Working for A Living

Though I don't talk much about it, I do have a real job (other than reading blogs and penning these little morsels for your perusal). I work in a small office of medical case managers, and my job position morphs between technical writer/executive assistant/receptionist. My attitude about my job duties undergoes a similar course of shape shifting, although most of the time I enjoy them (well, perhaps that's not the right word). At least I find them pleasantly tolerable.

By far the best aspect of my job is the people I work with. In the six years that I've been here, we've seen a lot of personnel changes, but the core group that remains are really neat women. There are also some women who no longer work there, but that I continue to socialize with on a regular basis.

The owner of the company is a woman just slightly older than I - her two daughters work with her. There is no sense of entitlement about these young women, they are bright, energetic, and hard working. Oh sure, they get a few extra perks, but I'd do the same for my kids if I were able.

So, we have a good time at the office. We get our work done, we commiserate about our partners, we gossip about our clients (shh, don't tell!), we go out to eat once in a while. It's about the most fun you can have and still get paid.

What I'm getting around to saying is that I like working. And it's a good thing, really. I recently received a little statement from the Social Security Administration. You know, the one that tells you how much money you'll receive if you retire at age 62, age 65, and now, age 70.

Naturally, if you work until you're 70, you get a lot more money.

So.

A couple of years ago, my dad went back to work. Nearly 80 years old at the time, and status post two angioplasties, back surgery, and most recently colon cancer followed by six weeks of chemo. He said he needed the money, and I really don't doubt it. The cost of living in Naples is pretty high, after all. But I was upset about it. The thought of an elderly man, once a respected and successful business owner, now working in Walmart to make a few extra bucks -well, it bothered me.

But you know what? After two years, I notice he's standing up straighter, his thoughts seem a lot sharper, he always has some stories to tell about how much better he could manage things over there (and I don't doubt he lets them know it either!) And I remember how much my dad loved working at his business, meeting people, getting the job done.

Sometimes, working is good. It keeps us motivated, helps maintain our sense of integrity, and gives us a feeling of accomplishment that's important to maintain, especially as we age.

While some might think -work until I'm 70?? No way!! I tend to think - work only until I'm 70??? What then?


How about you? How do you feel about your job and working for a living?

Domestic Life

Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. The staples of domestic life. Whether you're single or attached, childless or parent to one or many, these things never go away, do they? Someone has to be in charge of keeping the home fires burning (once a very literal task requiring a body-usually female-to go from room to room and rekindle the flames in the fireplace or woodstove).

I've been "keeping house" for almost 32 years now - keeping the same house, actually, so we've both grown a bit frayed around the edges together. I'm not the world's greatest housekeeper - certainly nothing like my mother in law, who kept this house before me. She worked full time outside the home, yet devoted every spare remaining minute to cleaning. Washing windows, buffing the basment floor every Saturday, removing the light fixtures weekly. She was the type of woman who would make up my father in law's side of the bed if he got up in the night to go to the bathroom (and I'm almost not joking about that).

My mother was quite the homemaker too -it was her full time job from day one, and she took it seriously. When I was a toddler, my grandparents lived with us, and most of my memories are of my grandfather and I playing together while my mother and grandmother cooked, cleaned, and decorated.

Well, that sure isn't me. When I was younger, and the whole housekeeping thing was new, I was a lot fussier. I wasn't working outside my home at the time, so I had plenty of time and energy to invest in domestic life. But raising a child quite effectively cured my penchant for neatness, and I decided early on that it was better to play with my son than worry about whether the sink sparkled.

Nowdays, domestic life just plain makes me tired. It's so endlessly dreary - the same floors to sweep, the same furniture to dust, the same bric a brac to shuffle around from season to season.
And the grocery shopping-my god, don't even get me started on how much I hate the grocery shopping.

I have completely lost my heart for all of it.

One day not long ago, I was leaving my mother's house after one of our marathon trips to the market. It was a typical cold, wet, Michigan winter day. My sinuses were clogged, there were huge dark circles under my eyes, and I'm sure I resembled death warmed over.

My mother looked at me and I could see her eyes fill with tears.

"You know, I didn't want this for you," she said softly.

And it struck me that of course she had other plans for me, a bright child who came of age in an era when women were not only encouraged but expected to have more than a domestic life.
Perhaps she envisoned me a doctor or lawyer, with a large home and servants to do all the work for me. Or maybe she supposed I would live a single life, and be responsible for no one but myself.

For the first time, I wondered what her dreams for me might have been, for if she had them, she never shared them with me when I needed to hear them. And while she may have hoped my life would be different from hers, she wasn't able to help me see the potential, or allow me the freedom necessary to find it on my own.

And so I have lived a largely domestic life.

