Saturday, December 20, 2008

Improbable, Impatience

On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.

Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).

It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.

Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.

"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."

Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.

"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."

By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.

"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.

We were headed home and that was all that mattered.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Invitation, Impetus

On Wednesday, just a few days ago, an acquaintance invited me to the so-called "Fantastic Hosts' Party", which she described as a "wild dance/food/drink/socialize party downtown full of artists, corporate execs, and 'burners' ". I had no idea what that last word means but was too embarrassed to ask for clarification. She even told me where to find an inexpensive party dress. Being in adventure mode, I said sure, even though it meant I'd need to come up with an outfit in 72 hours or less. Somehow I'd managed to arrive at my age with fewer than a handful of skirts and dresses combined, and none of what I had on hand was suitable for a mid-December evening party.


I had some misgivings about the event itself - normally I don't seek out large and most likely loud gatherings - but being in new in town I figured it couldn't hurt to be exposed to this new scene. Maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised; if not, I'd don my anthropologist's hat and take it all in. And I decided that even if the party was a disappointment, at least I had an impetus to update my wardrobe. With the economy in a shambles, I was hoping to find some good deals if not some real steals.


Early Wednesday evening I set out on my mission. First I headed to Ross, the store that this woman suggested. They had dresses galore, many for less than $50 and several for less than $15. Either they didn't fit or they were poorly made, looking as though they might not survive even a single evening intact. I headed over to Macy's and made a beeline for the clearance racks. Nada. Then my eyes glanced upon a simple, below-the-knee sleeveless dress with a deep V-neck that culminated in a twist of fabric. Unlike many of the strappy and skimpy outfits, this dress looked wearable and comfortable. It fit like a charm. I checked the tag - it, unlike the majority of the merchandise, was not on sale, not even just a little bit.


I hung onto it and continued browsing, finding a few pair of black pants that were marked down. Rather than spend the next two days hunting for a less expensive dress, I decided to spend the money on this one. I got in line at the cash register, where a customer was trying to use a coupon from the local paper on her purchase. The clerk rang her up and the customer offered the remaining coupons to me and and another woman. When it was my turn, the clerk tallied my three items and they came to just $1.62 more than the amount required to use a coupon for $50 off the total. I felt as if the Universe had conspired to help me find a reasonably priced dress in less than two hours, no mean feat for an indecisive and picky shopper like me. And wanting to bring my bill down even further, I opened a Macy's credit card to save another 20%.


The following day I realized that I didn't have an appropriate coat to wear over the dress. My Gore-tex and down jackets just wouldn't fly. Back to Macy's I went for a more thorough look. Bingo - I found a faux lambswool cropped evening jacket that, with my newly opened Macy's card, would also be 20% less. Done.

On Friday, although I had managed to pull together an outfit, my enthusiasm for attending this event was starting to fall apart. For one thing, there had not been subsequent communication from my acquaintance about how she or her boyfriend - he was one of the 18 "Fantastic Hosts" - were going to get me my invitation, required for entry. And not knowing the precise address of the party, I couldn't easily invite someone to go with me. I called this woman to check in.

She made it clear that it was her boyfriend's responsibility to physically deliver the invitation to me - she wasn't going to get involved beyond giving me his cell phone number. While I respected her need to create some boundaries for herself around his last minute behavior, I couldn't help but feel that she was blowing me off; after all, she was the one who had told me about the event. When I suggested that maybe we could all head over there together, and therefore he could simply hand me my ticket at that time, she said she wasn't sure what their schedule would be. In other words, maybe I'd see them there, or maybe I wouldn't.

Huh.

In the meantime, I had mentioned my dress quest to a few artists in my studio building and one of them recommended that I check out Colorado Mills, a group of outlet stores. Only a 15 minute drive away, and with nothing else on my calendar, I figured I'd do some more due diligence. Just as I pulled onto Highway 6 to head towards the stores, my cellphone rang. It was the boyfriend, asking me if I'd be at home in 20 minutes so he could give me this prized invitation. Sorry, I said, I'm heading West and will be gone a few hours. Then he suggested stopping by later that evening. I told him that I had to get up the next morning for a yoga class so he could swing by up until 11pm. He asked me if I do text messaging - I said my cellphone plan doesn't cover it and I'd prefer a quick phone call to let me know when he was on the way.

At the outlet stores - even Nieman Marcus and Saks - they were practically giving the clothing away. I had never seen so much couture for so little cash, relatively speaking. Dresses that normally sell for several hundreds were discounted to the low three digits. And there were a few luxury items whose prices had temporarily dipped into the double digits, thanks to special Friday evening offers. In that respect, I had chosen the perfect time to visit. A few hours later I left with a long knit skirt, some tights, a funky royal blue short-sleeve coat and some gifts. Back home, I went to sleep without hearing from the boyfriend.

On Saturday, the day of the party, I went to yoga, enjoyed a manicure, had some lunch and got ready to go to a "Change is Coming" meeting in my neighborhood. At around 3pm I called the boyfriend to let him know that I'd be turning off my phone for a few hours and that hopefully we'd connect somehow. He was good to his word - sometime between 4pm and 6pm he had managed to squeeze the invitation into my supposedly airtight mailbox. I checked out the address. I was in luck - this bash was within walking distance of my apartment. Being someone that prefers to speak to people over the phone, I called the boyfriend to thank him for the invite and to find out when he and my acquaintance might be arriving. He was non-committal, but later sent me a text message saying 10:30 p.m.

My inner reaction?

"Whatever."

Although I am only a few years older than this couple, I feel like I'm from a different generation if not another planet altogether. From what I've read about the contemporary 30-something social scene, it is perfectly acceptable to engage in dynamic, last-minute plan making and plan breaking, all possible with the aid of text messaging. I grew up with a different model for social interaction - you agree on a time and place and a way of getting in touch if something comes up. To me, this whole party situation felt non-committal, if not slightly rude. Indeed, this fellow was one of the Fantastic Hosts yet was not planning to make an appearance until after the party was underway.

I realized that if I wanted to salvage any fun from the evening I'd need to refrain from indulging in judgmental and negative thoughts and stay focused on the upside: a chance to dress up, check out the scene, enjoy some wine, meet people and dance. I also realized that I could simply choose not to go at all. Perhaps I'd already received the full benefits of the invitation: inexpensive yet high quality clothing that I'd enjoy for a long time.

In the end, I decided to go. As I suspected, the venue was loud and crowded and many people - including women - had chosen not to dress up at all. While I don't regret my purchases, I was a bit disappointed that my acquaintance had given me some inaccurate intelligence on what to wear. While waiting in the long line at the bar for a glass of red wine, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Molly who, it turned out, was also looking around for her friends. I had not spotted mine. When I mentioned that I had just moved to Denver she said, gesturing towards the crowd behind us, "Don't worry, not everyone in this city is a poser. There are some down to earth people in town, too."

Ah, posers.

Could it be that my new acquaintances were of that ilk, despite my hopes to the contrary?

At around 11:20 or so, amidst the din of this bash, located in a vacant multi-story building, I violated my no text messaging rule to contact the boyfriend to see if they had arrived. "Not yet," came the reply. As it approached midnight, snow began to fall and, with my acquaintances nowhere in sight, I decided to call it a night.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Instant Joy

This afternoon I went to my local post office to mail some mosaics and some show applications and to pick up a gift a friend had sent me. I arrived to find a long line of sullen looking people and only three clerks on duty. I passed some of the time by reading a copy of the neighborhood newspaper that had been left on the counter. As the line inched along it continued to expand behind me; by the time it was my turn the queue was nearly to the door.

I'm sure the people behind me were not pleased by the fact that I had four packages to mail, each requiring slightly different treatment and therefore additional conversation. The process was further slowed by the fact that the clerk was hearing impaired - so said the sign at the counter - and my effort to speak clearly didn't always succeed. Finally, after some repetition and clarification, all the packages had been metered and affixed with delivery confirmation stickers.

Then I presented the clerk with my slip of paper so she could retrieve the item my friend had mailed. I knew what it was, as my friend had e-mailed me the tracking information. After checking my ID the clerk went to the back, found the item, and returned to the counter bearing a hoola hoop, wrapped in brown paper for its postal journey, and with a diameter of more than three feet.

As I turned to leave, hoop in hand, I noticed big smiles on the faces of the people waiting patiently in the line behind me. Even one of the clerks broke into a grin. Seeing their reactions dissolved my own blah mood, and for a moment I was walking on air.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Intimacy

Walking into Denver's downtown this morning to do some errands it occurred to me that a possible way of looking at the cause of the financial crisis is through the lens of intimacy or, in this case, the lack thereof. As I strolled in the sunshine I was thinking of intimacy as meaning detailed knowledge of and deep familiarity with a thing or a person. That is simply what arose in my head.

Lenders were not intimate with their borrowers' financial condition. Borrowers, in many cases, were not intimate with the terms of their loans or with their own financial positions. Both borrowers and lenders may not have been intimate with themselves, ignoring their doubts or misgivings about what they were doing. Heads of banks and financial institutions were not intimate with what their organizations were doing.

In other words, maybe it all boils down to an entire culture not paying attention to details, glossing over unpleasant facts, realities and twinges of inner discomfort in the quest for monetary success.

