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time out for an adventure in the along. back 1/5/09ish.

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i go to church that one night of the year because i love the feeling that envelopes me when we close with “silent night” by candlelight. “silent night” is such a loaded song for me. it was daddy’s favorite christmas carol - and as a rule, daddy didn’t like anything about christmas - which was understandable, given that his family are bad to die right at christmas. when daddy (keeping the family tradition alive) was buried on december 5, 2000 (seems like yesterday), we asked everyone in attendance to join us in singing “silent night” as we exited the church after celebrating his life. “silent night” - especially when sung with lights dimmed and 400 or so people holding lit candles - takes me to a thin place where it’s just me and daddy.

but last night. oh, last night . . .

we picked mother up and got to the church only to be greeted by an usher who told us that while he’d love to offer us a candle, we’d have to settle for a hug because they had run out of candles. and when we (disappointedly) turned to go find a seat, he tapped us on the shoulder, pointed behind him, and said we’d have to go upstairs to the balcony because there were no more seats downstairs.

we trudged up the stairs only to be greeted at the top of the stairs by a female usher who pointed mother to a space for one and encouraged hubbie and me to go back downstairs and stand in the back because surely seats would open up when the children finished singing.

i wanted to leave then and there, mind you, but it means a lot to mother to have at least 2 of her chiclets with her at the christmas eve service, so i took a deep inhale, straightened my back, and began to look around. i’m not the only one who enjoys attending this one service each year: it’s always a full house with the ushers trolling the floor asking people to scoot down to make room for others, figuring that people can do with less than 2 feet of personal space for this one hour.

but last night’s usher didn’t think of that until i headed over to the very last pew in the very back of the balcony where there sat only 2 people and their teensy baby. i kinda’ motioned for them to move down and give these 3 people some room - which they did willingly. (people are like that: cashiers tell them that they’ll help the next person in line, and they let the person who’s been waiting and waiting and waiting go ahead of them. ushers ask them to scoot down and make room, and they shift to make room while maintaining a personal comfort zone.)

we plopped down on the very back row in the church, an aisle separating us from the last tiered row that was a mere 2 feet higher than our seats. translation: we could see nothing. absolutely nothing.

let’s review: no candles, no seats, no songbook - ah, but we did have a program so we could follow along with what everybody else was enjoying, although they turned off the lights behind us so it was too dark to read.

then it was time for communion - which is rather like a grand march as everybody parades in orderly fashion down to the front of the church via the center aisle, then back to their seats via the side aisles, giving everybody a chance to see what everybody’s wearing, who came with who, and greet people they only see this one time a year.

but not last night. no. last night was about expediency. people moving. getting folks in and out as expeditiously as possible. so they set up 5 “stations” around the church, all but 1 staffed with choir members and volunteers from the audience. one of each (a choir member and a plain clothes volunteer) presented themselves in the balcony, one bearing drink, the other bearing wafers. winded from the long climb up, they stopped at the very top of the steps and huddled-up with the usher to figure out a plan of execution, eventually deciding the best idea was for the choir member and plain clothes volunteer to station themselves against the wall in the center of the back row and have each row in the balcony (and i really do love this part) come up one aisle, accept communion, exit down the stairs, cross through the lobby, come back up the stairs on the other side, and return to their seats. (and no, they did not offer balcony sitters a wafer for the road and a to-go cup of juice.)

finally it was time for the grand culmination: silent night by candlelight.

only we had no candles.

the choir stood, the organist played a few chords of introduction, and it began: ushers headed for the front row, lit the candle of the person on each end of the bench, who then turned to the person next to them and lit their candle, and so on down the row.

but there we stood. in the very back of the balcony. candleless.

i could not take it any more. i would not take it any more. i headed down the darkened steps, and lo and behold there, in the huge candle basket, were about 6 candles. i helped myself to all of them, and made my way back up the darkened stairs, handing one candle to hubbie, one to mother, keeping one for myself, and offering the others to fellow candleless folks. the usher trotted right over and lit hubbie’s candle, as he was on the end of the aisle. she then presented herself in front of me (remember there was a spacious aisle between us and the rest of the church), and started to light mine.

nothing doing.

we may have been separated like lepers, but we were going to light each other’s candle, by golly. and we did. then, using our programs as protection from dripping wax, we stood quietly and joined in singing the last 2 verses of “silent night” by candlelight.

as i exited the church (dropping my candle off in the basket for the next round), it occurred to me that once again i had expected others to provide me with the feeling of deep satisfaction and stillness i crave. when that didn’t happen, i found my own light, reminding me once again that i and i alone am responsible for my finding my own contentment. i and i alone am responsible for reclaiming my power to be still and enter that special thin place.

