Fermentation

I've been away from this space for awhile.  No particular reason for that, just one of those times when there was little to say. Or perhaps much to say, but not quite ready to say it, not quite able to put into words the thoughts and feelings of my heart.

I'm not really sure I'm ready to do that yet today.  In this journey we call writing, especially when we're writing to make sense of life in general, there are resting times when the words are busy fermenting in the mind, processing in some strange sort of alchemical way, until they're ready to bubble over onto the page.

I'll be back when they come to the boil.

What Kind Of Artist Do You Call Yourself?

Every so often, I get into conversation with someone at my office about the world of music.  Recently, some of these conversations have to do with the contract dispute our symphony musicians are engaged in.  Not everyone in the Motor City understands or believes that professional musicians should be paid and paid well for what they do.  Playing music is exhilarating and joyful and personally rewarding.  It's also very hard work, and requires years and years of effort, time, and expensive training, to achieve the professional quality of a world class symphony player.

The other day I heard myself prefacing my explanation about the contract talks by saying, "I am a musician."

For a moment, I took myself aback.  You see, I rarely refer to myself in that way, although I've been studying and playing and performing music for the past 48 years.  Sometimes I get paid for doing it, sometimes I don't.  Sometimes it's a blast, and sometimes it's just drudgery.  But lately, I've begun to think that all those years of playing music entitle me to claim that title.

Here's another moniker I rarely adhere to aloud:

Of course I am - if I'm not, what in heavens name am I doing sitting here, when I could be at the movies, or riding my bike, or out to dinner with friends?  More and more often, the only way I can make any sense of life in general and my own in particular it to write about it.  Whether anyone reads it or not is almost immaterial.

We all like to be recognized by our peers.  But sometimes before that can happen, we need to recognize ourselves first.  We need to call ourselves by name, and affirm what kind of artist we are.

I am a musician.

I am a writer.

What kind of artist are you?

Visit Jamie Ridler's blog and accept her invitation to name yourself.

Borrowed Time

Lately, nary a day goes by that I don't hear news of another illness, and tragic illness at that, people my own age with terminal cancer, MS, ALS, Parkinson's disease.  I'll be honest with you - I feel as if I'm in a war zone of sickness, dodging bullets filled with disease.  Every night I'm able to go to bed unscathed is another battle won. Where is this all death and darkness coming from?  I'm not buying the fact that its purely demographics, that all my acquaintances are "of a certain age" and therefore prone to illness.  There's simply too much of it.

I'm more likely to give credence to the theory that our combination of additive filled foods and polluted environment are slowly but surely contaminating us.  The cumulative effect of years of poor nutrition and exposure to environmental hazards is finally catching up with us, setting off all sorts of adverse chemical processes in our bodies and causing them to turn on us.

I'm also becoming more and more convinced that the 21st century lifestyle is lethal.  You know what I'm talking about - the constant stresses about money and jobs, the worries about terrorism and war, the persistent gloomy predictions about everything from the economy to the survival of planet earth.  Add to that the frantic pace of daily life, the constant bombardment of phones and e-mail and social media demanding our attention, the feeling that there's never enough time in the day to accomplish all the tasks clamoring for our attention.

Frankly, I'm completely exhausted.

Last week as we attempted to jump through all the necessary hoops to satisfy our insurance company's requirement for reimbursement, I collapsed on the sofa in frustration.

"F*@# it," I said.  "I give up.  Let's take all our money and go live in a hut in some third world country where they've never heard of insurance.  We'll just live there until we get sick and then we'll die in peace in our own bed."

"Fine," my husband said, tossing his pencil and calculator aside.  "When do we leave?"

I was only half kidding then, and the more I think about, the more serious I become.  The thought of living this kind of lifestyle for the remainder of my days is becoming almost too daunting to contemplate.  Not to mention trying to cope with the myriad of ways life will change over the next 25 or 30 years - there's me, quaking in my proverbial boots.

