Sunday Scribblings #5-Why I Live Where I Live

While I'm in Florida this week, I'm posting some old pieces from the archives that seem relevant even today, lo these many years later.  This was written during my first month of blogging, back in 2006, and is something that's still on my mind. What an ironic topic for my first foray into Sunday Scribblings, because it's a question I've been asking myself quite frequently for the past five years, as in "Why in God's name do I live where I live?" The answers for me, as I suspect for most of us, are varied and complex.

I started out asking this question seven years ago when my son moved to Florida. I was born and raised in the midwest, specifically, southeastern Michigan, so my realm of living experience is confined to a geographic radius of about 25 miles and the extremes of weather we experience here - everything from chillingly damp autumns, to bitterly cold winters which seem to seguae into warm, humid summers. The deep snows of that first winter my son was gone just intensifed the emptiness of my nest, and I clomped through the icy drifts muttering angrily to myself, "Why in the world am I living here?"

I continued to ask myself that question with increasing frequency, particularly after we purchased our own "second home" in southern Florida, just a short drive away from my son and his wife. But I've noticed that every time we visit there for a few days, I find myself both dreading and wishing to return home. Dreading it, because my house here is old and grungy, while my house there is new, posh, and clean. My neighborhood here pretty much matches my house, and suffice it to say, my life here just trails right along in those same decrepit lines.

But in spite of all that, my life here still seems to call out "home" to me. This old house and neighborhood have sheltered me from my first days as a young wife and mother, through raising my child and watching him fly far away into his own life. My friends are all here, the things I do that enrich my life are here - in other words, everything that is real resides in this weatherbeaten, slightly run down place. In Florida, life is almost too good to be true. As beautiful as that is for a while, it leaves something to be desired, somthing gritty and unpolished, something that you can work to clean up and rejuvenate. Something that makes life worth a little more in the end.

As much as I talk about my dream of "starting over" in the sunny south, I'm not sure I really want to jettison everything I've built in this place I've called home for the past 30 years. I live here not because it's paradise, but because it contains so much that I hold dear and couldn't bear to live without. Here is the little dent on the wall where I threw one of the ironstone dishes from our wedding china in a fit of anger at my new husband as he walked out the door, and here is the gorgeous red maple tree we planted on our first anniversary and daringly made love underneath on our 25th. There are the little scratch marks on the pantry made by our first cocker spaniel puppy when she was trying to get at her dog food, and the rhododendron bush outside her favorite window where I buried her ashes fifteen years later. Here's where I find the remnants of those stickers my son plastered on all the closet doors, as well as the cherry tree he used to climb into and read poetry. These are more than memories, these are artifacts of my life. They remind me of all the things I have experienced and survived.

I live where I live because it's home.

Hours

I appreciate the guest post, Vito Rivers After I visited directstartv.com and upgraded our television package this morning, my heart dropped because I suddenly remembered the real reason that I got on the internet earlier. I need to clock my hours for the last two weeks so that I could get paid by my job. I rushed back to the computer and logged onto the network to log in my hours, and it wouldn’t let me record them for the last two weeks. The time period had already closed. I was devastated because I knew that it was going to take hours to correct the problem. I work at a large university that does all of its payroll through the payroll department and not your specific department, so problems are always more difficult correct. So I spent the latter half of the day ( my day off) working on trying to get paid for the last two weeks. You can’t even imagine what a fiasco it was. I had to go through several different people and I must have been on hold for hours! I am never forgetting to log my hours again!

Write on Wednesday-My Love Affair With Writing

While I'm in Florida this week, I'm running some pertinent posts from the archives.  You see, it all began with a typewriter, quite like the one in the banner up above.  Picture, if you will, a chubby four year old with dark, curly hair, perched at a battered brown desk in front of a round attic window, her pudgy fingers jamming down the keys, and looking in astonishment at the letters which appeared on a white sheet of paper.

Words.

Three and four letter words, which eventually became three and four syllable words, which she memorized from the books she was (forever!) trying to get someone to read to her.

Words.

Which she strung together in meaningless, pretty sentences, and finally into endless stories, usually filled with dark images and scary feelings.

Words.

Which she tapped out on the old typewriter, her fingers gaining strength as she got older, taking on more than just made up stories, words which spoke to her feelings about justice and peace and the future of this world she was growing up in.

For a while, the old typewriter keyboard took second place to another keyboard - one of black and white ivory keys, that, when pressed, created not words on white paper, but lifted sound from off a page of black and white music, sending it spiraling into the air.

No words.

