Procrastination

I'm supposed to be running out the door right now. I need more paint and rollers to finish my bedroom painting project. It is becoming the color I've missed since we moved to Edenton: a mixture between a stormy Atlantic Sea blue and pewter gray. It may seem insignificant, but waking in the morning to this color as a backdrop to my belongings is like a whisper as opposed to that intrusive whine of an alarm. It really does make me smile right after I crack my lids. And when I lay me down to sleep... there it is again, soothing me like a lullaby. You may think I'm silly about it, but color means so very much in my world. I mean, thank God the grass is green and the sky is blue, ya know! Thank God for the clouds being powder white and not a murky, dusty hue.
When I was young-er I pondered this color concept quite a bit. I wondered if we all saw the exact same color, or if we simply identified them as the same color by label only. All someone had to do when we were growing up is point to a color and say "blue" and that's what we have known as blue. What if it looks different to someone else's eyes? Is the color the same? Or, is our label the same? Then came the question of beauty. Do we see blue as beautiful and green as refreshing because we live amongst these colors and they represent clear skies and spring's renewal? I mean, is it truly beautiful in its own right, alone from our attachments to what it represents? This is like the question of beauty being innate or learned. Symmetry seems to be attractive to everyone world wide, but it is obvious that versions of beauty vary between times and cultures. I'm sure there are extensive studies regarding these topics.
It is interesting, no?
Nick looked at me last night as he hurdled a mountain of my clothes (and other stuff) and hopped into our bed that sits between still-wet walls and remarked "The house is a wreck and you've lost 2 million brain cells in these fumes... but the walls are gray!" That was funny. So, I couldn't even get mad at him for mumbling about my piles, because from his point of view that is exactly what the situation looks like. I've made him move furniture the size of elephants. Not only are they heavy enough to make professional movers cuss, but the drawers in them were full, and Nick was standing there looking at them all by his lonesome. But, he did it. I couldn't believe it; but he actually moved that furniture all alone and then kissed me bye. I felt that surely he'd at least skip the kiss. Love. It not only moves mountains, it moves two-ton armoirs too. I think he has a different take on what the color of our walls is worth, but deep down he appreciates living in a cared for, personalized, soothing space. Who wouldn't prefer that? Ugly bedroom doesn't equal macho.
Not only do I need more paint supplies, I need Benedryl tablets for my poor, poor Selma Lu Mela. She has turned into an itchy mess here in North Carolina. Apparently many doggies are allergic to this region. It breaks my heart. She is constantly fighting the urge to scratch her little ear flaps and eyes raw. Now her lips are itching. Nothing the vet has suggested works so far, so I'm going the people route. The pharmacist recommended a certain amount of Benedryl for a 50 pound dog and I'm going with it. I hate giving her drugs, but her quality of life is suffering. She, sweet thing, actually stops scratching her ears when I tell her to stop. How incredibly mindful. I say "Quit scratching those pretty ears Selma Lu!" and she stops and I can tell it's killing her. But, if I don't watch her, she'll tear her ears to pieces. She rests in her room in a cone hat right now. Miserable, I tell you. It makes me miserable anyway. She sticks her cute face through the cone without hesitation to get a kiss on the other side. So, I'm out to find another solution in hopes it will be the ticket to happy, itch-free puppy days. Any suggestions welcome. I honestly don't know what else to try if this doesn't work. I have exhausted most options.
What inspired me to communicate all of this, I'm not sure. One minute I'm walking toward the door and the next thing I know my hiney is parked here in this chair and I'm writing about what I should be doing instead of doing what I should be doing. The urge overcame me. Which makes me somewhat of a dork considering that I succumb to writing and others have much cooler vices like booze. Maybe it is knowing that I should be doing something else besides writing that makes me drawn to the action of writing. It is, after all, not what I should be doing and I have always hated doing things I should do over what I want to do. Should. What an awful word. Could. Want to. How amazing is it that the difference in a word or two can change one's entire attitude toward a subject/task? But, that's a whole other thought voyage. It is also quite possible that I am sitting here plucking my keyboard because I simply like it and have missed doing it.
Enough for today though, if there is anything I like more than writing, and the list is slim, it is my little Lu Bear's ear flaps. Crossing fingers it works.

