Where I am I Supposed to Be, and Creative

Last Sunday, I had no plans except for a yoga class and to finish a project for the Eileen Fischer Renew Chop Challenge where we take scraps of old clothes and make them into something new. I had been working on my project for a few weeks, and I needed to add the final touches.

I was kind of depressed because I had "nothing to do," nothing formally scheduled or planned. Claire-Adele and I were working on our upcoming trip, which was fun, but otherwise I was feeling sluggish and uncomfortable because of my lack of plans. I was antsy.

I was talking to one of my friends who is in the same boat I am in: getting a divorce and having an empty nest.

"We never had to think of what to do before because there always was so much to do. We were at the mercy of other people's schedules," she said. "And hanging out with out kids because they were home was something to do. We didn't need to make plans."

I wish I had practiced doing my own thing more when I my kids were still in the house, carving out time and space for myself -- doing what do I want to do, not just tackling at the pile of stuff that needed to be done.

Sunday morning, I kept looking at my scrap project, knowing I needed to finish it. I'd look at it, and I'd look at the pile of remaining scraps. I'd add a stitch here, and then do the dishes. I'd come back to the couch where I was sewing, and add a few more stitches. I'd read a little bit of Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr, and then I'd add a few more stitches to balance it out.

What I thought was going to be a miserable and depressing day because I had "nothing to do" ended up being wildly creatively productive. I needed that down time and space to ponder.

There is an expression for people recovering from challenges: "You are exactly where you are supposed to be." I had always thought that was bullshit. There have been some amazingly awful times in my life and I can't reconcile the concept of "That was exactly where I was supposed to be" with death and disaster, or cleaning up the aftermath. Yet, now I find it to be true. The harder part is when we run away from where we are supposed to be, whether by actively avoiding it or numbing out. "Grief waits" is a phrase I vividly remember after Ada died. When I felt sad and was in mourning, I felt sad, but I wasn't sad about being sad. I knew I needed to grieve, and that grieving, while painful, is actually healthy. I now think that "being where we are supposed to be means" that we feel the way we feel, and we don't feel bad about it or avoid it.

Last Sunday was uncomfortable, but it I was exactly where I needed to be. I needed to sit with the discomfort. Now, I can have a day with not much planned, and feel okay. I see it as an opportunity to chose what I want to do, not as a burden for me to slog through. 

Bunny's dress is made out of the cuff of a dress shirt. 

I never would have thought of this without spare time. :)

Sauna

I read 

somewhere

that 

sitting in a sauna

four times a week 

will prevent

dementia.

So I go to the sauna

Downstairs

in my health club

telling myself

"this is good for me."

Why can't I just go

because it is fun

and warm

and relaxing, 

making me happy 

and bringing me peace?

Why can't 

that 

be enough?

Or is it 

the other way 

around?

Maybe the sauna is good for me

because it is good for me

like reading a book

or tending a garden

or calling a friend

or holding a dog

or sunshine.

Maybe it is good

because it is good.

"Dog Sitting on Newspapers"

Hoarding

I took a few art history classes in college and I loved them. My modern art class was perhaps my favorite class I took in college. My dad gently nudged me away from art history into something more practical, like math. Which was fine. I loved math, too.

Paul Allen died in 2018, and left behind a most impressive art collection. It was all put on the auction block last week at Christie's. The collection sold for more than $1.6 billion.

So the guy is dead. And he had great taste in art, or he had enough money that he could afford great taste in art.

Before the art was sold, it was put on display. Thousands of people lined up to see it. I never would thought that people would go see art that is up for sale, but they did because they might not ever get a chance to see these masterpieces again. After the sale, the art will likely go to private homes instead of to museums.

I wish Allen would have donated the art to a museum, even if he made his own museum. He already did with MoPop, a museum that celebrates pop culture. He could have given the art to the SAM, or multiple museums. The Met takes art collections from single donors, as it did from Robert Lehman, scion of Lehman Brothers.

I have another question -- is it really great art if no one sees it? The paintings aren't famous--they are the opposite: they are private. No one knows the names of these paintings. They won't be studied in art history classes, which I think is tragic. I can understand that people want to own masterpieces, and I don't want to discourage that. Yet, I think there is a point where some art should be on public display and shared with community.