But though domesticity may have occupied a fair portion of my time, it has never been the essence of my existence, as it was for women of previous generations. For as long as I can remember, books, writing, music - those have been the things that fed my soul, irrespective of dust on the table tops or dishes in the sink.

How thankful I am, for that has been my oasis in the desert of domestic life.

Is It Friday Already?

My, how time has flown this week, my first week home and back to real life in all its general glory.

I feel extremely lucky that (1) the weather since we returned has been unseasonably mild, most likely thanks to the effects of global warming that will eventually result in the early demise of our planet, but which for now I'm rather enjoying; (2) nothing devastating happened to anyone or anything I left behind, proving once again that although I might think I'm indispensible, I'm really not; and (3) life is actually rather quiet at the moment, and I can gently ease myself back into all my various roles and resposibilities.

So I managed to cross a number of things off my to-do list this week -and all you other list makers out there certainly know what a relief that is. I've yet to do a complete shop - grocery and sundry shopping, that is, but I suspect I'll complete that chore over the weekend.

And speaking of the weekend - I have NO plans. Zip. Nada. If I were in my twenties (or even my thirties) that would be a tragedy of the utmost magnitude. But since I'm practically in my dotage, it's absolutely marvelous.

I'll probably delve into one of those bookstacks I have lying around here. I've signed up for a reading challenge, which you can read more about here. And isn't that just what I need -another reason to read :)

I been thinking about going to the movies -in a real theater, even. Usually I just wait for the DVD, especially now that we have our lovely 47 inch high def flat screen and comfy leather sofa.
On second thought, I'll just wait for the DVD, so I can stay home and wear my jammies.

I'm ready for the weekend.

How about you? What big plans do you have for the weekend?

Monday Musing

"What is the answer? There is no easy answer, no complete answer. I have only clues, shells from the sea. The bare beauty of the channelled whelk tells me that one answer, and perhaps a first step, is in simplification of life, in cutting out some of the distractions. But how? Total retirement is not possible, I cannot shed my responsibilities. I cannot permanently inhabit a desert island. I cannot be a nun in the midst of family life. I would not want to be. The solution for me, surely, is neither in total renunciation of the world, nor in total acceptance of it. I must find a balance somewhere, or an alternating rhythm between these two extremes; a swinging of the pendulum between solitude and communion, between retreat and return."
~A Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Finding balance between the needs of others and ourselves - this has been a key factor in the lives of women for generations. I had forgotten how perfectly Lindbergh expressed this concern in her little book, written just about the time I was born, a time when women's lives were definitely less complicated, a time when society proscribed a woman's role in such a way that any swing of the pendulum, any deviation from the norm was considered peculiar.

I first read Gift From the Sea in the early 80's, when I was a young mother trying to adjust her expectations and find a balance between total immersion in family life and still maintain some "life of the mind." Her words echoed in my heart, and I was comforted by the realization that I was in a company of women seeking the same sense of equilibrium for their lives.

Coming across this excerpt today, I realize how timeless this quest truly is. My circumstances today are quite different from those of 25 years ago. My nest is empty, I have fulfilling work and recreation, I have gained a sense of confidence I didn't have upon my first reading.

Yet I continue to struggle with that question of balance, continue always to ache for more time to explore my inner life, to immerse myself in books and music, to be able to study everything about this wide world in greater detail.

"And yet I cannot shed my responsibilities. I cannot be a nun in the midst of family life. And I would not want to be."

For better or worse, this is life ~ the marriage, the home, the family that needs you, the workplace, the church ~ these are the true things, the things that filter our experience of the world and make it real.

But I am most definitely a seeker of balance, and I covet that resting state where the pendulum stops naturally, where my body, mind, and heart will feel at ease.

Home

Dateline: My house, Redford, Michigan, 10:30 p.m.


Pewter gray skies, piles of soot blackened snow, icy drizzle...home.

In spite of the weather, I'm content to be here. My old house welcomed me with open arms, no catastrophe's (like leaky roofs or basements) had occurred, and everything was just as I left it. Loyal and true, just as it has been for the past 31 years.

I enjoyed my time in the sunny south, but more and more I've come to realize the rareified atmosphere of Naples is not the kind of place one can really live. Oh, lots (and lots!) of people do live there, but I can't seem to fit myself into any of the demographics. I'm not old enough to be retired, I'm not rich enough to be not retired, I'm not young and beautiful, I'm not a golfer or a tennis player - what do I do? More often than not, I stay inside the walls of my gated community, avoiding the snarling traffic and road construction, just reading, walking, sitting out on the hill and listening to the fountains.

Don't misunderstand - it's a gorgeous place to rest and retreat, and I still love my home there. But I still love my home here, too, probably even more. I love my friends, and my musical groups, and yes, even my work. It's real life, the one I've carved out in 51 years of living.