Change

Atlanta. I've written about how much I love her, and it's true. I recently went back and was able to hit my old spots. They are still beautiful and I still admire them. Things were different than expected though. As I was falling asleep about three nights ago, back in Edenton, I was looping the experience through my mind and had come up with some words that settled my uncertainty regarding this last trip back. I have since forgotten them, of course. But, they worked for the time and tucked my mind in for the night.
It's change, folks. Pure and simple change. And as I realize this I see signs everywhere pointing to it in big bold ways. Is it coincidence that Counting Crows is singing about it from the speakers behind me now? I watched Modern Family (love it!!) and the theme continued, it was about letting go and letting change take it's course. I went jogging through Edenton and one bright, yellow leaf fell in slow motion, zigzagging its way down the sky with each slight shift of wind, but remaining in my path so that we coincided perfectly and Selma jumped at it, unusually, because she observed it was peculiar too. As I passed the lone leaf and looked ahead, it was as if all of this rushed through my head at once and my tension fell as well, taking its place on the pavement beside the first fall leaf, and I ran on toward... whatever life sends. Immediately, I could breathe freer and my shackled shuffles became strides of curiosity. These weren't subtle signs I was getting from above, it was not hard to take notice of them.
That I needed to let go, was the message. I needed to practice my own motto for the way I wish to live life. Ride the river, not row. Go with the ocean's current, because as soon as your feet slip from the sand below you have a choice. Fight, use an enormous amount of energy against a power you can not come close to controlling, let tension and fright and pain consume your body, lose your breath and drown in the rush- a horrible struggle for nothing. The wave crashes no matter what you want and the only thing you control is if it crashes on you. Or, relax and retain, let loose of your limbs and float a bit in this mad rush of nature and life, hope, make yourself one with the motion and glide as this wave takes you on the ride of your life and sweeps you, most often gently, onto a shore you find rather appealing and safe.
The latter metaphor I have tapped into frequently as I am a fan of the ocean, but not a fan of tackling it. I have unfortunately been manhandled by these waves a couple of times. Neither turned out pretty. The first was a shock. I thought "I'm dead. And this is the dumbest way I could imagine." I could touch the ocean floor, but I couldn't stand. I was in shallow water, but kept getting knocked down by those fierce Atlantic waves and water was up my nose, shooting into my eyeballs (which stung like hell) and every gasp I could manage was salty, if you get the picture. I finally got tossed down the beach and was washed ashore under a fisherman that peered over me with all curiosity and no help. My eighth grade boyfriend had to come fish me out of the ocean and clean me up. I was exhausted and shaken and my face felt like bees had swarmed and stung every inch of it. Case number two was stupid too, but not nearly as scary and tragic. I was with one of my best friends in the Gulf and realized I had my earrings in still and that I would surely lose them. She suggested I put them under my tongue. I thought that was an okay plan. (All of these words reek of alcohol, mind you) As I did this a big, fat wave came from nowhere and knocked me silly and there I go, with that wave wherever it decided. I slid in to knee deep water and stood up, thankful to have one of my earrings still (the other is buried treasure), and wouldn't you know I have on a bandeau top, completely strapless. I stood up, yanked my top up, waved to my friend that I'm alive and well, and as I looked up I saw that the beach in front of me was lined with a group of beach-going spring break lads. I am not an exhibitionist. This was not thrilling for me, but for the same reason I ran into the ocean like a chanting, howling idiot with my wonderful girlfriend, I was able to muster the dignity to turn and laugh and haul ass down the shore... vodka & pineapple juice. Otherwise, I may have slowly sunk and asked the wave if it wanted another passenger for a while.
So, this example of a wave and how it can crush you in a fight, it doesn't come purely from imagination.
Taking a serious stance on the topic, I think resisting change can cause an enormous amount of stress. While going back to a past home can be fun, it can also strike one as hollow and impossible. Seeking the same city is gratifying, seeking the same dynamic within it is not. Swallow it, mourn it, and let it go. I have, with the help of my friend and husband, let my limbs fall slack and the granules under my toes are ever changing, rolling with me, taking me somewhere instead of charging into me and building up against my legs like a wall of pressure that is surely going to hurt more and more with time. Floating now, slowly and gently over new places, I almost rest.
It's a picture in my head. It's not the picture that let me rest my head a few nights ago, but this one is a stored image, a resource to use when needed.
So, I will try and see these signs, follow their direction, and ride my life. I think I had such a tight grip on the things I loved about where I was, that letting go was so threatening it physically hurt. I only now, after a week, can turn my neck and look over my shoulders. Everyday it cracks with a deep thud and I can move it more. Is it worth this sort of stiff, rigid life? My mental attitude had become mirrored in my physical state of being and I was left looking only straight ahead. Not the vision I hope for... I want to do better for myself and see more, move more flexibly.
I think I wrote a poem a while back that reflects this intent during my life. It is a reminder. I'll look for it and will put it up if I find it and it is relevant after all.
I am glad to be back here, writing and embracing my little rituals that bring me big smiles. Life is treating me kindly with gifts of variety. The kind of gifts that change. The kind of changes that make up life. The kind of life I consider a gift.

