A mean person I know, who might even be my own mother, sent this malicious soap-related artwork. Aside from the malign sentiment, aren’t they nice?
Monday, July 30, 2012
Snipp, Snapp and Snurr
Two Fridays ago, I went to see my mental health professional, and felt distinctly worse afterward. During our session, she mentioned the need to set a boundary. “What’s a boundary?” I asked politely. Assuming I was joking, she laughed, but offered some examples. You have to start by figuring out what you need and want. “What’s the point?” I asked. “You’re either going to get whatever it is or you aren’t; even if someone promises a certain thing, that doesn’t mean they won’t change their mind.” She said that doesn’t matter: it’s about knowing what is acceptable or not and expressing it. Ah, so.
I walked home along Dolores St.—such a brilliantly sunny day—brooding about how I tend to surrender immediately when there is a hint of conflict, and, correspondingly, aim low in many situations. Anything to avoid trying, and anything to avoid being perceived to have a need or a want. (This definitely has some bearing on the job hunt.)
I also tend to be compulsively generous, as if I don’t have the right to withhold something if I possess it and someone else wants it. I was lately asked by a friend for the loan of a rather staggering sum of money, and then another friend asked for money, and someone else asked for something else fairly substantial, and the other day, I walked into a bookstore and saw an acquaintance at the counter who said she’d been thinking of looking me up: she wants to borrow a piece of electronic equipment! Deborah pointed out that this is quite a confluence of events: “Everyone wants your stuff.”
Now, it is quite true (I think) that if you say, “I insist on such-and-such, and if it isn’t that way, I’m going to be very upset!” you should prepare to be very upset. The fewer things necessary for one’s happiness, the happier one will be. However, I also see that I’ve used that generally solid philosophy to skip over knowing about some things I feel.
There is some work to be done here, because these habits are not helping me. I’m going to have to practice at least knowing what I want, whether I express it or not, and I also need to say “no” more often, while bearing in mind that it’s genuinely a good thing to be generous.
The next day, Saturday, I went to see my hospice visitee, and then had a burrito at Papalote. It was a very warm, sultry day. After Papalote, I was able to get the extremely comfortable chair in the front window at Borderlands Café, and sat there reading and drinking rooibos tea until the guy near me fanned himself for the tenth time, when it dawned on me that it actually was warmer in there than outside, so then I came home.
Sunday was grocery shopping at Rainbow followed by cooking, and last Monday featured a wonderful bike ride to the beach. On Tuesday evening, N. and I had burritos at La Cumbre Tuesday evening and went on to Howie’s. On Wednesday I did seven loads of laundry, and then Tom and his girlfriend and I took BART to Daly City to see The Dark Knight Rises.
Thursday was C.’s birthday, so I got a City CarShare car and treated him to lunch at Toast in Novato. We sat outside in the sun and had a very excellent time.
This past Saturday, Tom and I went in a City CarShare car to visit Mac at a care center in Carmichael, east of Sacramento. We arrived just as Ann and one of Mac’s sons were leaving, so we had him to ourselves for a time. I sat by his beside for two hours and held his hand off and on, and tried to be relaxed and happy, which is my practice when visiting hospice patients. It is possible we won’t see Mac again, so I was glad to have the chance to hold his hand, kiss his forehead, and tell him I love him, which I do, very much.
I got a letter from the Employment Development Department saying I’ve been selected to attend a workshop on job hunting a couple of weeks from now, across town at 8:30 in the morning. Fortunately, at the bottom it said that if you’re already receiving such services (which I am; the problem is the complete inability to put them into practice), just call this number. Unfortunately, it’s that same number that is never, ever answered by a human being.
I have to say, the EDD is incredibly efficient. I applied for unemployment benefits online and it seemed as if only seconds passed before I got further instructions in the mail. Really, they are remarkable and I’m very impressed. However, the reason they can get so much done is that they don’t chitchat with every—or any—Flicka, Ricka and Dicka on the phone. (Nor every or any Snipp, Snapp and Snurr.) (These are characters in books for children.)
Back in the 1960s, some of us liked to intone, “Snipp, Snapp and Snurr,” and attempt to produce an explosion of flatulence timed to the final syllable, delighting and/or dismaying siblings within range.
I walked home along Dolores St.—such a brilliantly sunny day—brooding about how I tend to surrender immediately when there is a hint of conflict, and, correspondingly, aim low in many situations. Anything to avoid trying, and anything to avoid being perceived to have a need or a want. (This definitely has some bearing on the job hunt.)
I also tend to be compulsively generous, as if I don’t have the right to withhold something if I possess it and someone else wants it. I was lately asked by a friend for the loan of a rather staggering sum of money, and then another friend asked for money, and someone else asked for something else fairly substantial, and the other day, I walked into a bookstore and saw an acquaintance at the counter who said she’d been thinking of looking me up: she wants to borrow a piece of electronic equipment! Deborah pointed out that this is quite a confluence of events: “Everyone wants your stuff.”
Now, it is quite true (I think) that if you say, “I insist on such-and-such, and if it isn’t that way, I’m going to be very upset!” you should prepare to be very upset. The fewer things necessary for one’s happiness, the happier one will be. However, I also see that I’ve used that generally solid philosophy to skip over knowing about some things I feel.
There is some work to be done here, because these habits are not helping me. I’m going to have to practice at least knowing what I want, whether I express it or not, and I also need to say “no” more often, while bearing in mind that it’s genuinely a good thing to be generous.
The next day, Saturday, I went to see my hospice visitee, and then had a burrito at Papalote. It was a very warm, sultry day. After Papalote, I was able to get the extremely comfortable chair in the front window at Borderlands Café, and sat there reading and drinking rooibos tea until the guy near me fanned himself for the tenth time, when it dawned on me that it actually was warmer in there than outside, so then I came home.
Sunday was grocery shopping at Rainbow followed by cooking, and last Monday featured a wonderful bike ride to the beach. On Tuesday evening, N. and I had burritos at La Cumbre Tuesday evening and went on to Howie’s. On Wednesday I did seven loads of laundry, and then Tom and his girlfriend and I took BART to Daly City to see The Dark Knight Rises.
Thursday was C.’s birthday, so I got a City CarShare car and treated him to lunch at Toast in Novato. We sat outside in the sun and had a very excellent time.
This past Saturday, Tom and I went in a City CarShare car to visit Mac at a care center in Carmichael, east of Sacramento. We arrived just as Ann and one of Mac’s sons were leaving, so we had him to ourselves for a time. I sat by his beside for two hours and held his hand off and on, and tried to be relaxed and happy, which is my practice when visiting hospice patients. It is possible we won’t see Mac again, so I was glad to have the chance to hold his hand, kiss his forehead, and tell him I love him, which I do, very much.
I got a letter from the Employment Development Department saying I’ve been selected to attend a workshop on job hunting a couple of weeks from now, across town at 8:30 in the morning. Fortunately, at the bottom it said that if you’re already receiving such services (which I am; the problem is the complete inability to put them into practice), just call this number. Unfortunately, it’s that same number that is never, ever answered by a human being.
I have to say, the EDD is incredibly efficient. I applied for unemployment benefits online and it seemed as if only seconds passed before I got further instructions in the mail. Really, they are remarkable and I’m very impressed. However, the reason they can get so much done is that they don’t chitchat with every—or any—Flicka, Ricka and Dicka on the phone. (Nor every or any Snipp, Snapp and Snurr.) (These are characters in books for children.)
Back in the 1960s, some of us liked to intone, “Snipp, Snapp and Snurr,” and attempt to produce an explosion of flatulence timed to the final syllable, delighting and/or dismaying siblings within range.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Countenancing No Sentiment Whatever Beyond Mild Approbation
Sorry to say that by later that same day, I’d thought better of what had seemed like an excellent plan (the part-time job and pursuing activities meaningful to me—what was I thinking?) and was drenched in a mild, unrefreshing anxiety. This lurching from extreme to extreme is a bit disconcerting—“I’ll do this! No, I’ll do the exact opposite!”—but the latest thought is that I’m probably too young to eschew the income that comes with a full-time job and I’m admittedly not the entrepreneurial type, though my extended family is full of entrepreneurs, meaning that I’m not likely to want to be a self-employed consultant/teacher/coach.
Stand by to hear these exact revelations again six months from now; I’ll try to make it sound like I just figured it out.
