The above title leapt fully formed into mind today because I was at work today. It wasn't a strenuous day, not particularly busy, nor too many cantankerous callers either. But I was at work. I wasn't writing, or painting or sewing or gardening or even sitting around picking my scabs. I was in a place of employment for 7.5 hours. I begrudge every minute of it. The slow slog to the desk. The mind numbing waiting for the computer to boot up. The tediousness of getting up and copying something or faxing something or taking something upstairs to make sure it's supposed to go upstairs. When God told Adam it would be mandatory for the rest of his life (and subsequently all our lives) that we would live by the sweat of our brow, did it include typing, faxing, stapling, filing? Thanks a lot, Adam! Geez! You couldn't stay away from one f*cking fruit tree???
Our lives pass us by as the sun moves across the window shades during the day. We witness the green leaves rustling, turning to brown leaves shuddering, then the bare branches scraping the window panes, then the green shoots forming and the leaves again. One season following another, per Tevye. But I'm not singing and I'm not feeling charitable either.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Visiting old friends
I went to bed last night, but wasn't tired. I was reaching around this kind of headboard/tower/sock holder thingee next to the bed, looking for something to read in my lazy way, reaching without really looking at what I was doing, when my hand grasped a paperback. It was sort of like Russian Roulette without the blood. I pulled the book out and figured whatever it was I would begin to read it, even if I didn't like it that much. I have to admit, I have a few books that I really don't like all that much, but I don't get rid of them. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I think if I get rid of it, I'll be intrigued by the title (which is why I bought it in the first place), I'll buy it again. Of course, this happens already, since I can't remember what I bought and have no list...do people make lists of the books they own? Anyway, I digress...
I pulled out the book and lo and behold it was one of the books by Robert Fulghum. The "Kindergarten" one. The one that started his whole prowess of publishing. And I remembered. I loved reading these. I mean really loved them. He made me feel like he knew me and could tell me anything. He made me feel like I could write just like him and maybe even get published like him. He made me dream and wish and laugh out loud and feel melancholy and all those things. He is not Tolstoy or D.H. Lawrence or William Faulkner. He is honest and upbeat (most of the time) and I could read all his books at once and never get tired of his musings. They're just like my musings, only he's a man, older, and he's done more stuff than me. Okay, maybe my thoughts aren't just like his, but geez he puts thoughts together in such a lovely melodic way that I get hooked every time.
I stopped reading him after he published a collection of things that other people had said and I thought, "I don't want to read this compiliation, I was to read his thoughts." It was the same disgruntlement I felt when I read Stephen King's Misery and thought he was poking his fans in a not very nice way.
But it was lovely to visit again. I read a few pages and was chuckling then chortling when my husband rolled over and said, "are you going to bed tonight?"
I turned out the light, still thinking of his observations on leftover meatloaf and how an ancient tribe yells at trees to make them fall down (and they do!). It was like coming home from a friends and thinking about the shared memories you have. It was lovely. I think I'll visit again tonight, only maybe a little earlier, so as not to disturb those trying to sleep.
I pulled out the book and lo and behold it was one of the books by Robert Fulghum. The "Kindergarten" one. The one that started his whole prowess of publishing. And I remembered. I loved reading these. I mean really loved them. He made me feel like he knew me and could tell me anything. He made me feel like I could write just like him and maybe even get published like him. He made me dream and wish and laugh out loud and feel melancholy and all those things. He is not Tolstoy or D.H. Lawrence or William Faulkner. He is honest and upbeat (most of the time) and I could read all his books at once and never get tired of his musings. They're just like my musings, only he's a man, older, and he's done more stuff than me. Okay, maybe my thoughts aren't just like his, but geez he puts thoughts together in such a lovely melodic way that I get hooked every time.
I stopped reading him after he published a collection of things that other people had said and I thought, "I don't want to read this compiliation, I was to read his thoughts." It was the same disgruntlement I felt when I read Stephen King's Misery and thought he was poking his fans in a not very nice way.
But it was lovely to visit again. I read a few pages and was chuckling then chortling when my husband rolled over and said, "are you going to bed tonight?"
