Facebook: Finally Good for Something

Are you on Facebook? I've been very ambivalent about it since I joined. There's a lot of junk (to put it mildly) but sometimes you get a gem. It depends on who your "friends" are, I've discovered.

Ever since adding Corey Mesler, owner of Burke's Books in Memphis and a high school friend of my brother's, it seems there are fewer goofy quizzes online; I guess because Corey seems to fill the space with "book stuff." Then I decided to add Patti Digh (a no-brainer, right? You know I love me some Patti) with all her friends' comments, and I'm feeling better about being part of yet another communication medium that I was putting off . (No offense meant to all my other FB friends, really.) OMG, what next, Twitter? Not.

Today I got the best message I've had in a long time, from a friend of Patti's. Here's the link. You MUST read this if you have ever been in a serious, committed relationship that didn't last, or you're in a great relationship now, or you hope to be in one. The woman who wrote this is brilliant.

Reports of My Death Are Premature

I'm back. I'm tired. I'm fat. I'll write in the morning. Meanwhile, Patti Digh has published my obituary (an exercise in living the life you want to live). Read the one for Nancy Lee Hixson first, to get inspired.

Playing With Blocks

My friend Patti Digh (of the 37 Days blog and the book about what you would do if you knew you only had 37 days to live...I may have mentioned her once or twice) co-hosted a free telecoaching session the other evening entitled "Playing With Blocks." It was about the things that block us from doing the "important things," the life goals that we set for ourselves that are the most meaningful, the things we tend to put off while we are taking care of business. We all have them: the important things and the blocks.

I tried to convince myself that I didn't have to worry about the blocks anymore, now that I'm retired and have all the time I need to accomplish those "important things." I mean, it's just a matter of having enough time, isn't it? You can't do great things if you have a job, or a young family, or a sick dog, or "The Office" is on, or...well, you know. Lucky me, I have the time, no dog and no TV. Problem solved, right?

The blocks fall into three main categories:
1) False comparisons with Others
2) False expectations of Self
3) False investment in "The Story"

I didn't join the teleconference (and I haven't listened to the tape yet) but I know what those three things mean without having heard a word. You do, too, if you have an important thing that you can't seem to get around to doing.

Here's what happened to me today. I read in The Writer's Almanac:
It's the birthday of poet and novelist Vikram Seth, (books by this author) born in Calcutta, India (1952). Seth grew up in India, went to Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and moved out to Northern California to study economics in graduate school. One day got fed up of entering numbers into a computer database. He walked into a bookstore and up to the poetry section. He pulled off the shelf Pushkin's novel in verse, Eugene Onegin. Seth was so impressed and obsessed with the book that he decided to quit working on his master's thesis for a while and write his own novel in verse.

He never finished his graduate school economics project, but he did write that novel in verse, published in 1986 as The Golden Gate. Seth's native language is Hindi. He writes in English, and he's fluent in Mandarin and Urdu, Pakistan's national language. He's also studied Welsh, German, and French. He plays the cello and the Indian flute, and he sings German lieder. His most recent book is a work of nonfiction, Two Lives (2005), a love story about his Indian great uncle and German Jewish great aunt.

Now, I never said I wanted to be a great poet, but if I wanted to, let's say, write a novel in verse, reading this would have stopped me cold (see Block #1 above). What's worse is having a friend who wrote a terrific book and is coming out with a new one next year, and who is now teaching a class on how not to get blocked. I'm so bummed.

On to Block #2. If one wanted to, oh, I don't know, commit to writing a poem every day, but one didn't feel like writing a poem on Saturday, one might decide that one was no better than a slug, and therefore, not even try to write a poem on Sunday, or Monday, and then just give it up altogether.

I'm not even going to get into Block #3 because that is a story I'm sure you don't want to hear.

So let's just look at pictures of naked women, shall we? Greg and I went to the Seattle Summer Solstice Parade today and I took about a dozen pictures of painted naked people on bicycles. Some of them are even men. Enjoy.







At least these young ladies remembered to wear their helmets.

Moving On

Today I finally leave Minnesota for points west. It's been great reconnecting with my former partner; so much so that I want to stay longer...but fear to wear out my welcome. Until I have something further to say, here's Patti Digh's blog post from a couple days ago, which includes such a wonderful photo of President Obama that I must share it. What a guy.

http://www.37days.com/2009/05/touch-the-presidents-hair.html

Lend a Hand

An actually existent fly is more important than a possibly existent angel.- Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you've been reading this blog for a while you know of my high regard for my Asheville friend Patti Digh. Her blog post today tells you everything important that you need to know about Patti. I encourage you to subscribe to her feed so you don't miss a single word.

Don't Just Do Something, Sit There

As you may know by now, I am a big fan of Patti Digh, her book, Life Is A Verb, and her blog, 37 Days. I admire her so much that when she suggests that we all do something, whatever it might be, I try to do it.

Her latest idea is that we should all pick one thing to do just for ourselves, and make a commitment to ourselves to do that thing every day for 37 days. I've been struggling to decide what that thing is, and it's already Day Four.

