My Way or No Way

It has lately become clear that I have a major time management problem, as illuminated by the fact that even without a job, I still can’t get anything done. As is so often the case, the answer may have something to do with ants, namely the 30 seconds spent removing them from the toilet seat before I can make preferred use of it. That adds up: 365 days times five visits per day times half a minute. I’m losing more than 15 hours a year! That explains everything. I suppose ants like to walk on the toilet seat because it’s smooth and has an intriguing smell.

Last Monday I attended a “webinar” on how to interpret one of the career assessment tests I took. Tuesday I met with my coach, Dwightly, and in the evening, I walked to Howie’s, where several weeks ago I appointed myself to be the greeter, for three reasons. The first was chatting with a fellow there I'd never seen before who said he has been attending for two years—I realized there might be a lot of great people going unnoticed. The second is that I often wonder if people are visiting for the first time and would like to be able to ask someone a question or two. The last is that I sometimes attend a group that in fact has an official greeter, but this person has never once said hello, nor appeared to be pleased to see me!

So I decided I would be the greeter who, you know, actually says hello to people and looks happy to see them, or at least attempts her idea of what constitutes such a facial expression, and is available to answer questions. It turns out that quite a hefty percentage of those who go to Howie’s (I now know) are introverts, and at first sort of looked away as they said “Hi” back, but quite a number were happy to be greeted, and as the weeks have passed, those who almost ignored me now say a few words in return, and many people look downright pleased; there is a trend toward friendly feelings. I do get to answer questions for first timers, and now and then a co-greeter joins me and we greet together and chat between greeting opportunities. When Howie noticed what I was doing, he put his hand over his heart.

On Wednesday I got a last-minute invitation to go to Marin, which I interpreted to mean a little drive up to Novato or so, basking in the sun, a substantial brunch. That did sound good! However, it turned out V. had something much more ambitious in mind. There was very little sun involved (whereas it was gorgeous in the city), but it was worth it—she took me whale watching at the Point Reyes lighthouse. The entire area was completely overcast, but standing on the platform a bit above the lighthouse, we actually did see whales going by. It was oddly moving to see these enormous creatures making their way through the immeasurably more vast ocean.

V. lives by herself and, like me, spends a lot of time alone, so there was some joking about who was going to choose how much the car window was rolled down and so forth. At some point, she said, “My way or no way,” which I also find to be an excellent philosophy if the idea is to remain single.

On Thursday, in a rare moment of multi-tasking, I was on the phone discussing with my mother how I can’t get anything done and also chopping up apples for my morning cereal, and in no time I had with one stroke sliced open two fingers. After applying bandages, I called back to say I was still alive and my mother offered to take the blame because she had lecturing me about wasting time at the moment of the accident. Of course I graciously assured her it wasn’t her fault (though it actually was).

However, I had to admit she was right that there may not come another era when I have so much time to use as I see fit, and I am kind of frittering it away. I was inspired later that day to install MySQL on the iMac, pursuant to learning something about SQL.

On Friday, I had a really helpful telephone conversation with my friend Steve, the person I know who has most recently gotten a job in IT. He told me what he does to find jobs and what people are looking for these days, which was a lot of stuff I’ve never even heard of. (Scrum master?) Later on I played around with the command line on my Mac, made some discoveries and started to think maybe I’d enjoy being an actual developer. Normally, unless really necessary, I avoid activities that blatantly constitute learning, but it’s not really that bad.

When I visited A. yesterday, the staff told me there had been four hours the afternoon prior when he couldn’t be woken up, and I noticed he was having much more difficulty speaking, though some moments were better than others. He was recalling a treat his mother used to make decades and decades ago when guests came to call, chess pie. He couldn’t remember the special ingredients that go into it and asked if I could find out online. As soon as I got home, I looked it up—a bit of cornmeal and a bit of white vinegar—and called to tell him. I also printed out the recipe in large type and mailed it off to him.

Gentle Insect Criticism (For Its Own Good!)

I lately got this email from my mother:

“Every time I type ellipses, I worry, because you gently criticized them (mine) once. I have been uneasy about them ever since.

“There is a nice insect walking around on the arm of my chair. It might be a silverfish, and I should know, but I’m not certain that’s right.”

I no doubt had pointed out that ellipses are only properly used to replace missing words and shouldn’t be used to create suspense; i.e., to indicate a pause, whether ominous or weighty.