Even at my age, I continue to discover things about myself, and about life in general. I thought I was ready for the nouveau riche lifestyle that a second home in Naples seemed to represent. I thought I would get a head start on my golden years by building my retirement home in this southern paradise. But the fact that so many other people seemed to feel the same way has sort of spoiled it for me. It's too crowded now, too trendy, too busy, too overbuilt...too much.

I consider myself extremely lucky to have our home in Naples as a place to visit, a place to retreat from the harsh winter weather, and, of course, a place where we can visit our son and daughter in law. But as far as a place to live - I belong here, (or a place like here) where people work for a living, hang their clothes outside to dry, and can feel comfortable going just about anywhere wearing jeans and a sweater.

It's home.

The Difference of A Day

Dateline: Lexington, Kentucky, 9:28 pm

And what a difference today was...smooth sailing today, the hemi engine on the Charger whirring across the mountains with nary an interruption, moving so quickly my favorite landscape was almost too much of a blur.

The worst thing that happened - we had to settle for Wendy's for lunch (couldn't find an Arby's, which is Magic and Molly's favorite place).

The best thing was stopping here. Each time we drive down I-75 and pass the Kentucky Artisan Center, my heart itches to stop and peruse the handmade work for sale inside. Today, since we had plenty of extra time and daylight, I begged for a few minutes "just to see what it was like."

Such a treat! A bright, wide open building, chock full of marvelous work by Kentucky artisans. Paintings, wood carving, etched and blown glass, jewelry, the softest of woven blankets, hats, and scarves. A wide assortment of books by local authors, and recordings of bluegrass music.

While Jim walked the dogs around the nicely manicured grounds, I raced through like a kid in a candy shop, picking up several items for myself and some to give away as gifts.

Even with the small side trip, we reached the hotel before dark, settled in, and brought home grilled chicken salads from Cracker Barrel across the street. Now I'm propped in the easy chair at the Hampton Inn, my feet up, contentedly sipping wine from a tiny bottle, and telling you about my day.

Nice.

What a difference a day makes.

I Love the South

Just have to say, I love southerners. Real, true, "southren" people, I mean. Like the lovely lady manning the coffee station here this morning. Picture me, bleary eyed and disheveled, in desperate need of my morning injection of caffeine. Picture her, slender and well dressed in a black sweater set and camel colored slacks, every hair of her grey bob perfectly in place.

"How y'all doin' this mawnin?" she greeted me, the gentle modulations of her southern accent soothing and soft.

I succumbed to her friendly patter, and was treated to a five minute discourse (all in those dulcet tones) about her recent experience with a root canal, and how she "went round" to the dentist yesterday and he was "just purely wonderful" and took care of everything.

"Well, y'all have a safe trip now," she said, pouring my coffee for me, and sending me on my way with a warm smile.

"Thank you so much," I replied, inadvertently replacing my midwestern twang with the barest hint of a drawl.

And all this at 7:00 in the morning.

I love southerners.

Tales from the Road Redux

Dateline: Macon, Georgia, 10:18 pm

Here we are, back in the La Quinta Inn on Riverside Road. My feeings about the return trip from Florida are akin to my feelings about taking down the Christmas tree. Not nearly as much fun on the return.

And today's trip didn't change my feelings. It was long, and boring, laced with intermittent contstruction slow downs and one complete standstill due to a horrible roll over accident, the aftermath of which made me shudder and say a silent prayer. We had considered stopping in Valdosta for the night, but since it was only 4:30 when we rolled by the La Quinta Inn (exit 18), we opted to travel the extra 160 miles to Macon.

In retropsect, we probably should have stayed in Valdosta, because those 160 miles are billboard laden, construction ridden, ugly miles. The speed limit carreens between 70 and 55 and 60, with Georgia Highway Patrol lurking behind every concrete barricade. By the time we finally rolled in, it was after 7:30 and no one (including the furry four footed passengers) had eaten dinner.

But now, after some take out from the Italian restaurant on the corner, a glass of wine, and a brand new episode of ER on TV (the first TV I've watched in two weeks!), we're all feeling better. And, by the way, in case you're wondering why we're always staying in La Quinta Inns - they're all dog-friendly. (Magic and Molly have been conversing with the rather noisy West Highland Terrier and miniature dachsund in the room next door to prove it.)

Tomorrow it's on to Lexington. I'm anticipating a much nicer journey through the Smoky Mountains (my favorite part of the trip).

And on Saturday, the flatlands of Ohio.

And then, home.

Brrr-acing!

"Brrr" is not a sound I usually make when I'm in southwest Florida, but today's weather can best be described as "bracing." It's a brisk 47 degrees here this morning, with a very respectable 20 mile per hour wind. As I said, brrrrr. Anyway, the dogs like it - they much prefer cool weather-and it wasn't terribly unpleasant on our morning walk, since the sun continues to sparkle brightly on the lakes.