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i am big on self-reliance, though sometimes i talk about it more than i practice it. recently, however, i had the ultimate opportunity to date to practice self-reliance: i went flying in the wind tunnel in denver. my son (a nut) skydives regularly, and every thursday night finds him flying in the wind tunnel league just outside of denver. i happened to be visiting him a few weeks ago, and my stay involved a thursday night, so i went with him to the league, and thanks to my son’s generous willingness to give me a few of his minutes, i donned a flightsuit/socks/shoes/helmet/goggles/gloves/earplugs and tried it myself.

i sat through the short training video where i learned how to enter the tunnel (cross arms over chest with clasped hands under chin and fall forward and in) and the various signals i would likely encounter from the instructor (straighten legs slowly, raise head, smile, relax, bend legs). my thorough training as teacher’s pet had me fluent in their signals within minutes, but such intense focus on THEIR language left no room to even think about teaching them MY sign language.

it all happened so fast, i didn’t have time to think before - whoosh - i was in the tunnel being held up by great current of air. best thing to do when flying the wind tunnel, i quickly learned, is focus on the present. right here, right now. that’s all there is.

and that’s when it all started.

as i followed the instructor’s direction and lifted my chin, air flooded my sinuses and i felt like i was going to drown in (literally) thin air.

it burned. it hurt. and i panicked.

big time panic.

seriously big time panicked.

somehow i conveyed to the instructor my immediate and undeniable need for an early exit. he helped me to the door then tried to cajole me (unsuccessfully) back in.

as the others went for another turn in the tunnel, i gave myself a good old-fashioned talking to, shook my body out like a dog who’s been out cavorting in the rain, then, knowing i’d likely never do this again and that i had to - i mean, i just had to - get back on the proverbial horse, scooted myself up to pole position.

i fell into the tunnel again and enjoyed a few hours seconds, before recognizing the return of the all-too-familiar panic. though i motioned wildly my intense desire to get out (it’s clearly evident on the video - how they could’ve missed it, i’ll never know), my sign language fell on deaf eyes, and i was forced to remain in the tunnel until my allotted time was up.

resigned, i took myself in hand and said loudly in the voice of my mind, “you got yourself into this tunnel, and you are going to have to get yourself out. nobody can hear your words. they are blind to your sign language. the only way out is through the clock, and you are responsible for your own self. it’s just you, babe. you’re not going to die here - it’s just sinuses - so stop wasting this incredible, once-in-a-lifetime experience and breathe.”

breathing.

shoot, i wasn’t breathing.

i have this annoying tendency to stop breathing under stress. such a simple thing that makes the biggest difference: in and out, in and out, in and out. once i started breathing, my body relaxed (somewhat) and i could focus on being suspended in a plexiglass-enclosed tunnel that reminded me of the canister used at the drive-thru window at the bank.

just as i got my breathing jumpstarted and relaxed into the moment, i found myself way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way up at the deeply dark top of the tunnel, a place where panic breeds unchecked. bringing myself back to the moment (and, quite frankly, checking for signs that i was, in fact, still alive) by doing a body scan, i felt the instructor’s grip on my suit (who cares where his hands were), switched my focus back onto breathing, and was immediately on my way to being okay again.

down we came, around and around we went, up and down in that canister i mean tunnel, and all too soon, my long short minutes were up. i had flown my entire block of time.

the other 4 league members are old-hands. they, like my boy, fly the tunnel and jump out of planes regularly, so this was no big deal to them. just another thursday night in the tunnel. fun, but basically ho-hum.

for me, though, it was big. huge. awesome. incredible. fabulous. fantastic. amazing. phantasmagorical. momentous. i was jumping up and down, screaming gleefully, using a lifetime’s worth of exclamation points: “i flew the wind tunnel. i panicked, but i still flew the wind tunnel. how great is that” and other related exhortations . . . but only on the inside. the regulars were rather nonchalantly talking about going to eat at “the usual” place they visit after flying the tunnel, so the outside jeanne - not wanting to intrude on their regular-scheduled thursday night event - quietly disrobed and tiptoed across the room to call the husband and treat him to my exclamations of gleeful delight.

it was an incredible experience - unbelievable - and just writing about it jolts my body into remembering the natural high kindled from that small spot of self-reliance. the satisfying feeling of completion, of newness, of challenge. it makes my whole body smile and purr, it really does.

it is a memory i will retrieve whenever i need a nudge or shoring-up.

not too sure about it being a once-in-a-lifetime thing, though. unbeknownst to my boy, i am planning another trip to colorado soon - one that involves a thursday night stay.

jeanne in the deep, dark, scary, loudly silent heights of the wind tunnel (with instructor holding on). (i like the color, but do you think the flightsuit makes me look fat?)

my boy flies the tunnel. it’s a small thing, i know, and i hesitate to even mention it - really, i do. but, okay: do you notice that thing on the front of his helmet? the piece that protects his full face - including his nose, a.k.a. entry to the sinuses? perhaps if i’d've had one of those, my sinuses would have been sheltered. but then it would’ve been an entirely difference experience.

doesn’t mean i won’t ask for one next time, though.