I turned out the light, still thinking of his observations on leftover meatloaf and how an ancient tribe yells at trees to make them fall down (and they do!). It was like coming home from a friends and thinking about the shared memories you have. It was lovely. I think I'll visit again tonight, only maybe a little earlier, so as not to disturb those trying to sleep.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Summer vacation
For some time now, we have not taken a vacation at home. Everytime we had vacation time to use, we went somewhere. Down the shore for a week, to California to visit the youngest. But we never stayed at home. This year we stayed home. This year we decided that since the youngest was coming home for the Dad's birthday, then staying home was a good idea. It has been eye opening in a way. The husband has gotten all sorts of miscellaneous chores and projects done, that I frankly didn't know needed to be done. He bustled from sun-up to sun-down. I on the other hand, took a vacation.
Before the younger got home, I had scrubbed and polished and straightened with a verve bordering on, well, the husband's. But I have not done much of anything since the beginning of the vacation. I have re-read parts of books that are my favorite (The Once and Future King, Winter's Tale, some romances which just grab you around the heart and pull). I sat for 2 1/2 hours with the son watching West Side Story, a musical he has never seen. I'm considering painting my toenails. I've stared for long periods of time at the clouds and the small patch of milkweed I grow in the off chance some poor misguided monarch butterfly will find it (one did! and I scared it away in my exuberance). I have even sat and petted the cat for a while-- an unheard of occurance. It has been blissfully quiet and peaceful. And I find that I catch up on my dreams when this happens. I dream of learning to play the piano again, of learning to speak in sign language (perhaps for future use), of learning to shoot a gun just for the experience of doing it. I find myself wanted to sew again, hand sew or do cross stitch--I even went so far as to buy something to make for my mother. Vacations remind me that life is full of other things than the computer, the phone, filing, writing notes, answering questions about things that don't relate directly to real life, just life in the employment world. I like me better during vacation. I like what I do better. I like the way I am with the world and my God better. Is everyone like that on vacation, I wonder? The stay at home vacations where you aren't rushing to Mt. Rushmore or scrambling to get in line for the 30 second roller coaster, those things are not really a vacation. They are filling in the full life you had in another location. It feels like a vacation because you are looking at something else with the same pointed intensity as what you look at when at work. But it feels different.
This vacation feels very different. It is easier. Nicer to be home. I think I'm going to stop writing now and do my nails...maybe even my toenails and watch the clouds for a while longer. See you soon.
Before the younger got home, I had scrubbed and polished and straightened with a verve bordering on, well, the husband's. But I have not done much of anything since the beginning of the vacation. I have re-read parts of books that are my favorite (The Once and Future King, Winter's Tale, some romances which just grab you around the heart and pull). I sat for 2 1/2 hours with the son watching West Side Story, a musical he has never seen. I'm considering painting my toenails. I've stared for long periods of time at the clouds and the small patch of milkweed I grow in the off chance some poor misguided monarch butterfly will find it (one did! and I scared it away in my exuberance). I have even sat and petted the cat for a while-- an unheard of occurance. It has been blissfully quiet and peaceful. And I find that I catch up on my dreams when this happens. I dream of learning to play the piano again, of learning to speak in sign language (perhaps for future use), of learning to shoot a gun just for the experience of doing it. I find myself wanted to sew again, hand sew or do cross stitch--I even went so far as to buy something to make for my mother. Vacations remind me that life is full of other things than the computer, the phone, filing, writing notes, answering questions about things that don't relate directly to real life, just life in the employment world. I like me better during vacation. I like what I do better. I like the way I am with the world and my God better. Is everyone like that on vacation, I wonder? The stay at home vacations where you aren't rushing to Mt. Rushmore or scrambling to get in line for the 30 second roller coaster, those things are not really a vacation. They are filling in the full life you had in another location. It feels like a vacation because you are looking at something else with the same pointed intensity as what you look at when at work. But it feels different.
This vacation feels very different. It is easier. Nicer to be home. I think I'm going to stop writing now and do my nails...maybe even my toenails and watch the clouds for a while longer. See you soon.
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