Just That Good

Saturday:

What a perfect night. Andy got back from a deep sea fishing trip, weighed down with lots of fresh fish and a new hat. We had sashimi wah-hoo before grilling the rest, along with some mackerel and mahi-mahi. Fresh squash, oven fries, a deliciously fresh salad, freshly made bak choi dumplings, sushi rice and some Pisgah pale ale from Nate's kegerator rounded out the main course. Katherine made a balsamic vinaigrette that makes others pale at its feet. The group was a perfect cast for a night spent out on Nate's back deck just off Charlotte St with conversations ranging from highly sophisticated to completely and hopelessly juvenile and plenty of laughter in between. A chilled Italian pino grigio complemented the meal nicely, as did fresh lime, wasabi and Lusty Monk mustard. For dessert I made some shortcakes for Steven's birthday and the fresh strawberries and whipped cream were piled on high as Nate broke open a richly layered bottle of Glenmorangie 12-year sherry wood casked Scotch. Anyone who knows me well knows how I love good Scotch and this was the type that makes loving it easy, and a great dessert didn't help. Even the little sip that I had was warming and calm. Sitting around a table by candlelight with people who are easy to love on a warm, quiet night full of delicious food and memories in the making: worth every second of sleep lost. God I love living here.

Penitent

[sidebar] As loyal readers (ie Liz) know, I'm a big fan of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Love her. [sidebar closed]
Today I was thinking about punishment, and the punishments we doll out upon ourselves. Often we forgive ourselves long after it is healthy or it is helpful; we let those missteps almost define us, or we don't forgive ourselves at all; we live a life of someone perpetually paying penance. I was mulling that around when I saw yahoo's word of the day was penitent; that is, feeling sorry for past crimes or sins. Creepy. It tied in well, as all day I was recalling a Millay poem titled "The Penitent":
"I had a little sorrow born of a little sin
I found a room all damp with gloom and shut us all within
"Little sorrow, Weep!" said I
"Little sin, pray God to die
And I upon this floor will lie
And think how bad I've been!"

Alas for pious planning!
It mattered not a whit
As far as doom went in that room
A lamp might have been lit
My little sorrow would not weep
My little sin would go to sleep
To save my soul I could not keep
My graceless mind on it

So up I got in anger
And took a book I had
And put a ribbon in my hair
To please a passing lad
"There's one thing there's no getting by
I've been a wicked girl," said I
"But if I can't been sorry why
I might as well be glad!"

There are days when I couldn't agree more; others when I want so badly to be done with the Little Sorrows and the Little Sins.

Back in the Paddle

Had Friday off and Paula, Jane and I went out to Jane's family lake house for a day of relaxing and helping Jane with her whitewater kayak roll. I hadn't taught a roll in three years or so and felt rusty but the day more than made up for it. Gorgeous sun, great company, some music and laughter. Loved it. Jane got her roll by the end of the day, a great feeling of accomplishment to be sure. It made me once again remember how much I loved to paddle, and begin to wonder how much I could do again without all the subsequent pains that the longer trips induce. Who knows? Spooner the paddler, round II?

Move It Move It

The problem with transience is it requires moving, and by moving I don't mean simple kinesics, I mean the act of packing up bins and boxes of belongings and carting them elsewhere. Friday I moved my initial wave into my new residence in East Asheville (“We're not as cool as West Asheville but neither is West Asheville”) with my friends Jane and Camden. The one minor glitch is all my furniture is still in storage in VA so the first night I spent on my therma-rest padded with some blankets for extra comfort and my summer-weight sleeping bag. Looks like a few more weeks of living out of bags but I'm just happy to begin to feel settled again. I feel the need to give a serious shout-out to Caroline and Chris, who took me in on very, very short notice and let me stay for the same amount of time some people are in rehab. They let me drink the last of the coffee, win at yatzee, spoil Homer and just gain some footing, even if they were appalled at my lack of a diet. I can't imagine where I'd be in all of this if I hadn't had them to turn to; I honestly don't think I'd have stuck around so to them and for them I am eternally grateful. And it helped that they are simply wonderful people who are just slightly crazy; a trait I delightfully shared. Thank you, friends. I miss you already.