I replied:

“Ick, silverfish. I’m sorry I ... criticized your use of ... ellipses.  Go ahead and ... use them whenever ... you want.”

She wrote back:

“Now you have gently criticized my silverfish. When will it end??”

Last Monday I confirmed I can log onto the website of the career consultants I’m working with, took two assessment tests recommended by my coach, Dwightly, and also made sure I can log onto a website which offers self-paced virtual classes in IT, an amenity offered by the career consultants. Lisa C. was back in town again already, lucky for me, so we had dinner at Herbivore.

On Tuesday I made what should be the final visit to my oral surgeon for tooth #19. All told, it was 15 months from noticing a slight swelling on my gum to having a dental implant placed. Dr. E.’s fabulous good looks come up over and over again in his Yelp reviews, so I suppose some percentage of his patients develop crushes on him and make ugly scenes when they have to say goodbye for the last time. At least, that’s my theory regarding the crafty thing he did on Tuesday. After placing the abutment to which the actual crown would be attached by my dentist, he said, “Let’s get a picture and then I’ll come back and we’ll look at your X-ray together and then this and that,” and then he shook my hand.

I totally thought, “Why’s he shaking my hand if I’m going to see him again?” but in fact I did not see him again. Someone else looked at my X-ray and ushered me out, and I must confess I did feel a pang. I like Dr. E. and appreciate his expertise and how very smoothly everything runs in his office. I could also see he was attractive, but I didn’t actually have a crush on him—like everyone, I meet a handsome, smart Afghani oral surgeon pretty much every day—yet I still felt a little bereft at not getting to express my parting thoughts, so his strategy is pretty smart, if primarily meant for those who throw themselves on the ground and grasp him determinedly by the ankles.

After Dr. E. was a refreshing bike ride in the pouring rain to visit my dentist at Lombard and Franklin for the crown itself to be placed, and that evening was Happyness Hour at Howie’s, the second Tuesday of every month, when we gather an hour early to have dinner together, often burritos.

It rained several days in a row last week. On Friday, Tom had a furlough day from his job, so I asked if he’d like to take a walk. He said he would.  Usually whatever you propose to Tom, he’s enthusiastic. It was sprinkling a bit when we left, and soon got wetter. After a few blocks, he asked, “Are your legs getting damp?” and then he staged an outright mutiny and we went to a café for a cup of tea instead.

Yesterday I went to see A., my hospice visitee, and in the evening I watched A Better Life, a moving and upsetting drama about a Mexican immigrant in Los Angeles trying to keep his son from joining a gang.

Somewhere along in there, I also went to Papalote to pick up a rice and bean burrito, the big treat in this new era of eating. Everything I ingest now seems to have some health-related purpose. Is it anti-cancer and low-glycemic and does it promote the desired acid-alkaline balance? Bottoms up! A welcoming nod to fruits and veggies, grains and beans. A scowling no to sugar after reading an article in the New York Times that made a convincing case it causes cancer. Yes to spices, which are full of antioxidants. I had never pictured myself putting turmeric on oatmeal, but now I do. It gives the cinnamon and ginger a pleasing extra zing. Garlic and lots of it almost every day, because: garlic! Much green tea is being swilled, but not at too high a temperature—don’t want to get throat cancer, do we?

The hope here is that being judicious in one’s interactions with the Food Industrial Complex might lead to reduced involvement with the Medical Industrial Complex.

Blogger’s Mother Uses Disappointingly Foul Language

I decided to work with the career consultant that seems to have more IT orientation and went downtown a couple of Thursdays ago for my first meeting with my coach. (“Put me in, coach! Put me in!”) I had been thinking it would be crucial for prospective employers not to know I have a pre-existing health condition, but Dwightly (not her real name) said it’s not necessarily a big deal for an employer who offers insurance under a group policy.

After our meeting, I attended a “power networking” session led by the director of IT recruiting for a recruiting firm which is a sister company of the career consulting firm. The recruiting company actually has a recruiter who specializes in SCM, which I know doesn’t mean anything to anyone, but happens to be what I’m an expert at, so that was good news.

I used to think that I’d better not lose my job because finding another would involve dressing up and networking, both things I was positive I couldn’t do, so I’m surprised and pleased to discover that I actually can do these things now that it’s necessary.

