I was reading a friends blog about things that have gone by the wayside. It was clever and got me to thinking about an incident 3 Saturdays ago when Greg and I were at a Farmers Market.
I had finally convinced him that this was a good idea, that Boulder wasn't such a bad place, there were just some people with open minds who lived there and they probably weren't mind-readers and wouldn't roast him in a fire if they ever found out that he is, in fact, quite conservative. He was reluctant, a bit nervous, but up for the challenge, and off we went at 7:30 to see what we could see.
It was great, I felt right at home. Lovely signs that said cool things like 'organic', 'fresh', 'Hydroponic', and the like. There was jewelry from Tibet, paintings from a local artist, and everyone was really nice. I had finally found some people I could relate to.
I was browsing the jewelry, when Greg received a phone call from his friend. Now, we have recently purchased new phones and have those very trendy little Bluetooth headsets that attach to your ear via wireless. Mine is (naturally) pink, and Greg's is grey. The downside is that my hair often covers up my headset, and people think I'm talking to myself. Greg was wearing a baseball cap this day, and apparently was dealing with the same problem. This was Boulder. People have the money for these kinds of things, but like to refrain from using them in public, as it's not really the 'down to earth' image they like to project. He was getting some weird stares, some snotty stares, and some 'wow, I can totally relate with him' kind of stares. I kept my distance. I liked talking with everyone and pretending to be a hippie myself, and Greg was seriously ruining that image.
Finally in the middle of a conversation with a guitarist, I glanced over to see a middle-aged man with long dreadlocks, and ratty clothes start to approach Greg; who, true to nature chatted obliviously on and on. I noticed that this man, too, was talking to himself. . . minus the headset and phone of course. He slowly approached, muttering and whatnot, and finally came to stand beside Greg. They were both looking at across the lawn talking to invisible friends, until Mr. Dreadlocks decided to link the conversations all together. He nudged Greg and spoke a bit louder, something completely incomprehensible.
Greg stooped. He stared. And then, with the grace that only someone who is NOT from Boulder can do, he brandished his first finger and pointed in a very aristocratic way at his ear. Which then revealed to the man that Greg, at least, was talking to someone real and had no time for another conversation.
Mr Dreadlocks didn't seem to mind and shuffled off. I on the other hand was appalled by Greg's behavior. Greg was miffed that he had been interrupted and then scolded!
We went home shortly thereafter.
And thus ended our adventures into the wide world of Farmers Markets. Greg is of the mind that a Safeway produce section is much quieter and more stable environment to shop at anyways. Besides, people don't interrupt you when you're talking to yourself there.
6.09.2006
Red Ants
This evening I’m sitting on my back porch, watching my cats roll in the dirt and the grass sway gently in the wind. I’m sitting here and wondering how such a scene could go so . . .wrong.
I pride myself on my love of all life, of respecting the earth and everything that lives on it (with the possible exception of spiders) and yet here, on my first bit of ground that is officially mine; I have already sinned. I have waged a bloody war and lost bitterly.
“What is this war?” You ask.
“Red Ants.” I sadly reply.
Those little creatures have brought me to this wretched state. We have a BIG nest of them in the back corner of our yard. The same place where I intend to have some sort of glorious garden; clearly the ants had to go as we couldn’t coexist peacefully as I dug in the dirt. . . so much for respect of nature.
The hitch here is that I’m pretty adamant about pesticides, herbicides, suicides, whatever. None of that in my back yard please, I have cats.
So I read online that with about 3 gallons of boiling water, you could eradicate an anthill once and for all. Sounded great, perhaps not entirely sensible when thinking about the boiling and transportation of 3 gallons of water – but I was not concerned about such things. This website is not about sensibility, it’s about magic. But, even so, this idea was neither of those two things.
So off I went, and Greg (my game-for-anything husband) decided to help. Took forever to boil the water, and it was probably a maximum of 2 gallons, not 3. (who has pots that big when there are only 2 of you?!) Out the back door we CAREFULLY went, a pot in each hand. About halfway out there I discovered that my right wrist is significantly weaker than my left, and had to leave 1 pot in the middle of the backyard lest I eradicate my foot along with the ants. We poured the searing water slowly down the hole, and the results were devastating. The good news is I don’t think they hardly felt a thing, but heavens, it was effective. For good measure Greg took a shovel and dug up the dirt a bit and we poured more water down. Aside from a handful of ants that weren’t at the pile when the massacre happened. . .there was no movement. Feeling slightly guilty I headed back inside.