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the lid of the practical toilet paper holder that holds up to 6 rolls of toilet paper without looking overly industrial in tone fell off and hit his toe. “oh,” i said with great empathy when he showed me the resulting cut and bruise on his pinky toe. “i think we need a new regular toilet paper holder,” he declared in no uncertain terms. “fine,” i said. “sure. okay.”

that was weeks ago.

this morning the lid fell off and hit the 2 toes to the right of my big toe, leaving an immediate bruise and worse still, thwarting my plans for wearing my heeled boots that, when accompanied by dangly earrings, make me feel beautiful.

that was about two hours ago, and my toe is still throbbing, begging me to sit down and elevate it for at least the rest of today if not the week. but first: i’ve donned my walking shoes, loosely laced them up, and am heading to the store to buy a brand new, ordinary, everyday, one-roll-only toilet paper holder. the other one will be in the yard sale corner by lunch.

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after cleaning out the litterboxes, i am once again amazed at how much lighter the cats must become every day. it’s my routine to scoop out the litterboxes first thing every morning. i often ask myself “how masochistic can you get to start your day this way?” but i play the ole’ game that’s a native language by now: turn it into something else. i call it “put a sunday dress on it and just keep on going”.

for litterbox duty, i have an entire wardrobe of sunday dresses:

• pretend i’m looking for buried treasure (without a map) (but then it’s a relatively small area to cover) as i poke around with the scoop.
• think how much better it will smell - how nice it will be to breathe. (this is one the dog won’t play along with because, for reasons i hope i never understand, the dog finds it aromatic.) (and i swear the cats torment me and entice the dog by not bothering to cover up some deposits.) (or maybe they’re just especially proud of those. who knows?)
• imagine i’m ridding my entire life of the stinky, undesirable messes caused by other people: just scooping them out, bagging ‘em, and tossing them in the garbage can to be hauled off way far away.
• and when in my more-calvinistic frame of being, nothing will work but to think about how good it’s going to feel to finish and check this off the list.

this morning ritual is quite the event for the cats, too, who magically appear to watch and lament, “you’re not getting rid of that, are you? it’s a part of me. oh, really. how could you?” [emphasis theirs] then, in one of the few bonding moments between them, one cat turns to the other and says “can you believe she’s throwing that away?”

once scooping is finished, i sweep around the litterbox. i have actually considered getting one of those small kiddie swimming pools to use as a litterbox in hopes of containing the litter spray. no matter how deep the litterbox, no matter how large the litterbox, those cats just flat out prefer the corners. (either that or i’m right: they have a sadistic streak.)

what about lidded litterboxes, you ask? forget about it. my cats won’t even think about using those. “too confining”, they say. or “it’s dark in there.” and the ever popular “i would NEVER” delivered in the i-am-a-cat-so-i-don’t-have-to-justify-this-to-you manner.

one cat even had the audacity to refuse to use the lidded litterbox on the grounds that he was actually helping me. seems he was operating under the grossly delusional idea that i needed something to do. (but now that i think about it, he could’ve been sincere. i mean, given that the only exercise my cats get is watching me work.)

once our daily family ritual is complete and everything put back in its place, the animals are worn slap out. the dog stretches out within 2 feet of wherever i am. and when she’s really tired, she stretches out on my feet so she can sleep soundly, assured that i can’t move without her knowing about it.

one cat (the black one) runs to claim his chair (the white one) (the only piece of light-colored furniture in the entire house, of course). the pastel tabby (i think they call it) retires to the bed where she contorts, preens, and sheds as much fur as possible.

all of them settle down eventually, resting up for another big day tomorrow.

and who says we don’t live lives right smack dab on the edge . . .

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waterfalls, a reminder of how storms in other places can have far-reaching effects

colorful leaves, a reminder how it is possible for people of different backgrounds, ages, and experiences can come together beautifully

hungry butterflies, a reminder to see opportunities to feast in what might look like complete chaos

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it seems to me today that i do more than a little whining here, and i don’t really know why that is. maybe my writing digits seem enamored with the notion that to write something serious and touching and insightful means, well, it just sometimes comes out rather whiney. petulant. mealy mouthed, that’s all.

and i need to cut that out - stop it - cause i tell you what: my field may be a touch on the overgrown side (some days more than others) and there may be the occasional fence that must be dealt with but that’s no reason to overlook, to slight, to ignore the outbursts of laughing daisies.