The next day I took BART to Berkeley to drop in on a class of students with disabilities for whom Peggy Klaus was doing a workshop. She’s the author of Brag! The Art of Tooting Your Own Horn Without Blowing It and The Hard Truth About Soft Skills. The session was open to the public, which Carol Joy had alerted me to, and she also sent me both of Peggy Klaus’s books. After the workshop, Carol Joy treated me to a burrito at Chipotle, and then we went to Stonemountain and Daughter to look at fabric, and then she gave me a ride clear back to my front door, even though she lives in Novato. See why I thought I was one of an elite few?

On Saturday, Howie led us in a half-day retreat—four hours of meditation at the Happiness Institute on Market St., which is plastered with encouraging signs and artwork. It went by in a flash. It seemed like it had been only a couple of hours when Howie said, “For our last sit … ” Afterward, three others and I had lunch at Ananda Fuara. It was an unseasonably warm, sunny day. In the afternoon, I walked up to see my hospice visitee and then home.

On Sunday a week ago I did my cooking and on Monday, another friend from Howie’s and I had lunch at Source, per her welcome last-minute invitation.

I decided that the first substantive thing I must do in my job hunt was spend several days sewing, finishing up a number of projects I haven’t been able to get to, which remained true even once I no longer had to go to work, so that’s what I did this past week. On Wednesday, I went on a pretty routine bike ride: rolled along John F. Kennedy Drive through the park to the beach, admired the sun sparkling on the Pacific, Netanyahu passed by, the usual. The Great Highway seems to be an oft-used celebrity route. This was the third time lately I’ve found it closed for this purpose.

Yesterday I went to see my hospice visitee, got a burrito at Papalote, did some reading, and went to bed early: a perfect day. My hospice visitee, A., will never know this, but he has offered a wonderful refuge these past several months. One day when I was there, I had a tickle in my throat, coughed a time or two and had to drink some water, and A. seemed excessively concerned, asking if I would be all right. I didn’t have so much as a cold—I wouldn’t go to the hospice facility if I did—so when I had a hysterectomy, I didn’t mention it. When A. asked me what was new, I said, “I don’t think anything is. It was a pretty regular week.”

I said the same after being diagnosed with cancer and losing my job. Ergo, that peaceful blue room is a surgery- and unemployment-free zone, a place where those things just don’t exist, and there is something to be appreciated in that. A. doesn’t have to worry about my problems, and I don’t, either, for a couple of hours. We discuss movies, actors, books, writers, food. Our senses of humor overlap a good deal, and we both love words and language. I’ve been visiting A. since the beginning of September, 2011, longer than any other hospice visitee to date, and he seems like a friend now.

Before we return to a G rating here, let me just ask when Grover F*cking Norquist is going to be designated an enemy combatant and sent to Guantanamo for some of that torture these people think is perfectly fine as long as it’s happening to some non-rich unnamed dark-skinned person they’ll never meet? The damage he's single-handedly done to our country is incalculable.

Also, when I spoke to my mother today, she was nonplussed or worse to hear I’ve never seen The Nun’s Story. “What’s it about?” I inquired in crafty hopes she would recount the entire plot so I wouldn’t have to watch it myself, but she stopped right at the point where Colleen Dewhurst seizes Audrey Hepburn by the neck. “What happens then?” I asked, but nothing more was forthcoming.

“I saw Bridesmaids,” I offered, to fill a silence which was becoming uncomfortable.

“Well, I’ll tell you, The Nun’s Story is a f*cking sh*tload better than Bridesmaids.”

No One Leaves this Room Until I Get that Minute Back

Last Friday was a gorgeous day. I did laundry, walked to 24th St. to retrieve my interview outfit, which had been cleaned and the sleeves of the jacket shortened a bit, and went to Papalote for a burrito. In the evening, I read online about the Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan (PCIP), for people who have been without insurance for at least six months, and the Major Risk Medical Insurance Program (MRMIP), which currently and unfortunately has an annual benefit maximum of $75,000, which could easily be exceeded with the right health condition.

I’d seen a figure of $1500 for a month of coverage under MRMIP, but if I were in it this year, it appears it would cost $553.86 for a month. That’s a lot of money, but less than $1500, so I was a bit cheered.

On Saturday I went to see my hospice visitee and in the evening, it was back to Papalote, this time with Tom, his girlfriend, and her son.

On Sunday I found myself feeling unexpectedly joyful, even liberated. I might not have let go of my health and my job voluntarily—I definitely wouldn’t have—but I still get the benefit of seeing once again that happiness isn’t dependent on those things or on any particular conditions.