See, I already do just about everything for myself that I can possibly do. I wanted to live a simple, stress-free life, so I retired early and started living in a 19-foot motorhome. I wanted to see the country before I got too old to drive comfortably and that's what I'm doing. I wanted to work for peace in the world so that I could feel that I had contributed something important, which led to my discovery of Eckhart Tolle, who told me that the best way I can contribute to peace in the world is to stop thinking and align my consciousness with the collective consciousness of the universe. Aha! I have been trying to decide what to do when what I really wanted/needed to do was...are you ready?...absolutely nothing. That includes absolutely not thinking about what I want/need to do.

So I laid back on my comfy cushions and looked out the window, something I do several times a day already. Then I looked out the opposite window, and out the roof window. And while I was looking at the redbud and my sister's house and the trees, I stopped thinking about what I want to do for myself for 37 days and became one with all that is.

And then I realized that what I want to do for myself is just that, more often, and that I don't have to "meditate" in the traditional sense in order to do it. I just need to stop thinking and sit here. I don't even have to close my eyes; in fact, keeping them open, looking at all that is, seems to work better for me than closing them. I can keep the thoughts at bay more easily if I have something to look at (as long as I don't think about it, don't name it). I don't need a special mat, or special clothes, or a special posture, or special words. Oh heavenly relief.

So now I will set aside two specific times for not doing. In the morning, before I roll out of my bunk, I'll raise the curtain and look out at the fresh new morning and the big magnolia over my head. At night I'll go outside and look up at the stars, or the moon, or the clouds, and listen to the night sounds.

Hey, you know, if you do "not doing," too, we'll have world peace that much sooner. Just slip into the stream of consciousness, get on the frequency, ride the wave (to mix a triple metaphor). Oh my, what peace.

60@60? Sure, Why Not?

I just read my friend Patti Digh's January 1 post on 37 Days. It made me tired just to read it! She's made a list of 50 things she wants to "learn" this year, the year she turns 50, and suggests that we all do something similar: 20 things if you're 20 or 35 things if you're 35, whatever is appropriate for your age. She's calling it 50 at 50. All I have to say is, "Atta girl, Patti!"

As for me, I will turn 62 the day after Patti turns 50 and this is the year I intend to smile contentedly while I sit back and watch the "youngsters" do their thing. There is nothing else I need to learn.

Do I detect a raised eyebrow? A quiet, "Oh, really?" Okay, I'll admit that I have a long way to go before I can claim that I practice everything I've learned. And to be fair to Patti, her list includes many, many things that she has already learned but wants to master, same as me (#20: Learn to speak my truth).

Of course, I have a list, too, as I'm sure you do. It's a new year; how can you not have a list? Come on, admit it, you have a list. It's about the things you want to do differently in 2009, isn't it? There are the old standbys: lose weight, stop smoking, learn Spanish...Mine is all about living intentionally. It's a very short list:

1. Live every moment as if it were the end, not just the means.
2. Love everyone and show it by smiling when you see them.
3. Be grateful.

From 1984-1995, I worked in non-profit management and fundraising for three different national health organizations. I learned many important life lessons during that time, one of which has to do with acquisition and distribution of wealth. In Fundraising 101 I learned that there are two types of people: those who are striving to acquire as much as possible and those who have enough and are looking for ways to distribute what they have acquired. Of course, the best charitable donors are the ones in the distribution phase of their lives.

That's where I am: in the distribution phase. In 2008 I sold my 767-square-foot house and its contents. Fortunately, I bought the house in 2003 for $60,000 and was able to sell it for $95,000. Not bad in the year the bubble burst. I could have spent another $20,000 and made a bigger profit, but I undoubtedly would not have been able to sell it so quickly--before the Open House--if my asking price had been over $100,000; plus, my kitchen and bath would have been unusable for weeks.

In 2008 I had already been working part-time since 1995 (yes, the year I quit my high-stress fundraising and management job), so it wasn't a huge step from 20 hours a week to 0 hours a week. With the help of a small inheritance, I was able to retire a year early and live my dream of traveling the country in a small motorhome. I "distributed" the house proceeds to MasterCard, my daughter's wedding, and the guy who sold me the motorhome. I distributed my car and the entire contents of my house, including most of my clothes. It took three days to figure out what I could put into the RV and what I absolutely had to keep in storage (family photos, high school yearbooks(?), winter coat, tax returns).

About the only thing I have left to distribute is my love and my gratitude, so for 2009, under #3 above, I am making a list of 60 things for which I am grateful. I've bought Sarah Ban Breathnach's The Simple Abundance Journal of Gratitude (thanks, Oprah) and since she suggests that we write down five things every day, I should have my 60 things in 12 days. For January 1, Sarah includes the following quote from Melody Beattie: "Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow."

Here are the five things I recorded yesterday:
1. I'm grateful that I am healthy.
2. I'm grateful that I had a good night's sleep.
3. I'm grateful to be staying in this place where I have free electricity and WiFi.
4. I'm grateful that I can leave any time I want to.
5. I'm grateful for cheeseburgers at Johnny Rocket's (I guess this is not the year I stop eating meat.)