I'm bracing myself for the trip home tomorrow, for leaving this quiet paradise and returning to life in the "real" world. The aspect was complicated yesterday morning, by a phone call from the director of my mother in law's assisted living facility, informing us they were taking her to the ER. We had already heard she was ill with a gastrointestinal flu sweeping the rounds of the place, and she had become severely dehydrated. After talking to a nurse at the hospital later in the day, it appears she may also have pneumonia.

Although my mother in law is 87 and severely demented, she's also in generally good physical health. It would not surprise me one bit to see her rally from this and return to her post on the sofa in the "family room" at Chestnut Village. And while I certainly don't wish her any harm, it occurs to me that perhaps easing out of life at this point would not be the worst that could happen. In previous centuries, pneumonia was euphemistically termed the "old person's friend," a fairly quick and painless exit when life was at its nadir. In modern times, a few rounds of IV antibiotics often performs the "miracle cure" that was impossible 100 years ago.

So we will be mindful of her condition as we travel northward. I feel badly that she's alone in the hospital now with no one there to speak to her or for her. I can't help but project myself into that possible future, for one day I too will be old, and "depending on the kindness of strangers."

Life is always surprising isn't it, whether it's the chill of an unexpected wind, or the telephone call bringing disturbing news.

You just have to be braced and ready.

Clean Slate-2008

Today, of course, is the traditional Day of Resolution- promises we make to ourselves, things we aim to do in the coming year. It's hard to resist the allure of all those blank calendar pages, those 365 empty squares waiting expectantly to be filled. They represent a fresh start, an opportunity to be reborn, to live life differently.

I've had my fill of resolutions though - they always disappoint me. Or, more precisely, I always disappoint myself with my inability to keep them. Were I to make resolutions today (which I'm not mind you, I'm just saying...) they would likely include things like this~

*Be healthier~I feel stagnant in my body, in a way that I haven't experienced for a long time. I crave more movement, more walking, stretching, dancing. I crave eating less food, and eating better quality food, meaning I'll be jumping on the organic band wagon. I may declare a vegetarian day once each week (the meat and potato lover in my house will have to live with it, or go out to eat!) I feel the need to take better care of this physical plant I'm living in.

*Make better use of my time ~author Laraine Herring, in her book Writing Begins with the Breath, wrote this : "Despite all our time-saving devices, many of us feel like we have less time than ever before. That's not true. We have the same time as we've always had. It's our perception of that time that has gotten off balance. We haven't shortened the day or the hour; we have increased what we're filling that time with, and for many of us, what we fill our hours with are distractions from the very thing we say we want more of - a present moment." She advises, "re-evaluate your relationship to time." Be aware of the way you spend your time, and fill the hours "consciously." As this year progresses, I hope to become more conscious of the fruitful, fulfilling ways I spend time, thus appreciating the things I do accomplish. Conversely, this means less dwelling on all the things I didn't get done, an activity I engage in far too often.

In 2008 I would like to forge a deeper connection with the people I love, engage my creative spirit in new ways, and enhance my abilities in the creative pursuits I already practice.

Not resolutions, really, just my hopes and dreams for all those brand new days ahead.

~Wishing you godspeed in this New Year, and may all your hopes and dreams become realities!~

Outside the Oasis

There are a plethora of gated communities here in Florida, man made villages of homes tucked behind lush landscaping and pastel colored stucco walls. Many of them are associated with golf courses, and the astronomical maintenance fees that go with all that. Our community is not such a one, but, in my estimation, the lack of golf greens is more than assuaged by the miles of inland lakes and arched bridges. Within easy walking distance are tennis courts, fitness center, and a large, sparkling pool. Also a cafe to grab lunch, and a salon for hair and nails. Add to that a bank, post office, gas station, and life is nearly complete within the confines of these five square miles. Real estate advertising often refers to Island Walk as "resort style living," and that isn't hyperbole.

So we find ourselves rarely venturing outside this oasis. It's our personal paradise, quiet, calm, and lovely. The city of Naples is a continual bustle of beautiful people enjoying their very riche lifestyle, and I certainly don't fit into that mold. It's fun to watch (for a while) but it's not me.

The outside world intruded on us yesterday morning when we awoke to find egg splattered on the screen of our lanai and on the slider door outside the master bedroom. This happens occasionally in our suburban Detroit neighborhood, and we shake out heads but aren't terribly surprised.

We were surprised that it happened here, and aparently we've developed a false sense of security. Island Walk is obviously not as insulated from "the real world" as we liked to believe. And while an occasional egg tossing/toilet papering spree isn't the harbinger of doom, it serves to remind me that perfection is simply not possible-even in "paradise."