On Sunday evening Tom and I went in a City CarShare car to a clubhouse in Novato for my friend Carol Joy’s 60th birthday party. There were five trillion cars parked outside, so we figured there must be several events happening there that evening, but it turned out every last car was for Carol Joy! She has lavished such love and kindness on me for 25 years now, I always figured I constituted 33% of her really close friends—who has time to have more than a few extremely extra-special friends? Well, there were a hundred people or so at that party, and I suspect that most everyone who was there thinks he or she is one of Carol Joy’s select group of extra-special friends. It was a fantastic party.

Using a microphone, she asked people from various eras of her life to raise their hands and be recognized: friends from elementary school, from high school, college, this job, that job. I got to raise my hand when she got to 1987 and her job at Recovering magazine. (I was the editor and production manager. Carol Joy was our ace ad saleslady and later the publisher.) The refreshments included goat cheese-stuffed pepperdaws and mushroom tarts, both of which were out of this world.

My most recent employer provides those who have been displaced with the opportunity to work with one of two career consulting firms. Other than laying me off, they are doing every possible thing to ensure that I stay off welfare. I made appointments with both career consultants for Monday so I wouldn’t have to get dressed up twice. Always thinking!

I was worried that going about town in my interview outfit would be complete torture, physically, or that there would be some horrible wardrobe malfunction, but it was actually fine, and any mild discomfort was offset by knowing I looked remarkable. After meeting with both career consultants, I had dinner at Herbivore with David and Lisa (visiting from Seattle), two friends of theirs, and Tom.

Last night I went to Howie’s and afterward succumbed to temptation and went for tea with Jen. I was out much later than usual and felt frazzled today, which unfortunately was a day when I had to call the latest phone company to seep into my life, the one for the cell phone.

At some point, the representative said he couldn’t hear me.

“Right, that’s because I have T-Mobile service,” I explained, the familiar feeling of rage filling my entire body. I went on, “I started out with 10 minutes and used two of them. Do you and I agree that 10 minus two is eight? OK, good. However, it then said I had seven minutes—what did T-Mobile do with my missing minute?”

Then I thought, “Did I really just say that?”

In the end, I decided not to pursue the missing minute, even though that lone minute did constitute 13 percent of my total minutes at the time, and I apologized to the support person, explaining that I go berserk with anger as soon as soon as I have to speak with anyone at any telephone company. Things could definitely have been worse in that I didn’t end up with my service cut off, as in a past regrettable incident.

Approximately 40 years ago, some of my father’s underdrawers went astray in the laundry and an investigation was initiated, in the course of which he said—he was joking—“No one leaves this room until I get those underpants back.”

Happy eighteenth birthday, Mom!

Bedazzling Sacramento Night

Once you enter the world of clothes that actually fit, it’s not long before you have to enter the world of shapewear. A very nice saleslady at Nordstrom shared that now that she’s a shapewear expert, she no longer has to visit the gym.

Last Thursday I rode my bike to the beach, went to the library and to points downtown including the hardware store and Green Citizen. I rode home the long way, by the ballpark. Exercise makes such a difference. On Friday, I walked for an hour or so, dropping off my new interview outfit at Pete’s dry cleaners on 24th St.

On Saturday I went to Rainbow because Tom and I had been invited to a birthday party for his nephew Chris on Sunday, my usual day for grocery shopping and cooking, but then I found out that Tom wouldn’t be coming back with me Sunday night because he had things to do around Sacramento on Monday. At first I thought I’d have to miss the party because I didn’t want to drive home alone afterward. I often drive there and Tom always drives coming back, and I fall asleep two minutes after we get on the freeway, which is less good to do if you’re the one driving. I pondered if having to skip the party could somehow be construed to be Tom’s fault, but concluded it couldn’t and decided just to drive home afterward by myself, asleep or no.

We set off at 3 p.m. Sunday with his niece Sarah but didn’t get there until about 6 p.m. because of heavy traffic (and possibly because of someone’s suggestion that we take the Golden Gate Bridge). I had to leave again at 8:30, so it was a short visit, but well worth it. Julie said she’s sure that not only will I get a job, I’ll end up doing whatever it is that I want to do. I’m far from certain of that, and appreciate being able to tap into the confidence of others while mine is running a bit low.

