Frankie and Grace

Years ago, someone recommended the Netflix series Frankie and Grace starting Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin who are two women in their seventies whose husbands leave the women for each other.

I never got around to watching it before, but I kept it in the back of my mind. I was at the gym and needed something to watch, so I tried this and I was pleasantly surprised. Fonda and Tomlin are two brilliant and funny actresses whose characters need to start over late in life. They never expected to be divorced. The best part of the show is how these two very different women become friends.  One is an uptight socialite, and the other is a hippie art teacher. It is about the power of friendship from unlikely places. Because they are so different, they push and challenge each other that they need to be pushed. I am not talking about control or crazy, but encouragement and support and making them think about the world from a different view.

It makes me think of my friendships. Most of my friends are just like me--middle aged white women--which is fine. The interesting thing is I learn so much more from friends who aren't like me, who come from different backgrounds or careers or are not within five years of my age. My similar friends provide support and stability. They are predictable. Friends who are not like me make my life richer and more interesting. They have a different view of the world than I do, which helps my mind to expand. I am challenged in good ways.

Of course, there needs to be something that can pull people from different walks to life together. Sometimes it is work, or a class. I met Eleanor Owen at a writing class at the University of Washington. She was twice my age, born the same year as my grandmother. She loved hearing the gossip of my life, and I loved to tell her. In this book I am reading, Platonic: How the Science of Attachment Can Help You Make--and Keep--Friends, says that friendships and connection are correlated to longevity. No wonder Eleanor Owen lived to be 101. No wonder she died during the pandemic.

I am still loving my art class, where I meet women from all over Seattle, all ages, different backgrounds, all trying to learn a new art form. I don't know if I'll become close friends with anyone in the class, but who knows? Maybe.

This week's painting a still life in three tones (dark, medium and light) in less than forty brush strokes. 

Phoenix Reborn

I love the metaphor of the phoenix, burning and reborn, the cycle of as something dies, something else comes to life.

I had a therapist who a few years ago asked me what I wanted. I didn't understand the question. I was so busy orbiting everyone else in my life, I couldn't even imagine what I wanted. 

This week, I signed up for an oil painting class. I went dancing. I went to a driving range and hit a bucket of golf balls. I had my usual piano lesson and then Saturday saw Carmina Burana at the PNB.

It was a busy week, but much needed. 

The oil painting class is at the Seattle Artists League in Georgetown. I took a watercolor class years ago at the Art Institute in Chicago with my friend H. The class was her idea, and she caught on quickly. She could paint pearls in watercolor, which is really hard because in watercolor you can't paint something white. If you want something white in watercolor, you have to leave it unpainted, which is trippy.

The class was harder for me, but years later I remembered those skills. When Ada died, I painted birds. When I was pregnant with Claire-Adele, I painted beluga whales. 

There is something joyful and challenging about learning something new. It is fun and scary and hard and thrilling before the peaceful phase where you are confident that you can do it, that you are good enough and mildly competent.

The art teacher had low expectations for the first week, as we learned about looking for darkness and light in what painted.

"This is not going to hang on your living room wall," she said. 

We painted a stack of desks against a wall. This was an exercise, warm-up, practice. The idea is to teach us technique so later we can try to paint whatever we want, whatever inspires us. Like bouncing a tennis ball on your racquet before attempting to hit the ball across the net, or blowing bubbles in the water before swimming across the pool. It was fun and freeing but with boundaries.

The Phoenix is Burning

The phoenix is a mythological bird that when it is old and dying, burns into a bright flame. From the ashes, the phoenix is reborn.

If my life were a phoenix, the phoenix is burning.

The hard part of having your life burn down is having faith that this is a necessary albeit painful step to greater happiness and peace. I have to have faith that my life will be reborn, recreated, better than it is today.

The burning is necessary. The old must be destroyed so new growth can emerge.

Thinking

Last week, a friend said that I "overthink." I was a little miffed, but I knew they were right. (They under-think, but whatever.)

As you may know, I am in a twelve step program to better cope with...life, I guess. Anyway, I am reading the Big Book from A.A. with my sponsor. Everywhere the book says "drinking," we replace it with "thinking."

Tonight, I was thinking. I lost my emotional sobriety, big time. It was like I was on a bender in my brain. I ended up going to a meeting where I could be with other people who are not trying to think, too. It worked. I felt like a beginner, like I was starting over. In my life, I am starting over, brand new, square one; hence, the thinking.

Platonic, and Sweet & Salty

Jack and I are getting a divorce. We are in the final stages of signing the paperwork. I won't get into all of the gory details, in part because I don't fully understand the narrative of why I am getting divorced. This is hard for me to wrap my head around, which is driving me crazy. I am a writer. I need stories to explain what happened, but in this case, I am not sure what the story is. I am learning to accept that I will very likely never fully understand what happened.

Sorry I haven't told you all until now. I don't want to write about what happened, but I do want to explore what comes next. (The short version: I have no idea, and I am mildly terrified.)

I have friends who want me to start dating, getting on apps and whatnot. Which is interesting. I am not sure of their motivation for wanting me to partner up, but whatever. Instead of diving into dating apps, I ordered Platonic: How the Science of Attachment Can Help You Make--and Keep--Friends by Marisa G. Franco, PhD. I want to shore up my base of women friends for support before I dive into the dating pool. If I don't, I could end up in a bad relationship just because I am lonely, which would not be good.