Recycled Advice

I was talking to Claire-Adele about this painting class I am taking. Each week we work on a new exercise, like painting in different tones, or making a color chart. Some of the people in it have a decent amount experience and talent. I've never painted with oils before, and it is obvious I am a beginner.

"You have a unique drawing language," the teacher said to me. The poor woman was stretching for something kind and interesting to say about my work. I wanted to reply that last time I took a drawing class was in middle school. My teacher's comment reminded me of when I took a watercolors class in my twenties with my friend H. H was painting pearls (super hard in watercolors) and I was painting a pumpkin (super easy in watercolors.) The teacher walked by and commented on the beautiful shade of orange I created, which is the easiest color to mix. It is impossible to make a bad shade of orange. Did I mention my friend was painting pearls? She was making the color "iridescent" which is way harder than orange.

I was grumbling to Claire-Adele that everyone in the class was better than me and I sucked and blah blah blah. I was having my very own private pity party.

"You aren't there to compete with other people," she said. "You are there to learn and become better than you were before."

I wasn't thrilled with her response, as I wanted empathy, not advice. Nevertheless, she was right. The strange thing was that what she said sounded exactly like something I would have said to her. Here is my daughter, giving me advice, echoing what I have probably told her a thousand times.

So then I called my dad looking for sympathy. Maybe he'd have a story about a time when he was bad at something and he overcame and triumphed.

Nope.

"You aren't there to complete with other people," he said. "You are there to learn and become better than you were before."

I am not kidding Claire-Adele and my dad said the exact same thing to me, probably verbatim. There must magic code that has been culturally imprinted in my family, that is getting passed down. It was interesting to see it so directly passed down within a week.

Cranberry Muffins

I am going to a potluck breakfast tomorrow with some friends. Tonight after work, I made cranberry muffins, a treat I haven't made since I was diagnosed as pre-diabetic. I went out tonight and when I came back, my apartment still smelled like the muffins. Oh how I miss the smell of baking.

For fun, here is the recipe. I found it in a magazine years ago.

MIX-IN MUFFINS

 

This recipe can be prepared in 45 minutes or less. 

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter
1 cup sour cream (I used light sour cream, buttermilk or whole milk yogurt. Straight up sour cream is heavy.)
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla 

Preheat oven to 400°F. and butter twelve 1/3-cup muffin cups. 

Into a bowl sift together flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Melt butter and in a small bowl whisk together with sour cream, egg, and vanilla. Stir butter mixture (and additional ingredients; see note, above) into flour mixture until just combined. Divide batter among muffin cups and bake in middle of oven until golden and a tester comes out clean, about 20 minutes. 

Makes 12 muffins.

Becoming a muffin master is easy. Flavor the basic muffin batter below by adding, for example: - 1 chopped banana and 3/4 cup semisweet chocolate chips - 1 cup toasted almonds, 3/4 cup dried cranberries, and 1/4 teaspoon almond extract - 1 cup chopped drained canned pineapple and 1 cup sweetened flaked coconut - 1 cup chopped dried apricots and 1 tablespoon poppy seeds

Cranberry mix-in:

2 cups cranberries, picked over and rinsed
1 cups sugar
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

In a saucepan combine the cranberries, 1 cup of the sugar, and the nutmeg, cook the mixture over moderately high heat, stirring, until the sugar is dissolved, and boil it, covered, for 3 minutes. Simmer the mixture, uncovered, stirring, for 3 minutes and let it cool. 

296 Pounds

I need to lose 296 pounds...

...of books.

For those of you who have seen my cute little condo, you were probably amazed at the lack of excess crap, that it was a curated and simple place.

No more. This weekend, Pedro and his girlfriend delivered 296 pounds of books from my former home to the condo. Pedro got out my bathroom scale and weighed them. He initially thought it was 200 pounds of books, but girlfriend didn't believe it was that much. I suppose I could weigh the boxes once they are empty, and subtract that. 

What am I going to do with all of these books? I don't have enough shelves in my apartment. 

In a way, it is a little Christmas, getting all of these books that at one point I had been excited about them because I bought them in the first place. Many I have read. Many I have not. I would go to bookstores and buy three or four books, and read two. I found some gems, like my first edition copy of Katharine Graham's autobiography, that I will want on my shelves forever. There are other books I've loved, but would never read again. There are many books I've loved that I have given away to friends. I loved those books so much and I had to share them. A friend gave me Ali Wong's book. The minute I finished it, I gave it to Claire-Adele.