So I'll adjust my expectations a bit. After living on planet earth for 50-plus years, I'm accustomed to doing that. We cleaned off the screens without too much fuss, and used the opportunity to hose down the lanai floor (which needed doing anyway). The dogs had great fun playing in the water, and now everything is clean and shiny once more.

Except my image of our oasis, which is just slightly tarnished.

Frump City

The mirror is definitely not my best friend these days. With great dismay, I feel myself drifting across that invisible line into OL-ism. Perhaps it's the elastic waist pants I've come to favor, taking great pains to conceal the waist band by layering blouses over T-shirts. Or maybe it's my hair, which seems bent on misbehaving badly in the Florida humidity, turning my usual soft waves into unmanageable frizzy curls. My skin looks unhealthily pale amidst the sunshine and bright colors of the tropics, and my makeup seems fruitless in its quest to conceal an ever growing numbers of lines and creases.

I don't consider myself terribly vain about my appearance, and although I like to dress stylishly, I'm not a trend fiend. I generally buy a couple of nice pieces a year, at Talbots or Coldwater Creek, and the rest of my clothes are pretty casual pants and sweaters which suit me for work and for leisure activities.

But in the past few years, it's become more difficult to stay current without looking ridiculous. The new "baby doll" tops are a case in point. I wore that very same style in the late 60's when I was a tiny waisted teenager. The effect now is simply not the same. I merely look like exactly what I am - a slightly puffy middle aged woman trying to appear stylish. Sad.

A while ago I saw an elderly woman ( a real OL!) tottering through the airport in spike heels, tight black low rise pants, and a fake fur jacket. My god, I thought, spare me from ever being so foolish! At least elastic waist pants don't send everyone around me into fits of derisive laughter.

Nevertheless, especially when I'm here in Southwest Florida, a land of beautiful people wearing very expensive clothes, I feel especially old and out of date. I haven't updated my Florida wardrobe in a few years, and it's in desperate need of revitalizing. I simply must have one or two outfits to wear downtown for dinner at Bistro 821 or lunch on the patio at Campiello's. But I dread the whole shopping experience, which just serves to make me feel frumpier than I already do.

Alternatively, I could just stay home, which becomes ever more appealing as the crowds and traffic thicken for the "season." Then I can be comfy in my old (elastic waist) Capri's or the soft, flowy cotton sundresses my daughter-in-law brings back from Thailand.

Besides, frumpy feels better than fashionable anyway.

And So This Is Christmas

Or the day after, to be exact. It's a bit peculiar for this Michigander to be sitting outdoors on a December afternoon, listening to palm fronds whisking in the breeze, blessedly barefooted and wearing tank top and Capri's.

Peculiar, but not unpleasant. Not at all.

We arrived late afternoon on Christmas Eve, just in time for all the grocery stores to close. No matter - we made do with some of the emergency rations from the freezer (Stouffers lasagna and garlic bread). There was plenty of wine in the rack to wash it down with.

Christmas morning dawned cloudy and cool, but the dogs woke us early anyway, so excited to be here, anxious for a walk and a game of fetch. We spent a quiet afternoon with Brian and Nantana, and then all drove to my dad's house where his wife prepared a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. It's funny, but if someone had told me five years ago that I would one day sit down to dinner with my father and "that woman" and actually enjoy it, I would have said they were completely crazy. But I realize now that all the anger and animosity I harbored toward them at the time of my parents divorce was more detrimental to me than anyone else. It's good to let go of that - not easy, certainly, but necessary in order to be healthy.

Today was back to business as usual, and a trip to Publix was definitely in order.
The thing about having a vacation "home," (as opposed to staying in a hotel) is that someone has to do all those "homey" things. That someone is usually me.
So, a couple of hours and $200 later, the larder is well stocked once again. Some fruits, vegetables, and yogurt for snacking, fresh organic chicken breasts (some for us, some for the puppies), fixings for salads, and a restock on the emergency freezer rations (Bertoli Dinner for Two in a bag).

After another hour with a broom and some spray cleaner, the lanai was ready for use. And that's where I've landed, bare feet propped up, a dog on each side, blue sky overhead, a cold drink, and you :)

Definitely the preferred way to spend an afternoon in December.


How about you? How's your day after Christmas?

Tales from the Road

Dateline: Macon, Georgia, Sunday, 11:00 p.m.

We've exhausted the channel lineup on the tv here at the LaQuinta Inn. The dogs have made their last trek around the perimeter of the hotel. Magic has watered every lamppost and sniffed every tree. Molly is stretched full length on her purple blanket, nose tucked neatly between her front paws, while Magic has appropriated the left side of the king sized bed (Jim's side -ha!)