Here's what I'm really looking for, the image that comes to mind as the ideal lifestyle - Mayberry.  The little town in North Carolina that was home to Sheriff Andy Taylor, Aunt Bee, little Opie, and daffy detective Barney Fife.  Life was slow and easy, and the biggest problems were whether Otis would need to dry out overnight in his comfy jail cell or Barney would lose his single daily bullet allotment.  Supper was shared every night at the same time, followed by a spell of settin' on the porch.  Maybe Andy would get out his guitar and sing a few songs before everyone headed off to bed.

I dream of going back to a time and place like that, and I know it's an impossibility.  But I feel as if I'm living on borrowed time here - if the economy and the crime and the stress don't get me, then one of those horrible diseases everyone seems prey to surely will.

I also feel like a sitting duck, waiting here powerlessly for it all to happen.

I don't like that feeling one bit.

How about you? Where would you go to escape the stress and dangers of modern life?

Remembering

Although I'm tired of being sad about things, I can't help thinking about my aunt on this first anniversary of her death.  Unlike the day she died, today was gray, cloudy, and chilly.  I went by the cemetery for a few minutes after church and stood letting the wind whip past me, but it was actually too miserable to stay for long. One of my cousins is religious about visiting the cemetery.  I think she goes practically every week and neatens up  the area around the headstone.  On the anniversary of my uncle's death in June, she told me she took a bag of Frito's and a Diet Coke (one of his favorite snacks) and sat on the ground eating them, talking to him in her head.

I'm not one to do that.  I stop by their graves fairly often because I happen to drive by the cemetery on my way to and from most every place I go.  Their grave sites are visible from the road, and even if I don't stop, I do a little invisible nod of recognition, say "I miss you" in my head.

It isn't that I don't think about them.  I do, practically every day.  And I have a favorite picture of them on my piano - they're standing in my living room, flanking my son who is all dressed up in a suit and tie (it was his high school graduation day).  Their smiles are natural and happy, and they perfectly fit the image that I keep in my minds eye.

That photograph has helped me erase the images of them growing ill and infirm, the images that have been stuck in my head for the past half a dozen years.  On that day, they were proud to be part of our celebration, proud of my son who clearly held a very special place in their hearts.  On that day they were still active and healthy, and hadn't yet begun the deterioration of mind and body that would eventually take them away from us.

And that's the way I want to remember them.

More Power to You

Somewhere in the midst of yesterday's nasty windstorm, our electrical power went out.  Losing power is one of the things that makes me furious.   I take it as a personal affront, especially when it takes hours and hours for the energy company to get things back in working order.  Plus, I hate being at the mercy of some unknown entity, and being utterly inconvenienced until they have time to take care of my problem. Control issues again - I know I have them.

So we were in the dark all last evening, and though I had been dreading it, the time passed quite nicely  thanks to a long conversation with my son (which cheered me up immensely.)

But this morning when I awoke, the face of my digital alarm clock was still solid black.  No cheery red numbers announcing the return of electrical service.

Bah.

I've never made any bones about the fact that I like my creature comforts.  "Roughing it" to me means a Holiday Inn without internet access or in-room coffeemaker.  I've never had the least urge to go camping - as a matter of fact, I'd rather have a root canal than sleep out in the woods.   So, faced with the prospect of another day without electricity, I was not (pardon the expression) a happy camper.

But even I was unprepared for the depth of my surliness and malcontent.   I was grumbly, restless, and generally a huge sourpuss. I blame it partly on the fact that I couldn't get coffee immediately upon waking, and mostly on the fact that my morning routine was shot completely to hell.

If I needed any more evidence that I'm becoming an old geezer, this morning was certainly it.  Without the comforting ritual of my morning coffee, reading time, and social networking via the internet, I was like a fish out of water - dithering and flailing around, unable to make a decision or utter a nice word.  Even the bright sun etching the first crimson leaves against a turquoise sky failed to cheer me.

We finally packed up the computers and headed off to our local cafe with free wi-fi, where we took solace in a back booth with steaming cups of coffee and fresh bagels.

It wasn't quite the same as my big green chair at home, but it sufficed.

At 2:00, much to my delight, the power came back on.  My life, which had been spinning dangerously out of control for the past 28 hours, suddenly righted itself.

All's right with the world.

At least until the next time the power goes out.