I wonder if this crisis will help some people wake up and start tuning in and, in an intimacy-building way, turning inward.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Introducing another Blog

New situations demand new blogs, so I've created a blog in which to reflect upon certain aspects of my experiences in Colorado. Please visit Adventures with Altitude to read about cultural and climactic differences and the occasional quirky observation about life at 5,280 feet.

For a change of pace, on this new blog the titles of posts begin with a variety of letters, not just "I", and often contain more than just a word or two. Do check it out I will be keeping this blog, too, and cross referencing posts when it makes sense to do so.

Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about leaving comments on either blog.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

I-Ching, of the Torah

Tonight I celebrated Simchat Torah, which marks the completion of the yearly cycle of Torah reading, with congregation Nevei Kodesh in Boulder. In true Jewish Renewal style there was joyful dancing, praying and singing during each of the hakafot, or processionals. Except these weren't really processionals, where a select group of people carry the Torah scrolls around a synagogue. It was more like a casual prom where everyone got to dance with the popular partners which, in this case, were one of half a dozen Torah scrolls, one of which was a few hundred years old and had survived the Holocaust. Each hakafa had its own theme and accompanying music, ranging from Hassidic niggunim (chants) to a Jewish version of "My Dear Lord". Depending on the tune, some people waltzed, others sashayed, and some swayed slowly with their Torahs. Unlike last year, where I stood on the sidelines, I borrowed someone's tallis, embraced a Torah and did some shimmying myself.

After the hakafot we unfurled a Torah scroll around the edges of the room, each of us holding up a portion of the parchment so that we created a circle. In the middle, where the text was visible, several rabbis - including Reb Zalman - gathered to perform an I-Ching-like ritual. People holding the Torah would point to a passage on the parchment in front of them and one of the rabbis would translate the verse which, much like an oracle, would help us find guidance for the coming year. Since it is quite difficult to read Hebrew calligraphy upside down, let alone figure out where in the Torah a meaningful verse might be, the ritual was pretty random.

So imagine my delight when Reb Zalman himself came over to my section of the scroll, and then my complete surprise when he translated the verse to which I had randomly pointed. It turned out to be the same verse (Deuteronomy 30:19) that my father used to quote, part of which appears on his headstone. In brief, the message I received was: Choose Life.

OK, God! I think I am finally getting the message.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Incantations, Interpretations

This post has been simmering on this blog's back burner for a long time. So I wonder if I should not even post it, given that it refers to something that happened a few weeks ago, practically an eternity in blog time. Indeed, my observance of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur seem like they were in another era. The weather was still summer-like for Rosh Hashanah and just days before I had begun moving into my apartment in Denver, my life change coinciding nicely with the change of seasons and the Jewish New Year.

I chose to spend these holidays with Nevei Kodesh, a Jewish renewal congregation in Boulder, about 35 minutes away. We worshipped in the town's Seventh Day Adventist Church, a spacious and sparsely decorated building that was easily converted into a synagogue for the Days of Awe. Congregants turned out in large numbers, filling the sanctuary with white or light-colored clothing for the holidays. Personalized tallitot, prayer shawls, added a bit of color, as did four chuppot, canopies, one in each corner of the large room.

Each of the chuppot, which were draped with brightly painted silk fabrics, represented one of each of the Four Worlds, or ways in which one can connect with holiness. There was the chuppa for Assiyah, the Physical World; another for Yetzirah, the Relational World; a third for Briyah, the World of the Mind; and finally for Atzilut, the Spiritual Realm Beyond Time and Space. Each canopy provided a semi-private space for silent meditation and prayer on the relevant subject matter. As someone who takes the High Holidays seriously and doesn't view services as primarily a time to socialize, I was grateful to have the option to be with the group but in a private space.

It turned out that I worshipped with like-minded souls and I never felt the need during services to duck under a chuppah to have some quiet, although I napped in Yetzirah during the mid-afternoon break on Yom Kippur. The rabbi offered plenty of opportunities in the services for silent contemplation in between the recitations and incantations of the ancient prayers, effectively hitting the pause button and allowing our own words and thoughts to sink in. And during the Torah service I was grateful for the group aliyot, the calling up to the Torah, based on creative psychologically-oriented interpretations of the ancient texts. For example, on Rosh Hashanah we read the tale of Sarah's late-in-life pregnancy with Isaac and her banishment of Hagar and Ishmael into the desert. When Sarah discovers that she will have a child, the Hebrew text uses a word that could be interpreted as laughter or mocking. Is Sarah laughing in delight or is she afraid of being mocked? For the reading of this passage the rabbi asked all of us to come up who were on the edge of faith, those of us who teeter between letting out belly laughs because we recognize that life has been unfolding in a way that supports and nurtures us, and between mocking or doubting the existence of a higher power. Since I probably teeter on this edge many times a week if not every day, I walked to the front of the room, as did a third of the congregation. Once the Torah reader had completed the passage the rabbi blessed all of us to find the kind of faith that would allow us to live fully and fully aware of the miraculousness of life itself.

I went up for a few more aliyot, as did many of the people there. Unlike in more traditional synagogues, in Jewish Renewal aliyot are not rationed or bestowed upon a handful of people, rendering the rest of the congregation observers rather than active participants in the service. The only exception to this was the final aliyah, where the rabbi called to the Torah and blessed Reb Zalman Schachter Shalomi, the 80-something year old founder of the Renewal Movement, referring to him as the wellspring of this fluorishing branch of Judaism. May he live to be a hundred and twenty.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Intact, Incense

Yesterday morning my relocube, a large metal storage unit containing most of my earthly possessions, was delivered to my parking spot near the apartment building I now live in. The driver, a man with pale skin, a white beard, twinkly eyes and a laid back manner, was the same person who had brought my studio relocube a few weeks earlier. Seeing him again was like seeing an old friend. As had happened previously, not only did he spend several minutes with me discussing the optimum positioning of my cube for easiest unloading, he also lingered for some small talk after he had used his forklift to deposit the cube in the perfect spot. Despite his full day of deliveries and pickups, this man did not act as if he were in a hurry. He seemed quite relaxed, unlike most delivery people I had encountered on the East Coast.

Then I got on Craigslist to find some movers to unload the cube. By mid-afternoon the crew showed up; the first guy to arrive, a 36-year old fellow with craggy good looks, a pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of his shirt and a prosthetic leg from a drunk-driving accident in his teens, apologized for his somewhat disheveled appearance, saying that he hadn't been planning to work that day. It didn't bother me that he showed up in jeans and a t-shirt (he's moving stuff, after all), but as he worked up a sweat carting boxes up to my apartment it became clear that he probably hadn't showered in the preceding few days. His exertions released an increasingly foul odor in my apartment. I turned the ceiling fan on the highest speed and opened all the windows, hoping that would help. This man was also ingratiatingly and somewhat aggressively polite, insisting on calling me Ma'am at every opportunity despite my protestations.

"Whatever you say, Ma'am"
"No problem, Ma'am"
"Where should I put this, Ma'am?"
"We'll take care of everything, Ma'am"
"Thank you, Ma'am"
"Ma'am, do you mind if I take this call?"

After being Ma'am-ed to death over the course of nearly three hours I wanted to strangle him...except that would have meant touching him.

Since then I've unpacked about two-thirds of the boxes and so far all of my belongings are intact, even if the containers they were in got somewhat bit bent out of shape. It's been a month since I've seen all of my stuff and in the meantime I had forgotten exactly what I had put in the relocube. Imagine my delight and relief a few minutes ago when I opened a box and discovered some cones of frangipani incense I purchased in Thailand a few years ago.

Things are starting to smell a lot better around here.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Immersion, Idaho Springs

In preparation for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, on Sunday I participated in a mikveh - ritual immersion - with a group of women from a Renewal congregation, Nevei Kodesh, of Boulder, CO. Whereas last year I immersed in the brisk waters of a Connecticut pond, this year I dunked in some very hot springs. The facilitator of this ritual, Eve Ilsen, asked us to use the drive into the mountains to quietly contemplate what it was we wanted to leave behind in the water so that we could begin the new year with a clean slate. She explained that water, which surrounded us in the womb, has the power to absorb emotional stress, restoring us to equilibrium. Certainly that has been my experience with open water swimming.

As a passenger in someone else's car, I had plenty of time to think about this but became overwhelmed by the number of choices of behaviors and patterns that were candidates for being washed away. About half way on our silent journey the driver began a somewhat complicated Hebrew chant to which I hummed along while I struggled to remember the words to, and tune of, one of my favorites: Elohai neshama she-natata-bi tehora, hi. It means: The soul that God has given me is pure. Getting in touch with our goodness - and that of others - can be difficult especially if it requires excavating through accumulated layers of hurt, pain, disappointment, frustration and anger.

Approaching the hot springs, the driver asked if any of us wanted to share our kavanah, or intention, for the mikveh. Knowing the power of articulating my thoughts, I told the three other women that I wanted to drop negativity, starting my new year and my new life in Colorado without any traces of it. There are many forms and shapes of negativity, of course, but like an umbrella insurance policy I figured I would try to cover as many bases as possible in a single word. Another woman shared that she wanted to leave behind the difficulties and emotional pain of the preceding year.