Saturday was spent moving Katherine and Andy a whopping 2 miles from their rental into their new house in West Asheville (“Deodorant is for the yuppie scum in East Asheville”), the place we've been painting for the better part of two weeks. We got them mostly out of their old house with two truck-loads and I am now very tired. Afterward we rested for a bit before heading to our friend Nate's house for some of his homebrewed beer and some good ol' fashioned vegging.

The act of moving them struck me as such a community event. There were 7 friends that showed up throughout the day to help with the move, from all sorts of histories and relationships. We all came because that is what friends do; that is loving someone well.

Yesterday my friend asked me how I see people loving well, and challenged me to look in places where it may lie sublimely. She said that there are thousands of ways to love someone well but we tend to only see a few dozen. There is truth in that.

Preservation

What I know to be true:
* Options are endless and terrifying and life-giving
* Much of what little I know of life cannot be quantified
* Hem is continually impressing me. I just got "Home Again, Home Again" and it's a great listen.
* "Mrs. Dalloway" is a friggin' hard read but I like the challenge.
* Nothing is concrete; not even concrete stands up to its name.
* We had a hailstorm the other day the size of gumdrops. No matter what science tells me about how the world works some things are simply magic.
* The hail was tearing through the young leaves like bullets but I wouldn't call it violent.
* Just because the wine is cheap doesn't mean it's not good. Here's to you, Maggie B's.
* Joy is exercise and I'm starting to get back in shape.
* Friendships are an experiment in idiosyncratic messiness.
* Love is easy to accept one day and impossible to believe the next. Why?

Grief as Adverb

Lately grief seems to be what coats like pollen, welling eyes and running noses. Deaths, heartbreaks, losses and letdowns in almost every direction. I'm sort of shocked how many places it has settled. It has all been second-hand but I have felt it for those I love. Grief is not an emotion, it's far too strong to fit in such a transient receptacle. More of an affliction, a grip of sorts. It is one of only a few bits of banal humanity: fear, love, grief, anger, humor; communicated not through words but through living. I think I've written about the contractions of grief before; those waves that hit and hit and hit ceaselessly, driving one down into the sand without time to even try to gain a footing. The first contractions of grief are constant and consuming. That is all there is. It is in those moments when it is OK to not be OK, as to even pretend adds yet another millstone to a body already sinking under weight. But as time passes, the contractions weaken and the time between them increases. Life grows up in the spaces between. Strange how contractions in someone who loves us brings us into the world, and oftentimes contractions are what is felt at our leaving.

Complete gear shift: Can anyone tell me why “Girlfriend” by Avril Lavigne is so damn catchy? It's like rubbing crack in my ears, I need more as soon as it ends. Sonic OxyCotin or something. It's freakin' me out a bit. Hey (HEY!) You (YOU!) I don't like your girlfriend.

Worth

We give value to things based on their usefulness or application; they are worth an amount because of what they can do, what they symbolize or even their availability. Even the term "worth" is defined with the word value and vice versa. They simply are what they are. A five-dollar bill is not worth anything intrinsically; it is valued at what 5 dollars can buy, be it lunch or a cheap watch. Its worth is not concrete. During the fall of Communism in the USSR the Ruble was so worthless a wheelbarrow of money would only get a loaf of bread. But “Swamp Ophelia” by the Indigo Girls is an album that is worth much to me, not because the songs are so exceptional (though they are good) but because of the memories attached to it. It's the $15 monetarily, but its real value lies elsewhere on a grander scale. Then there are those carnival toys that took $10 in games to win but end up in the garbage shortly thereafter. Their value lay merely in the pursuit, not in their actuality. Value seems fickle.
I say these things because I am mired in much, and one such tangle is worth. Self-worth, worth within relationships, a fettered path between the innards and the world. I put much of my worth in friendships in what I can do for someone, how I can be helpful, what I can do to make their life easier. This is one way I show love, be it a mixed CD, a changed flat or a fixed desk, and I do it willingly. I love when others are better. Yet if there isn't anything to work on, anything to fix, anything to get them, I am an awkward mess. I don't know what to do or say. I feel worthless. I don't think I have much else to offer past the casual banter. I know that sounds sort of dramatic and I'm not sure how to alleviate some of that from this observation. Sadly, my worth seems very much based in my abilities. I see myself as that $5 bill, worth only what it can do, rather than it's less than glamorous makeup of fibers and filaments. I want to believe I am worth more than what I can do.