My dogs are amazingly flexible creatures. From the moment we set out on this three day journey, they seemed to know we were in for a long haul. They accommodate themselves nicely in the car, taking turns lying on the pillow in my lap or perching on the console between the two front seats. They communicate in silent signals, rising from one spot in unison and trading places efficiently and neatly before going back to sleep. Like any couple in a long term relationship, they've learned the give and take required to keep things on an even keel.

I'm happy to say, we all seem to be faring quite well on this trip - I'm resigned to eating junk food for three days, and Jim has accepted the fact that there will be crumbs on the black suede seats in his car. And, by the way, we are cruising smoothly and easily, courtesy of the Hemi engine in his new Dodge Charger. We traversed the hills and dales of the Smokies without a hitch.

Speaking of the Smokies, I am in love with those glorious Smoky mountains, even on a day like today, when the trees were all brown and bare, and the mountain tops were wreathed in wisps of grey fog. They are majestic and fearsome, emerging victorious after the endless flatlands of Ohio. I am most proud of my southern heritage when I travel through those mountains, imagining Daniel Boone (a distant relative of mine, so I'm told) trekking across that green land, and fording the Cumberland River. Yes, in terms of the view from the road, today was my favorite day.

Now we've reached the tail end of Georgia, and there's nothing really pretty to look at anymore. Tomorrow brings the endless wilderness that is I-75 in Florida, the view unbroken save for high brick walls shielding the latest luxury community from the eyes of prying motorists. It's always a bit disheartening crossing the border into Florida, and knowing there are still about five hours of driving left to do - and that's if you're lucky and don't find yourself embroiled in one of the Florida's famous traffic jams (shudder).

And I'm thinking I should probably go to bed, so I'll be bright eyed and bushy tailed for the remainder of my road trip.

It's been a quiet trip so far - and quiet is good.

I'll see you on the other side.

Loose Ends

It's been a gathering up sort of day, a day of sweeping all the loose ends together, fumbling to tie them neatly into some sort of functional bow. I feel a bit like the pioneer women must have felt, trying to muster their families together before that huge trek across the prairie and over the mountains. Oh sure, I'm just traveling 1200 miles in a very nice car with two little dogs and one middle aged man (and all our respective "stuff"), but the journey looms large, and the loose ends today were many and scattered.

Although we frequently travel back and forth between our northern and southern homes, we usually go via air, and typically spend less than a week away. It's been two years since we've made this road trip with dogs in tow. That last time, I remember looking forward to it with a childlike enthusiasm, anticipating a big adventure. This time, it seems somehow more difficult, both physically and emotionally, and the whole event smacks of drudgery more than excitement.

I'm a terrible artist, but if I were to draw a self portrait (in stick figure style) you would see a tiny person with very long arms being stretched in two different directions. One part of me pulled inexorably toward my only child who lives so away in Florida, the other clasped tightly around my first home, my family, my friends, here in Michigan. Recently, it seems harder to leave all that behind. I worry more - about my mother, who seems to grow more frail before my eyes, my aunt and uncle, afflicted with physical and mental infirmities, even my old house, the roof covered with snow, foot long icicles hanging from the rafters. I feel loathe to desert these people and things who need me, I feel guilty about stealing this time for myself.

But there is one loose end that dangles in the back of my mind, and this is the one that I must always force myself to acknowledge, and then whisk firmly away, much as I do the cobwebs that form in ceiling corners.

Among the women in my family - my mother, my aunt, my grandmother- lies this penchant to become so entrenched in the safety of home that they never leave. A reluctance to travel on long trips, becomes a reluctance to go out to dinner, becomes a reluctance to leave the house at all.

I'm starting to understand that. I'm starting to feel that.

But, I'm fighting it. And this trip is a major battle.

I'm sitting now in my study, surrounded by wrapped gifts for my son and my daughter in law, and for my father and his wife, suitcases with books, tote bags with food (doggy and human) - some of the loose ends I've been trying to tie together all day. It's long past the time I should have gone to bed. Yet, I'm reluctant to let this day come to an end. Because tomorrow means a huge journey, and there is reluctance in my heart...

Tying up loose ends, putting all the pieces together - some of the things I'll be thinking about as I travel the interstate over the next three days.

I'll keep you posted.

Finis

Should you be wondering whether I managed to complete my gargantuan list of "must do" tasks at the office, I'm happy to reassure you that, yes indeed, through an effort of superhuman willpower, I did complete every report, letter and other sundry assignment (including collecting for and purchasing a group gift for my boss) right on schedule today at 12:00 p.m.

Yes!

And now, I can officially turn my attention to the business of holiday making. You see, I never seem to become fully cognizant of the fact that it's Christmas until about three days before the actual day. Oh, you mean today is December 20th? That means we're leaving here in two days, so anything I'm going to accomplish for Christmas festivities in Michigan has to be done - tomorrow?

Yes.