We entered the Indian Springs spa and headed to the locker room to prepare for our immersion, removing all makeup, nail polish and jewelry and showering thoroughly. The hot springs themselves were located in underground caves that, except for the padded walkways, had a biblical feel. They were dimly lit with low ceilings and signs urged people to respect the sacredness of the space and the solitude of the bathers. Luckily for our group of nine women there were no other clients there, giving us plenty of privacy. Removing our towels, we circled one of the pools and reviewed the customs of the mikveh: a minimum of three complete immersions, reciting the blessing after the first one. We were told that we could dip as many times as we needed. Looking around our group - ages 20-60 something, of many shapes and sizes - I was struck by how much younger and how much more themselves everyone looked without their clothes on. The act of disrobing alone helped us each leave behind some of what obscures our neshamot (souls).

Based on where I was standing, I was part of the first pair of women to immerse side by side, separated by a railing, in a somewhat narrow and dark pool. There were three steps into the pool, each one allowing a greater degree of adjustment to the temperature. After descending and standing in the water for several seconds, I thought I was used to the heat but when I immersed my head I felt somewhat panicky and quickly stood up. The heat made it difficult for me to relax and focus on my intention, even though I immersed four times, twice in each direction. Luckily, after the others went, I had an opportunity to do it again - a double dipping of sorts. Now accustomed to the heat I was able to stay in the water long enough to relax and let go.

I participate in rituals such as this to have a touchstone, a reminder of my intention, knowing full well that the ritual alone will not make negativity disappear from my life instantaneously. Sure enough, at Rosh Hashanah services the following evening, I noticed that my mind was generating some negative chatter, doing its usual thing of comparing, evaluating, analyzing. I sighed inside, remembered my immersion of the previous day, realized that I have a choice and refocused my thoughts.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Insurance, Industrial Classifications, IRS

Earlier this week I spent the better part of two days jumping through various hoops in order to be considered for a more comprehensive health insurance policy that is offered to business groups, as opposed to individuals. In other words, I had to demonstrate that I have a business in Colorado. But since I lack a business history here, I also had to demonstrate that my application was legitimate.

It didn't help matters that last spring I filed for an extension for my 2007 taxes, giving myself until October 15 to send in the paperwork. The underwriter needed to see my return, which doesn't exist....yet. However, my insurance broker got them to agree that it would be sufficient for them to see evidence that I filed for an extension. Until a few years ago, the IRS would routinely send confirmation of extension requests to the taxpayer. But they ended this practice, probably to save money, and so I had no proof that I had requested extra time. I had no choice but to call the IRS and see if they would send me something that indicated that, yes, I had filed for an extension. It took three phonecalls and nearly three hours of waiting on hold (at least they play classical music) before I succeeded in having them fax me the document I needed. The process might have been shorter had I known in advance that I'd need to be in front of the fax machine when it arrived, as they won't fax personal tax information somewhere else. Since I didn't have a fax number, I got one from Efax, and then - while the IRS employee waited patiently on the line - downloaded the software so I could open it. It worked. I felt a tiny sense of triumph over the vast tax bureaucracy.

Compared to that, registering my business in Colorado was a breeze. I registered my trade name - Mixed Media Mosaics - at the Secretary of State's Office online, then took proof of my registration to the Colorado tax department to get my license to do business. Before hand I had looked at this form online to see what information I'd need to provide. They ask applicants for their industrial classification - it turns out it is 711510, Independent Artists, Writers, Performers, which lumps a lot of people under a single category including but not limited to: storytellers, poets, orchestra conductors, taxidermists, ethnic dancers, motivational speakers, art restorers and celebrity spokepersons. In previous years, according to the website I consulted, many of these job titles were separately classified.

Then it was off to the City and County of Denver Treasury Division to get a license to collect their sales tax, separate from the state tax. Whoever called my home state "Taxachusetts" had not been to Colorado, where certain cities, counties and districts collect all kinds of taxes. When I sell my art here, I will charge a tax rate of 7.72% that includes the state sales tax, the Denver sales tax, the Regional Transportation District tax, the Football Stadium District tax and the Scientific and Cultural Facilities District tax. And then I get to pay a monthly Occupational Privilege Tax (OPT) for the privilege of being in business. This would all be quite entertaining if I could file my sales tax returns online, as I did in Massachusetts, simply entering in my revenues and having the website calculate what I owe. Unfortunately, Colorado is about four years away from having such a system in place. So, I will receive personalized tax booklets on which to write in ink who is getting how much tax. Perhaps when I fill out my first one I will blog about it under the title "Insane-making". Meanwhile, Colorado is kind enough to offer free tax classes to help newbies decipher it all.

But all of my phoning, faxing and filling out forms paid off. My application for the health coverage I wanted was approved.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Inflatable

Since arriving in Denver, and with the exception of the first night when I stayed at the home of my studio landlord, I have been camping out in my art studio, sleeping on a cotton mattress loaned to me by my landlord. He told me I could hang out here until I find a place to live and, while I did not intend to stay here a long time, the arrangement is proving to be somewhat convenient and helpful.

For one thing, I haven't completely decided if I want to rent an apartment or buy a place to live, so staying here is giving me a bit more time to think about that and keep exploring different neighborhoods and options. Furthermore, the combination of my cross-country drive, the adjustment to the altitude and to the realization that I actually did move left me feeling a bit shell-shocked and exhausted for the first several days after my arrival. I am grateful that I did not have to look for a place to live during a time of mental discombobulation. Finally, sleeping here makes my transition feel more like an adventure and it's a reminder of how far I've come in my personal growth - even a few years ago I would not have considered doing this, as it would have seemed too bohemian, and I probably would have been too afraid of arriving in a new city without a place to live or, more likely, afraid of what others might think of that.

But, it turns out that arriving in a new city with no place to live is not really a big deal. People are not looking at me cross-eyed. I have a small refridgerator here, a microwave, an electric tea kettle, a place to park my car, a bathroom and coin-operated laundry in the basement. And, of course, wireless access. The showers don't work but that merely motivated me to take advantage of a free introductory membership at the local YMCA, where I enjoyed yoga and dance classes in addition to the sauna and showers. And with my free trial about to expire, now I've found a yoga studio with showers a few minutes' drive from my studio - all the more incentive to develop a regular yoga practice, something I've been wanting to do anyway.

When I slow down and take each day as it comes, solutions to my immediate logistical challenges keep presenting themselves. And so it was when my landlord - a portrait photographer - asked to borrow his mattress back temporarily. Sometimes he uses it as a prop when photographing infants, allowing them to crawl all over it. Not wishing to engage in further mattress exchanges, and not wanting to continue to impose on him, I told him that he should hang onto the mattress and I'd find something else to use. I did bring a camping mattress with me, but it is quite thin. After going for a short hike yesterday afternoon to clear my head and stretch my legs, I noticed a Bed Bath & Beyond on the other side of the highway. I pulled off the road and found my way into the store. It turns out that they were having a sale and the more deluxe inflatable mattress was 30% off. I took a twin size and put it in my shopping cart. Arriving at the checkout, I couldn't decide which line to get into and hung back for a few minutes while others got in the queue. My indecisiveness proved to have a purpose. When I finally chose a register, I ended up behind a customer with an entire deck of store coupons and a generous spirit. She asked me if I'd like a coupon (yes!) and, after flipping through her stash, handed me one for 20% off. It had already expired but the store accepted it, no questions asked. Knowing that I got a good deal helped me sleep better at night, and the mattress itself was quite comfortable, too.

Tomorrow I will resume looking for a place to live.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Installed, Invested

I have lived in many different apartments. Even in the ones I owned I did not invest much time, effort or money in trying to optimize the lighting. Somehow, the decisions involved in choosing floor lamps and hanging light fixtures seemed overwhelming, not to mention permanent. Especially with lighting that would require installation on a wall or a ceiling, selecting a particular fixture for a given room and hiring an electrician to hook it up seemed akin to making an irrevocable commitment. Table lamps, however, didn't stir up as much angst - they could be moved from place to place or sold - so I would buy those instead. As a result, I suffered with sub-par lighting in most of my living spaces and even in my Boston area art studio rather than install the "wrong" lights and then feel compelled to live with the mistake.

But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.

On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.

On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.

Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.

Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Interstate: Illuminated

I'm in Wyoming, a place that once seemed very far away, a place that I might only see in a movie. Driving through the most eastern part of the state I was struck by its lush-looking landscape. I say "looking" because the combination of prairie grasses, which are yellowish green, and darker grass make it appear as if the ground is covered in a pale chartreuse velour. It looks particularly lush when illuminated by bright afternoon sun. While the countryside I drove through was mostly flat, occasionally there were these odd mounds, bumps and cones, some whose shapes reminded me of extinct volcanos, creating a sense of otherworldliness. It was as if the earth had been undulating and then, at some point, had stopped moving, freezing these mounds in place.

Seeing the different shades of greens, yellows and browns, the textures of the grasses, the shapes of the hills, the silhouettes of cattle grazing and the bright blue sky made me think about how I might paint such a landscape, should I ever attempt to paint again. I wondered how one could capture the sweep of the sky and the seeming endlessness of the land.