I still love books, but I need to break my book buying habit. I have a friend in my condo building who loves to read, and she swears by the Libby app where you can download library books on your Kindle for free. I have Pedro's old Kindle, which is fine, but I still love paper. When I read on a Kindle, I realize I am not a linear reader, I flip back and forth between chapters, which is hard to do on a Kindle.

Anyway, I have a new project. More to come...

Push vs. Pull

Two weeks, I went contra dancing. During the second dance, the best and most fun guy to watch asked me to dance. I was thrilled. Since he is the best dancer and I am new, I didn't want to ask him to dance. When he asked me, I felt like the belle of the ball.

The rest of the night was downhill. I asked one guy to dance, and he said "No thanks," which was horrific. I nearly died. Another guy asked me to dance, but then he told me I was swinging all wrong. He tried to teach me, but it didn't work so well. He told me I needed to lean back instead of leaning forward. It worked, but not all the way. An elderly gentleman told me I wasn't surrendering to him. Good god I had no idea what that meant.

[For those of you who don't know what a "swing" is, it is when you dance with a partner, one hand on their shoulder and the other hand holding theirs. Then the two spin together like a top. It is similar to waltzing except you stay in one spot instead of moving across the floor. It looks easy, but I couldn't figure it out.]

After that, no one asked me to dance. I was sitting by the sidelines--the last one left--when someone who came back from the bathroom asked me to dance. Not because they had a choice about who to dance with. I was the only one left.

I felt like I had said or done something wrong, but no one told me what it was, like I stepped in dog shit or made an unwittingly cruel or harsh comment that got me shunned by the hive, the swarm. I felt like it wasn't just one person who was giving me the cold shoulder, but all of them, leaving me behind, excluding me. I was dropped. Canceled.

This was depressing. I love to dance. I want to part of the group. I want to be good at this. I didn't know what to do.

I told Pedro the story. 

"So it was a typical Seattle thing, where no one told you directly told you what you did wrong, but you were passive-aggressively shunned?" he replied.

Yes, basically.

"But you know how to dance," said Pedro. "You grew up dancing. You should be able to handle this."

"I know, right?"

But no.

After the dance that horrible night, I went home and I was really upset. Very upset. Instead of quitting, I went online and ordered a new pair of dance shoes from Capezio. I was going to figure this out.

Last Friday, I went early. Before the dance starts, the group offers lessons to newcomers. What I love about this dancing is they teach you the basic steps, and you follow along. There aren't months and months of lessons. There is no choreography. You just show up and follow the caller. Like chess, it takes minutes to learn. Unlike chess, it does not take a lifetime to master. 

Even still, I wasn't getting it. I've danced en pointe, which requires strength, coordination and technique. You don't just sign up for a pointe class and they hand you a pair of toe shoes and they say have fun. Nope. Pointe is like a black belt for ballet. You are told by your teacher when you are ready, often after years of training. This isn't some magical or exclusive thing. You could get seriously hurt if you aren't ready.

And I suck at folk dancing? WTF?

The other thing I know about dance is that you have to accept feedback and correction. All. Of. The. Time. It is a brutal sport when it comes to criticism. I didn't realize how much "feedback" one has to endure in ballet until I took a class as an adult. 

Point your toe.

Lower you hip.

Lift your chin. 

Shoulders back.

Rotate your hand.

And that is for just one position. Rinse and repeat.

When I was a kid, I didn't know how awful this was. I thought a constant flow of correction and adjustments were normal.

Last week before the dance, I was ready. My new shoes arrived at 4:00 p.m. The dance started at seven. I put on a red and yellow flowing skirt and a white shirt. 

I dug deep, deep, deep back into my ballet training: I ate a big slice of humble pie and asked for help. I opened my mind and was ready for a stream of corrections.

I told the group leader that I needed to learn how to swing, and he pointed me to two people--a man and a woman. The woman was danced both positions--lead and follow--which was exactly what I needed. The men I danced with rarely followed: they couldn't give me directions because they never danced in my position. This woman was going to be my salvation, and she was.

"I've never danced with a partner before," I said. "I am not understanding how to swing." I danced with her, and she immediately caught my fundamental error. When I put my hand on my partner's shoulder, I put it on the from on the arm, and pushed. 