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yesterday befuddlement came to call, covering my life like kudzu and ivy covering trees till even their shape is barely recognizable:

today befuddlement has retreated, allowing pathways to possibilities . . . roads that deliver to blurry, indecipherable destinations but, hey, at least there’s an opening:

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i’m quite the independent person, a girl who Likes To Do Things Herself.

usually.

but this morning i’m pondering My Purpose In Life, and i declare: i wish somebody would just tell me. send me an email. give me a call. draw me a picture. i want to open up the mailbox to an envelope with the return address “your life”.

i don’t mind filling out a short questionnaire if that’ll help. what the heck: i’ll even commit to a double-sided questionnaire cause i’m feeling generous.

or desperate.

today’s search for MPIL has taken me to various blogs recommended by google, and really, they’re all saying the same thing but in different wordclothing . . . overcome your fears. be courageous. think positive. believe in yourself. abundance. attraction. development, as in the personal variety. that age-ole exercise keeps cropping-up: visualize your life as you want it to be.

and here, my friends, we arrive at our first roadblock: i’m just not real sure what i want my life to look like.

thinner, sure.

right now my hair is fine. (just got it done 2 days ago. a new gal did it, and she was fearless . . . which means she created a virtual masterpiece atop my head, if i do say so myself.)

more money would be nice, of course.

i sure would enjoy a few extra hours in each day.

you see part of the problem by now: specificity. or, more to the point, the lack thereof.

i’ve never been much of a quantifying kind of gal, but we all know that goals must be quantifiable to be of any good whatsoever. thinner: how much? more money: how much? and so on and so forth. at least that’s what They All tell us about goals.

pushing goals and familiar maxims aside, i tried writing a little ditty for my kids, something to convey what i consider to be The Most Important Things In Life. thought that might ignite or at lease enkindle something. but - you guessed it - i can’t begin cause i can’t think of one thing i consider to be All That Important.

i tried the ole’ write your own obituary/create your own tombstone exercise with the same result: i don’t know. i just don’t know.

is it hormones that have caused this way of thinking? do i have a untilnow-unrecognized problem with commitment? have i picked up a dreaded bad habit along the way? is my desk in the wrong place? do i need to dress like i’m working on Something Important, and if so, what shall i put on?

i USED to be able to do things like write a mission/purpose statement. i USED to be able to say This Is Important, Pay Attention. but somewhere along the way i kinda’ gave up such clear and specific ways of thinking in favor of . . . well, i guess it was just easier given all i had to think of/deal with/take care of. and apparently That Kind Of Thinking stuck.

so what’s a girl to do with this sort of invasive befuddlement?

sigh.

guess the only thing to do is sleep in my Miss Scarlett pajamas tonight and get up in the morning humming “fiddle-dee-dee” and “with god as my witness” and maybe even the occasional “oh, but i love you, rhett darling” as i make my way back to the computer, sit myself down, and see what comes out the ole’ fingertips.

now i’m going to take myself in there and watch the olympics because like miss scarlett: “i can’t think about that any more right now. if i do, i’ll go crazy. i’ll think about it tomorrow.” and hopefully, tomorrow the befuddlement of today will be a mere snippet of memory that gets added to the mix.

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cooking is a creative act (among other things), and while she may not paint or sculpt or draw, my mother - like her mother before her - EXCELS at cooking. (those who know her and read this blog are nodding their heads in agreement and saying aloud, “un huh. yes. that’s the truth.”)

i did not inherit the cooking gene. (those who know me and read this blog are nodding their heads vigorously in agreement and shouting “we know, we know.”)

well, yesterday we needed to (a) use the potatoes that we couldn’t leave in the pantry when we head home and (b) test out the new vent hood (the one that will send the air OUTSIDE and AWAY instead of blowing it right back INTO the kitchen where it was to start with) mr. thrillenity had just installed (as evidenced by the dusty fingerprints):

being a two-birder from way back, i peeled those potatoes, floured them, and fried them just the way i’ve seen mother do so many times before . . . and i do mean JUST the way i’ve seen her do so many times before.

creativity can be messy - we all know that - and so can cooking, especially for those who, like my mother, approach cooking with reverence and as a creative act. me, i tend to focus more on keeping things neat to reduce the amount of time and effort needed to clean-up afterwards. i try not to make a mess, cleaning-up as i go. cooking is something i HAVE to do.

but not yesterday.

the plan was to cook just like mother does, and i stuck to the plan, without regard for future clean-up. without regard for losing cooking oil or flour. i cooked like i had an entire staff of cleaner-uppers who would take care of everything when i was finished. i flat-out cut loose, stayed in the moment while cooking those potatoes, and not only did i thoroughly enjoy cooking (most likely a first for me), we all enjoyed The Best Potatoes Ever. (except for the ones mother cooks, of course.)

so am i a cooking convert? will i work menus and grocery shopping forays into my weekly schedule? will i don my apron and cook happily ever after? nah. i’m over it now.

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