I was walking near C.’s that afternoon—Wednesday a week ago—and so dropped by and found him working on his own application for unemployment benefits and having even less fun than I did. I took over to see if I could make any headway with it and realized that one of the Employment Development Department website’s error messages is a complete misnomer, and thought, “This software was poorly designed,” and then I thought, “Huh! Maybe I’m actually on the right track with the business analyst idea.”
The Mission evening was particularly lovely—very warm and balmy. I’d planned to have a reading evening at home while C. went to his weekly poetry event at Sacred Grounds, but it started to seem like a nice evening to be out, and as if it might be lonely to be at home alone, for which I blame C. It seems to me that when Tom and I were a couple, we saw each other once a week—could that be right?—and that that was agreeable to both parties, whereas I see C. five or six evenings a week, which at first struck me as a major overdose, but now seems just about right.
So I did join C. for the bus ride to the Haight, where, alas, it had to be a good 30 degrees cooler than in our neighborhood despite being just a couple of miles away, and instead of warm sun, there was wet grey fog right down to the sidewalk, and such a strong fishy smell that it was as if the ocean were a block away instead of tens of blocks away. Uck.
It’s now dawning on me that the reason I can’t decide what kind of job to get is that I don’t really want a job at all. Phillip Moffitt’s book addresses making decisions. He recommends, among other things, clarifying what the decision to be made actually is, and thus I see that the question here isn’t what kind of job to get, but if one should be obtained at all. But maybe that’s neither here nor there. Presumably no one wants a job (does anyone want a job?), but I am going to have to have one, anyway, meaning that I’ll have to face the fear of networking.
Phillip also writes about distinguishing our interpretations of things from our actual experience, and about expectations. Is it our habit to have high expectations (“Everything is going to come out just great!”) or low (“It will probably mostly be OK”) or downright negative: “I won’t be able to do this. I’m going to fail.” I fit pretty squarely in the last category, which is not helping.
Last Friday evening, C. and I went to the Red Poppy Arthouse to hear Ray Obiedo’s group play music billed as a hybrid of Latin jazz and funk. We danced together! It was fun.
This past Monday evening we went to Glide Memorial Church for Jana Drakka’s meditation group, and then to El Majahual for a late dinner.
Tuesday evening we had dinner at We Be Sushi and went to Howie’s. (That is, to the weekly meeting of Mission Dharma, for group meditation followed by a dharma talk from teacher Howard Cohn.)
On Wednesday I rode my bike down to Dwightly’s office for strategy team, and in the evening, C. and I took the bus to Chef Jia’s for dinner and went on to City Lights bookstore to hear Jim Nisbet read.
I went lately to stock up on Ivory bar soap, and found that there was none in two or more Walgreens! I “phoned” (that’s like texting, but you have to hear the person’s voice) my mother to express that tragedy had struck. “Really?” she asked. “Something that is old, out of date and no longer used by anyone other than a few cranks is no longer on the shelf? Odd.” She added, “Honestly, you’re just like your father.”
“Put him on, please.”
“He’s busy. Hold on.” I heard her yell, “Linda says she can’t buy Ivory soap at Walgreens anymore and she thinks the world is coming to an end.” Pause. “He quite agrees,” she reported back. I guess people now prefer to squirt their soap out of a little plastic bottle. Unfortunately, Ivory soap, as far as I know, is the only kind I can use without getting a red, itchy rash, so I visited other Walgreens stores and have found the inestimable highly pure bars here and there, marked way down for clearance. I have now secreted 33 bars of Ivory soap in my apartment (not saying exactly where, for security reasons), which will last a year, give or take.
Yesterday I completed a long list of little chores and in the evening watched Play Misty for Me, which is about a deranged, violent woman who develops an obsessive “love” for a radio DJ played by Clint Eastwood back in his particularly toothsome years. Afterward, I formed a resolve to avoid obsessive love, if possible.
Stand by to hear these exact revelations again six months from now; I’ll try to make it sound like I just figured it out.
I was walking near C.’s that afternoon—Wednesday a week ago—and so dropped by and found him working on his own application for unemployment benefits and having even less fun than I did. I took over to see if I could make any headway with it and realized that one of the Employment Development Department website’s error messages is a complete misnomer, and thought, “This software was poorly designed,” and then I thought, “Huh! Maybe I’m actually on the right track with the business analyst idea.”
The Mission evening was particularly lovely—very warm and balmy. I’d planned to have a reading evening at home while C. went to his weekly poetry event at Sacred Grounds, but it started to seem like a nice evening to be out, and as if it might be lonely to be at home alone, for which I blame C. It seems to me that when Tom and I were a couple, we saw each other once a week—could that be right?—and that that was agreeable to both parties, whereas I see C. five or six evenings a week, which at first struck me as a major overdose, but now seems just about right.
So I did join C. for the bus ride to the Haight, where, alas, it had to be a good 30 degrees cooler than in our neighborhood despite being just a couple of miles away, and instead of warm sun, there was wet grey fog right down to the sidewalk, and such a strong fishy smell that it was as if the ocean were a block away instead of tens of blocks away. Uck.
It’s now dawning on me that the reason I can’t decide what kind of job to get is that I don’t really want a job at all. Phillip Moffitt’s book addresses making decisions. He recommends, among other things, clarifying what the decision to be made actually is, and thus I see that the question here isn’t what kind of job to get, but if one should be obtained at all. But maybe that’s neither here nor there. Presumably no one wants a job (does anyone want a job?), but I am going to have to have one, anyway, meaning that I’ll have to face the fear of networking.
Phillip also writes about distinguishing our interpretations of things from our actual experience, and about expectations. Is it our habit to have high expectations (“Everything is going to come out just great!”) or low (“It will probably mostly be OK”) or downright negative: “I won’t be able to do this. I’m going to fail.” I fit pretty squarely in the last category, which is not helping.
Last Friday evening, C. and I went to the Red Poppy Arthouse to hear Ray Obiedo’s group play music billed as a hybrid of Latin jazz and funk. We danced together! It was fun.
This past Monday evening we went to Glide Memorial Church for Jana Drakka’s meditation group, and then to El Majahual for a late dinner.
Tuesday evening we had dinner at We Be Sushi and went to Howie’s. (That is, to the weekly meeting of Mission Dharma, for group meditation followed by a dharma talk from teacher Howard Cohn.)
On Wednesday I rode my bike down to Dwightly’s office for strategy team, and in the evening, C. and I took the bus to Chef Jia’s for dinner and went on to City Lights bookstore to hear Jim Nisbet read.
I went lately to stock up on Ivory bar soap, and found that there was none in two or more Walgreens! I “phoned” (that’s like texting, but you have to hear the person’s voice) my mother to express that tragedy had struck. “Really?” she asked. “Something that is old, out of date and no longer used by anyone other than a few cranks is no longer on the shelf? Odd.” She added, “Honestly, you’re just like your father.”
“Put him on, please.”
“He’s busy. Hold on.” I heard her yell, “Linda says she can’t buy Ivory soap at Walgreens anymore and she thinks the world is coming to an end.” Pause. “He quite agrees,” she reported back. I guess people now prefer to squirt their soap out of a little plastic bottle. Unfortunately, Ivory soap, as far as I know, is the only kind I can use without getting a red, itchy rash, so I visited other Walgreens stores and have found the inestimable highly pure bars here and there, marked way down for clearance. I have now secreted 33 bars of Ivory soap in my apartment (not saying exactly where, for security reasons), which will last a year, give or take.
Yesterday I completed a long list of little chores and in the evening watched Play Misty for Me, which is about a deranged, violent woman who develops an obsessive “love” for a radio DJ played by Clint Eastwood back in his particularly toothsome years. Afterward, I formed a resolve to avoid obsessive love, if possible.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Key First Step Successfully Completed
On Monday I had a good talk with my career coach, Dwightly. She observed that I’m methodical and organized by nature and therefore may be feeling like I’m wandering in a maze. She said it’s natural to feel disconcerted in this situation and that I need to be “opportunistic”—to talk to people and explore various paths: try this and that and rule things out along the way. She said I shouldn’t start by trying to find the perfect job at the perfect organization. (She has my number.) I need to wander in the maze and trust the process, and I need to try to be comfortable with uncertainty. She said I can try a particular path and it may or may not lead anywhere, and I can go on to other careers or organizations as necessary.
She finished by saying I have a nice skill set and that I should be encouraged and optimistic.
In the evening, C. and I went to the little zazen sitting group at Glide Memorial Church.