Interstate: Inns and Ice Machines

This trip has given me the opportunity to sample some of America's typical roadside accommodations, the no-nonsense, not too many frills hotels that cluster around major exits on this country's interstate highways. Interestingly, the worst one (a depressing looking Holiday Inn in Milesburg, PA) was also the most expensive, even with the AAA discount. And breakfast wasn't included! I've also slept at an AmericInn (Albert Lea, Minnesota), a Days Inn (Rapid City, SD) and now a La Quinta (Cheyenne, WY). I ended up at these hotels because they happened to be in the places where I decided to stop driving on a given night; I certainly did not make these particular lodgings as my destination. With the exception of AmericInn, where I couldn't connect to the wireless, all had great WiFi and extremely mediocre coffee. And I gotta mention those ice machines! You know, the kind that dispense ice cubes into plastic buckets with a loud clunking noise. It is definitely part of the required soundtrack for a drive across the country.

Interstate: Impressions

Marketers and advertisers know that it takes a minimum of seven, if not more, impressions to convert someone into a customer. That potential customer will need to see or hear at least seven advertisements or product mentions before they will take action. The marketers in South Dakota are well acquainted with this fact, thus the Interstate is lined with billboards that announce restaurants and attractions that are hundreds of miles away.

For example, for hours before I arrived to Wall, SD, population 800 or so, I must have seen dozens of billboards with simple but tempting graphics and slogans for Wall Drug. In hindsight, I wished I had stopped to photograph each and every one of them, although that might have slowed me down quite a bit.

The theme was simple. Each billboard emphasized a different items available at Wall Drug. One sign focused on homemade donuts, and had an image of a chocolate frosted one. Another boasted 5 cent coffee. A third showed cowboy boots. A fourth had a picture of cherry pie. A fifth announced that T-Rex was at Wall Drug. A sixth said, "Only 50 miles to Wall Drug". And on and on, mile after mile, billboard after billboard, to the point that I got curious about what kind of place Wall Drug was. Yup, they totally snagged me with their clever ads.

After soaking up the Badlands I headed to Wall Drug. Leaving the park, sign after sign informed me that I was getting closer to the 5 cent coffee. I pulled up in front of what looked like an old western store front. Wall Drug is basically a small mall filled with cowboy boots, food, games, gimmicks and more. It is probably the largest employer of this tiny town, which counts on a steady stream of visitors from the national park.

If I had been less tired, I might have lingered at Wall Drug to fully absorb the kitsch, but I wanted to eat something before traveling one more hour in waning daylight to get to Rapid City, SD. I ditched over-the-top Wall Drug in favor of the unpretentious Badlands Bar, a local joint that seemed anachronistic. Both the bartender and a few of the cowboy hatted customers smoked cigarettes as ceiling fans whirred.

The man who took my order had longish gray hair, a handlebar moustache and a friendly demeanor.

I asked him if the buffalo burger came with anything on it.

"Nope, we don't have lettuce or tomato," he said, simply stating the facts without apology. This place was really about the meat and french fried potatoes.

"Could you some put onion on it?" I asked.

"Well, I can bring you some onion on the side," he replied. I hadn't yet noticed the sign on the wall that let customers know that this place was not Burger King....you don't have it your way.

He brought over a cardboard beer bottle tote filled with condiments: two squirt bottles, one with ketchup and one with mustard, and two recycled Corona bottles, one filled with pepper and another with salt. He placed a small plastic container with chopped white onions and a white plastic fork next to it.

The buffalo burger was a bit overcooked but I dumped a lot of onions and ketchup on it, washed it down with french fries and a coke, and in its own way was just fine. Just as, in its own way, even the mildly smoky air was refreshing.

Interstate: Interior, SD

My route has taken me on I-90 through Wisconsin, Minnesota and now South Dakota. The further west I travel, the higher the speed limit. In South Dakota it is 75 miles per hour, so traffic flows at about 85-90 mph. At that rate one can cover a lot of ground. Depending on one's perspective, there is either very little or quite a lot to see. The swaths of farmland are, for the most part, flat. They are slightly less green than in Wisconsin or Minnesota. There are the occasional buffalo and herds of cattle. The sky, however, is vast and filled with different patterns and textures of clouds, some of which appear to be in vertical layers, as if they were fluffy skyscrapers. In late afternoon, the landscape is bathed in gorgeous light, rendering even the flattest of plains breathtakingly beautiful and making the pain of a day sitting in the car worth it.


Today I whizzed by a sign announcing that I was entering the Mountain Time Zone, gaining an hour in less than a second. I decided to spend my extra 60 minutes of sunlight during my visit to the Badlands National Park, in Interior, SD. From the highway, dotted only with round bales of hay and, pardon the pun, corny billboards every few miles exhorting travelers to visit the Corn Palace - "You'll Be A-maized!" and "It's All Ears!" (yes, I pulled off the highway to visit it) - you can't even imagine that just a few miles away are magnificent rock formations that form the Badlands. Created over the millenia by evaporating water that left red stripes of sediment sandwiched between lighter stone, the Badlands appear to be simultaneously ancient and futuristic. From certain angles the silhouettes of the craggy rocks seem to be castles in the sky, overlooking the grassy prairie where rabbits, elk and - of course - prairie dogs wander and graze. It is otherwordly, reminding me a little bit of Turkey's Cappadocia, and I doubt that the dozens of photographs I took will do it justice. It is a place probably best experienced in a 24-hour period, seeing both sunset and sunrise amidst the astonishing topography. Having said that, I don't regret not planning to spend the night there. That most likely would have involved booking accommodations ahead of time and, therefore, seeing pictures of the park beforehand. I went not knowing what I would be seeing and enormously enjoyed the surprise.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Interstate: Intimacy, Inflate

My visit in Evanston was leisurely and relaxing. My friend, whom I've known since seventh grade, is a busy career woman and mother of three young girls and yet she pampered me to the point of embarrassment. She insisted on including my laundry in one of her many daily loads and made sure I was well fed, well rested and well sugared; we both dipped into her stash of York Peppermint Patties. Perhaps her caring for my physical needs was a way to re-establish some intimacy between us. Over the years, partly due to geographical distance but mostly to differing life choices and my reactions to those, we had grown apart. I was glad for an excuse for a brief visit and to spend some time with her daughters, ages 8, 5 and 3 1/2.

To my delight, the children took to me almost immediately and before I knew it I was being recruited to draw, do other art projects, and sing and dance to the Mamma Mia CD. It was like taking a trip back into childhood, but this time having some little sisters. I learned that the two oldest girls were absolute Hoola pros, effortlessly Hoola-ing for minutes on end while doing various tricks with the hoop. I was an enthusiastic audience and they convinced me to try it, too. I was able to keep the hoop aloft for about five seconds before it, along with my ego, crashed to the floor.

A middle child myself, I couldn't resist the charms of the middle girl, also a sensitive soul, who insisted on sitting next to me at dinner on Friday night and who invited me to watch her first soccer game on Sunday. I decided to see the game and then continue on my journey, but when I went to pack up my car late Sunday morning I noticed it had a completely flat tire. For a brief moment I experienced the same mixture of helplessness and inertia as when I left my mother's house - if I have a flat, how will I ever leave? I snapped out of it fairly quickly, realizing how lucky I was to get a flat tire while at my friend's home, rather than on a highway in the middle of nowhere.

Within 30 minutes of calling AAA, a tow truck operator arrived to change the tire, which had been punctured by a nail. I brought it into a body shop in Skokie, IL and soon enough they had patched and properly inflated it. I was good to go, if only I knew which direction to take. My mental fog still hadn't cleared enough to reveal a preferred route. My friend's husband, kindly but also a bit protectively, offered to let me borrow a GPS device for the rest of my trip, so at least I'd know where I was at all times. I declined - the AAA office in Massachusetts had loaded me up with tour books and maps for every state I was bound to traverse. And part of having an adventure is, occasionally, getting lost, pulling over and checking a map or asking for directions. Besides, I couldn't decide where to go so having the ability to type in a destination and map a route wouldn't have solved my immediate problem.

By the time I was roadworthy the soccer game had ended but it was still early enough to keep driving so I decided to head to Wisconsin. Shortly after crossing the state border I saw a huge sign for the Mars Cheese Castle. That sounded colorful, local and a bit kitschy. It was. I purchased some smoke string cheese, a sourdough roll, two chocolate bars and a half decaf, half regular coffee, poured by a sullen employee. My spirits lifted again and, on my own again, I knew that I would enjoy the rest of my trip, whichever way I ended up going.

Interstate: I.D.I.O.T.S.

On the second day of my trip I whizzed through the rest of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana before getting to Evanston, Illinois. The scenery was mostly bucolic, with the exception of stinky Gary, Indiana, but at a spotless and contemporary rest stop in Ohio I spotted a trio of wide women wearing lavender T-shirts that said on the back:

I lluminated
D aughters
I nspired
O f
T he
S pirit

On the front was a cross.

I didn't have the chutzpah to ask them why they were self-described idiots.