The next morning I went out to check the hill. They managed to dig a tunnel in the night and miraculously find survivors. I admired them, it was impressive, I boiled more water and poured it down the new hole. Still they surface. I’ve turned into a ruthless, cunning murderer – much like those serial killers I read about in crazy novels. It bothers me a bit, all those poor ants, but I have no time to dwell on it. I have more water to put on the stove. . .their numbers are quite large today. . . .
I pride myself on my love of all life, of respecting the earth and everything that lives on it (with the possible exception of spiders) and yet here, on my first bit of ground that is officially mine; I have already sinned. I have waged a bloody war and lost bitterly.
“What is this war?” You ask.
“Red Ants.” I sadly reply.
Those little creatures have brought me to this wretched state. We have a BIG nest of them in the back corner of our yard. The same place where I intend to have some sort of glorious garden; clearly the ants had to go as we couldn’t coexist peacefully as I dug in the dirt. . . so much for respect of nature.
The hitch here is that I’m pretty adamant about pesticides, herbicides, suicides, whatever. None of that in my back yard please, I have cats.
So I read online that with about 3 gallons of boiling water, you could eradicate an anthill once and for all. Sounded great, perhaps not entirely sensible when thinking about the boiling and transportation of 3 gallons of water – but I was not concerned about such things. This website is not about sensibility, it’s about magic. But, even so, this idea was neither of those two things.
So off I went, and Greg (my game-for-anything husband) decided to help. Took forever to boil the water, and it was probably a maximum of 2 gallons, not 3. (who has pots that big when there are only 2 of you?!) Out the back door we CAREFULLY went, a pot in each hand. About halfway out there I discovered that my right wrist is significantly weaker than my left, and had to leave 1 pot in the middle of the backyard lest I eradicate my foot along with the ants. We poured the searing water slowly down the hole, and the results were devastating. The good news is I don’t think they hardly felt a thing, but heavens, it was effective. For good measure Greg took a shovel and dug up the dirt a bit and we poured more water down. Aside from a handful of ants that weren’t at the pile when the massacre happened. . .there was no movement. Feeling slightly guilty I headed back inside.
The next morning I went out to check the hill. They managed to dig a tunnel in the night and miraculously find survivors. I admired them, it was impressive, I boiled more water and poured it down the new hole. Still they surface. I’ve turned into a ruthless, cunning murderer – much like those serial killers I read about in crazy novels. It bothers me a bit, all those poor ants, but I have no time to dwell on it. I have more water to put on the stove. . .their numbers are quite large today. . . .
6.07.2006
River
Greg and I were talking the other day about time. He was upset about how long it was taking us to get moved into our house completely, he was concerned about money, he was frustrated that the house wasn’t very clean at the moment. We sat on the floor of our living room (still need couches!) and stared at each other for a while, I was thinking, and he was too. Finally he asked me why I wasn’t as bothered by all this as much as he was, why I wasn’t taking life as seriously.
That was a question I didn’t have an immediate answer to. Why wouldn’t I be as upset as him that so many things were going wrong, were going right, that life was moving so swiftly now that we could hardly keep up. . . and after a bit of thought, I realized that it’s a deep-seated life’s philosophy that I have, that I’ve never really examined before.
Life is a river, and time is the current. There are times that the current pulls you along swiftly, and times that you meander with all the speed of a summer’s day. There are bends and turns, some unexpected, some expected. Some moments time can’t pull you away fast enough, others are so precious, so dear that we want to hang on to them, and they’re gone in an instant. I have all those in my life’s river, I’m sure you do too. The funny thing is that everything we have here is so. . . .impermanent, so trivial. It’s difficult to take things seriously when you know they’ll be gone in a month, a year, 10 years. . . the river moves on and takes you with it, ultimately leaving your possessions and youth behind. So what is there that you should take seriously? What should you invest your emotional energy in with all the life and death passion that you look at the monthly finances with?
Your spiritual journey. Take care of your body, soul, and spirit. Without those all in place and functioning correctly, you’ve lost your best ally in this adventure. Without those in place you won't have the strength to really take care of your next charge;
Relationships.