Here's wishing you Peace and Gratitude in 2009.

More Christmas Memories

My friend Patti Digh, whose blog posts have been made into a wonderful book, Life Is A Verb: 37 Days to Wake Up, Be Mindful and Live Intentionally, writes lovingly of the deaths of her father and stepfather, the former very sudden (although not unexpected) and the latter only 37 days after his cancer diagnosis. Her stepfather's death became the catalyst for her blog 37 Days and her book. Today, Christmas Day, she reprised her blog post from Dec. 24, 2005, an annual re-telling that she shares with us in celebration of the lives of two wonderful men who had an impact on her life.

I've read these stories of Patti's before, and as before, it struck me again today how we have another thing in common (besides that her birthday is Aug. 16: same as Elvis; and mine is Aug. 17: same as Mae West): her father died of heart disease at the age of 53; my father died of heart disease three months shy of 53. That, however, is where the similarity in our stories about our fathers ends. From Patti's description of her father, he was kind, thoughtful ("the best breakfast cooker in the house," maker of monogrammed pancakes) and had a "pixie sense of humor." As far as I could tell my father had no sense of humor whatsoever.

Dad was a big man, about 6'1" tall with a barrel chest. He had played semi-pro football before he and my mother were married, a marriage for which she was always grateful (she told me so herself) since I was already on the way. My mother gave birth to five children from 1947 to 1954, and I think we were just too much for my father, who was the sole breadwinner until we were in high school. My mother didn't learn to drive until he died, so he also did the grocery shopping while she stayed home with us. His only other household duty, as I recall, was yelling a lot and smacking us regularly.

In her essay Patti ponders what her father might be like now, and wonders if she would adore him less now that she is old enough to see things about him as an adult that she wouldn't like. "Does my adoration depend on his loss?" she asks. For me, it is the opposite: I wonder if I would have loved my father more now.

One of the best memories I have of my father was Christmas 1972. I was 25 years old and had been married for nearly three years. Christmas had always been the best time to be with Dad, even when we were little (despite being yelled at and made to feel like a clumsy oaf when I dropped my best present of 1958--my very own camera--as if I didn't feel bad enough already). I like to think it was the generosity he wanted to show throughout the other 11 months of the year that was condensed into what certainly was for my sister, my three brothers and me the most wonderful time of the year.

About the year I turned 12 my mother started encouraging us to write down what we wanted for Christmas. I made it as easy as I could for Santa to bring just the right stitched-down pleated skirt and matching Villager sweater by helpfully including the page and item numbers from the Sears catalog. The list was a modest one, with perhaps a half-dozen items on it, nothing too expensive, and what do you know! On Christmas morning, everything on my list was waiting for me under the tree! My siblings were equally blessed, except for a few of the things on the bottom of my sister's rather lengthy list (the next year she put her "must-haves" at the top). It took my parents the next 11 months, or perhaps longer, to pay off the Sears bill.

In 1972 I had no list. It was enough just to be in the bosom of my family, having spent the first two Christmases of my married life without sufficient funds for two round-trip tickets from Virginia to Memphis for a not-so-white Christmas with my wacky siblings, my mother and my now-mellowing father. The highlight of the first day was evening cocktails with my parents. Mom and Dad were not drinkers while we were growing up so it was an especially rare occasion and an increasingly happy one as the evening wore on. I don't think I ever saw Dad laugh as much as he did that night. I felt all grown up, an adult at last, a peer of my father instead of the brat who couldn't seem to do anything to please him. He didn't live to enjoy Christmas 1973.

So I am left to ponder what life with father would have been like after that. My mother says my coming out as a lesbian would have been very difficult for him, so perhaps it's best that he didn't make it to 1981. He would have been 88 this past July, but I doubt he would have lasted that long. My mother battled cancer for six years and died in 1999 at a too-young 77.

I was angry with my father for many years for the way he treated me as a child, blaming him for all the qualities in myself that I abhored. But I finally gave that up in 1995 with the help of a great weekend workshop during which I wrote him a letter of forgiveness. These days I only wish he had been around long enough to see his granddaughter, who is now 31, and maybe his great-grandson, who's probably going to be a big man like my dad and my brothers. Dad would have enjoyed giving him a football for Christmas.

Happy Holidays to all from St. Augustine, Florida.

Complaint-Free Zone

My friend Patti Digh suggests that we strive to eliminate all complaining, whining, gossiping and griping from our lives for 37 days. I've been working on that one myself recently so when I saw it in print, about halfway down the left sidebar of her blog post for today, I decided to really focus on it for the next 37 days.

Here are several examples of things that I have managed NOT to complain/whine/gossip/gripe about in the past couple of days:...but wait...oh heck! And they are all really good ones, too! Each one infinitely justifiable and designed to allow ME to appear superior and oh, so right.

Gee-whiz, what's there left to talk about? Uh...okay, I've got it...I'm thankful that I won't have to spend Thanksgiving with those people ever again. That didn't count, right?