Having discovered myself to be stuck as regards my job hunt, I have taken the universally agreed-upon first step in solving any problem, which is to order up some stuff from Amazon, in this case the 2012 edition of What Color Is Your Parachute?, Barbara Sher’s I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was, and Phillip Moffitt’s new book, Emotional Chaos to Clarity: How to Live More Skillfully, Make Better Decisions, and Find Purpose in Life. I almost always interview with Phillip at my annual retreat at Spirit Rock Meditation Center, and think very highly of him. (Typically, you meet with a teacher every other day while on retreat to check in about how things are going and ask any questions.)
Yesterday I spent part of the day reading Phillip’s book and I went to see my mental health professional, which entailed taking an extraordinarily beautiful walk along Dolores St. Such a lovely, sunny day.
In the evening, I went to Howie’s.
Last night I dreamed I’d been rehired at my former company and was wandering in a vast, dispiriting cubicle farm, all in shades of dull blue. I felt sad and gloomy: my lovely, sunny summer—gone! Spending such nice time, in such quantity, with C.—gone!
That horrible little cracking sound you just heard was all 56 to 68 of my parents’ teeth (depending on how many wisdom teeth are still present) crashing together as they thought, “I knew that was the reason she hasn’t been looking for a job!”
Well, not really. I do see C. very often, but have made a point of almost never getting together with him before 5 or 6 p.m. on weekdays, allocating the time that may one day be spent working to looking for work, or at least not to socializing. (What is it that I actually do weekdays until 5 or 6 p.m.? That's a bit mysterious, even to me.)
In this dream, I gave my former co-worker, Emily, a call on the phone and was surprised to find she was cold and unfriendly, not happy to hear from me.
When I spoke with Dwightly on Monday, we discussed the possibility of part-time work. Do such jobs ever come with insurance? Dwightly said sometimes they do, and that this is certainly something one could negotiate for. She also said that part-time jobs aren’t always posted, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist or can’t be created for a desirable candidate.
Now that Obamacare has been validated by the Supreme Court, which will make it possible for those with pre-existing conditions to buy their own insurance (in fact, may make it necessary for everyone to buy their own insurance, as businesses seize the opportunity to stop offering it), I’m starting to think maybe I was right in the first place about trying to put together a life full of the things that matter most to me, and that my favorite checkout person at Rainbow was right in not liking to see me retreat in fear from what I really wanted.
(Also starting to think I was wrong about John Roberts, though the The New Yorker says his vote in this case may be consistent with a diabolical long-term plan we won’t like. When I visited Ypsilanti recently, we spent an agreeable 15 minutes listing our most-hated Supreme Court justices in descending order of enmity. My least favorite is Roberts, followed by Thomas. Roberts’ assurance that he would be like the umpire in a game of baseball followed by what has seemed to be naked partisan action, some of it so incredibly damaging, has been enraging. How extraordinary, even touching, to have him cast the decisive vote to affirm Obamacare.)
As for what means the most to me, the most important and beneficial thing in my life is my mindfulness practice, both formal sitting in meditation and trying to be awake the rest of the time, and one thing I’d really like to do is to be a mindfulness/meditation teacher/coach, not a dharma teacher per se. Lately I was discussing this with a meditation pal who has completed a Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) training program. Becoming certified requires additional steps, but once you finish this program, you can start teaching.
The same class is starting again soon, but I had decided not to apply because I also don’t think I want to be an MBSR teacher per se. However, I might change my mind about that, and the class may provide a valuable opportunity to learn how to teach meditation, so as soon as I finished stretching, I rushed to turn on the computer to find that email again, and saw this from Elea:
“Were you mad at me in that dream! I am glad it was not for reals.
“You had a job you loved though. Sadly, I don't remember what it was, but it was your dream job.”
Funny that both those dreams occurred on the same night. I put together and mailed an application for the MBSR class, and my plan now is to find a part-time IT job, which would give me time to pursue being a mindfulness/meditation teacher and to write.
She finished by saying I have a nice skill set and that I should be encouraged and optimistic.
In the evening, C. and I went to the little zazen sitting group at Glide Memorial Church.
Having discovered myself to be stuck as regards my job hunt, I have taken the universally agreed-upon first step in solving any problem, which is to order up some stuff from Amazon, in this case the 2012 edition of What Color Is Your Parachute?, Barbara Sher’s I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was, and Phillip Moffitt’s new book, Emotional Chaos to Clarity: How to Live More Skillfully, Make Better Decisions, and Find Purpose in Life. I almost always interview with Phillip at my annual retreat at Spirit Rock Meditation Center, and think very highly of him. (Typically, you meet with a teacher every other day while on retreat to check in about how things are going and ask any questions.)
Yesterday I spent part of the day reading Phillip’s book and I went to see my mental health professional, which entailed taking an extraordinarily beautiful walk along Dolores St. Such a lovely, sunny day.
In the evening, I went to Howie’s.
Last night I dreamed I’d been rehired at my former company and was wandering in a vast, dispiriting cubicle farm, all in shades of dull blue. I felt sad and gloomy: my lovely, sunny summer—gone! Spending such nice time, in such quantity, with C.—gone!
That horrible little cracking sound you just heard was all 56 to 68 of my parents’ teeth (depending on how many wisdom teeth are still present) crashing together as they thought, “I knew that was the reason she hasn’t been looking for a job!”
Well, not really. I do see C. very often, but have made a point of almost never getting together with him before 5 or 6 p.m. on weekdays, allocating the time that may one day be spent working to looking for work, or at least not to socializing. (What is it that I actually do weekdays until 5 or 6 p.m.? That's a bit mysterious, even to me.)
In this dream, I gave my former co-worker, Emily, a call on the phone and was surprised to find she was cold and unfriendly, not happy to hear from me.
When I spoke with Dwightly on Monday, we discussed the possibility of part-time work. Do such jobs ever come with insurance? Dwightly said sometimes they do, and that this is certainly something one could negotiate for. She also said that part-time jobs aren’t always posted, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist or can’t be created for a desirable candidate.
Now that Obamacare has been validated by the Supreme Court, which will make it possible for those with pre-existing conditions to buy their own insurance (in fact, may make it necessary for everyone to buy their own insurance, as businesses seize the opportunity to stop offering it), I’m starting to think maybe I was right in the first place about trying to put together a life full of the things that matter most to me, and that my favorite checkout person at Rainbow was right in not liking to see me retreat in fear from what I really wanted.
(Also starting to think I was wrong about John Roberts, though the The New Yorker says his vote in this case may be consistent with a diabolical long-term plan we won’t like. When I visited Ypsilanti recently, we spent an agreeable 15 minutes listing our most-hated Supreme Court justices in descending order of enmity. My least favorite is Roberts, followed by Thomas. Roberts’ assurance that he would be like the umpire in a game of baseball followed by what has seemed to be naked partisan action, some of it so incredibly damaging, has been enraging. How extraordinary, even touching, to have him cast the decisive vote to affirm Obamacare.)
As for what means the most to me, the most important and beneficial thing in my life is my mindfulness practice, both formal sitting in meditation and trying to be awake the rest of the time, and one thing I’d really like to do is to be a mindfulness/meditation teacher/coach, not a dharma teacher per se. Lately I was discussing this with a meditation pal who has completed a Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) training program. Becoming certified requires additional steps, but once you finish this program, you can start teaching.
The same class is starting again soon, but I had decided not to apply because I also don’t think I want to be an MBSR teacher per se. However, I might change my mind about that, and the class may provide a valuable opportunity to learn how to teach meditation, so as soon as I finished stretching, I rushed to turn on the computer to find that email again, and saw this from Elea:
“Were you mad at me in that dream! I am glad it was not for reals.
“You had a job you loved though. Sadly, I don't remember what it was, but it was your dream job.”
Funny that both those dreams occurred on the same night. I put together and mailed an application for the MBSR class, and my plan now is to find a part-time IT job, which would give me time to pursue being a mindfulness/meditation teacher and to write.
Monday, July 09, 2012
The Three Habits of Highly Ineffective People
Maybe you need seven to be effective, but three should get the job done otherwise.
Lately seen on a t-shirt: SARCASM IS JUST ANOTHER FREE SERVICE WE OFFER.
I’m still stewing about money versus meaning, and was thinking about going around and conducting some informational interviews on the topic of finding satisfying work, or would that be yet another way to attenuate what is becoming a painful process—a means of avoiding informational interviews that might actually lead to employment?
Saturday a week ago I spent reading Blue Monday, a highly satisfying thriller by Nicci French (the pseudonym of a wife and husband writing team). I will definitely read more of their books. C. and I had dinner at We Be Sushi.
