After having felt crappy for so long, I recently made a conscious choice to make taking care of myself my top priority. This may sound simple, but for those of you who know me well are well aware of my tendency to put others first and put myself last. I finally realized I cannot do it anymore; it's just not healthy. So now I'm currently being mindful of what I need to do for myself to be healthy, joyful, and passionate about life while balancing taking care of others. This means I am getting back into exercise, alternating between walks during the week and running in my neighborhood on the weekends. I'm also eating ALOT of veggies and fruit. While I would like to drop some weight (and need to do so), I am not focusing on that as the ultimate goal because I want to be able to stick to this healthy lifestyle. Weight loss will be a secondary perk to this vital change I'm making.
A few weeks ago I had a physical done (bloodwork) and got the results the other day. Turns out I have low Vitamin D levels. Normal levels are between 40-100 and mine is 11! That's what I get for living in a minimal sunshine area. My doctor recommended I take strong doses of Vitamin D (which she prescribed) for the next 12 weeks....so I'll be doing that too. That's the update on my health.
In other news....
This really has nothing to do with what I was just talking about, but I found it to be funny and amusing....maybe even 'meant to be' (haha). On my commute to work on Wednesday, an attractive man sat beside me....which never happens, especially considering there are rarely attractive men on the bus. I wasn't sure why this particular guy seemed intriguing to me, but let's just say it was an enjoyable distraction to that part of my commute. I wanted to say something to him, but what's the chance I would see him again and furthermore, what would I say? There is a fine line between being friendly and being creepy. I didn't want to be the latter.
Yesterday (Friday morning) I happened to take the same route (there are two possible routes I can take and I switch off depending on the day,etc.), again on my commute to work. 10 minutes later, imagine my surprise when I look up at a man walking down the aisle looking for a seat.....and it was HIM. And he sat BESIDE ME AGAIN. I almost couldn't contain myself (nervous and amused by this coincidental event) and once again, I froze. I almost busted out with a comment about the fog (it was extremely foggy), but all I could do was glance at him now and then when he wasn't looking/paying attention. I must think of something to say to Hot Bus Crush. Help, my readers. What are some good, subtle things I could say without being lame? Haha.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Job memoir writing project
I had an epiphany on my commute home from work today. I realized how many friends of mine have commented on my writing lately and it got me to thinking how I could best channel my creativity/skills and also be motivated at the same time. So you know how for a long time now I have been half joking that I'm going to write a book someday about my methadone clinic job? Well folks, the time has arrived. Not officially, of course....but it's in the works.
I'm brainstorming right now and will likely devise a rough outline of topics/ideas to cover....and then start writing a 'manuscript' on my computer. It also occurred to me that I really don't have any friends who are writers (professionally anyway). I really wish I did, as I could use the guidance and feedback of how to go about all this. Perhaps it will just take some extra legwork on my part and a few trips to Borders for 'how to write a book' guides. Hmmm.
More to come soon. Stay tuned. :)
I'm brainstorming right now and will likely devise a rough outline of topics/ideas to cover....and then start writing a 'manuscript' on my computer. It also occurred to me that I really don't have any friends who are writers (professionally anyway). I really wish I did, as I could use the guidance and feedback of how to go about all this. Perhaps it will just take some extra legwork on my part and a few trips to Borders for 'how to write a book' guides. Hmmm.
More to come soon. Stay tuned. :)
Monday, January 19, 2009
Exercising courtesy
As much as I criticize Seattle for being an asshole when it comes to certain aspects of its 'personality,' I have recently discovered a more endearing quality about its city folk. Having gone jogging in my neighborhood quite a bit in the past week and a half, I have observed something very odd and refreshing that is unlike any other city I've been thus far. Generally (anywhere), people drive with a sense of manic eagerness to get to their destination. You have to be on guard and protect yourself from getting run over, maimed by an oversized powerful scrap of metal. Not so here.
While the slow driving here can certainly push my impatient buttons, it also has its perks.....take for instance, as a jogger/runner. At first, I thought it was just a lucky break when I was waiting to cross a moderately busy street with an ongoing influx of cars going by in both directions....and they STOPPED to let me cross. (And there was no crosswalk, stop sign, cop around,etc. to account for this unusual behavior!) Maybe the timing was just right, that I caught them at a generous, courteous moment. Except it kept happening. Today and yesterday. I almost felt guilty for these people having stopped in their tracks for me! It's all so new to me. I smiled and waved with appreciation, of course.
Do Seattleites have an uncharacteristic respect for those who exercise or something? Regardless, I'm impressed with their sense of exercise courtesy....