There is no conclusion to this post, only that observation and the acute awareness of not knowing what to do about it.

When I Growed Up

I'm in the hunt for a new job, but I don't want any job. I want a career. Finally ready for something that doesn't have a finite ending date, that has normal hours, normal benefits and even holidays. Pipe dream I know. In this lofty dream of career and comfort there lies one little kink: I have not a clue as to what I'd like to do. Nothing. It's a haze. The other night I was thinking of possibilities of things I'd "like" to do, but even some of them are blase. Here was my uncensored list. Hey look, I'm mildly vulnerable.

Things I could possibly do as an occupation, if experience and/or skill were not factors:

• Professional storyteller
• Writer, non-fiction/essayist
  
• Writing instructor/educator/professor
• Artisan dealing with antiques, wood, electrical devices, etc. Hands-on stuff.
• Experiential education instructor
• High adventure director
• Environmental educator
• Songwriter
• Speaker
• Music critic

Mettle

Sorry, I'm not good at posting on computers other than my own. It messes up my mojo. I don't know why, but I'm in love with my lappy too much. But I have been writing posts on my computer just waiting to post them and since I'm loving this here WiFi I'll post a few now.

I wrote a journal entry called that several months ago (yes besides a blog I also write a journal. And sometimes songs or poems, and even letters. And yet I still find time to paint my toenails. Be in awe), and it was about fortitude, about what is at the core. I was doubting my mettle to make it through the middle of a struggle. Sometimes when I get comfortable somewhere I lose my mettle. I am quicksilver; at room temperature I turn to liquid, but when the temperatures get extreme I am at my form and function. Part of me wonders if I do it to myself; I create those situations where survival modes takes over from the mundane processes of simply living because it is what I know well (I don't say that to be melodramatic, I sincerely wonder. I don't have a therapist; this is it. Deal.). While brushing my teeth the other day I realized my greatest fear: to be completely unprepared and clueless. To be utterly and totally lost. That is my greatest fear. Normal people fear spiders, snakes, heights, public speaking, public nudity...nope. For me it's being in a situation or place and having no frame of reference or even a clue as to what to do or how to go about doing it. That is what quakes me.

Another Post Revolving Around Food

Haven't posted in a week, as I've been in and out and around and upside down and the centrifugal force has only begun to abate. I'm still living mostly out of my car, but that's life I guess.
Anyway last weekend I went to Raleigh to hang out with Seth. There are times when the most necessary thing is simply a familiar face; someone who knows me well has a great centering affect. It's like gravity on two legs. We went out in Chapel Hill on Saturday night to play several bad games of darts at an underground bar and run into Lewis Black on a street corner, only to go back to his house and drink Coronas til the wee hours of the morning. It was sorely needed.
Sunday evening I was back in Asheville and went to Katherine and Andy's for a birthday dinner of grilled pizza with homemade dough, brushetta, grilled mushrooms and fresh mozzarella and a chocolate rum poundcake for dessert. It was quiet and easy--more of what I needed than any party could have provided.
I met with the powers that be on Monday in a meeting that was lightyears more relaxed than the previous one. I think we're all happy with the arrangement; there is a sweetness to staying that I'm not ready to lose. This could be a time of growth and a genuine feeling of being loved; I'm excited to see where it goes. I mean, I finally get my maintenance rotation. Too bad it's too hot for my carrharts.
I'm in the local bakery, eating expensive quiche and drinking too much coffee. It's a fine place to simply be.