It seems to me that people can get so caught up in the little things, and place so much stress on them that they lose perspective. The spouse/partner/friend that years previously you couldn’t even breathe without becomes a side priority, and something else takes center stage. That relationship that took you so long to cultivate and mature starts to wither for lack of attention. . . and that new thing you’re focusing on isn’t even that important compared to the bigger picture.
Greg and I had to sit down and realize (not for the first time, probably not for the last time) that a house, furniture, jobs or material possessions can all come and go, but it’s our relationship that will stand the test of time if we continue to nurture it. I found that so profound that I had to share it, regardless of how obvious it may seem. I think this world encourages us to focus on things that don’t matter, and I hope that this gets you to thinking about the things that do. Don’t let the current rip you away from what you hold dear simply for lack of attention.
6.04.2006
A Lark Ascending
I was listening to the David Crowder Band CD I have on my Ipod the other day, and the very last song (which I had never made it to before) resounded with me in a powerful way.
And I’m trying to make you sing
From inside where you believe
Like it’s something that you need
Like it means everything
And I’m trying to make you feel
That this is all for real, that life is happening
That it means everything
....I’m just trying to make you sing
I think as I grow, and look at where life has taken me and where I have willingly gone. . . this song defines much of who I feel I've become, and it also makes me think of the people who have been my lark; carrying me above my problems with their love of life and everything in it.
The song is titled "A Lark Ascending" and I love the poem that inspired it.
He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound,
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake.
For singing till his heaven fills,
‘Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup
And he the wine which overflows
to lift us with him as he goes.
Till lost on his aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.
~ George Meredith
6.01.2006
Bus Rides to Work
I ride the bus from home to the bus station, and then from the bus station down the 16th Street Mall downtown to my work. 2 different busses, 2 very different rides.
The first bus I take is approximately 25 minutes long. I start north of the City, and everyone I ride with are commuters like me. Dressed in the work attire of drab grays, blacks, browns, whites and blue, we load in about 5:30, and sit quietly. Really it's too early for intelligent conversation, but I'm not sure we'd talk to each other either way. We are a somber, quiet group. Reading our books, listening to our headphones, or perhaps vacantly staring out the window. I often feel a bit of poetic martyrdom sitting there, like we're all shuffling towards some long-decided fate, all dressed alike, all going to similar jobs. . . All pretty miserable about it.
Some mornings.
Other mornings on that bus I feel like I'm part of something great. That I've been assimilated into some sort of Corporate Borg unit, and I'm doing my part to really make some sort of difference, if not in the world, then at least in my small sphere of influence as I bring home a happy paycheck every other Friday.
Regardless of how I'm feeling that particular morning (martyr or Borg) I disembark on the Northern part of downtown, and hop on a shuttle to ride 10 minutes down the street. On this bus, a few of the commuters have joined me, and it's now approaching 6:00. The homeless people are waking up and heading towards various (and I admit, unknown) destinations, the janitors are out cleaning the streets from last nights activities and hop on and off at different stops. The cleaning ladies for the nearby hotels are just starting their morning shifts, and hop on the bus in groups. All laughing and talking excitedly, arms around each other with smiling faces; I find that I can't help but smile with them, even though I can't understand a word they're saying.
Some mornings there's a guy who's a bit mad that hops on the shuttle with me. He always ducks down behind the windows after the door shuts, muttering to himself, keeping a watchful eye out for some unseen enemy. When he's not completely paranoid (which is rare), he'll start poking fun of the other passengers, usually women. First, he begins with the compliment "that skirt looks very nice". . .it's difficult to know what kind of response to give him, for I've seen the range of "thanks" to stony silence, and they all produce the same result. He angrily mutters to himself, then takes back the compliment, then waits for the poor female to disembark, and which point he starts to yell at them "you better hurry!!!" perhaps for the lack of something more intimidating coming to his mind.
Either way he's about 5 feet tall, not too much of a threat, and treated with general good humor.