Well.

As I was blog surfing today, I read the words of a very wise woman who reassured me that it's okay if I'm not in a "happy, elfin, north pole place" at this time of the year. I'm not alone, she reminded me gently, in the kind of sad, Eyyore-ish place I tend to visit every December.

And then she gave me this advice:

"If you are to make this month bearable, or even good, you must try to be alone with yourself some — in a good way, not in a dour, isolated way. Doing that is the spiritual and psychological equivalent of standing up straight, with your weight evenly distributed on your feet. When you stand that way, no matter how hard the gales blow, you won’t fall."

And of course, that's what is lacking, what is always lacking for me - enough time to be alone with myself in a good way. As I write those words, I think you all must get tired of hearing me whine about my persistent lack of time. Why doesn't she just fix her schedule, you're probably thinking. Why doesn't she just become better organized or change her life so she has more time?

That's a good question.

But I can't really answer it now - or even think about how to answer it - because tonight I'm visiting my aunt and uncle, tomorrow I will be hitting a bunch of stores helping get my mom prepared for being on her own for two weeks, picking up a few last minute gifts, wrapping things, doing laundry, checking in on my mother in law, and trying to figure out what/where/how to pack all the things I want to take with me.

And it may be that I actually have more time than I think, more time than most people have. But it also may be that I simply need more time - to be alone, to brace myself against the world. I crave simplicity and order, two commodities that seem awfully hard to come by in this 21st century world.

So I'll be looking for some of that "good time alone" during the next couple of weeks when I'm in Florida, some time to stand straight with my feet firmly planted on the ground. But I'm not sure if I can put myself in that "elfin, north pole kind of place" this month, even thought it sounds like a good place to be.

Maybe next year.

Meltdown

It's not the snow that's melting - it's me.

You see, I had this grand plan for getting all my office work done before we pack up and hit the highway on Saturday. I've been working "ahead" in my job for the past couple of weeks, so that I could have all the work for next week finished and turned in before we leave.

Oh yes, I had it all figured out so perfectly. And I was right on schedule, too -even enough ahead of myself that I felt comfortable going in an hour later than usual, stopping to do some errands on the way in.

But it all went haywire. The nurses seemed to have worked overtime this week, and my boss (whose Executive Assistant I have recently become) decided to catch up on all her paperwork and correspondence. The result was a veritable cascade of new reports, letters, reviews, etc. -all for me to finish by Thursday.

I had a moment of real panic, about 1:30. In addition to everything else, I missed lunch, so my blood sugar chose that moment to plummet, sending my spirits with it.

After a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup, I rallied a bit, and came up with a plan. I took a few extra minutes to organize my thoughts and my paper flow, and settled in to work. A marketing rep from a home health care agency stopped by with a big box of truffles, and that perked me up even more. I' m not out of the woods yet, but I think I'll make it - barring any more unexpected assignments!

There was a point in all this madness today when I felt like throwing in the towel. Forget traveling, I was tempted to say, there's simply no way I can ever get it all done. There's still shopping to do, still people to visit, still Christmas-y type things I need to get done. Not to mention trying to figure out all the things I need to pack for three days in the car (with dogs).
I need diversions big time - books on CD, movies to watch on my laptop, snacks (truffles?). I'll never make it!

Then I thought about my lovely, quiet house in Florida. Being able to talk walks around the lakes every day, go to the pool, lie in the sun, eat meals on the lanai. Oh, my.

(Deep breath.)

Time to buck up and get the job done.

I'll save the melting for the Florida sunshine.

Winter Wonderland

For once, the weather forecasters were right on the money...as we slept, peacefully unaware, the snow kept coming, silently, stealthily, and so we awoke to bushes laden with heaping helpings of white, to the wind whistling around the south side of the house, and to the faint rumblings of thunder - yes, thunder snow, the meteorologists are calling it. It sounds like a locomotive traveling along a far distant track.

Here's what I love best about snowstorms -they force me to be quiet. After all, no one in their right mind would go out this morning. (Notwithstanding those crazy folks just featured on the news who made their way to Target at 7:00 a.m. just to get a Wii - remember, I did say no one in their right mind.) And so I have to stay home - there's no reason to risk life and limb for groceries at the market, or toiletries at Walgreen's, for a rehearsal at church, or even books at the library.

But it's sad, isn't it, that it takes an act of God to make me be still? It's a measure of how much I need this quiet that last night and this morning are the most content, the most relaxed, dare I say the most happy, days I've experienced in the past three weeks.

Why can't I impose stillness on myself once in a while? Write a prescription for it, deliver an executive order straight from the head honcho in charge of my life (that would be me, believe it or not!)

Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom, has given me this snowy, blustery day. A day to hunker down, put on another pot of coffee, maybe whip up a batch of cinnamon waffles or a rich ham and cheese omelet. There's a tall bookstack on my bedside table, a batch of Christmas cards that still need addresses, and a pretty new notebook I've been thinking about writing in.

The TV news people call it a blizzard.

I call it a gift.

A Mantel of White

They've been promising it all day, those weather forecasters relishing the role of doomsayer, announcing it with childlike glee and an unnatural twinkle in their eye, this impending snowstorm that could layer as much as eight inches of snow on our nice dry ground. "Punishing winds," they warn, "hazardous roads" and "blizzard conditions" will prevail, so be ready.

I've been out and about all day- running errands this morning, attending a matinee performance at a local theater this afternoon, stopping for a quick dinner before Jim went off to a rehearsal - and though there were no visible snowflakes, I could feel them hanging over my head, the cloud covered sky thick with cold moisture that seeped over the earth, penetrating even my warmest winter coat.

In the time it took for us to scarf down an Arby's (fast food-a sure sign of an overly busy schedule) the clouds let loose and snow started falling, leaving a light coating on the pavement. Luckily, it wasn't yet heavy enough to require brushing off the car. But since I've been home, cranked up the heat, hurried the dogs outside to take care of business before things get too dicey, and changed into my warm fuzzies, it's started to increase in intensity. The grass has disappeared, and so has the pavement, the flakes fat and wet as they fall in the reflection from the floodlight on the garage.

I like snow, when I'm warm and toasty inside. My stereo is playing Josh Groban's new Christmas CD, because the weather outside seems to call for such seasonal songs. I'm about to open a bottle of red wine, because I need something with a little more heft than the icy Chardonnay I generally favor. I have a Netflix I've been hoarding for just such a night, when the big screen TV is mine alone. Dare I say it -I feel content - a welcome change from the general malaise of the past few weeks.

The week ahead will be fast and furious. I'm trying to squeeze in a two week's worth of work, in preparation for leaving town on Saturday. I have to get in all my Christmas visits, get the dogs haircuts and baths, make sure my mom is stocked up on groceries and all her medications before I go, wrap some presents, send out the Christmas cards...

Oh, stop, I'm ruining my own mood already.

For the moment, let me just have a little peace and quiet, while the snow falls gently and silently onto the ground.

Distancing Myself

Although the poet says "April is the cruelest month," in my experience, December bears that distinction. Every year it becomes harder for me to bear the expectations, the obligations, the commercialization, the frenzy that surrounds the holidays occurring in this last month of the year.

In my childhood, I adored Christmas - especially the tree. I was enthralled by the concept of bringing a real tree into the house! My dad and grandfather struggling to straighten it in the red metal stand, my mother and grandmother shouting directions - "over this way!" "No, it's leaning forward!" "to the right a little more!" - until finally it was secured, and we could hang the ornaments. Each one of my favorites would could out of a little nest in it's plastic container, and I could carefully hook the skinny metal wire over the tree branch. Once the ornaments were hung, the multi-colored lights casting a rosy glow over the room, I would get my favorite book and blanket, curl up under the tree, and read until bedtime.

Of course, the food was wonderful at Christmas time. My grandmother, a true Southern cook, always filled the house with smells of pies and cakes, baked ham, roasted turkey with her incomparable homemade cornbread stuffing...it's no wonder I had to buy my clothes in the the "Chubby" department.

My childhood Christmas' were idyllic - at least in retrospect. I wonder if the adults in my family felt as harried and cynical about the season then as I feel about it now. I hope not - I like to believe in the image of a simpler time, when life was less driven by consumerism and greed.

I blame my husband for the way my feelings about December have changed - or at least, my husband's family. My in-laws were two of the most difficult people I have ever met. They were argumentative, pessimistic, and generally joyless. Yet they had this "thing" about holidays - the family was supposed to be together, even if "the family" was fractured, dysfunctional, and miserable. I rarely enjoyed Christmas - or any holiday for that matter - after I met Jim.

Even though they are no longer in the picture - my father in law long dead, and my mother in law lost in her own demented world where holidays no longer exist - the holiday season is fraught with too many unvoiced obligations and expectations. They weigh on my mind and heart, collecting steam like an avalanche, as the days of the month roll by.

In recent years, I've been distancing myself from December, backing up to the periphery of the month and peering in at all the hype and hoopla. I procrastinate all the December duties as long as I can, somehow hoping that the spirit will strike me before the stores have sold all the good gifts, and I've let all the postal deadlines pass.

I would like to be able to throw myself into the preparations for this season, to have high hopes and glorious expectations. I want more than anything to have one shining moment during these December days when I feel at peace. But, I can't bring myself to step closer, to bridge that distance between me and December.

So here I am, on the outside looking in, a wallflower at the December dance.

Biding my time 'til it's over.