While I’ve never been behind the steering wheel coming back from Sacramento, I’ve been in the passenger seat tens of times, so I was a little shocked to go astray immediately after getting on the freeway. Good: lost on the freeway at night. I took the first exit and called Tom’s brother on my very first cell phone, which fortunately had arrived on Friday. (Every prior cell phone had been issued by my employer.) Paul gave me directions and all was well after that. Since I was alone, I could open the window to the chilly night wind and was bedazzled by the amazing green smell of the fields west of Sacramento, and the drive was really very nice.

Yesterday I had tea with my friend Rod, who recently retired, which is what I would also do if I were ten years older and had twice the savings. As it is, I’m “between opportunities” or, even more agreeably, “jobfree.” While I’m hoping to find an interesting full-time job with benefits and congenial colleagues that has a reasonable chance of lasting until I retire (which will probably be whenever Medicare starts, unless all of Obamacare goes into effect), all this job losing has brought home that no set of circumstances is ultimately reliable. “Once I have a good job, I’ll be all set” now sounds kind of ridiculous.

Yesterday evening I walked to Howie’s. Afterward, I noticed someone else leaving who, unlike others, wasn’t clutching a device or staring into a screen. Several blocks later, I saw the same fellow still just a few feet ahead, so I introduced myself and found out he lives half a block from me, and has been going to Howie’s for two years. I’ve never seen him before, a consequence of always sitting in the front row.

Today featured a nice bike ride to the ocean and back. Looking for a job is starting to seem kind of fun. It’s a project, with a big list of interesting things to do, though I’m absolutely pacing myself—getting nine hours of sleep nightly, turning off the computer at 5 p.m. to have dinner and do some reading. I’m eating my fruits and veggies and getting some exercise nearly every day. This would be a very pleasant way to live if it were actually sustainable.

Recently I checked dice.com to see how many IT jobs had been listed in San Francisco that day and saw there were 20 of them, which seemed promising, and then I noticed the San Francisco jobs actually went to the bottom of the page: 30. I clicked to the next page. Make that 60. 90. 120. 150. 180. When I got to a thousand or so, I knocked off because my clicking finger was getting tired. Holy moly! We seem to be in a tech hiring boom similar to when I got the job I’m now saying goodbye to. Very good news; I had no idea.

The Short Mean One

Last Thursday was another day of insurance research, and a particularly crappy one—I saw figures as high as $1500 for a month of coverage in the state’s high-risk pool. If that’s really what it will cost, that’s very bad news. Thus galvanized, on Friday I started work on my resume, and checked the job listings at the company that just laid me off. I noticed a position where the manager is someone I know and like, so I went ahead and applied for it, along with a couple of other jobs.

During my visit with my current hospice patient Saturday, he asked if I could fetch him a nurse, so I went to their station. C. got up immediately and asked, “Does he want the tall, handsome one or the short, mean one?” (By the latter, C. meant himself.) Peeking in from A.’s doorway, I saw C. rubbing his hands seductively over his torso as he spoke with A. He’s so funny. A. adores him.

When I arrived, A. already had a friend visiting, so I read The New Yorker in the dining room until A.’s friend came to let me know she was leaving. She told me that she and A. have been pals for 46 years. She also said she is 80 and writes textbooks for a living!

When I went to Rainbow on Sunday, I told my favorite checkout person that the threat of having to pay $1500 a month for health insurance had convinced me once and for all that a job will be needed. She had been extremely supportive of my more free-form plan, and of the new plan said, “I disagree!” I think she meant I shouldn’t make all my life decisions based on money, and shouldn’t so easily give up on what I want to do, but I felt quite depressed afterward, probably because I also think making health insurance the centerpiece of one’s life is pretty sad.

Here’s another dismal consideration: you can wear pajamas to extremely few jobs, which means items that constitute actual clothes will have to be obtained. I arranged with my newish friend Judy to undertake this on Monday, but fortunately it was pouring rain, so I slept all day instead.

Yesterday we took the bus to the large Goodwill at Van Ness and Mission (Judy said we also might want to visit “Salvation Armani”) and she explained to me how you buy pants: you have to look at every single pair and see if it’s your size and if it appears to be, try it on. Who knew? My normal method is to enter the store, advance two feet, look around in a general way, say “I’m sure there’s nothing here” and depart.

Judy found the pants I ended up buying, which struck me as much, much too small both upon first viewing and once I had them on. “Aren’t these way too tight?” I asked. “No!”, she said, demonstrating that it was still possible to pinch half an inch of fabric at the hip. I did locate a lovely skirt suit in pale green-blue, but Judy commanded, “Put that back! You look like a nun. It’s two sizes too big!”