There are a ton more characters to list for the shuttle; the Ladies Man who loves nothing more than a good conversation first thing in the morning (a different lady EVERY morning. Don't pretend to know him, he forgets you pretty quick); the Security Guard who suspiciously eyes everyone on the bus, probably taking his duty a bit too seriously; the Jogger who must not jog very much because he's always riding the bus; the Homeless Businessman - a character who intrigues me, he is always dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt with loafers. . .you'd never guess he was homeless except for the grocery cart with all his baggage in it (and nice, name-brand baggage too, if a bit worn) .
I could go on and on. The shorter shuttle ride is always a TON more interesting than the long commuter ride, and that's when I think to myself how boring the world would be if everyone chose the same life-path.
The first bus I take is approximately 25 minutes long. I start north of the City, and everyone I ride with are commuters like me. Dressed in the work attire of drab grays, blacks, browns, whites and blue, we load in about 5:30, and sit quietly. Really it's too early for intelligent conversation, but I'm not sure we'd talk to each other either way. We are a somber, quiet group. Reading our books, listening to our headphones, or perhaps vacantly staring out the window. I often feel a bit of poetic martyrdom sitting there, like we're all shuffling towards some long-decided fate, all dressed alike, all going to similar jobs. . . All pretty miserable about it.
Some mornings.
Other mornings on that bus I feel like I'm part of something great. That I've been assimilated into some sort of Corporate Borg unit, and I'm doing my part to really make some sort of difference, if not in the world, then at least in my small sphere of influence as I bring home a happy paycheck every other Friday.
Regardless of how I'm feeling that particular morning (martyr or Borg) I disembark on the Northern part of downtown, and hop on a shuttle to ride 10 minutes down the street. On this bus, a few of the commuters have joined me, and it's now approaching 6:00. The homeless people are waking up and heading towards various (and I admit, unknown) destinations, the janitors are out cleaning the streets from last nights activities and hop on and off at different stops. The cleaning ladies for the nearby hotels are just starting their morning shifts, and hop on the bus in groups. All laughing and talking excitedly, arms around each other with smiling faces; I find that I can't help but smile with them, even though I can't understand a word they're saying.
Some mornings there's a guy who's a bit mad that hops on the shuttle with me. He always ducks down behind the windows after the door shuts, muttering to himself, keeping a watchful eye out for some unseen enemy. When he's not completely paranoid (which is rare), he'll start poking fun of the other passengers, usually women. First, he begins with the compliment "that skirt looks very nice". . .it's difficult to know what kind of response to give him, for I've seen the range of "thanks" to stony silence, and they all produce the same result. He angrily mutters to himself, then takes back the compliment, then waits for the poor female to disembark, and which point he starts to yell at them "you better hurry!!!" perhaps for the lack of something more intimidating coming to his mind.
Either way he's about 5 feet tall, not too much of a threat, and treated with general good humor.
There are a ton more characters to list for the shuttle; the Ladies Man who loves nothing more than a good conversation first thing in the morning (a different lady EVERY morning. Don't pretend to know him, he forgets you pretty quick); the Security Guard who suspiciously eyes everyone on the bus, probably taking his duty a bit too seriously; the Jogger who must not jog very much because he's always riding the bus; the Homeless Businessman - a character who intrigues me, he is always dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt with loafers. . .you'd never guess he was homeless except for the grocery cart with all his baggage in it (and nice, name-brand baggage too, if a bit worn) .
I could go on and on. The shorter shuttle ride is always a TON more interesting than the long commuter ride, and that's when I think to myself how boring the world would be if everyone chose the same life-path.
5.28.2006
Who are you?
Lately I have been thinking about what defines me.
So many people define themselves by their job, their lifestyle, their status. . .And I'm no longer a student, a vegetarian, an apartment-dweller, a tree hugger, a part-time employee, a volunteer. . .These are all things which defined me strongly for the past few years, and within a matter of months were all stripped away. Now, life has taken a complete turn.
I'm a full-time software QA engineer, I'm a homeowner, I'm still a wife, I'm still a tree-hugger but can no longer really term myself as an environmentalist because I work in the petroleum industry, and I'm really, really busy. . . .but. . .who am I? What part of me remains the same regardless of how my situation changes?
For that matter who are you?
What part of your life/personality defines you so strongly that when people talk about you they say, 'Oh, you know Yournamehere, she's/he's a ______'.
Think about it and fill in the blank when you leave a comment. I'll start:
'I'm a free spirit who brings beauty and life to those around me. '
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