Interstate: Itinerary, Imperfect

The first of several postings on my long-distance car trip from Boston to Denver. Wireless access has been sporadic so these are not real-time postings.

I left the Boston area, specifically my mother's house, on Thursday, September 4, at around noon. I did not have a map or an exact itinerary, I just knew that I wanted to arrive in the Chicago area by either Friday evening or Saturday morning to visit a friend. My car was packed, but a bit carelessly. I had thrown my cosmetics into a shoebox and put that in the back seat, along with several suitcases, two yoga mats, my sleeping bag, a camping mattress, a bag of books, and a few milk crates filled with financial and personal documents. Most of the people reading this blog would not leave for a 2,000+ mile car trip in such haste. And I suspect that many of them would have carefully plotted and planned the route, figuring out ahead of time where they would be spending the night and what sights they wanted to see along the way. Perhaps they would have consulted other people about hotels, restaurants, road conditions, the cheapest gas stations. That is certainly one way to travel, but that isn't always my way.

After years of living in a place where I increasingly didn't want to be, and with the accumulated inertia weighing on me like a leaden blanket that grew heavier by the hour, I genuinely feared that if I didn't just go at that moment that I would never leave. And after packing up my studio and my apartment, which involved much heavy lifting and the emotionally difficult act of sorting and discarding possessions, I didn't have the capacity to plan anything, to predict what route I might want to take. Well-meaning people asked me how I planned to get from Boston to Denver and I simply could not answer them. I really had no idea, I had not looked into it. In a sense it did not matter if my route took me north, south or due west. I just needed to hit the road and trust that I would have the trip that I needed to be having at this time. Trying to optimize, strategize or otherwise try to create a more perfect trip was simply not something my brain could handle.

Still, I was not a completely reckless traveler. My first stop was at the AAA Office in Newton, MA. I walked in and told them I was leaving for Evanston, IL and could they please get me a TripTik, which is their customized travel booklet.

"Did you order one?" the man behind the counter asked.

"No," I said.

"TripTiks take days to prepare," the man informed me, looking at me as if I were slightly insane. Maybe that is how I looked.

"Oh," I said, unfazed. "It says on your website that you create them on demand. I had no idea they were so complicated."

"Well, we might be able to do one quickly for you. Where are you going?"

I gave him my friend's address and told him that I only needed a route and a place to stay that was mid-way between Boston and Evanston. To simplify the task, I told him that I did not need information on every single attraction, shopping mall and restaurant along the way.

"Could you come back in 2-3 hours?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I need to leave soon so I can get in enough daylight driving hours. Perhaps I could just take a map?"

"Well," he replied, as if he were afraid to let me loose on the road without a TripTik, "Have you had lunch yet? If not, come back in an hour. I'll have it then."

It turns out that TripTiks, if requested with a smile, take less than an hour to prepare. When I returned 60 minutes later, after having gassed up, bought some food and visited the ATM, it was already completed and had my name on it. They had highlighted the AAA recommended route in orange pen, and all I had to do was follow it. That was pretty much all I was capable of at that time, following someone else's directions. That night I made it as far as Milesburg, PA on I-80 after making what for my family is a ritual stop at Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Interchange

My launching pad for my upcoming move is my mother's house. She has generously allowed me to fill her screened in porch and garage with the pared down contents of my studio and my apartment, which will soon be loaded onto two pods for transport to Colorado. Not knowing where exactly I'd be moving to, I have spent months slowly whittling down my possessions to only those things that I absolutely need, really love or can't easily replace.

The original idea was that I'd load up a trailer, attach it to my car and drive out with as little as possible. Then I learned that my car, with all wheel drive, is not really designed for towing, and that the trailer that it could safely carry wouldn't fit very much anyway. Not to mention that the installed trailer hitch was quite rusted and might not be terribly secure.

Plan B was to rent a truck, load up my belonging, attach my car onto a flatbed trailer behind it and drive the contraption out West. For many weeks I had a romantic attachment to the idea of a sola long-distance truck trip and I refused to consider other options. It seemed adventurous, a bit challenging, something that I wouldn't normally do...a way to step out of my box and signal the transition I am making. Then I regained my sanity and realized that renting, loading, driving and unloading a truck would probably be much more stressful, not to mention more expensive, than shipping my belongings in pods.

The pods changed the plan. On a per pod basis, it was cheaper to order two, rather than one, and since I am moving to two locations - an art studio first, and eventually an apartment or house, which I haven't found yet - it made sense to sort my belongings based on their destination. And as I am paying for two pods, I might as well fill them, rather than leaving each half full. Right...? Hmm.

Knowing that I have extra space, my mother has been wondering if I'd take back many of the items I've deposited at her house at other times when I've moved far away. It has become a bit of a ritual - she takes in my abandoned furnishings thinking that one day I might wish to be reunited with them. Her home sometimes looks like a museum of my past lives, filled with bookcases from two former apartments, tchotchkes I've collected overseas, lamps and wicker baskets I no longer needed or wanted, clothing that doesn't fit or suit me anymore, a love seat and a wooden chair. By and large I have refused to reclaim my old things, not wishing to be saddled with furniture for which I don't yet have a place, but over the weekend she was home cleaning, organizing and attempting to tempt me with her things - vintage Mexican baskets, pots and pans she found at a garage sale, her wet-dry vac.

No thanks, I said, to most of what was proposed for interchange, even if the items were perfectly good, useful or attractive. I wanted to try to hew to my initial vision of arrriving with as little as possible, even though my, ahem, minimalist holdings do occupy many boxes and take up several cubic feet. However, she did persuade me to adopt several blankets - useful for protecting furniture - a small boxed set of matching utensils and a small hooked rug with a butterfly design, something I made as a child. That reminded me of a vintage woolen rug from Mexico, also with a butterfly pattern, so I added that, too, to my pile....

When the pods arrive - supposedly soon - I will try to load and lock them as quickly as possible, preventing more things from stowing away to Colorado.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Intersections

Streets intersect, as do people. Streets intersect in a more or less predictable way. There are stop or yield signs or traffic lights to signal the presence of an intersection. Crossing the intersection, on foot, by bicycle or by car, one travels linear distance but usually remains fundamentally unchanged. When two people intersect, however, it is often much more random, the signs and signals more subtle, and the impact on their lives potentially large.

Last week I was sitting in an independently owned cafe in Denver, drinking a decaffeinated coffee and taking advantage of free wireless access to search apartment and real estate listings. A friendly looking man with a baseball cap approached me and asked me if I were Rachel, someone he knew up in Boulder. No, I said, but I reassured him that people mistake me for others all the time. I didn't think too much of it - people in Colorado tend to be quite outgoing and I didn't sense that he was using that as a pick up line. I smiled at him and returned to my web surfing.

The following day, a Friday, I returned to that same cafe to check my e-mail; I was waiting for some documents from a realtor. They didn't come, and I didn't hear from her so I left the cafe. Driving around, I found a funky ice cream place shaped like an old fashioned milk bottle. While indulging in some gelato, the realtor called and told me she needed my electronic signature within the hour. Not wanting to waste time finding a different venue with wireless, but also hating to retrace my steps, I reluctantly returned to the cafe, somewhat regretul that I was filled with gelato yet would still need to order something to take advantage of the WiFi. I bought another decaf coffee, opened my laptop and logged on.

The man with the baseball cap came in - or maybe he was already there? I can't recall - and we acknowledged each other. I figured he was a regular at this congenial establishment; there were a couple of other people there I recognized from the day before. He sat a few tables away, occupied with a paperback book. At around 5:00pm the cafe was beginning to empty out. I had concluded my business but something kept me there, even though there were other places I could have gone to spend the evening. He came over and asked me what sort of work I was doing. I told him I was in the process of moving and was looking for a place to live. He then asked me if I'd join him for a drink at a place whose name I didn't quite catch and, even if I had, I probably wouldn't have recognized. I agreed, having no idea what sort of place it would be.

The exchange was quite simple but also unusual. He later told me that he never approaches women in cafes, and that he had returned on Friday in order to find me, and I confessed that I usually don't get picked up in cafes. I think we were both a bit surprised to find ourselves seated across from one another at his neighborhood restaurant, where he's built a reputation as a regular. Being in transition, with major pieces of my life up in the air, I am taking things one day at a time, relying more heavily on my intuition than on my intellect. I am not operating from an ego-driven identity right now. I am just trying to be with whatever happens each day and see where that takes me. This man later said that he had responded to my energy of just being. Had my ego been in charge, it probably would have declined the invitation, coming up with all sorts of "reasons" why going to a place I didn't know with a stranger would be a bad idea.

Just being didn't feel particularly special to me; I was not happy or sad, elated or excited. I was not trying to get anywhere, I didn't have an agenda. I was certainly curious about this man, with whom I ended up spending the next five hours in thoughtful conversation, but I was aware of not creating a story around our encounter, not getting caught up in the what ifs or spinning scenarios about what might happen next. It was refreshing to just spend time with him, enjoying the mutual appreciation and exploration without tinging our encounter with anxiety about whether we'd meet again.