"Your hand goes on the back of your partner's shoulder. Imagine you are hugging a barrel. Now gently pull back while you spin," she said.

Bingo.

A few weeks ago and country two-step, I learned to push. Now I needed to learn to pull.

"Each dance has a different position," she said.

Aha. I should have known.

I hit the floor, humbler and more confident. I danced with one of the elderly gentlemen who had a bad shoulder. He gave me some advice to how to help him manage, and we were off, spinning like a top. It was so much fun we both were laughing. Younger guys also asked me to dance--strong, competent, and confident dancers. It was a blast.

Life is so much more fun when you know what you are doing. It was just fun for me, but everyone else, as well.

24

Last week was Ada's birthday and anniversary of her death.

I was not as sad this year as a I used to be about it, I don't know why. Maybe there is other sadness in my life that clouds Ada's star. Maybe because my other children are mostly grown, that I don't feel like a parent much anymore. I'm still a mom, of course, but a different kind of mother than I used to be, no longer managing or directly involved in the day-to-day of my kid's lives.

Sunday afternoon, Pedro came downtown. We went to lunch, and afterwards we were going to do something outside in the beautiful, warm, sunny day, but the forest fire smoke was thick in the air. I was tired, so we stayed in and watched a YouTube documentary about the history of the Seattle Mariners. The day before, the Mariners were eliminated from the playoffs in three games to Houston. 

The weird thing about baseball is that one pitch, one hit, one catch can charge the course of a club. Seasons are made up of hundreds of pitches and at bats. There is this sense of wonder I saw for the first time in the millions of crazy random stats kept by baseball historians: what would have happened if...? There are a million possible permutations. The Mariners had David Ortiz in their minor league farm team before he played for the Twins and the Red Sox. What if Big Papi had played for the Mariners? How good would the Mariners have been?

So it goes when you lose a child. Thousands of permutations arise of how life might have be different, what paths might have gone down that I didn't. It can be haunting and hard to figure out, until one day time heals the wound, and acceptance arrives with its friend gratitude. I will never be grateful that Ada died, but I can be grateful for the life that followed. My friend Marta recommended a book of poetry Every Word You Cannot Say by Iain S. Thomas that she is reading after her husband's death. There is a passage:

You love again.

Recycle your heart.

Someone out there needs it.

Dancing & Beginner

I remember my first ballet class.

I was probably four years old, taking a class at the park district. Six little girls were in the class, all wearing leotards, tights and pigtails. We sat in a tight little circle, crossed legged with the teacher. Instead of doing barre work or pliés, we pretended we were little birds, getting ready for the day. We first brushed our teeth with imaginary toothbrushes, and then we ran in a circles around the nest. At the time, I didn't know that pretending to be a bird as a big part of ballet. (See: Swan Lake)  

It was wonderful and it was fun. It tapped some magical nerve in me that said this is what I love.

I hated swimming. I was terrible at soccer. I liked tennis, especially the very satisfying sound of the ball thunking against the strings of the racquet.

Dancing was different from other sports. At my age, there were no winners and no losers. It wasn't competitive, though later there would be auditions and the like.

So now, in middle age, I am back finding my groove in dancing. I've been Contra dancing several times, and next up in Country Line dancing and Two-Step. 

And I am back at beginner, and it sucks.

I am now in week five at Contra dancing. I've never done partnered dancing, so this is different than anything I've done before. I have to follow, which is much, much harder than it looks. I am used to being responsible for my own dancing, and now I need to let someone else take the lead. All of this means giving up control, letting things flow, taking what is given.

Now in modern times, I could learn to be the lead, and expect my partner to follow, but I don't think that would solve my problem. I am just going to have to be humble and learn.

I remember being on the drill team in high school. My freshman year was rocky on the team, for whatever reason. I was clumsy and clunky, even though I had been dancing since I was four. Maybe I was having a hard time with the new type of dance, the new routines. When I was a sophomore, overnight I became better. I remember the coach watching me during tryouts and asking what happened. They were shocked that I had improved so suddenly and so dramatically. I don't know what happened, what the transition or pivot point was. All if sudden movements made sense.

I think what happened was that I needed to "unlearn" my old dancing steps and learn the new stuff. All of my old assumptions were taking space in my brain, and I needed to make room for new rules.

I hope this new dancing clicks in my brain soon.