While the slow driving here can certainly push my impatient buttons, it also has its perks.....take for instance, as a jogger/runner. At first, I thought it was just a lucky break when I was waiting to cross a moderately busy street with an ongoing influx of cars going by in both directions....and they STOPPED to let me cross. (And there was no crosswalk, stop sign, cop around,etc. to account for this unusual behavior!) Maybe the timing was just right, that I caught them at a generous, courteous moment. Except it kept happening. Today and yesterday. I almost felt guilty for these people having stopped in their tracks for me! It's all so new to me. I smiled and waved with appreciation, of course.
Do Seattleites have an uncharacteristic respect for those who exercise or something? Regardless, I'm impressed with their sense of exercise courtesy....
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Creativity...and Dad
Yesterday I came across and contributed to a brief survey on women's creativity. There were questions to answer I had not considered before, such as asking who or what encouraged me throughout the years to be creative, the definition of creativity, what holds me back creatively, and what inspires me. All very telling answers came of this. It was as if this survey was reminding me of something I either had no awareness of or lost somehow.My definition of creativity was by no means academic, more simple and tailored to what it means to me as an individual. I think I said something about "to be known and seen, expressed outwardly" or something to that effect. I known 'known' and 'seen' were the primary words I used. Things that inspired me were people, beauty (nature) and feeling personally touched by something. When I thought about what stifles my creativity, I began to make sense of this malaise I've been feeling lately. I remember my top answers being monotony/routine (in my life) and the perception that no one 'sees'/cares about my creativity (but how can they know and see it if I don't do it? ha!).
I thought about who were my biggest sources of creative inspiration over the years, as far as people in my life (not celebrities or other famous people). My dad, my grandfather (mom's father), and my mom immediately came to mind. Particularly Dad....
During my teen years, it was customary for me to spend summers in Florida visiting my Dad. My fondest memories of time spent with Dad involved hanging out with him at the photography studio in Tampa that he shared with a few other avid photographers. As Dad worked alot (his day job as a deputy for Hillborough County Sheriff's Dept.), this made the time I was able to spend with him all the more valuable.
Photography was the one commonality between us that facilitated connection and the ability to connect for its own sake. Dad had a music system set up and turning on the music real loud was one of the various studio rituals he went through as part of the creative process. I remember being fascinated with the fancy, yet technical looking studio lights always lingering in the background...just waiting to be used for enhancing a featured object or person.
Sometimes Dad would even let me be the subject of a 'photo shoot,' allowing me to try on different hats, boas and such as he snapped away. Being a kid who always struggled with my weight, it was the one of the few times in my life where I could experience feeling beautiful and the positive attention of being a 'model.'
Dad and I would also occasionally take little photo adventures together, he with his professional Nikon and me with the Pentax he gave me when I was around 13 I think. At that time, I remember thinking it was the coolest and most 'grownup' thing anyone had ever given me. I wondered how worthy I was of such a serious gift. We would take pictures together at Busch Gardens, Lowery Park Zoo, vacation spots in North Carolina, St. Augustine (my top favorite places with Dad). As I think about my sense of spontaneity and adventure with photography now, I can't help but smile and attribute this to Dad's influence.
Then there was the darkroom. You know those 'if' question games where someone asks you 'if you could pick (fill in the blank).....what/where would it be?" Well, if I had to pick my absolute favorite room of all time I would pick that studio darkroom. There was something magical about it, like it represented a mysterious element of untapped creative potential. Especially when Dad flipped the lights off, the only light emanating from the small box of faintly glowing light at the top of the ceiling so that he could see just enough to develop and print the finished product into black and white. The ritual of pouring the three necessary chemicals into their respective trays. Stop Bath was my favorite. I just liked the weird sound of it, like the photo was getting a cleansing bath that would wash away anything that would take away from the beauty of its overall attraction. The mixture of chemical smells in the air gave me both a creative high and slight revulsion.
I spent so many hours in that room with Dad that if I count the hours I watched him and observed with a voyeuristic curiosity for the creative process, I could have gained amateur photography intern status. We talked about more topics in that room than anywhere else before or since then too. Maybe literally 'being in the dark' lends itself to exploring those things that usually remain hidden.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
"She's dead"
I was first struck with the magnitude of death on a quiet afternoon in the spring of 1988. My mother was at the college taking a final exam, having neared the end of her bachelor's degree program. Our next door neighbor usually came over to babysit/supervise me during the time mom had to be at school. This particular day for whatever reason though, I happened to be home alone. I cannot remember what I was doing in those moments before the phone rang, only that I was in the living room and it was afternoon because it was still light outside. I answered the phone in mom's office alcove area around the corner from the living room. It was a nurse.
She asked to speak to my mother in a very grave tone of voice, emphatically telling me my grandmother was sick. Even at 11 years old, I was highly intuitive at sensing when things felt somewhat amiss. Being that I was alone and had no grownup to turn to for assistance with the emergency, I had to think quickly. I remembered that my brother Alex's dad Kenny had mom's pager number in case of emergencies. I told the nurse that I would have her paged, as I jotted down the hospital number. I called Kenny and relayed the information.