Now the words are tapped almost effortlessly onto a screen, gently clicking keys releasing the flow of images and ideas that seem to overflow her mind, her fingers no longer pudgy, but slightly worn from time and the activities of life, all the things which find their way onto her page, find themselves expressed in the way she loves and knows best.

Words.

Posted in response to this project, with thanks for Michele for the idea :) 

Why In the World Do You Come to the Page?

While I'm in Florida this week, I'm posting some relevant pieces from the archives. This is the first Write on Wednesday post from June 2008.

Frustration has been the name of the game this week.   Our computers at work are wonky, we have a new staff member in the office meaning there's all kinds of unusual verbal and social interaction, and then one of our senior staff members decided it would be fun for all of us to have instant messenger so we could IM each other within our huge (7 people on a good day) office.  I'm ashamed to say I spent at an hour creating my avatar...you see, I was trying to find this one icon of a fluffy white dog (see what I mean about wasting time?)

So I got home about 6:00, after fighting my way through rush hour traffic, and what's the first thing I feel compelled to do?

Write.

Wouldn't you think that after a frustrating day, a day when every accomplishment, every task was completed with much virtual hair pulling and screaming, wouldn't you think that after a day like that I'd crave nothing more than a big glass of wine, a huge box of chocolates, and my easy chair?

Why in the world would I come to the page after a day like that?

"We should write because writing is a powerful form of prayer and meditation, connecting us both to our own insight and to a higher and deeper level of inner guidance," says Julia Cameron, in The Right to Write.  "Writing is good for the soul."

While I don't necessarily think of writing as cathartic, I do believe it helps me make sense of my world and myself.  There are times when a striking truth about my life suddenly appears before me on the screen, complete and utterly honest, coming straight from my spirit through my fingers and onto the page.  For a writer, there is a great connection between the heart, the mind, and the pen.  The act of setting words on the page seems to open a door directly into my writer's soul, letting me in on the secrets that are stored there.

Perhaps that why writing is such a restorative act.  "Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises," Anne Lamott writes in Bird by Bird.  "The actual act of writing turns out to be the best part.  It's like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony.  The act of writing turns out to be its own reward."

Indeed, there was a sense of relief, of reassurance, to come home, kick off my shoes, and curl up in my easy chair with my virtual pen and paper - my little laptop perched precariously on the chair's overstuffed arm.  I admit, there was wine involved too, but the comfort and relaxation which flooded my body had more to do with the words flowing from my fingertips than from the alcohol flowing past my lips. 

Writing replenishes my spirit, it rejuvenates my mind, it relaxes my emotions.

And that's why I come to the page.

How about you?  What brings you to the page, and why?

It's the People

Earlier today I had a phone conversation with my Dad. You might recall that he's undergoing another round of chemo for a recurrence of colon cancer. It's been well over five years since his original diagnosis and treatment, but in the interim he had a bout of prostate cancer which was treated with radiation therapy. Did I mention that he also has Parkinson's disease?

And that he's 85 years old?

As you might imagine, he's rather frail. We're planning a trip to Florida later this week to see him, so I inquired about his schedule in the upcoming days.

"Well, Tuesday's and Thursdays are therapy days," he said, rattling it off verbatim. "I get this pump thing filled up on Tuesdays, and wear it all day Wednesday, and then go back in on Thursday for some other treatment. I'm working on Friday and Sunday this week, but on Saturday I'm free all day."

"Are you still working??" I asked, somewhat incredulously. My Dad has worked at the local Walmart for the past several years, even working full time for a while.

"Just two days a week now," he said, "and only four hours at a time."

"Do you really think you should do that?" I wondered, not for the first time.

"Yeah, I need to," he said. "It keeps my mind off all this other awful stuff. Besides, I like all the people I work with, and I have my regular customers that come in and get upset if I'm not there. That's the best part of work, the people."

Of course he's right. Especially for a man like my Dad, who enjoys talking to people, who ran a successful small business for 40 years, who likes to be out and about in the world.

"How about you?" he asked. "Do you miss your job?"

I thought for a minute before I answered. Fact is, I don't miss the work itself, but I do miss the people I worked with. I enjoyed the interaction with my co-workers and my boss, enjoyed the camaraderie, the sense of shared purpose - all the things I'm enjoying so much in my Classical Bells rehearsals.

When I told him as much, he understood immediately. "It's all about the relationships," he said.

I can believe that. There is much satisfaction to be had in the workplace, and not all of it has to do with a job well done.

How about you. Do your working relationships help make a dull job better?