And that does take up some time.

Especially that I had to go to three different stores.

I didn’t mind though, just got to it and picked up all the things to make all the things.

I made a pork and ginger, garlic, onion stir fry with baby portabella mushrooms and julienned sugar snap peas.  I had it with brown rice and half an avocado for lunch.

So good.

Then I put up the rest of it, some in the fridge and some in the freezer, as I like to have back up food for when I’m in class and often times my weekend before the weekend of class will be taken up with writing papers.

I have two to do next week.

They’re not horrible and shouldn’t take too long.

I figure I’ll kick them both out Sunday afternoon.

After the lunch cooking and weekly food prep I got down and dirty with my school books.

I flipped through all my syllabi and noted what I needed to read and I toggled about in my Cognitive Behavior class syllabi and saw when I needed to be online for a class webinar.

I just got out of it about 45 minutes ago.

So.

I pretty much read and did homework for four hours.

I feel like that’s getting some stuff taken care of.

I also roasted a chicken, for dinner and meals throughout the week and made up some more brown rice.

I like having my stuff stocked up for the week.

It’s maintenance.

It helps me with a certain level of comfort that I feel allows me to go about my busy week and still maintain a semblance of being a human being.

I love that I cook.

I love that I have good food to sustain me, that I went to yoga, damn my thighs are sore, that I stretched, that I wrote, and yes.

That it was sunny.

And instead of being rueful that I was not able to go out and play in the sun, I took advantage of it and threw a pillow on a patio chair out back and sat in the sun for a good two and a half hours doing my school reading.

There is something rather nice about being propped up in the sun and reading a book, even if it is for school.

I had some sweet phone calls.

I wrote a little poetry.

I managed my calendar for the next couple of weeks.

And now.

I’m just about done with my blog, I’m listening to Coleman Hawkins and thinking very sweet thoughts about the week to come.

It’s going to be a grand one.

I just know it.

Well

August 10, 2015

It’s official.

I am a graduate student.

I have gone through the introduction, I have made it here, I did not turn around, although my ride jokingly did make the offer as we were headed onto the bridge.

“Last chance!” She said as we passed by the last of the San Francisco exits before the Golden Gate Bridge.

She was a total peach and saved my butt.

My original ride got a hold of me 45 minutes prior to needing to leave–not one, but two flat tires on his vehicle.

Fuck.

He was so remorseful about it and so wanting to help he offered me the option of calling an Uber and paying for it.

I happened to be working with someone when I got the text, so I had my phone off, and I wouldn’t have seen it, that text until after she left if it weren’t for the fact that we were trying to reconcile schedules for the next time we can meet.

My schedule, is um, ah, ahahahaha, a little full right now.

I picked up my phone to check my calendar and saw the text.

My heart stop beating and I just cringed.

Oh shit.

I told my ladybug that I was processing the text and I don’t know what exactly I said, maybe, probably, “oh fuck,” as I was reading it trying to discern in my head what was the next move, could I do Uber to Petaluma, what time would I get there, would there even be any cars available since Outside Lands was making a disaster of driving in my neighborhood.

“I’ll take you,” she piped up.

Oh my god.

Thank you!

And she did.

She left to go get her car and a cup of coffee for the road and I made a quick-lunch that I had prepared yesterday.

I had gotten up early, showered, did the trash and compost, watered the plants, checked in with the housemate to let her know I would be gone, ate some breakfast, drank a lot more coffee than I normally do, packed my bags and organized my books, notebooks, and readers.

I also packed up the two readers for the two classes I am NOT enrolled in and brought them with in hopes of being able to sell them–at cost not trying to make a profit off my fellow classmates here–when I arrived at the retreat.

I posted a quick e-mail to the class list server and I got two offers right away.

As of a half hour ago I was able to hand off the two readers and two books to a fellow in the other cohort who happens to be bunked in the same dorm building as I am.

Speaking of.

But not very loudly.

I either don’t have a room-mate or she hasn’t arrived yet.

I am so hoping that I don’t have a room-mate.

Please, please, please.

It would be such a gift to have the room to myself the entire time I am here.

I am a creature of habit and routine and there are certain practices I have, especially with my morning routine that I was loath to even think about sharing.

Which is funny.

I am going to graduate school to get my Masters in Psychology to be a clinician, to be a therapist, to allow others to hold their own space and be a witness to and a guide and to help facilitate that move to authenticity of self, but pray in front of a stranger?