What I remember most vividly was what I did after I hung up with him. In a daze, I walked over to our white plush couch in front of the big living room window of our second floor condominium. I stopped in my tracks and stood in front of the window, looking out, staring. It wasn't raining. It could have been cloudy or it could have been sunny. All I do know is in that moment I knew my grandmother was dead. It was like she was whispering in my ear, reassuring me and giving me comfort in my distressed moment of solitude. My eyes welled up with tears that couldn't quite let go. I was holding out for the possibility that I was imagining something, like a child who is afraid of monsters under the bed that do not exist.
Needing to be with someone, I called Kenny back. He picked me up and took me back to his apartment. Watching tv with him and Alex, I waited with nervous anticipation. Minutes felt like hours. I was scared to know what had happened to this woman whom I loved more than anything else in the world. The moment mom arrived through the door with puffy red eyes and a sad demeanor....said it all. "She's dead, isn't she?..." I remember thinking and possibly saying aloud.
Yes.
The funeral was in a pretty white church in Derry. She was buried in the stunning dark purple dress she wore to Mom's wedding the previous summer, her favorite color. I remember being afraid to go up to the casket where she lay, being that close to death. I had never been exposed to a dead body before. I was repulsed, frightened, sad, and curious all at once. I studied her face and what I could see of her body that lay there. Her silver tinted hair looked the same. Her soft, wrinkly face was no different. Her eyes were closed, as in a peaceful sleep. But there was no voice and certainly no breath. It looked like her, but it didn't "feel" like her anymore.
The most influential person in my life has also been my first experience with death. Perhaps it is no surprise I have spent my adulthood exploring the philosophical....
She asked to speak to my mother in a very grave tone of voice, emphatically telling me my grandmother was sick. Even at 11 years old, I was highly intuitive at sensing when things felt somewhat amiss. Being that I was alone and had no grownup to turn to for assistance with the emergency, I had to think quickly. I remembered that my brother Alex's dad Kenny had mom's pager number in case of emergencies. I told the nurse that I would have her paged, as I jotted down the hospital number. I called Kenny and relayed the information.
What I remember most vividly was what I did after I hung up with him. In a daze, I walked over to our white plush couch in front of the big living room window of our second floor condominium. I stopped in my tracks and stood in front of the window, looking out, staring. It wasn't raining. It could have been cloudy or it could have been sunny. All I do know is in that moment I knew my grandmother was dead. It was like she was whispering in my ear, reassuring me and giving me comfort in my distressed moment of solitude. My eyes welled up with tears that couldn't quite let go. I was holding out for the possibility that I was imagining something, like a child who is afraid of monsters under the bed that do not exist.
Needing to be with someone, I called Kenny back. He picked me up and took me back to his apartment. Watching tv with him and Alex, I waited with nervous anticipation. Minutes felt like hours. I was scared to know what had happened to this woman whom I loved more than anything else in the world. The moment mom arrived through the door with puffy red eyes and a sad demeanor....said it all. "She's dead, isn't she?..." I remember thinking and possibly saying aloud.
Yes.
The funeral was in a pretty white church in Derry. She was buried in the stunning dark purple dress she wore to Mom's wedding the previous summer, her favorite color. I remember being afraid to go up to the casket where she lay, being that close to death. I had never been exposed to a dead body before. I was repulsed, frightened, sad, and curious all at once. I studied her face and what I could see of her body that lay there. Her silver tinted hair looked the same. Her soft, wrinkly face was no different. Her eyes were closed, as in a peaceful sleep. But there was no voice and certainly no breath. It looked like her, but it didn't "feel" like her anymore.
The most influential person in my life has also been my first experience with death. Perhaps it is no surprise I have spent my adulthood exploring the philosophical....
Monday, January 12, 2009
Philosophizing
As you may have noticed, I haven't written on here in awhile. I'm not sure what's going on with me.....lately I feel like I have alot on my mind and no clear way to articulate it or am completely blank on inspirational writing material. It makes me sad too, because I don't feel completely "whole" unless I write. Does that make sense?
Tonight I was chatting with one of my close friends and he commented seemingly out of nowhere that he doesn't like not seeing me write. Another partial reason I've temporarily gotten lost with it is that I don't feel like anyone cares about my writing anymore. There was a time when I felt like knowing I had readers who were interested in my thoughts, ideas, and feelings really drove me further into a passion for it. It's been said that one should do something simply for the sake of doing it and/or for oneself regardless of others. I agree, to an extent. At the same time, that's like telling a painter to paint something that brings out all their inner passion without having the additional pleasure of sharing it, having it be seen and known by others. When I write, it is my way to be seen. How can I be seen if I'm writing to an empty audience? I don't know. I'm getting more and more philosophical for my own good as more years zoom by.