On Monday I went to the dentist to have a crown reaffixed to its stump (or does “pedestal” sound better?), and in the evening, C. and I went down to Glide church for the little meditation group there and I got to meet Jana Drakka, who is very engaging and likeable. When C. and I were walking through the Tenderloin back to BART afterward, we passed a guy who said of us, “Aw, that’s so cute. Keep it going, keep it going.”
On the Fourth of July, C. and I walked over to Dolores Park and briefly joined the San Francisco Mime Troupe’s audience, making our way from there to Golden Gate Park for a lovely stroll (where, if I may mention it, a man stopped us to say how “beautiful” we look together and that it should be our job to go around teaching people how to be happy—that was flattering, but I should also say there may have been a faint whiff of spirits coming from this person). We managed to arrive at the Conservatory of Flowers at 4 p.m., just in time for closing. Next was Zona Rosa on Haight St. for burritos, and then back to the Mission to step onto the roof of my building for fireworks. The city’s display was lower in the sky than usual this year, so they were kind of hard to see.
On Thursday Tom came to town to feed Darwin, a task Terry R., who loves animals (e.g., rats), had balked at, so Tom and I got to have lunch at Papalote. (Tom has been in Sacramento for a number of weeks, helping Ann out.)
On Friday, I took an actual weekday off, figuring I might as well. For months now, I’ve been “looking for work,” and have felt I should keep at that five days a week, despite failing to accomplish much of anything. However, people with jobs now and then have a day off, so I decided it would be all right to follow suit. I took my usual walk out Dolores St. to Randall, but then instead of coming home, I went to Borderlands Café with a book, ordered a pot of rooibos tea, and sank into a comfy chair in the back room.
There is a second upholstered chair in the little room, plus a couch. A guy came along and sat in the other chair and pulled something out of his bag: a knitting project! I found that enchanting. It was extraordinarily tranquil and delightful, just sitting there reading with others quietly occupied nearby, the tea so beautifully, deeply orange in its white cup.
Esperpento with C. that evening for tapas was, in contrast, somewhat like hell on earth—so incredibly loud, though the food was tasty and not as expensive as I’d assumed it would be. Small plates = bring a big bag of money.
On Saturday I went in a City CarShare car to visit Carol Joy in Novato. I recently acquired an iPod Nano and an AUX cable for the sole purpose of being able to hear mp3s in a CarShare car. Apparently these days you can plug an AUX cable into just about any car other than a Prius, strange if true. I tried it with a Scion and it worked beautifully. Carol Joy and I ate at Toast and saw Magic Mike, which was good. Then we sat on a breezy, shaded veranda and played cards for awhile—so nice on that extremely hot afternoon!—and had dinner at La Piñata, which evidently is a small, family-owned Bay Area chain of restaurants. We both thought our burritos were uncommonly tasty.
Ponderings yesterday while cooking: Happiness doesn’t come from getting what I want, and most certainly not from compelling others to act as I prefer. It comes from non-greed (generosity) and non-hatred (kindness). The highest happiness is peace, which can potentially be had by practicing non-harming behavior, including generosity, kindness and equanimity, and by bringing the mind back to observable reality over and over. Happiness comes from being steadily present with whatever is occurring, in a relaxed and accepting way.
I’ve evolved a two-tiered system, which starts with accepting the actual thing, if possible: It’s all right that that person is doing thus and such. Yes to that. But if I can’t accept that, then I try to accept the related feelings: Yes to feeling upset, plus every now and then there will also be an opportunity to accept still more bad feelings that arose as a consequence of acting intemperately in reaction to the first bad feelings.
It seems to me that I lately bumped into the idea that God needs us to fully enjoy His creation. I don’t believe in God (but here capitalize the name out of consideration for those who do). C. says he takes “God” as an acronym for “Great Outdoors.” In Twelve Step programs, it’s said to stand for “Good Orderly Direction.” Certainly things seem to unfold in a lawful fashion, but more than that, things seem to be inherently weighted toward the good—if you sit long enough, while you might feel lousy in the short term, eventually you’ll be permeated with joy. Why is that? I don’t know (well, I suppose because God is great, and also good, and we also thank him for our food, the one prayer my parents taught me when I was a child), but I think it would be perfectly reasonable to call the way things unfold lawfully plus that general benevolent force “God.” One doesn’t want to go around having to say “general benevolent force” all the time.
I was thinking today about that idea of God needing us—about how pure consciousness, which I believe is what we ultimately are, is vastly spacious and peaceful and joyful, but not in possession of eyes or ears or skin. Without us, it can’t know what a cat looks like curled up for a nap, what a burrito tastes like, what annoyance feels like. It’s our part in creation—a way we can express our gratitude for the gift of a human life—to do our best to fully experience our lives, whether this moment is agreeable or otherwise. I find this idea moving. This is our job, and we’re the only ones who can do it. When I sit here and feel scared that things might not go my way, that I might lose this or that thing that seems essential, it is my sacred duty to do that as wholeheartedly as I can.
Lately seen on a t-shirt: SARCASM IS JUST ANOTHER FREE SERVICE WE OFFER.
I’m still stewing about money versus meaning, and was thinking about going around and conducting some informational interviews on the topic of finding satisfying work, or would that be yet another way to attenuate what is becoming a painful process—a means of avoiding informational interviews that might actually lead to employment?
Saturday a week ago I spent reading Blue Monday, a highly satisfying thriller by Nicci French (the pseudonym of a wife and husband writing team). I will definitely read more of their books. C. and I had dinner at We Be Sushi.
On Monday I went to the dentist to have a crown reaffixed to its stump (or does “pedestal” sound better?), and in the evening, C. and I went down to Glide church for the little meditation group there and I got to meet Jana Drakka, who is very engaging and likeable. When C. and I were walking through the Tenderloin back to BART afterward, we passed a guy who said of us, “Aw, that’s so cute. Keep it going, keep it going.”
On the Fourth of July, C. and I walked over to Dolores Park and briefly joined the San Francisco Mime Troupe’s audience, making our way from there to Golden Gate Park for a lovely stroll (where, if I may mention it, a man stopped us to say how “beautiful” we look together and that it should be our job to go around teaching people how to be happy—that was flattering, but I should also say there may have been a faint whiff of spirits coming from this person). We managed to arrive at the Conservatory of Flowers at 4 p.m., just in time for closing. Next was Zona Rosa on Haight St. for burritos, and then back to the Mission to step onto the roof of my building for fireworks. The city’s display was lower in the sky than usual this year, so they were kind of hard to see.
On Thursday Tom came to town to feed Darwin, a task Terry R., who loves animals (e.g., rats), had balked at, so Tom and I got to have lunch at Papalote. (Tom has been in Sacramento for a number of weeks, helping Ann out.)
On Friday, I took an actual weekday off, figuring I might as well. For months now, I’ve been “looking for work,” and have felt I should keep at that five days a week, despite failing to accomplish much of anything. However, people with jobs now and then have a day off, so I decided it would be all right to follow suit. I took my usual walk out Dolores St. to Randall, but then instead of coming home, I went to Borderlands Café with a book, ordered a pot of rooibos tea, and sank into a comfy chair in the back room.
There is a second upholstered chair in the little room, plus a couch. A guy came along and sat in the other chair and pulled something out of his bag: a knitting project! I found that enchanting. It was extraordinarily tranquil and delightful, just sitting there reading with others quietly occupied nearby, the tea so beautifully, deeply orange in its white cup.
Esperpento with C. that evening for tapas was, in contrast, somewhat like hell on earth—so incredibly loud, though the food was tasty and not as expensive as I’d assumed it would be. Small plates = bring a big bag of money.
On Saturday I went in a City CarShare car to visit Carol Joy in Novato. I recently acquired an iPod Nano and an AUX cable for the sole purpose of being able to hear mp3s in a CarShare car. Apparently these days you can plug an AUX cable into just about any car other than a Prius, strange if true. I tried it with a Scion and it worked beautifully. Carol Joy and I ate at Toast and saw Magic Mike, which was good. Then we sat on a breezy, shaded veranda and played cards for awhile—so nice on that extremely hot afternoon!—and had dinner at La Piñata, which evidently is a small, family-owned Bay Area chain of restaurants. We both thought our burritos were uncommonly tasty.