I literally could not have done this without her. Not one thing I ended up purchasing would I have acquired if she hadn’t been there. I would definitely have bought the nun’s suit. I left with slacks, a jacket, and a white blouse—for a total of $18! However, as I further learned from my new mentor, there is some arcane reason you can’t go to an interview for a professional position carrying a red backpack, so then I had to buy a Coach purse at another thrift store in the Mission, for $24. I think the last time I owned a purse, I was six years old and it was a gift from my grandmother.

We had burritos at Papalote and walked to Judy’s, where we had a cup of tea with her roommate, Lesley, also a friend, and then I went home and put on my new outfit and went up to show Tom, who took a photo as evidence. No one who knows me was going to believe this without seeing it.

This morning I took a glorious bike ride to the beach. It was sunny out, fresh, a bit cool, breezy. Invigorating!

Normally I consider positive thinking to be cheating—something artificial tacked on to reality—but in my case, since I do so much negative thinking, it would probably count as what in Buddhism is known as “skillful means.” Everything won’t necessarily come out fine, but then again, it might, and the relentless habit of looking on the dark side can’t be good for the immune system. Accordingly, I’ve decided to retire this affirmation: “Everyone knows you can’t get a job after 50. I’m going to die in a homeless shelter.”

In its place, I’ve adopted these:

I have a satisfying and enjoyable life.
I am healthy and strong.
I am happy and content.
I have plenty of money and excellent health insurance.
I have interesting work and agreeable colleagues.
I have more than I need to enjoy each moment of my life.

I ran these by my mother and she said, “I guess all of that is correct, except what’s your work?” I told her my interesting work is to find work and as for the agreeable colleagues, I currently have the most agreeable colleague one could ever want: me!

Relaxing in the Isness

For almost 22 years, I’ve been hearing my meditation teacher, Howard Cohn, say “You are what you’re looking for,” which I had reformulated as a question to hang out with in an open-ended way: What am I? I’d gotten as far as concluding that I’m awareness itself, but is that what I’m looking for? Why would I be looking for that? Listening to Howie speak last night, I finally understood what he’s been going on about since 1990, and no doubt prior.

He was talking about ease, and asked how we feel when we hear the word. I immediately feel more relaxed. The effect is so powerful and noticeable that, back when I had a job and therefore a Microsoft Outlook calendar, I had this daily appointment: “May I be at ease in my _____.” May I be at ease in my tension. May I be at ease in my irritation. May I be at ease in my lack of ease.

Howie pointed out on Tuesday that ease is inherent and unconditioned—there’s nothing that causes it, whereas if, for instance, we want to buy a bicycle, we need money. One of the conditions that must be in place for us to purchase a bicycle is that we must have enough money, but for ease, there is no preceding cause. It’s our very nature, meaning that when we take away all the elements that are constantly in flux, that’s what’s left. We literally are that pure consciousness, with its inherent qualities of ease and peace and, yep, joy.

This explains why, if we sit in meditation long enough, we eventually feel happy instead of miserable. There does seem to be something inherently benign, even more than benign, that permeates everything. Maybe it’s universal consciousness, and maybe that’s what we were before we were born and will be again after we die—what we are even now—and maybe while we’re in these bodies, enjoying the thousands of kinds of sense pleasures and tormenting ourselves with thousands of fears and longings, we forget that.

We can find many kinds of pleasure and happiness in this world, but the conditioned ones—the ones we have to get or create or that come into being over time—can’t be held onto. All things that have the nature to arise have the nature to pass away, naturally causing sorrow and suffering.

Aha! Got it! (Finally.) (And why didn’t he just say so?) If I’m looking for peace, spaciousness and happiness, they are already here, obscured by my thoughts of what I wish I had that I don’t have, and what I wish I didn’t have that I do have. Not to mention by fears and worries. Not to mention by taking thoughts to be reality. Not to mention by living in the imagined past and/or imagined future.

For about the millionth time, Howie read us Gendyn Rinpoche’s “spontaneous Vajra song” called “Free and Easy,” (you can find it online) and it was like hearing it for the first time.

It’s a matter of being here now, and now, and now. The now part is easy enough: outside of thoughts and memories, there’s nothing besides now and there never will be. As for here, here is kind of all there is, too.