In this rare place of being in the moment, with neither of us trying to impress or otherwise play a role, this man said some extraordinary things to me, about how he perceived me. I was so surprised that I started to blush. Perhaps the Universe had orchestrated my intersection with this man, arranging for us to provide each other with psychic boosts at, for me at least, a critical time.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Identical, almost

Sometimes when I have a few extra minutes on my hands I'll scroll through my cell phone address book and delete those numbers that I'm no longer calling. I'll often store numbers in my phone for future reference, such as that of a local cafe I had called once to find out when it was open. But having extra people, places and numbers just clutters up my screen and makes it that much slower to locate the numbers I do want.

In a recent purge I chose to remove the name and contact information of a man I had dated a few years ago. He lives in Boston part of the time, in the Southern Hemisphere the rest of the time, and he used to call me after making his annual trip north. I originally decided to store his name so that I'd know that it was him calling, rather than being caught by surprise at the sound of his voice. Sometimes I was happy to hear from him, other times less so, and it was useful to be able to choose whether to answer...or not. But enough time has passed since his last phone call that I decided to hit the erase button and send his details to the wireless dustbin of history.

Knowing that the Universe is somewhat mischievous and often tests me, for example having ex-boyfriends e-mail me days after I've deleted their e-mail addresses, I was not all that surprised to see his number appear on my phone today. Amused, I answered, expecting to hear his voice. It turned out not to be him after all, but my new downstairs neighbor calling me to ask if I still had anything stored in the basement. No, I said.

Our brief conversation concluded, I again looked at her phone number. It appeared to be exactly the same as this man's. Was it possible that she had inherited his old number? Unlikely, I thought. A few days earlier, in my sorting and packing I had found a piece of paper that had his contact information on it; I hadn't yet thrown it out. Locating the paper and comparing the phone numbers, I noticed that they were identical except for one digit. Where there had been a "2" in his number appeared a "3" in hers.

If she calls me again, I will probably think of him, which was what I was trying to avoid in the first place.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Intrinsic, Imbued

A few conversations I've had recently about moving and stuff have got me thinking, yet again, about what to keep and what to toss. A woman moving into the apartment below mine with her two children tells me that she has so much furniture and books that she needs two trucks. I told her that I am trying to pare down as much as I can, including giving away books that I haven't opened in years and will probably never read again. They are just taking up space. Her eyes widened.

"But," she protested, "My books are a record of my life. I see them on the shelf and I'm reminded of all the things I've done."

I used to have that philosophy about things, especially books, that they provide reference points for my life's trajectory, that I needed them around in order to remember who I was and therefore who I am. They are souvenirs of moments in time, the past made visible. Books are also friends and companions, something to turn to when needing wisdom, solace or entertainment. And it used to be that I'd feel more comfortable visiting a home lined or littered with books rather than being in a space devoid of such decorations - yes, a well-stocked bookshelf can be aesthetically pleasing.

And yet, as another friend pointed out, every object gives off a certain energy, a vibration with which we or someone else has imbued it. Most of the time this energy is not intrinsic to the object but has to do with the circumstances through which it entered our lives. How did it arrive? Was the book (or thing) a loving and thoughtful gift from a kind person or did it come with some strings attached, an implied criticism or aggressive suggestion for how to improve? As I look at my stuff, books included, I am trying to recall how they came into my possession. If I am no longer friends with the person who gave it to me, do I hang onto it? Do I want to be reminded of people that either drifted away from me or I from them? Lately the answer is no, even if at the time I received the item the friendship was a happy one. Do I want to hang onto a piece of clothing that I purchased in a gloomy moment and/or only because it was a bargain? Again, the answer is no. At some point, the accumulation of reminders of what was can stifle what is or what is becoming.

The issue gets more complicated when I'm dealing with other people's things, such as items from my father's house or that were acquired while my parents were still married. Some of these objects are beautiful to behold yet their vibration is not completely positive, a sadness clings to them. Do I keep them long enough to see if I can attach a happier story to them? Can I see them simply as objects and enjoy them on a purely aesthetic and functional level, forgetting their provenance? Or do I let them go and lighten my load, choosing to honor the past without schlepping its physical manifestations along with me?

I will ponder these questions some more as I take another stab at sorting my books and my stuff.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Incremental

Bit by bit, step by step, piece by piece. That is how things, people and lives are built. I'm discovering it is also how lives are taken apart, as I prepare to move a few thousand miles away. For a long time - longer than I care to admit - I haven't wanted to be where I am. My body was in one place, my spirit in another. Now I am trying to make it possible for my body and other material manifestations - as in, my stuff - to move to where my spirit would like us all to be: Colorado.

Even though I don't even have that much in the way of big stuff - for example, I do not own a television, couch, armchair, dresser or stereo system - the process of classifying and culling my belongings is time consuming and emotionally draining. I find I can only do a little bit of it at a time. I'm a collector and somewhat of a packrat, and it is hard for me to part with things such as postcards and greeting cards I've purchased on trips, small books received as gifts, ceramic objects from near and far. While these don't necessarily take up that much space, and I could easily dump them in a box and ship them, I am trying to be conscious of what I take with me, what I sell or give away and what I stick in the trash; so far, nothing I've found has qualified for a fifth option, being consumed by bonfre. So, for example, the partially used box of "Quotable Canine" notecards that I received at my department's holiday raffle in 1997 at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York is, finally, OUT, in the "to be donated" pile. However, a half-consumed box of artsy cat notecards, a gift from my mother, is IN. Also in the OUT pile is "Food Values of Portions Commonly Used", a spiral bound volume I recovered from my father's home after he passed away. I will, on the other hand, be bringing my Hungarian cookbooks with me.

At my art studio the decision making has been difficult indeed. Which beads and mosaic materials to sell and which to keep? During the first pass through my stash I decided to keep any beads that I had purchased overseas or that had been part of a popular design. But those criteria left me with a large inventory and so I then reluctantly decided to sell some of the heavier and more expensive ones. In taking my studio apart, drawer by drawer, container by container, I came across even more beads and jewelry that I hadn't seen in years. I figured that if I had forgotten about them so easily, I wouldn't mind selling them and allowing others to enjoy them. But then someone would come into my studio, and ooh and aah over them, and for a moment I'd experience a pang of envy and want them for myself. The pang was particularly piquant when other jewelry designers came in to pick over my collection; I felt like I was watching vultures pluck the meat from the bones of my business. One woman, while scooping up some luscious glass beads, asked me if I'd be keeping my website and making jewelry out West - as in, if I weren't going to keep producing my designs then she certainly could, presenting them as her own. For a split second, my competitiveness and anger surged and I wanted to take back all the beads and escort her out of my studio via a swift and sharp boot in the butt.

One day an artist friend and collector of mermaid themed items came to the studio to give me a farewell hug. He is about to move house, after living in the same apartment for 18 years, and faces similar decisions for what I suspect is an even greater quantity of stuff.

"You know," he said, "sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off if I came home and discovered that the house had burned down. Then I could start from scratch."

I nodded. Suddenly losing one's belongings might be a traumatic but ultimately liberating experience. And I realized that I still have the option of selling or dumping most of what I own, heading to Colorado with only what fits in the back of my car. I wouldn't be the first person to do such a thing. But choosing to quickly divest of most of the objects that reflect my life's trajectory feels a bit too radical; I think I need some tangible reminders of who and where I've been to help me create who I am going to be. For years, my collection of beads reflected my tastes, my travels, and my thought processes, and being surrounded by these objects was a source of comfort and reassurance. If I started to run out of a certain kind, I'd order more, just to have them around. Those beads filled some of the holes in my life.

But as the process incrementally deconstructing my studio continues, I am learning to relish it when people come in and relieve me of objects small and large. As things sell, space frees up in my body and mind. I feel lighter. And I know that once I get to where I am going I will have forgotten about most of the things I chose to leave behind, who is using them and how.

And, piece by piece, bit by bit, I'll get to build the next part of my life.

Monday, June 30, 2008

Incessant Imbibing

I've been in the Denver, Colorado area for a few days, drinking up a storm. Not alcohol, mind you. Water, water and more water, with an occasional soda, fruit juice, and tea or decaffeinated coffee thrown in for good measure. Proper hydration is the main way to avoid altitude sickness, the result of moving to a higher altitude too quickly. Denver is a mile high. Despite guzzling half a gallon of water beginning with my arrival Thursday morning, I spent the first afternoon mildly disoriented and nauseous, finally venturing out at around 5pm to visit the Art Students League of Denver, followed by dinner at Tacos y Salsas, one of the city’s best rated taquerias. Yup, they were good and I’m glad I finished my meal before sunset. The neighborhood would not have been so appealing in the dark.

Within one day I felt fairly well adjusted. I continued to drink. That allowed me to enjoy a full day of activity on Friday: driving to Boulder to meet a college friend for lunch, meeting with artists at one of Boulder’s largest studio buildings and getting an impromptu tour of the space, enjoying a quick stroll in the city’s pedestrian mall and chatting with the owner of Blink Gallery, and finally spending Shabbat at Flagstaff park with the Adventure Rabbi before hopping in my car and returning to Denver.