The book was in my mailbox when I got back from my trip and I've just started reading it. It is both perplexing and fascinating so far. The author begs the question as to why we place such a high value on romantic relationships, and a lesser value on friendships. This is an interesting point. Yet, she says "the same factors make all relationships succeed--familial, romantic and platonic" and "friendship is what gives romantic loves its strength and endurance." I agree. Even though I am getting divorced, one of the  great successes of my marriage is that we were friends for a large part of it.

I have a living example of a healthy bond under my own roof. This summer, Pedro's girlfriend lived with me. She is a lovely young woman. I swear to god Pedro and his girlfriend have the healthiest relationship I've seen in ages. Like seriously, they are far more advanced than lots of my adult friends. I am a middle-aged woman getting a primer on what a normal relationship looks like from teenagers. 

Nevertheless, I can learn, regardless of the source. I know they don't have the stress of paying a mortgage, kids and a dog, but still I admire how they treat each other. They are very affectionate, and yet they still give each other shit. She can talk to him directly, and he doesn't get reactive or defensive, nor turn into a whimpering, moody, doormat. It is a god damn miracle. They both have down and out crappy days, and the other one takes it in stride.

Over a game of Phase 10 tonight, we were discussing what is a healthy personality mix for a relationship, knowing all relationships will have a different flavor profile. They are about 70% sweet, 30% salty. Too much salt would be bad (obviously), but so is too much sugar.

"If you are only sweet, you can come across as clingy or needy," Pedro said. I had never thought of it that way before, but he has a point. I had never differentiated between salty and mean. By salty I am not talking about being hurtful or sarcastic. To me, salty is direct, teasing and poking fun. It is a healthy and loving way to express frustration and annoyance.

Subconscious, and What is Bad Now Can be Good Later

I have been curious about my subconscious lately how it works. I think of my memory like layers of sedimentary rocks. My earliest memories are buried at the bottom, dark and unseen. I might not remember what is there, but is it all part of my mind, who I am.

I think of all my memories are accessible, but some are in deep storage and others are available for me to use on a daily basis. Those memories in deep storage are what make up my subconscious. They are there, in my every day life, shaping and influencing who and what I am, even though I am not aware.

Sometimes we discover something about our lives that we thought was true, something fundamental, and then we find out that it isn't true. When we lie to our own hearts, it isn't just ourselves we hurt. We indirectly lie to other people as we tell them the same lie we are telling ourselves. That can be traumatic, a real mind fuck, as a memories are imbedded one way, packed deeply and safely in our minds, and then we discover that isn't really the case. It is like the foundation of a house has been turned to quicksand, unstable and unsteady. The act of revisiting and resetting these memories in a new context can be brutal and traumatic. The longer the lie has been lived, the more memories there are to be reconciled, the bigger the shake-up and trauma.

Hopefully, the new truth gets reconciled over time, and the foundation becomes solid again. This time, the foundation is built on a new truth. Rebuilding the foundation is difficult and messy. The shift to the new world view is painful.

The upheaval is hard while it is happening, but that is not the end. Sometimes what is bad today can be good for later. When one person stops lying to themselves, they can stop the indirect lying to others. If what is true in people's hearts comes out. The new foundation will hopefully be more solid and stable, and in the end, everyone is better off. 

Honest Eeyore or Other

Marta's husband's memorial service was this weekend. I've known Marta since middle school and I flew to Ohio for the occasion. No funeral could be described as fun, but there are more or less uplifting funerals.

This one was on the darker side, not uplifting. I wasn't sure what to feel afterwards. It wasn't so much sadness versus an emptiness.

At work Tuesday, I was in a meeting with the CIO of my company. She is about my age, and she asked how the holiday weekend was before the meeting officially started. I mentioned I was in Ohio for a memorial service for my friend's husband. 

"Oh that is too bad," she said, like a normal person with a reasonable amount of empathy would. I failed to mention the suicide. 

"Well it has been okay," I said. "I got to see some friends I haven't seen in a while, so that was nice."

Right, that was true. I got to see some friends and it was nice. I connected with one friend who I hadn't seen since I graduated from high school. 

Here is the deal: I lied. I wasn't honest. I know I don't need to tell everyone everything all the time. I get that. I said some BS and tried to make this positive. I said I did get to see friends--which was nice, but I didn't say the whole purpose of the trip has me deeply saddened. There is something nice about being supporting a friend in a time of need, for sure, but overall this was very sad. There are no two ways about this.

I was afraid that if I was honest I'd look like Eeyore. Sad, mopey, Eeyore. One of my biggest fears is that I will look like Eeyore. 

Is it a bad thing to be Eeyore? I'll need to read Winnie the Pooh again to see what the real story of Eeyore is, but I remember reading somewhere that even though Eeyore is depressed, his friends still love him and don't try to change him. They accept Eeyore for who he is. 

If I could wave a wand and go back, what would I have said differently? What would have been honest and short and sweet and not full of bullshit?

"It was hard, really hard. I was glad to be there to support my friend, but the situation was tragic and traumatic. Suicide rips the souls of the survivors."

I wish I would have chosen Eeyore instead of "other."

Suffering & Demons

This weekend, I am going to a memorial for a friend's husband who committed suicide. Clearly, this was a traumatic event for her and her children.

The guy who killed himself was a difficult man. He was plagued by many demons and he acted out in ways that caused harm to those he claimed he loved. Yet, I can still grieve for a man who suffered so much in his life. I can grieve that the best way for him to deal with his demons was to hurt others and himself. I can grieve for him because he was not able to find peace or serenity in his earthly life.