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.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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