So, here's what I propose...to myself and/or to whomever few people actually read these words across the screen......I cannot promise I'll write every day or something that will be super exciting, thought provokinge, etc. All I can do is promise to seek that which has been hidden for whatever reason, to bring back the creativity in whatever way I can....even if it's in the mundane for now. Thank you for this, Eddie. With that said, here are a few things that have been on my mind the past few days......
Have you ever read a book set in an era and country which you knew nothing about, other than the fictional (and perhaps semi-real) descriptions.....and found yourself utterly intrigued to go there someday to see if it's anything like your imagination? This is how I felt when I finished reading Tolstoy's "Resurrection" yesterday. Russia. Colorful and rich with history, though only bits and pieces of knowledge imparted to me. It never caught my attention....until reading classic Russian literature. Now I'm driven with a curiosity to experience the actual country. Is it anything like the traveling I've done there in my mind?
This happens for me with dreams and fantasies too. Do such people, places, and experiences exist outside of the power of our minds? Is something any less "real" to evoke the deepest of emotions if it's not in the physical realm? It has been said that nothing is quite as powerful as fantasy, that anything more "real" cannot live up to that imaginary expectation. Anything to an extreme is dangerous territory though, I suppose.....both "real" and "imagined." One interesting example.......
Death and dying/grief and loss issues seem to be front and center themes in many of my therapy sessions with clients lately. Each person presents with their own unique narrative and in that way, they are incomparable. I was especially touched by a session I had today, a teen who drew me a picture of this recurring bad dream she has that ultimately gave me the interpretation she is still mourning the loss of a family member she was close to who died of cancer. My client has fears that her own parents will die/be taken away from her. Even though just a dream, she experiences it as something very vivid and real.
Where does reality end and creativity begin for us human beings? How can we blend the two to help us heal/transcend pain, sorrow, and loneliness....instead of adding more to the heaping mess of emotional wounds? This is the philosophical case I'm currently trying to solve.....
Tonight I was chatting with one of my close friends and he commented seemingly out of nowhere that he doesn't like not seeing me write. Another partial reason I've temporarily gotten lost with it is that I don't feel like anyone cares about my writing anymore. There was a time when I felt like knowing I had readers who were interested in my thoughts, ideas, and feelings really drove me further into a passion for it. It's been said that one should do something simply for the sake of doing it and/or for oneself regardless of others. I agree, to an extent. At the same time, that's like telling a painter to paint something that brings out all their inner passion without having the additional pleasure of sharing it, having it be seen and known by others. When I write, it is my way to be seen. How can I be seen if I'm writing to an empty audience? I don't know. I'm getting more and more philosophical for my own good as more years zoom by.
So, here's what I propose...to myself and/or to whomever few people actually read these words across the screen......I cannot promise I'll write every day or something that will be super exciting, thought provokinge, etc. All I can do is promise to seek that which has been hidden for whatever reason, to bring back the creativity in whatever way I can....even if it's in the mundane for now. Thank you for this, Eddie. With that said, here are a few things that have been on my mind the past few days......
Have you ever read a book set in an era and country which you knew nothing about, other than the fictional (and perhaps semi-real) descriptions.....and found yourself utterly intrigued to go there someday to see if it's anything like your imagination? This is how I felt when I finished reading Tolstoy's "Resurrection" yesterday. Russia. Colorful and rich with history, though only bits and pieces of knowledge imparted to me. It never caught my attention....until reading classic Russian literature. Now I'm driven with a curiosity to experience the actual country. Is it anything like the traveling I've done there in my mind?
This happens for me with dreams and fantasies too. Do such people, places, and experiences exist outside of the power of our minds? Is something any less "real" to evoke the deepest of emotions if it's not in the physical realm? It has been said that nothing is quite as powerful as fantasy, that anything more "real" cannot live up to that imaginary expectation. Anything to an extreme is dangerous territory though, I suppose.....both "real" and "imagined." One interesting example.......
Death and dying/grief and loss issues seem to be front and center themes in many of my therapy sessions with clients lately. Each person presents with their own unique narrative and in that way, they are incomparable. I was especially touched by a session I had today, a teen who drew me a picture of this recurring bad dream she has that ultimately gave me the interpretation she is still mourning the loss of a family member she was close to who died of cancer. My client has fears that her own parents will die/be taken away from her. Even though just a dream, she experiences it as something very vivid and real.
Where does reality end and creativity begin for us human beings? How can we blend the two to help us heal/transcend pain, sorrow, and loneliness....instead of adding more to the heaping mess of emotional wounds? This is the philosophical case I'm currently trying to solve.....
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