On Saturday I went northwest to Lyons, CO for their artist open studio tour. The first place I stopped had the art work – including large metal and wood sculptures, oil paintings and fused glass – strategically placed around a huge yard bordered by a river with a steep red cliff in the background. The setting was stunning and the art was able to hold its own. Further down the road, an artist had created nearly everything in her own home: contemporary wood furniture, lamps created from metal pipes, outdoor mosaic sculptures, including five enormous mosaiced eggs carefully placed atop a rocky outcrop in her back yard, and several mosaic animals in the front yard. None of them were for sale. I envied that she created them purely for her own enjoyment. Returning to Denver I made my way to an even more obscurely located taqueria outside of Denver proper. Apparently it used to be a lunch truck and has since turned into a “restaurant”. Located in a non-descript small strip mall in Denver’s exurbs, Tacos D.F. served up very authentic tacos de barbacoa (lamb). I was in heaven, in the middle of nowhere. That night I had ambitions to check out Denver’s tango scene, but even my constant hydration wasn’t enough to fend off fatigue. I called it quits in order to get up early for a hike on Sunday.

The hike, organized by Mosaic (a Jewish outdoors club), was in nearby Jefferson County Park and promised an elevation gain of 1,400 feet. I was wondering how I’d do, given that I’d only been in Denver two days, but I figured it was worth a shot. It turns out I had nothing to worry about and I was able to keep pace with the fastest folks in the group, two women from Colorado, one of whom hikes every week. We zipped ahead and even took a longer route back.

“Altitude, shmaltitude!” I thought. I could handle anything.

Fast forward to Monday, where my cocky attitude about altitude nearly killed me. Perhaps I exaggerate, or not. My college friend suggested that I drive up to Mt. Evans, elevation 14,270 feet, to get a stunning view of the Rocky Mountains. I called to make sure the road was open, and, it was. The cheerful woman on the phone advised me to drink continuously to avoid altitude sickness. I loaded my car with a gallon of water, bottles of limeade and green tea, fruit, cheese, chocolate for snacks, and warm clothing for the summit, which the park employee said was a "nearly tropical" 47 degrees. En route to Mt. Evans I stopped near Idaho Springs to get a decaffeinated coffee. I figured I’d drink more if I could entertain my palate with a variety of beverages – so there I was, sipping coffee, then water, then limeade, then water, then coffee. At every rest stop and ranger station along the way up, I stopped to pee. And that is how it is supposed to be, to avoid getting altitude sickness.

I was doing fine up until Summit Lake Park, which is just four miles from the top of Mt. Evans. I got out of the car to walk to the lake and photograph it. At that point the temperature was quite cool and I noticed that the curvy mountain road that I had been slowly ascending was getting narrower and curvier, literally disappearing into thin air as it rose from the lake toward the summit. A very quiet voice in my head told me to stop there, at Summit Lake, and appreciate the spectacular views of snowy mountains, Alpine lakes, pine trees and magnificent clouds that I had already enjoyed. How much more beauty did I need to see, and was it worth starting to feel disoriented?

But I was so close to the top. Why not keep going? There were some good reasons to stay put. I’ve been at high altitude before, in Peru, and even with several days of acclimatization I had trouble hiking at such lofty heights and had to stop to catch my breath after each step. That was when I was on foot, not steering a heavy vehicle. And I was tired, so not as alert as one would want to be.

I could have stopped at Summit Lake. But instead I listened to the same chorus of voices that often urge me to go to the top, to finish what I start, to see all that there is to see, to do what others are doing. I slowly chugged up the mountain. As the air kept thinning, my head kept spinning disastrous scenarios: What if I were to get nauseous and disoriented, accidentally apply too much pressure to the gas pedal and fly over the edge, Thelma and Louise style? Or what if I got to the top, got sick, and couldn’t drive myself back down?

Making a U-turn was clearly impossible. I had to figure out how to get to the top without freaking out at every hairpin turn and, possibly, causing an accident. One helpful voice in my head tried to point out that this road, unlike the highways in New Mexico, was not decorated with crosses marking the scenes of fatal accidents. There was a good chance that I, too, would survive. If only I could stay calm.

Focus on your breath, I told myself. And don’t look at the scenery. Look only at the asphalt immediately in front of you and steer accordingly. Watching my breath wasn’t enough to stop the fearful fantasies. I started to chant my favorite Hebrew prayers, figuring that might help me keep going, or at least would land me in heaven if I were to miss a turn.

By the time I arrived to the parking lot at the top I felt in my body just how utterly terrified I had been. Luckily I made it to the toilet on time.

But the parking lot wasn’t the tippity top – one could hike up a rocky trail to see even more spectacular views. A woman I had met at one of the rest areas told me she had seen mountain goats at the top. I wanted to see the mountain goats, but I didn't want to get sick in the process. There were lots of people climbing the trail, laughing and talking, enjoying this peak experience.

“Why not give it a try?” asked the voices in my head.

“You can do it!” they urged.

This time, I told the voices, "Fuck off!"

I was not going to climb the trail.

I was not going to go to the very top.

I was not going to see the goats.

I was going to get myself to a lower altitude before I got myself in serious trouble.

I changed footgear – swapping my hiking boots for sandals, the better to feel the pedals with - got back in my car, shifted into the lowest gear, and began what I feared would be an equally harrowing descent. At the second hairpin turn I pulled over to the side of the road to let other vehicles pass. At the slightly lower altitude I felt a bit better and I decided to get out and enjoy the view. There were four mountain goats grazing nearby, their thick white coats had already started to shed. Perhaps my prayers had worked – I got my goats after all. One of them walked within a few feet of me, completely unperturbed. I asked another visitor to photograph me with the goats in the background – I barely recognized my voice, probably I still was not getting enough oxygen.

Returning to Summit Lake I pulled into the parking area there; it was time for a bathroom break. Walking toward the Alpine Potty I started to cry. I couldn’t tell if the tears were of relief at having made it back down to a safer elevation or of frustration at having put myself at risk for no good reason. Perhaps both.

With both of my feet firmly on the ground, I felt profoundly grateful to be alive. I didn’t burst into a Hallelujah but I did thank the park employee for cleaning the toilets. He looked surprised.

As I descended to the saner altitude of Idaho Springs, a mere 7,250 feet above sea level, I realized that nothing that happens next in my life – including the probability of a long distance move – will be nearly as overwhelming as the visceral fear I experienced today. And I felt extremely humbled by the consequences of not listening to the quiet voice within. In this instance, it was trying to protect my body. Usually, it is trying to safeguard my soul. And very often I ignore it.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Invasion, Industriousness, Indictment

Ants have invaded my apartment. These industrious insects have climbed up and clambered into my 3rd floor abode, making themselves a little too at home. At first I just noticed a handful of ants scampering about and I let them go about their business. They weren't harming me so why should I harm them? But then their numbers started to grow, as did my irritation, especially when I noticed several of them slumbering in my cat's food dish. Perhaps the ants had overindulged on tuna fish and were enjoying a siesta?

It was time to retaliate. I tossed the food, avec ants, now scrambling in a panic, into the trash. A few of them managed to extricate themselves from the metal garbage can before the lid banged shyt. Placing the now empty cat dish into the sink, I noticed a few ants checking out the scene. Were they an indictment of my less than immaculate housekeeping, a reminder to not leave any dirty dishes in the sink for even a moment?

Meanwhile, my cat roused herself from a nap and was suprised to find that her dish had disappeared. I put a small amount of tuna in a fresh bowl, hoping she'd finish it before the next wave of ants discovered it. She has licked it clean. If only she had an appetite for ants.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Intense Itinerary

Travel brings out the maniac in me.

I just returned from a few days in Santa Fe, New Mexico one of the more laid-back cities in the United States and where, with the exception of my first afternoon, I hardly sat still. I wasn't prepared for the high altitude, the dry heat and the constant sun, and I spent Friday afternoon, after I arrived, recovering from the journey and hydrating with water I had picked up at Trader Joe's which, unlike its New England brethren, was amply stocked with foods and snacks boasting habanero and chipotle. Still a bit disoriented that evening, I put on some fresh clothes to attend services at Temple Beth Shalom, a reform congregation in Santa Fe. The prayers and singing grounded me and I received a warm welcome from congregants, many of whom were transplanted East coasters. None of them regretted their decision to move to the southwest.

There are endless shops, galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums in Santa Fe, but I wanted very little of it. I had a tremendous and surprising urge to hit the open road, to drive and drive and drive, to soak up the scenery and to experience the stillness of the desert and the mountains, to be embraced by the very big sky. In the next three days I put more than 500 miles on my rental car. My first trip was up the High Road to Taos, stopping at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and the art villages of Cordova and Truchas along the way. Truchas is home to many fine artists and their distinctive galleries that occupy old churches, adobe homes and other spaces. Truchas has a general store, most of its shelves empty save a few cans of Dinty Moore stew, and no gas station. One artist couple has created a tea room, where I sat outside and had lunch, but other than that the village does not have much of a gathering place. The air was so clean, the mountain vistas so serene, the quiet so intense, that I fantasized about one day joining this intrepid group of dreamers who support themselves through their art, selling it to visitors who journey up from Santa Fe. In winter time, when the tourists stop coming, this community gets together to ski.