Ponderings yesterday while cooking: Happiness doesn’t come from getting what I want, and most certainly not from compelling others to act as I prefer. It comes from non-greed (generosity) and non-hatred (kindness). The highest happiness is peace, which can potentially be had by practicing non-harming behavior, including generosity, kindness and equanimity, and by bringing the mind back to observable reality over and over. Happiness comes from being steadily present with whatever is occurring, in a relaxed and accepting way.
I’ve evolved a two-tiered system, which starts with accepting the actual thing, if possible: It’s all right that that person is doing thus and such. Yes to that. But if I can’t accept that, then I try to accept the related feelings: Yes to feeling upset, plus every now and then there will also be an opportunity to accept still more bad feelings that arose as a consequence of acting intemperately in reaction to the first bad feelings.
It seems to me that I lately bumped into the idea that God needs us to fully enjoy His creation. I don’t believe in God (but here capitalize the name out of consideration for those who do). C. says he takes “God” as an acronym for “Great Outdoors.” In Twelve Step programs, it’s said to stand for “Good Orderly Direction.” Certainly things seem to unfold in a lawful fashion, but more than that, things seem to be inherently weighted toward the good—if you sit long enough, while you might feel lousy in the short term, eventually you’ll be permeated with joy. Why is that? I don’t know (well, I suppose because God is great, and also good, and we also thank him for our food, the one prayer my parents taught me when I was a child), but I think it would be perfectly reasonable to call the way things unfold lawfully plus that general benevolent force “God.” One doesn’t want to go around having to say “general benevolent force” all the time.
I was thinking today about that idea of God needing us—about how pure consciousness, which I believe is what we ultimately are, is vastly spacious and peaceful and joyful, but not in possession of eyes or ears or skin. Without us, it can’t know what a cat looks like curled up for a nap, what a burrito tastes like, what annoyance feels like. It’s our part in creation—a way we can express our gratitude for the gift of a human life—to do our best to fully experience our lives, whether this moment is agreeable or otherwise. I find this idea moving. This is our job, and we’re the only ones who can do it. When I sit here and feel scared that things might not go my way, that I might lose this or that thing that seems essential, it is my sacred duty to do that as wholeheartedly as I can.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Non-Service Level Agreement
Last Saturday I went to Rainbow and did my cooking, as the store was to be closed on Sunday for Gay Pride day. In the evening, C. and I went to a party at John S.’s, co-hosted by Cesar L. The ceilings in John’s apartment are very high and there is one bookshelf after the other stuffed to the brim. “This is a staggering number of books,” was my first thought. My second was, “I hope I’m not in here when the big one hits.” Not only that, there did not appear to be even one self-help book among those million books. They appeared to all be literary works, or about art or music.
John had made a tableful of beautiful vegetarian food, and it was an evening for guests to sign up for performance opportunities: to play the piano, sing a song, read a poem. C. read from his book, and John S. sang art songs in Russian and German. Two people played several four hands works by Ligeti, I believe, including a strange and very beautiful waltz.
On Sunday I went to see my hospice visitee. During our visit, she asked me to fetch her scissors from a dresser drawer and she set about cutting some hair that was impeding her view. It was fairly nerve-wracking (for me), since she really can’t see, so when she asked for the scissors again later, I went and fetched a nurse to assist instead. I shouldn’t have let her do it even once.
A. was furious and said, “You betrayed my trust.” I apologized, and after a bit, she said she’d decided to forgive me. “You know why? Because you’re human.”
She said of some unrelated matter, “I don’t like it, but that’s it.” Wise words there.
On Monday I gave LabCorp a call for the second time in three weeks to say that they’d submitted a claim to the wrong insurance company despite my having handed them the correct insurance card upon arrival. One benefit of all this medical stuff is having much more understanding about how my insurance is supposed to work and how to straighten things out when they go wrong. My surgeon’s front desk person has more than once submitted something to the wrong insurance company, giving me further practice.
One of the visits to LabCorp was for lab work to get “health and wellness dollars” I can apply to medical costs in my current insurance scheme, and I was delighted to find that my blood glucose reading has dropped by 40 points since I ceased to eat sugar! It was formerly above the normal range, but now it’s close to the bottom of that range.
Tom is still in Sacramento and over the weeks, his snake’s cage has fallen into deplorable conditions, so he persuaded Terry R. to come and address the situation.
Terry and I spoke on the phone before he came over and he asked if I was going to help him and I assured him I was not going to lift a finger—that I was very sorry, but I’m completely terrified of snakes. We discussed where the snake might be placed during the cage-cleaning operation and other logistics. Soon Terry arrived from across town, got Tom’s keys from me, and in ten minutes, there came a knock on my door.
“Is that Terry R.?”, I asked before opening it.
“It certainly is!”, came the emphatic answer, which I assumed would be followed by, “Do you know where Tom keeps his garbage bags?” or, “It’s not as easy to get a big snake into a pillowcase as I’d thought.” But instead he said he was done and coming to return the keys: he took the snake out, took the stuff out, put the new stuff in, and put the snake back in. Terry is a marvel!
Tom received the latest Rolling Stone that day, which I read before taking it up to his place; I knew he wouldn’t mind. It contained a very frightening feature on middle-class folks who lost their jobs and ended up living in their cars. It scared the crap out of me—how do I know that won’t be my fate? Plus, not having a car, I'll have to live perched on my bicycle.
In the evening, C. stopped by after his poetry event.
Tuesday I had a very unagreeable day applying for unemployment, in part because I had moral qualms about doing it at all: I don’t really need it, at least now, so shouldn’t I leave the funds for those who do? Part of it was not being sure where the money comes from. Entirely from my former employer? Or is part of it from a government pot that can be exhausted? C. thought it was OK to go ahead, for what it’s worth, and I also decided that if I get another job before my severance pay ends, I could donate whatever I may get from unemployment to others.
That afternoon I talked on the phone to my recruiter friend, who had reviewed my resume and had a few suggestions.
In the evening, N. and I had burritos at La Cumbre and went on to Howie’s.
Yesterday I attended the support group session at Dwightly’s office. I’ve (finally) realized I’ve not been moving faster on the job hunt due to anxiety about discovering it’s going to be more difficult than I thought. Then, of course, there’s not really wanting a job, plus being torn between trying for something that might be easier to obtain and pay reasonably well (something in IT) and seizing this golden opportunity to try to find something I’d actually be excited about and happy to tell people I do.
But I think it’s mainly the former, or, as the Queens of the Stone Age say, “Fear of failure’s all you’ve started.”
John had made a tableful of beautiful vegetarian food, and it was an evening for guests to sign up for performance opportunities: to play the piano, sing a song, read a poem. C. read from his book, and John S. sang art songs in Russian and German. Two people played several four hands works by Ligeti, I believe, including a strange and very beautiful waltz.
On Sunday I went to see my hospice visitee. During our visit, she asked me to fetch her scissors from a dresser drawer and she set about cutting some hair that was impeding her view. It was fairly nerve-wracking (for me), since she really can’t see, so when she asked for the scissors again later, I went and fetched a nurse to assist instead. I shouldn’t have let her do it even once.
A. was furious and said, “You betrayed my trust.” I apologized, and after a bit, she said she’d decided to forgive me. “You know why? Because you’re human.”
She said of some unrelated matter, “I don’t like it, but that’s it.” Wise words there.
On Monday I gave LabCorp a call for the second time in three weeks to say that they’d submitted a claim to the wrong insurance company despite my having handed them the correct insurance card upon arrival. One benefit of all this medical stuff is having much more understanding about how my insurance is supposed to work and how to straighten things out when they go wrong. My surgeon’s front desk person has more than once submitted something to the wrong insurance company, giving me further practice.
One of the visits to LabCorp was for lab work to get “health and wellness dollars” I can apply to medical costs in my current insurance scheme, and I was delighted to find that my blood glucose reading has dropped by 40 points since I ceased to eat sugar! It was formerly above the normal range, but now it’s close to the bottom of that range.
Tom is still in Sacramento and over the weeks, his snake’s cage has fallen into deplorable conditions, so he persuaded Terry R. to come and address the situation.
Terry and I spoke on the phone before he came over and he asked if I was going to help him and I assured him I was not going to lift a finger—that I was very sorry, but I’m completely terrified of snakes. We discussed where the snake might be placed during the cage-cleaning operation and other logistics. Soon Terry arrived from across town, got Tom’s keys from me, and in ten minutes, there came a knock on my door.
“Is that Terry R.?”, I asked before opening it.