Please.

No thank you.

The thing is.

I would have.

I am just grateful, mainly for the space to stretch out.

The room is tiny, the beds are twins, there is one desk, two wee closets and a couple of communal bathrooms down the hall.

One less person in the dormitory is fantastic.

One less person in this tiny space is phenomenal.

And I like my space, I like knowing I can come and go and not disturb or be disturbed by another person.

I almost asked for a private room originally, but I would have had to pay extra for it and well, folks, graduate school it ain’t cheap, so I said I would share a room to keep my costs down.

So pleased to be alone.

I don’t feel lonely.

I just like to have a little alone time at the end of the night or to be able to quietly read in between classes.

And.

I am not the only person who did not get all the reading in or the only person who did not know how to access certain syllabi and who had troubles with the online portals.

A lot of folks did and I am sure there are a handful of students who did get the readings all done, but it appears that the majority of us did not.

There has been a flurry of activity since we got out of the welcome and introductions and the first exercises, which were really quit fun, although challenging ( I ended up getting partnered with a woman from Paris and we spoke French and that was hella fun and unexpected.  She used to live near the tattoo shop that I got my jackalope done in the Marais!) and longer than I expected.

We were let go at 9:15 p.m. and I co-ordinate with a guy in the other cohort and he took my readers I won’t be using and then I helped another student get online and navigate to the paper that needs to be written tonight, so many people in my cohort had new clue about the paper, then I looked over the schedule for tomorrow and I realized, I have as much done as I can.

I could read more.

But my brain is frizzled and, well.

I wanted to write.

This will be my bastion.

This will be my safe space.

My little nook in the hills were I can go and dump my anxiety and fears and let it all go.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be and though I can see the road is long, arduous, full of reading and writing and vulnerability, the journey is so worth it.

Not the destination.

The journey.

This journey.

Just to get to where I am at this little pressed plywood desk in a dorm room up in the hills outside of Petaluma, California.

Oh, my dear, my darling girl, look how far you have come.

My heart is full.

Overwhelmed and joyful.

Scared?

Sure.

But that’s just the way I am hard-wired.

Faithful, though, in the process of walking through.

“Just smile and be yourself,” her message said in regards to the retreat, “you’ll be amazed at how well you do.”

And I am amazed.

Before I was halfway through.

Nuthin’ But Fun

May 24, 2015

I inadvertently just had a date with myself.

I was only going down to Java Beach to get out of my house and read a book over tea.

I had done the unexplainable.

I went to the library today and checked out books.

Look at the old lady go.

“Your principles today are fun and flexibility,” she said to me as I explained the trepidation that comes over me when I don’t have things planned out.

“I know you need to feel like you are doing something constructive, just let the day unfold, have fun,” she finished and smiled.

Who are you smiling at lady?

I put my head down on top of the book and sighed.

“Ok.”

I did alright.

Not the funnest day ever, but really, not a bad one at all, and there was some fun in there, inadvertent, as I said and tongue in cheek for sure, the name of the band that was playing at the cafe?

Nuthin’ But Fun.

Ha.

Ha.

God is funny.

I had fun too.

Sipping my tea, reading my book from the library, people watching.

I like to people watch.

I liked watching the inexplicable interaction between the counter girl and the man whose sandwhich, a big goopy ham and cheese, explain that it was not the vegetarian grilled cheese he had ordered and the girl responding by offering to pull the meat off the bread.

I almost fell out of my chair laughing.

The look of incredulity on the man’s face, the look of annoyance on the girl’s face for obviously having fucked up the order and now she had to take it back to the kitchen and it was probably a habit, this fucking up orders, and then, “or, I suppose, I could ask them to make it again,” came out of her mouth.

She hadn’t picked up the plate, she, I, the elderly vegetarian man who was flummoxed by the interaction, we all stared at the thick swath of ham on the plate with cheese congealing over it,  “um, yes, please, I”m a vegetarian…..”

Big long pause.

Sigh, almost audible, trying hard to not roll her eyes, the young woman picked up the plate, and turned it around, “I totally understand!  I”m a vegetarian too.”

I just about snorted hot tea out my nose.

I was at the cafe, Java Beach, for nearly two and a half hours.