Truchas felt authentic whereas Taos - filled with more galleries, shops and cafes - felt too touristy. I didn't have the patience to look and linger, preferring to head back to Santa Fe along Route 68, which took me past mountains and the roaring Rio Grande. A man was selling roasted pinon nuts out of the back of his bright red pickup truck; tempted, I pulled over. He gave me some to sample and then told me that the small bag was $10, the larger bag $20. Ten dollars? I thanked him but decided to move on. He was amiable and relaxed about it, no hard feelings, no attempt at a hard sell.

That evening - Saturday - I returned to Santa Fe and to the adobe casita I rented just a few blocks from the center of town. Coming from the northeast, where I depend on skylights and large windows to let as much light as possible into my dwelling space, it was strange to stay in a building designed to keep the light and heat out. Inside it was cool and dark, offering cavelike protection from the sun, which shone intensely from the time it rose, probably before 6a.m., up until it set, at around 8:30pm. It seemed as if a single day of Santa Fa sunshine was the lumen equivalent of a month's worth of Boston rays. My brain felt supercharged.

It was time for an evening stroll in town. A co-ed mariachi band trumpeted and strummed in the plaza. A few of the musicians had blonde hair. This was clearly New Mexico, not Mexico. I poked my head into a few restaurants before coming across The Shed, a bustling restaurant with one of my favorite dishes, fish tacos, on the menu. There was an hour wait for a table so I took a seat at the bar. The food was tasty but not as heavenly, nor as inexpensive, as the fish tacos I discovered in Oakland, CA last August, served from a truck near one of the freeways. But the atmosphere was hip and happening and from my perch at the bar I could observe the flow of cocktails, food and people. A taciturn biker sat next to me at the bar and ordered without looking at the menu; clearly the place was a favorite among locals. Then a very blonde Canadian woman, navigating the tight seating, mounted a bar stool as if she were getting on a horse. She landed next to the biker. Her arrival animated him, and he told us about Gabriel's, another good restaurant, just outside of town. I finished my meal and bid my farewell to this

Sunday morning was cowgirl time. I drove south to Cerrillos, home of Broken Saddle Ranch, where I joined a small group horseback ride in the dusty state park in former mining country. I told the organizer my riding abilities included cantering, which I hoped was still the case. A bit nervous at first, I failed to convince my horse, Zane, that I really did want to canter, and so while the other horses sped on ahead he trotted a bit before slowing to a walk, testing my resolve. The leader moved us into the middle of the pack and gave me some pointers, and with my newfound decisiveness we were soon cantering up a storm, just like in Bonanza.

After the ride it was off to Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid), an artist colony and biker mecca a few miles south of Cerrillos. Woodstock in the desert is one way of describing the vibe of this place, a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants and galleries featuring offbeat art. One of my fellow riders had recommended a restaurant called Mama Lisa's, a small cafe in the middle of this small town. I sat on the patio and chatted with Rick, a friendly blonde and bearded native New Mexican who lives up in the hills, gets by with occasional repair work and doesn't have a credit card. Doesn't believe in them. He doesn't like banks much, either, although he told me he does have an ATM card and a one year old grandchild who, like his own son, was born on father's day. And he had recently taken a 6,000 mile road trip in a car bought especially for that purpose, driving from New Mexico to West Point and back again. Then an acquaintance of his sat down and, while I devoured a barbeque brisket sandwich, I overheard them chatting about their friends...a very matter of fact conversation about who is sobering up and who has outstanding DWI offenses. I got the impression that both men have had their own struggles with substance abuse; fairly common in that part of the country.

In a bit of a stupor from the heat and my lunch of red meat, I drove back to Santa Fe to visit the Museum of International Folk Art, which houses an astonishingly large collection of colorful handmade objects from around the world. There were too many things to see. Suffering from circuit overload, I abandoned the museum and headed into the center of town to check out Canyon Road, a street filled with high end art galleries and boutiques. After New York, it is the second most important art market in the United States. Wandering up the street, the sounds of live music lured me into Gallery Esteban, the eponymous space of Esteban the guitarist. Apparently he is quite well known and he was performing free of charge to a mostly local audience in the graveled courtyard behind his gallery, offering refreshments to all. I sat down, soaking up the sounds and enjoying a few moments of stillness.

By the time the concert ended most of the other galleries had closed, a situation for which I was glad. There was simply too much to look at and having fewer choices made my life easier. One gallery I ventured into featured the bold graphic work of Carole LaRoche, a woman who moved to Santa Fe from Boston in her mid-40s and began creating art full time. Twenty-five years later she has her own thriving gallery in a hot location. Her website doesn't really do her work justice - I was particular taken with her large pastel drawings of wolves.

That night I went to sleep early, planning to get up the next day and go hiking in a nearby forest. Nearby as in 10-15 minutes by car. Such proximity felt like a luxury. On Monday I started out before 9am and tried to find a trail that was labeled as "moderate", a 4-mile route down to a creek and back. Although I missed the trailhead, a fox crossed the road just a few feet in front of my car. Spotting wildlife always feels somewhat magical. And I ended up at another trail, which wound its way through a pine forest. At a trail juncture, a map was posted on a wooden sign, and an arrow pointing to the location said, "You are here. Breathe deeply". I did. The crisp pine-scented air was pure peace.

A quick shower and I was off to see the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, which had an exhibit, Natural Affinities, on her work and that of Ansel Adams. It was smaller than I had expected, both the museum and the exhibit, and before long I was in my car again, heading to Gabriel's for lunch. It was supposed to be one of the better restaurants in the area, boasting of a Zagat rating from 2001, and I figured I would give it a try. I ordered steak tacos which were well prepared but didn't launch me into tastebud heaven. Perhaps my time in Mexico spoiled me. A couple at another table were using an electronic pipette to mix two wines in different percentages, savoring the resulting blends. Note to self: Buy a pipette and try this at home.

After lunch I headed off to Abiquiu, home to Georgia O'Keeffe and the source of her inspiration. Unlike the mountainous road to Taos and the dusty hills of Cerrillos, the highway to Abiquiu is flanked by red and striped cliffs and rock formations on one side, green pastures on the other. Several times I stopped my car to take photographs and to revel in the stillness and the silence of these majestic open and somewhat empty spaces. For a moment I envied Rick, the man I met in Madrid, and his 6,000 mile cross country adventure. The highway beckoned.

Somewhat sadly, I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for my final evening there. It was Monday, and the town was essentially shuttered, most restaurants and shops closed. I was in bed by 9pm and got up early Tuesday morning to go hiking again before returning home. I found the trail I missed the first time and was rewarded by the sight of a stag emerging from the woods.

En route to the airport, I stopped at the Kakawa Chocolate Company for a tastebud tingling Aztec brownie, a potent creation featuring generous amounts of chili pepper, cinnamon and dark chocolate. At Trader Joe's I popped in to buy a sandwich for the plane trip then sped the final 55 miles to Albuquerque, watching both the speedometer and the clock and returning my rental car two minutes before the 12pm deadline.

I did say that travel brings out the maniac in me, didn't I?

Monday, May 26, 2008

Impeccable Timing

I live near a small pond and make a point of walking by it when I can. More so than the trees along my street or the plants and bushes in people's yards, the pond and its environs seem to reflect the mood of each season, of each day. In winter, the pond goes quiet, its surface a frozen white mask. In early spring, the ice begins to thaw, the mask retreating from the edges and finally disappearing, leaving the water to gently lap the shores.

Animal life returns to the pond shortly thereafter. It was a few weeks ago when I noticed what I believed to be two families of Canadian geese, four adults and eight goslings, hanging around the pond's grassy edge. Despite my proximity, less than 20 feet away, the adult geese seemed unperplexed by my presence and didn't even look in my direction, so confident were they that I posed no threat. The fluffy yellow goslings teetered on their young legs as they pecked at the grass.

On subsequent walks I hoped to be able to catch sight of these young geese and watch their progress. Perhaps a week ago I strolled by at dusk. At precisely the moment I looked at the pond I saw the goslings scrambling from the water onto a small raft where their parents already perched for the evening. I waited until the last gosling had, with great effort, hoisted itself onto this floating hotel. Had I arrive a minute later I would not have witnessed their bedtime.

This afternoon, returning from a walk to an ice cream shop, I detoured by the pond. The geese families were crossing the street, heading towards the water. The goslings were probaby twice the size they had been when I first saw them. They were still yellow, and still a bit ungainly, but their necks were longer and they were starting to resemble geese rather than generic waterfowl chicks. The relaxed parents allowed their broods to cross the street casually, stopping every so often to peck at the pavement. I slowed down and approached them carefully, seeing how close I could get before the geese reacted. It wasn't until I was but a few feet away that one of the geese hissed at me, and not very unconvincingly.

The geese had reached a stone curb that was several inches, maybe even a foot, above the pond's grassy bank. Even the adults had a difficult time navigating this gap, which was not tall enough to justify flapping the wings and flying and not short enough to allow for a graceful step. The goslings, confronted with the fact that they had to get from the curb to the grass, took a leap of faith and jumped, fruitlessly flapping their winglets. Some landed on their feet, others stumbled and one tumbled, a variety of landings that reminded me of gymnasts dismounting from their beams and bars. I waited until they all had made it in the water before continuing my walk.