“It certainly is!”, came the emphatic answer, which I assumed would be followed by, “Do you know where Tom keeps his garbage bags?” or, “It’s not as easy to get a big snake into a pillowcase as I’d thought.” But instead he said he was done and coming to return the keys: he took the snake out, took the stuff out, put the new stuff in, and put the snake back in. Terry is a marvel!
Tom received the latest Rolling Stone that day, which I read before taking it up to his place; I knew he wouldn’t mind. It contained a very frightening feature on middle-class folks who lost their jobs and ended up living in their cars. It scared the crap out of me—how do I know that won’t be my fate? Plus, not having a car, I'll have to live perched on my bicycle.
In the evening, C. stopped by after his poetry event.
Tuesday I had a very unagreeable day applying for unemployment, in part because I had moral qualms about doing it at all: I don’t really need it, at least now, so shouldn’t I leave the funds for those who do? Part of it was not being sure where the money comes from. Entirely from my former employer? Or is part of it from a government pot that can be exhausted? C. thought it was OK to go ahead, for what it’s worth, and I also decided that if I get another job before my severance pay ends, I could donate whatever I may get from unemployment to others.
That afternoon I talked on the phone to my recruiter friend, who had reviewed my resume and had a few suggestions.
In the evening, N. and I had burritos at La Cumbre and went on to Howie’s.
Yesterday I attended the support group session at Dwightly’s office. I’ve (finally) realized I’ve not been moving faster on the job hunt due to anxiety about discovering it’s going to be more difficult than I thought. Then, of course, there’s not really wanting a job, plus being torn between trying for something that might be easier to obtain and pay reasonably well (something in IT) and seizing this golden opportunity to try to find something I’d actually be excited about and happy to tell people I do.
But I think it’s mainly the former, or, as the Queens of the Stone Age say, “Fear of failure’s all you’ve started.”
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Now That I Have a Spreadsheet, Can Success Continue to Elude Me?
This past Tuesday I finally put up a profile on the professional networking website (LinkedIn), and uploaded my resume to DICE, the IT jobs website that was once the place for this kind of thing, though I gather that now people just use LinkedIn to search for jobs, plus do research and connect with others.
On Wednesday I had my six-month mammogram, which was strangely unpainful, which normally would be good, but since the mammogram that found the problem in the first place was bordering on excruciating, I asked if there had been sufficient compression. The technician said she was trying not to mash the surgical site, and that she had gotten clear pictures. Maybe it was also less painful because there’s somewhat less flesh to mash, per the new anti-cancer ingestion habits. I got the results ten minutes later—everything appeared to be fine—which is one perk of having had breast cancer. They said from now on, I will always get the results immediately.
I went then to see my surgeon, who did a clinical exam and said everything seemed good and that it didn’t appear there was any damage from the radiation.
In the past year or so, I acquired a tape deck that will make an mp3 from a cassette tape (or from a CD) and, though I’m normally opposed to this kind of project, actually thought I might convert all of my cassettes into mp3s. I’m opposed to it because it’s just undoable. It’s a waste of time to even think you’ll get around to something like that, and if you did somehow do it, it would be pure folly, because you’d never even listen to any of those mp3s, plus by then the whole mp3 thing would be over in favor of planting a chip right in your brain.
That has to be coming: everyone gets a chip in the brain at birth, and then you just stand near conveniently located scanners to download music into your head and pay for stuff.
Nonetheless, because all those songs are my winning little friends, I thought about converting them, and decided to fish five cassettes per week out of the brown paper grocery bag and perform an evaluation: convert or take straight to Green Citizen for recycling. I did actually convert a few initially just to see how it worked, and it worked perfectly, but the plan to assess five cassettes per week didn’t work at all—a worthy candidate might be identified, but I couldn’t force myself to actually do the task.
On Thursday I looked at every cassette I have and decided I could live on without about half of them, and I think now that I will just look at all of them periodically until I’ve taken every last one to Green Citizen, and then sell the tape deck. Voila!
Yesterday the job search networking phase officially began, complete with a spreadsheet! I wanted to make sure that the recruiting firm that originally sent me to the job I just left (maybe it’s getting to be a stretch to say I “just” left it) was in possession of my updated resume, and was able to find the exact person who helped me out 13 years ago—one of the biggest benefactors in my entire life. Turns out she’s back at that same firm, and she now has my resume.
I’ve always thought that not coloring one’s grey hair was a sign of growing old naturally and gracefully, and I still do, but it’s kind of pointless when practically everyone else on earth sees it as being frumpy. I read somewhere that if everyone tells you your grey hair looks marvelous, then don’t touch it; otherwise, do. One of these years, it could happen that I have a job interview, and everyone else my age will have dyed her hair, thus placing me at a disadvantage. Maybe. Are there people out there who don’t think it’s bad to be old? I like to think so, but fear that’s giving my countrymen too much credit. (Not you, of course! I know you and I are in accord.)
I used to bleach my hair when I was in my 20s, but the chemicals were pretty hard on the scalp, so I decided to experiment this time with semi-permanent hair color, which still uses peroxide, but much less, and it washes out in about six weeks, though you don’t see brown water running down the drain in the shower.
Decision made, I went to see Tom. There is another fellow at Tom’s salon, but I’ve identified him as being what is known in Buddhism as a grasping type. You don’t want that kind of person to touch your hair because they like a lot of things and are full of enthusiasm: “I know, we’ll try this! Have you ever thought of doing this before? Oh my god, it looks so great!” No, no, no. You want the curmudgeon—the aversive type, in Buddhism, because they look at things critically and carefully and proceed with caution. That’s the upside to being an aversive type: improved discernment, though you still have to be careful not to believe everything you think.
Tom and I discussed the color options and went with “brown.”
C. had not liked this idea at all and tried to convince me that I should love my hair as it is, and indeed the freshly colored hair looked pretty strange. I thought everyone was going to say, “Holy crap, you colored your hair!”, but no one has said that, probably for the same reason I never say that to anyone else: sometimes people do color their hair. Also, it doesn’t sound polite.
On Wednesday I had my six-month mammogram, which was strangely unpainful, which normally would be good, but since the mammogram that found the problem in the first place was bordering on excruciating, I asked if there had been sufficient compression. The technician said she was trying not to mash the surgical site, and that she had gotten clear pictures. Maybe it was also less painful because there’s somewhat less flesh to mash, per the new anti-cancer ingestion habits. I got the results ten minutes later—everything appeared to be fine—which is one perk of having had breast cancer. They said from now on, I will always get the results immediately.
I went then to see my surgeon, who did a clinical exam and said everything seemed good and that it didn’t appear there was any damage from the radiation.
In the past year or so, I acquired a tape deck that will make an mp3 from a cassette tape (or from a CD) and, though I’m normally opposed to this kind of project, actually thought I might convert all of my cassettes into mp3s. I’m opposed to it because it’s just undoable. It’s a waste of time to even think you’ll get around to something like that, and if you did somehow do it, it would be pure folly, because you’d never even listen to any of those mp3s, plus by then the whole mp3 thing would be over in favor of planting a chip right in your brain.
That has to be coming: everyone gets a chip in the brain at birth, and then you just stand near conveniently located scanners to download music into your head and pay for stuff.
Nonetheless, because all those songs are my winning little friends, I thought about converting them, and decided to fish five cassettes per week out of the brown paper grocery bag and perform an evaluation: convert or take straight to Green Citizen for recycling. I did actually convert a few initially just to see how it worked, and it worked perfectly, but the plan to assess five cassettes per week didn’t work at all—a worthy candidate might be identified, but I couldn’t force myself to actually do the task.
On Thursday I looked at every cassette I have and decided I could live on without about half of them, and I think now that I will just look at all of them periodically until I’ve taken every last one to Green Citizen, and then sell the tape deck. Voila!
Yesterday the job search networking phase officially began, complete with a spreadsheet! I wanted to make sure that the recruiting firm that originally sent me to the job I just left (maybe it’s getting to be a stretch to say I “just” left it) was in possession of my updated resume, and was able to find the exact person who helped me out 13 years ago—one of the biggest benefactors in my entire life. Turns out she’s back at that same firm, and she now has my resume.
I’ve always thought that not coloring one’s grey hair was a sign of growing old naturally and gracefully, and I still do, but it’s kind of pointless when practically everyone else on earth sees it as being frumpy. I read somewhere that if everyone tells you your grey hair looks marvelous, then don’t touch it; otherwise, do. One of these years, it could happen that I have a job interview, and everyone else my age will have dyed her hair, thus placing me at a disadvantage. Maybe. Are there people out there who don’t think it’s bad to be old? I like to think so, but fear that’s giving my countrymen too much credit. (Not you, of course! I know you and I are in accord.)