Tattoos

A few of my divorced friends

are getting tattoos.

One a teacup

mended in gold,

another patterns from Polynesian Isles.

I think of a Phoenix

rising from the ashes.

Or my Visa number 

on my wrist

so I can shop online

without

finding 

my wallet.

"But Lauren,"

you say, 

"can't you just remember 

your Visa number?

It is only

sixteen digits.

WTF?"

No.

Talking to Strangers & Recovering Politician

I have some friends (who shall remain nameless) who think that I should dive into dating apps.

Hmmm.

I haven't been on the dating market since I was nineteen, and then my method for meeting guys was hanging out at fraternity parties. I can't go back to that method. Not gonna happen.

So dating apps. I know lots of people who find love and happiness on them. (Or, at least fun for a bit.) My current definition of a romantic relationship a best friend plus affection. It seems odd to look for a new bestie on an app.

The purpose of dating apps, however, is not to find a best friend.

"It is like a catalog of men," said one recently divorced friend. "See?" as she scrolled through Hinge.

Deep breath.

One of these days I might be ready for that, but not yet. 

That doesn't mean I am sitting home alone. I do have relationship goals, even if those goals are for myself with me.

1. Solidify my friend base with women. I don't want to get stuck with a guy who is meh just because I am lonely.
2. Practice talking to strangers.

That second goal is a new one. I view it as getting my skills up what whatever is in the next phase. Let's say I decide I am sick and tired of Seattle, and decide to pack it up and move. If I move to a new town, I'll have to make new friends. According to the book Platonic, making friends is a skill set that requires effort and initiation, like learning a new language, hobby, or a musical instrument. It isn't hard, but it requires thoughtfulness, attention, and practice.

I am learning to talk to strangers. It is easy to talk to old friends--they know all of the gory details of my life. If my life were a 800 page book, they are deep into page 457 and know all of the characters and the backstory. When I meet someone new, I don't need to start them on page one a la Charles Dickens' David Copperfield, Chapter 1: I am Born. So where do I start? How?

Likewise--and perhaps more importantly--how do I get to know them?

I am taking baby steps, and those baby steps are talking to strangers in general. When I go out to lunch at work, I am often eating alone because no one from my office comes in. There are nights when I don't want to cook, so I go out. Sometimes I'll get a table for one, and people watch (aka eavesdrop.) Most often, I'll sit at the counter where I have the opportunity to initiate a conversation, whether it is with a tourist or the waitstaff. I go to the London Plane enough for lunch, they recognize me. One day I had a crappy meeting right before lunch, and I was in a bad mood. The hostess recognized me enough to tell something was off. She asked how I was doing, which was nice. 

I am talking to people in my yoga class, my art class, and while dancing. I am meeting new women in my sewing group. All of these are practice, baby steps, into re-entering the world.

I wish I would have had this skill set, mindset and practice when I was running for School Board. I am a recovering politician--I can talk to people I don't know just fine, but I could be better. I want to be better.

It Takes a Village

Finally.

I did it. 

I made the skirt.

In 2015, I fell in love with these matching peacock fabrics. I know how to quilt, but not make clothes. I bought a pattern so I could make something to wear out of this whimsical material.

Today, I finished the skirt. I didn't do it alone. I had quite a bit of help and cheering from a bunch of friends. I am in a sewing circle where the women helped me to measure and cut the fabric so I could maximize the peacocks. Another friend helped me finished the waist. 

Why did it take me so long?

I loved this fabric, and I was terrified that I would ruin it, that I would cut the fabric all wrong. My fear kept me paralyzed. I wish I had bought the whole bolt of fabric so I could screw up ten times and start over. But I didn't buy the whole bolt. I bought enough fabric for one skirt. That was all. I was afraid to start.

So I asked for help.

It took three sessions with my sewing circle to work on this. At the first session, I showed them the fabric and pattern. At the next session, I cut the fabric. At the last one, I started sewing it up. Today, I added the elastic to the waist and sewed the bottom hem.

Is it perfect or exactly how I imagined it to be? Not all all. I expected a slimmer, sleeker skirt. Instead, this is full and bouncy, longer than I planned. The hem comes to my mid-calf, ballet length. It is good enough? Yes. I can wear this to my dance group.

Is done better than perfect? 

Absolutely.

"Done" gives me the time and space and freedom to work on my next project.