Back in the realm of the relative, my sister has informed me that practically any job you can have involves selling your soul. Now she tells me! I am starting to think that it might not be such a bad thing to rake in money and health insurance in return for some small portion of my soul I’d hardly even notice was gone, perhaps a few acres from the back forty.

Of course I now think that if I had my job back, I’d make more of an effort to appreciate it. Therefore, what’s stopping me from appreciating being unemployed? Being upset about it would be stupid, because if I should happen to get another job, it’s almost guaranteed that then I’d miss these days of complete freedom, of being able to sleep in, of being able to cycle to the park during the day.

What would Gendyn Rinpoche’s career advice be? In his song, he says, “Far better to simply let the entire game happen on its own, springing up and falling back like waves … .” I believe this—not that if I sit in my comfortable chair reading, a job will eventually hurl itself through the window, but that one thing leads to another, that the whole web of conditions is mutating lawfully, largely beyond my control. This doesn’t excuse me from taking action, but there is much beyond my control, so from my perspective, everything is kind of happening on its own.

Life is unfolding naturally, and at some point, I’ll find myself with a job, or I won’t. I’ll continue to live indoors, or I won’t. I’ll die in a homeless shelter or I won’t. The entire thing is evolving in an orderly fashion, and all I can really do is plant whatever positive seeds come to mind today, and take whatever actions seem constructive, finishing at night with a consideration of what in the day brought enjoyment.

I rarely lie awake in bed worrying about what bad things might happen. At that point, there’s nothing more I can do or have to do. I’m completely free to relax and enjoy my descent into the dreamworld. Also, anyone who is serious about her worrying does it during the daylight hours, when she can bring her utmost to bear on it.

Photo Essay About Hammett and Poop

This morning I found this in the tub: one of my hand towels, carefully formed into a hat, sort of.

But under this particular hat, alas: poop, cat litter, cat hair and perhaps an eyelash? Yes, Hammett can make a towel into a hat.

Feigning surprise.

A closer inspection. “No, definitely not mine!”

The Other Kind of Fair

Late last week, there was an awful smell in the common areas of my apartment building. As I was coming in with my laundry late Friday afternoon, I finally figured out what it was: a container of noxious stink beads sitting on the cupboard in the lobby, evidently something another tenant was giving away. Fortunately, a man I’d never seen before was just coming down the stairs as my eye fell on this dispiriting item, so I said to him, “Hello, I don’t know you, but could you do me a huge favor and take this outside?” He pleasantly obliged.

On Saturday there was a note in the lobby from the building manager asking who had made off with her “air freshener.” I immediately sent her an email saying I was the culprit. I said I’d thought someone was giving it away, which was a relief to me, because the smell seemed unbearable. I told her that theft was not intended and that I’d reimburse her, and of course appended a short treatise on artificial scents and their deleterious effects on humans. I concluded by offering to pick something else up at Rainbow.

Then I was, as usual, terrified of getting an angry note back—I wished I’d skipped the treatise, anyway—and I felt extraordinarily stressed out. It seemed like some kind of final straw, that one last little horrible thing on top of everything else, and so there was immense relief when I got a completely nice note back.

When I went to Rainbow yesterday, I got a couple of air fresheners containing natural ingredients, and was going to leave them outside the building manager’s door with a note, but decided that a pleasant interaction in person would be even better, so I knocked on her door and we spoke briefly and she was perfectly nice.

Last week I spoke with my surgeon, Dr. P., on the phone and of the medical oncologist’s prediction that my breast cancer recurrence risk is 5% over five years, he said, “That’s too high,” and of the risk of a new breast cancer being 13% over five years, he said, “I don’t know where he got that.” Even more satisfyingly, when I said that Dr. W. was unaware I’d had intraoperative radiation, Dr. P. said, “That’s interesting information. I’m going to make a note of that and make use of that information.” So I feel entirely vindicated and have abandoned any thought of sending Dr. W. a letter.

I told Dr. P. I’ve decided not to take tamoxifen and he said I’m making an informed decision and mentioned that it’s hard to prove that taking tamoxifen actually changes survival rates. If I do have a recurrence, I could have a bilateral mastectomy if I wanted to, but another lumpectomy and more radiation might also be options.

Since I won’t be taking tamoxifen, do I simply have my six-month checkup and thereafter just have annual breast exams and mammograms under the direction of my ob/gyn? He said no, that I have “bought” him and will see him every six months for five years. That was a relief. I will not be dangling alone in the breeze with my DCIS.

So that is that, for now at least, and I can get on with other things.