I used to bleach my hair when I was in my 20s, but the chemicals were pretty hard on the scalp, so I decided to experiment this time with semi-permanent hair color, which still uses peroxide, but much less, and it washes out in about six weeks, though you don’t see brown water running down the drain in the shower.
Decision made, I went to see Tom. There is another fellow at Tom’s salon, but I’ve identified him as being what is known in Buddhism as a grasping type. You don’t want that kind of person to touch your hair because they like a lot of things and are full of enthusiasm: “I know, we’ll try this! Have you ever thought of doing this before? Oh my god, it looks so great!” No, no, no. You want the curmudgeon—the aversive type, in Buddhism, because they look at things critically and carefully and proceed with caution. That’s the upside to being an aversive type: improved discernment, though you still have to be careful not to believe everything you think.
Tom and I discussed the color options and went with “brown.”
C. had not liked this idea at all and tried to convince me that I should love my hair as it is, and indeed the freshly colored hair looked pretty strange. I thought everyone was going to say, “Holy crap, you colored your hair!”, but no one has said that, probably for the same reason I never say that to anyone else: sometimes people do color their hair. Also, it doesn’t sound polite.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Meditution
Two Fridays ago, I took a lovely bike ride to the beach and found the ocean gorgeous in the wind. For the millionth time, I neared the rose garden in Golden Gate Park and thought, “I should stop and visit one of these days,” which resolve is always forgotten immediately, so this time I paused to make a note in my little notebook, and on the way back from the ocean, I stopped to lie in the radiant sun in a field of grass with little yellow flowers in it.
Then I went by The Freewheel on Hayes St. and saw Travis, who adjusted my brakes. A fellow rode his bike into a display of something or other and it all went crashing to the ground, and another fellow came in with a giant snake he said could kill you if it managed to get around your neck. He cautioned Travis not to let the snake wrap itself around any bike frame, or it would be impossible to remove. Larry C. was also in there, which didn’t strike me as remarkable until I found out he’d moved away from San Francisco years ago. Travis said it was freaking him out that he’d not seen either of us for years, and then we both turned up on the very same day.
The following day I went to the San Francisco Zen Center to hear Paul Haller’s talk on relationships and the amygdala. I stayed for the question and answer session, and then lunch, and walked over to see my hospice visitee.
Last Monday, a week ago, I rode my bike to the beach again and this time I stopped at the rose garden. While I was locking my bike up, a cyclist whizzed through the nearby stop sign, narrowly missing two pedestrians, one of whom yelled, “Asshole!” “I agree,” I said and then realized one of the pedestrians was an acquaintance of mine.
On Tuesday I walked to a medical appointment, on to 24th St. to see my mental health professional, and then home. It was a beautiful day. In the evening, C. and I went to Howie’s. Howie wasn’t there, but Yvonne Ginsberg was. Her talk was about using discernment to decide what thoughts to entertain and which to let go of, such as unkind judgments of ourselves and others.
Last Wednesday I went for my six-month cancer checkup with my radiation oncologist. I didn’t think it would be upsetting, but I did start to feel upset after I pushed the down elevator button, heading for the basement, where the only department is radiation oncology. I started to cry in the waiting room and left in tears after my appointment, too, even though as far as I know, my health is fine. The bike ride over there and back was great, however, and I saw this bumper sticker:
BUSINESS IS GREAT
PEOPLE ARE TERRIFIC
LIFE IS WONDERFUL
Are you not supposed to say you think your health is fine until five years have passed? Most recurrences are within five years, but that can happen at any time, including decades later, so until someone tells me I have cancer again, my belief is that my health is fine. Which may indeed be so.
C. and I had dinner at El Majahual in the evening.
On Thursday I consulted with Dwightly on the phone about my resume. In the evening, C. and I walked to Mission Pie for dinner, but I discovered there was nothing there that I would eat (the only vegan thing was a tofu-coconut curry—ick), went to Herbivore, changed our minds, and ended up at Cha-Ya, a vegan Japanese place. I commented that the tofu-coconut curry had sounded terrible and C. said, “That could be, but I don’t know what’s behind it,” which I thought was funny. (He also said lately, “You’re quite the one I hadn’t met—you’re out of a space suit,” and, “You’re a veteran meditutor.”)
On Friday I had lunch with an ex-colleague of mine who looked really fantastic. He told me that he’d gotten a diagnosis of pre-diabetes, so he’d quit eating sugar, packaged food and junk food, and he said the weight had dropped off.
On Saturday, I drove by myself in a City CarShare car to Sacramento to visit Ann and Tom. Tom has been there for a few weeks helping out after various medical travails. It turns out it’s a particularly bad idea to fracture one’s sternum, because it takes forever—weeks and weeks—before the pain goes away, and it hurts every time you take a breath, let alone sneeze or cough.
It was as hot as 111 degrees that day, if you can believe a car thermometer. I was able to capture this action shot of the thermometer showing an outdoor temperature of 110. Of course, one likes to experience the extremes when possible, so I drove all the way there with my window down, and then was so exhausted, I had to lie on the floor at Ann’s place while the three of us talked.
Then I went by The Freewheel on Hayes St. and saw Travis, who adjusted my brakes. A fellow rode his bike into a display of something or other and it all went crashing to the ground, and another fellow came in with a giant snake he said could kill you if it managed to get around your neck. He cautioned Travis not to let the snake wrap itself around any bike frame, or it would be impossible to remove. Larry C. was also in there, which didn’t strike me as remarkable until I found out he’d moved away from San Francisco years ago. Travis said it was freaking him out that he’d not seen either of us for years, and then we both turned up on the very same day.
That evening, C. and I had dinner at the Ethiopian place on Valencia St. near
20th.
The following day I went to the San Francisco Zen Center to hear Paul Haller’s talk on relationships and the amygdala. I stayed for the question and answer session, and then lunch, and walked over to see my hospice visitee.
Last Monday, a week ago, I rode my bike to the beach again and this time I stopped at the rose garden. While I was locking my bike up, a cyclist whizzed through the nearby stop sign, narrowly missing two pedestrians, one of whom yelled, “Asshole!” “I agree,” I said and then realized one of the pedestrians was an acquaintance of mine.
On Tuesday I walked to a medical appointment, on to 24th St. to see my mental health professional, and then home. It was a beautiful day. In the evening, C. and I went to Howie’s. Howie wasn’t there, but Yvonne Ginsberg was. Her talk was about using discernment to decide what thoughts to entertain and which to let go of, such as unkind judgments of ourselves and others.
Last Wednesday I went for my six-month cancer checkup with my radiation oncologist. I didn’t think it would be upsetting, but I did start to feel upset after I pushed the down elevator button, heading for the basement, where the only department is radiation oncology. I started to cry in the waiting room and left in tears after my appointment, too, even though as far as I know, my health is fine. The bike ride over there and back was great, however, and I saw this bumper sticker:
BUSINESS IS GREAT
PEOPLE ARE TERRIFIC
LIFE IS WONDERFUL
Are you not supposed to say you think your health is fine until five years have passed? Most recurrences are within five years, but that can happen at any time, including decades later, so until someone tells me I have cancer again, my belief is that my health is fine. Which may indeed be so.
C. and I had dinner at El Majahual in the evening.
On Thursday I consulted with Dwightly on the phone about my resume. In the evening, C. and I walked to Mission Pie for dinner, but I discovered there was nothing there that I would eat (the only vegan thing was a tofu-coconut curry—ick), went to Herbivore, changed our minds, and ended up at Cha-Ya, a vegan Japanese place. I commented that the tofu-coconut curry had sounded terrible and C. said, “That could be, but I don’t know what’s behind it,” which I thought was funny. (He also said lately, “You’re quite the one I hadn’t met—you’re out of a space suit,” and, “You’re a veteran meditutor.”)
On Friday I had lunch with an ex-colleague of mine who looked really fantastic. He told me that he’d gotten a diagnosis of pre-diabetes, so he’d quit eating sugar, packaged food and junk food, and he said the weight had dropped off.
On Saturday, I drove by myself in a City CarShare car to Sacramento to visit Ann and Tom. Tom has been there for a few weeks helping out after various medical travails. It turns out it’s a particularly bad idea to fracture one’s sternum, because it takes forever—weeks and weeks—before the pain goes away, and it hurts every time you take a breath, let alone sneeze or cough.