I watched, the scene, the community of families and moms and dads and friends, kids, teenagers on dates, old codgers in knit caps, bicyclists fueling up on soup and coffee before getting back out on their fancy touring bicycles, the people come and go, little waves of neighborhood ebb and wane.

It was sweet.

And I got lost in my book.

Lost to the point that I found myself laughing out loud at a funny part of the book and completely tuning out the music coming from the band.

Which was louder than you would have thunk and the manager had to ask them to turn down the volume after a very boisterous rendition of “They Say It’s Your Birthday,” for a friend in the audience.

I was a fly on the wall.

But at least I wasn’t a fly on my wall.

I got out and I was out a lot of today.

After I left my person this afternoon at Tart to Tart to go off on pursuit of fun, I decided a mani/pedi/waxing session was needed.

Especially since I will be flying down to San Diego on Thursday and suspect that the weather there will be more conducive to sandals then the weather here has been.

At least the gloom lifted for a while.

The wind came in around 3 p.m. and pushed away the clouds, it was clear, sunny, bright.

Breezy as fuck and still a bit chill, but sunny.

I decided to treat myself to a lady’s lunch after my mani/pedi/wax session and went to Pacific Cajun on 9th and Lincoln Avenue for a Wasabi bowl with brown rice and Hawaiian Poke.

So freaking good.

I did some window shopping after and then strolled over to Green Apple to grab a book.

But.

I wasn’t feeling it.

Green Apple.

I don’t know if it was the loud conversations that I kept stumbling into, but I wasn’t comfortable browsing the stacks and decided that though it was not much fun, it was necessary, I was going go grocery shopping.

On my ride back to the Outer Sunset I saw the Sunset Branch of the Public Library.

It’s been a minute since I have checked out a library book.

And the nice thing.

Checking out books is cheaper than buying them.

And I still get that nice cracking open a book feeling.

I got there fifteen minutes before the branch was closing, grabbed a couple of books and hit it home.

Some shopping in the neighborhood, some cooking food for the weekend–vegetable stir fry and sautéed ground turkey with Bragg’s Amino’s and brown rice, and fresh ripe, organic, gorgeous, sweet red cherries.

Then I called my ex-boyfriend.

Bahahahahaha.

Oh.

The gift that keeps on giving.

I stopped and thought about it.

I’ll send a text.

I’ll not.

I want to get this over with.

I don’t have to do anything right now.

Pray.

Write it down and drop it in the God box.

“Why don’t you put the weekend in your God box and see what happens,” she suggested to me.

I wrote down my ex on a scrap of paper.

I said a prayer and dropped it through the coin slot of my hot pink bunny bank, aka, my God box.

Then I wrote “the weekend” down on another, said another prayer and did the same.

Then I ate my dinner.

Never call on an empty stomach.

Texting is childish, act like an adult, call.

So I called.

It went to voicemail.

I asked him out for coffee sometime over the weekend if he was free.

Then I decided to get the hell out of the house.

A friend text’ed me to say hello while I was packing my bag to get out of the house and I told him what I did and it felt fine.

And I feel fine.

I don’t feel bad at all.

What I have realized is that I want things to go my way, I want to control how I am seen and what happens next.

I keep expecting to bump into him, he lives in the freaking neighborhood for Pete’s sake, but our schedules were wildly divergent when we were dating, why would that have changed?

I haven’t, with the exception of once, seen him.

I have walked past his house twice since the breakup.

Really.

Not bad, when you consider it’s four blocks away.

I actually felt ok with the message and the call and when it’s all said and done, it’s said and done.

I walked to the cafe, the sunset spreading in spectacular manner over the ocean (I would have walked to the beach to catch it, but the wind was just too fierce) and into a jam space, the locals all gathering for the blues cover band and I got my tea.

I found a place in the back by the bar and sat with my book and let myself have fun getting lost in the book and the small world of community unfolding before me.

I even forgot about the phone call until I booted up my computer and the Facebook feed featured a photo I was not expecting to see.

“I’m not looking at his feed at all this weekend,” I told her over the coffee at Tart to Tart.

And I haven’t.

Then this photo popped into my news feed.

It was sort of like getting punched.

Grr.

Maybe I will take a break from ye old FaceCrack entirely for the rest of the weekend.

I have books to read.

And fun to be had.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

More fun.

I suspect.

I am wide open.

Available.

Let the fun begin.


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