When I go to sleep at night, I affirm that when I’m dreaming, I will realize it, and when I’m awake during the night, I will practice Stephen LaBerge’s MILD technique for inducing lucid dreams; I’ve now had 51 lucid dreams that I know of. Then I ask myself what I enjoyed or appreciated during the day. Lately the list has been rather short, partly because one thing I really enjoyed was riding my bike to work, but no work means no bike ride to work.

I have been making a point of taking a walk just about every day, but the only time I ride my bike lately is to Rainbow on Sundays. I like to walk, but it doesn’t bring the kind of joy cycling does, so today I rode my bike into Golden Gate Park and back, and felt just splendid afterward. Cycling endorphins seem to be more powerful than walking endorphins.

Post-ride, I gave my father a call to see if he thought I’d wrecked the entire rest of my life by losing my job. He doesn’t think that.

While I certainly ponder what the future may hold and notwithstanding the call to my father, I don’t actually brood that much about having lost my job. My losing the job was either perfectly fair, in which case so be it, or it was the other kind of fair, unfair. In which case also so be it. Sometimes unfair things happen.

Ceaseless Imaginary Tribulations

In recent years, I’d worked from home more and more often, and always had good intentions about getting some exercise on those days—cycling or walking—but it’s amazingly easy just to sit down and stay there if you don’t have to leave the house. So I’ve been a bit worried that I’ll grind to a halt completely. Will I start going to bed at 3 a.m. and getting up at noon only to spend the day weeping and eating Doritos?

I did walk late yesterday afternoon for just under an hour, ending up at Howie’s for meditation group, where I go pretty much every week. I haven’t been sure how to talk to people there about recent events. When someone says, “How are you?”, am I supposed to say “Great!” or am I supposed to say, “Well, I had a hysterectomy, and then I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and then I lost my job”? That seems like kind of too much for casual conversation. It seems unfair to the other person, and also to myself, though not saying that feels kind of strange, too, as if I’m trying to conceal something.

In any event, it was starting to make me feel isolated just to say “Fine” or “Good,” so last night I told a couple of people I’d lost my job (skipping the rest of it), and it was comforting to receive expressions of sympathy, plus one of the two said he’s also looking for work. I’m not the only one in this boat.

I told Howie I’m afraid of dying in a homeless shelter and he said, “We won’t let that happen.” I don’t think he meant he’s expecting to see me on his doorstep with all my belongings heaped about me and Hammett tucked under my arm, but it was consoling.

When I asked him what he thought I should be when I grow up, if ever, he immediately said, “Stand-up comic!”

I woke up rather anxious today. Meditation helped. Each moment of liberation from the imaginary future, with its bleak landscape of unrelenting misery and full as it is of hideous losses, is a relief. The difference between that seemingly vivid place and real life, where comparatively little happens, is becoming more and more obvious, though each moment of seeing it has a faint flavor of surprise: an entire world, complete in every detail, suddenly gone.

I’m also seeing what a persistent habit of aversion I have: I don’t like this job and wish I had some other job. I don’t like being unemployed and wish I had that job back. I don’t like living in San Francisco and wish I lived where more of my family members live.

Then there’s pre-emptive aversion, making sure every possible thing has been considered and disliked. If I did move to where my family members live, sooner or later I’d think, “Wasn’t it great when I lived in San Francisco? Why did I let that below-market-rate apartment get away?”

In sum, grief no matter where you look. Oh, except for one place, just one teeny-tiny spot that is astoundingly easy to miss: the one where my body is right now. As I sit in my chair, feel my posterior on the seat, and look at the iMac’s screen, where is all of that misery? It’s nowhere. It’s not here, and it’s not anywhere else, either. It’s made of thoughts, but I don’t even have to banish those thoughts—all I have to do is directly notice any sense impression whatsoever and what is false is automatically gone.

I’d been thinking about sending medical oncologist Dr. W. a letter about his not looking at my chart, and not answering the question the nurse educator was happy to answer, and making up crazy recurrence-risk numbers just for sport, and I was planning to mention early and often that his services had cost me $500, but then got I a bill for $542 for my consultation with Surgeon Number Two, so I guess that’s a very standard charge. I guess these cancer-related people get to charge $500 every time they move a muscle. Perhaps I’ll start doing the same.

I’ve finally figured out that while I’m probably going to worry about cancer recurring, I’d worry even more about what tamoxifen was doing to my body, so I have finally made the decision not to take it.