Corners

No teasing myself. Can’t allow it.

I said Brandi Carlile and Brandi Carlile I must address. “No cutting corners!” my gymnastics coach would shout as we ran laps. This has translated into adulthood as me not being able to abandon much of anything. No cutting corners- in my workouts or in parties hosted, in being able to leave my bathroom without checking if the straightening iron is unplugged less than about 5 times or walking away from a restaurant booth without a double glance and thorough inspection of under the booth in case I am leaving anything behind, and especially with thoughts left untouched as I race laps around the perimeter of my mind. Brandi Carlile is now a corner and my foot. must. touch. corner…

Pause.

By the way, it sounded like I just unloaded what could be interpreted as OCD tendencies on my gymnastics requirements and that is not what I intended. I am certain that as a third grader I understood that it was an odd urge I had to complete the laps rigidly or spring up in class to wipe the chalk board completely. The left over chalk marks still irk me when I think of them. Would it have been too hard, Teacher, to just wipe the board entirely? Teacher asks 100 percent effort to be put forth, yet leaves tidbits of letters lurking on the chalkboard.

Rant. That felt good.

Brandi Carlile, I like tremendously. Fantastic artist, sometimes strikingly poetic and painful and what I love most about her is that I can listen to her music and find myself somber and stewing over the meanings of things that verge on depressing. My kind of music. I know what you are thinking. You are either like me, and love to be saddened or, you think I’m nuts. No argument found here. I’m not battling that analysis. I admit I am pulled to the melancholy. For goodness sake, I put ‘The Hours’ on and program the dvd player to loop the movie. So, I enjoy doing house tasks to the continuous playing of one of my absolute favorite movies, that others happen to find quite disturbing. Like I said, no debate here.

When I think of Ms. Carlile, aside from her talents, I think of a friend. I worked with this friend and had he not been my desk buddy, I may have slumped into a dark little mental dwelling for about a year. A life friend, this one.

I don’t have much to say (on a blog) beyond thanks to him. I enjoyed his conversation and variety of music during our workdays, and his detail-oriented mind was a huge resource for me to learn from. His life, I’ve learned, has challenged him to a match or two lately. Not just tennis, real life stuff. So, I hope he relies on his music and thoughtfulness to outstretch any moment he may find that tires his spirit.

Thinking, insightful men with dreams, I wish for you moments to relax and steer your self where you find not only obligation but true opportunities of heart. Find the water well. There is always a village in need of you.

So, this one goes out to a mutual Brandi Carlile fan (the one who turned me on to her music) and to a friend that, like I, has a hard time cutting corners. May your year end with an easier route to run, perhaps a round one.

I have put today’s music on a playlist that bounces from Radiohead to Nick Drake to Elliott Smith. I’ll spare you all from what that produces in my thought patterns. But, come October, this same unnamed friend will get another shout out… and he knows it too…