It was as hot as 111 degrees that day, if you can believe a car thermometer. I was able to capture this action shot of the thermometer showing an outdoor temperature of 110. Of course, one likes to experience the extremes when possible, so I drove all the way there with my window down, and then was so exhausted, I had to lie on the floor at Ann’s place while the three of us talked.
Yesterday evening C. and I went to Glide Memorial Church, to a little meditation group that practices zazen. There were just eight of us in all. The regular teacher is Jana Drakka, whom everyone was raving about, but she was not there yesterday. I’ll have to go back one week when she’s there.
Friday, June 08, 2012
You Say My Name Like There Could Be an Us
On Monday I did my cooking, and Tuesday was a tour de force of errands: first by bicycle to the dentist for a cleaning, to the endodontist for a quick X-ray, to the eye doctor to pick up prescription sunglasses, to Macy’s to buy some stuff, and to the library to return books. Then by foot to see my mental health professional, to the dry cleaners to pick up my duds, to LabCorp to have a soupcon of blood drawn, and on to Howie’s.
Howie spoke about letting go, which is a phrase that always arouses a faint anxiety, even if there’s nothing I can think of that needs letting go of. Let go! You mean, experience loss? That sounds very not fun.
Howie said that the only reliable refuge is the nature of our own minds, that the very awareness through which we perceive this or that—whether pleasant or unpleasant—is the Buddha. He shared Poonjaji’s quote: “You need the past and thoughts to suffer. You don’t need anything to be free.” The person sitting next to me remarked afterward that he had found Howie’s talk “abstract,” which I could sympathize with. For the first 21 years I heard Howie say this kind of thing, I wondered, “What on earth is he even talking about?” But now this strikes me as concrete and literal, as very usable information.
I had the world’s most low-key 50th birthday. Tom, with whom I might have gone out to dinner, is away in Sacramento for a spell and C. was at a poetry event, so the blow-out celebration consisted of taking a shower, feeling tremendously sleepy, and receiving phone calls from Margaux, and David and Lisa. David and Lisa also sent a card, thus proving their excellence as friends once again. They were visiting Lisa’s parents at the time, so the signatories included “guest stars.” Lisa’s mother wrote, “Aging has its rewards. Be happy!” I liked that a lot. (David wrote, “Dude! Where did you park your forties?”)
I received some unwelcome news via phone this morning and hung up and noticed I felt sad and scared, which I feel quite a bit lately. You know, not for any particular reason or anything. Why, relationships are easy! However, extremely pleased to report that I’ve gotten so much dad-blasted practice with this lately, it’s getting noticeably easier to work with. I reminded myself to feel, not think, and asked myself repeatedly, “What do I feel?”
Being of a responsive nature, I told myself forthrightly and immediately, “Sad and scared!”
Being also of a helpful and investigative nature, I then asked myself, “Where do you feel that?”
“Here. And here.”
And, finally, being of a kindly and optimistic nature, I assured myself, “I’m positive that you have the ability to be with this feeling.”
Every time I started to think, “Here’s what needs to happen here. I’m going to do this, this and this. I’m not going to do that, that or that,” I caught it and told myself, “That’s the imaginary future. None of those actions can be taken or not taken in this very moment. Tell me, what do you feel right now?”
Then I went for a walk. It was such a beautiful day. I felt my feelings and mostly didn’t venture into the imaginary future. I appreciated that the very awareness that allowed me to distinguish one feeling from another is a dependable refuge—it has inherent qualities of peace, space and freedom. I even found that “let go” had a much more appealing ring to it than usual. It sounded positively musical and delicious, not gloomy and arduous. Let go!
When I got home, there were no messages on the “answering machine.” This is like the voice mail aspect of an iPhone, but three dimensional in nature. It occurred to me that if, hypothetically, I did happen to have some sort of troublesome relationship and if, hypothetically, I found myself unwilling to continue in it, I might start to see that non-blinking light quite often, which has always been more than enough to cause me to rationalize away any problems: “Oh, well, it’s not that bad! Why, a good thing happened not a month ago!” Because: potential pain. I won’t be able to stand it if I feel sad or scared.
Well, I’m now positive I can easily feel sadness and scardedness. And you know how it feels to feel sad and scared? Besides sad and scared, it feels kind of good, at least after a while, because it feels good to steady the mind upon an object, even if that object is itself unpleasant. And it also feels good to have a conscious experience of being aware of something, whatever it may be, because the nature of consciousness is peaceful and joyful, as can potentially be experienced by anyone.
The longer I walked and the more I felt, the happier I became, and was finally so overcome by gratitude that I put my hands together and bowed, just there on the street, that holy spot.
When I got home, I listened to previews of Adele songs on Amazon. (The title of this post is a line from an Adele song.) Then it occurred to me: “Wait, could this possibly constitute wasting time?” But, no, it didn’t, because this is another thing Howie (more or less) said to do: appreciate Adele. I ended up buying four songs: “Rolling in the Deep,” “He Won’t Go,” “Right as Rain,” and one other, which I heard about five times in a row, and by the last time, I was sobbing my heart out, tears dripping down my shirt: “Melt My Heart to Stone.” Good song. Howie was right, as ever.
In the evening, C. and I walked clear to Ananda Fuara and had a very leisurely and agreeable dinner.
Howie spoke about letting go, which is a phrase that always arouses a faint anxiety, even if there’s nothing I can think of that needs letting go of. Let go! You mean, experience loss? That sounds very not fun.
Howie said that the only reliable refuge is the nature of our own minds, that the very awareness through which we perceive this or that—whether pleasant or unpleasant—is the Buddha. He shared Poonjaji’s quote: “You need the past and thoughts to suffer. You don’t need anything to be free.” The person sitting next to me remarked afterward that he had found Howie’s talk “abstract,” which I could sympathize with. For the first 21 years I heard Howie say this kind of thing, I wondered, “What on earth is he even talking about?” But now this strikes me as concrete and literal, as very usable information.
I had the world’s most low-key 50th birthday. Tom, with whom I might have gone out to dinner, is away in Sacramento for a spell and C. was at a poetry event, so the blow-out celebration consisted of taking a shower, feeling tremendously sleepy, and receiving phone calls from Margaux, and David and Lisa. David and Lisa also sent a card, thus proving their excellence as friends once again. They were visiting Lisa’s parents at the time, so the signatories included “guest stars.” Lisa’s mother wrote, “Aging has its rewards. Be happy!” I liked that a lot. (David wrote, “Dude! Where did you park your forties?”)
I received some unwelcome news via phone this morning and hung up and noticed I felt sad and scared, which I feel quite a bit lately. You know, not for any particular reason or anything. Why, relationships are easy! However, extremely pleased to report that I’ve gotten so much dad-blasted practice with this lately, it’s getting noticeably easier to work with. I reminded myself to feel, not think, and asked myself repeatedly, “What do I feel?”
Being of a responsive nature, I told myself forthrightly and immediately, “Sad and scared!”
Being also of a helpful and investigative nature, I then asked myself, “Where do you feel that?”
“Here. And here.”
And, finally, being of a kindly and optimistic nature, I assured myself, “I’m positive that you have the ability to be with this feeling.”
Every time I started to think, “Here’s what needs to happen here. I’m going to do this, this and this. I’m not going to do that, that or that,” I caught it and told myself, “That’s the imaginary future. None of those actions can be taken or not taken in this very moment. Tell me, what do you feel right now?”
Then I went for a walk. It was such a beautiful day. I felt my feelings and mostly didn’t venture into the imaginary future. I appreciated that the very awareness that allowed me to distinguish one feeling from another is a dependable refuge—it has inherent qualities of peace, space and freedom. I even found that “let go” had a much more appealing ring to it than usual. It sounded positively musical and delicious, not gloomy and arduous. Let go!
When I got home, there were no messages on the “answering machine.” This is like the voice mail aspect of an iPhone, but three dimensional in nature. It occurred to me that if, hypothetically, I did happen to have some sort of troublesome relationship and if, hypothetically, I found myself unwilling to continue in it, I might start to see that non-blinking light quite often, which has always been more than enough to cause me to rationalize away any problems: “Oh, well, it’s not that bad! Why, a good thing happened not a month ago!” Because: potential pain. I won’t be able to stand it if I feel sad or scared.
Well, I’m now positive I can easily feel sadness and scardedness. And you know how it feels to feel sad and scared? Besides sad and scared, it feels kind of good, at least after a while, because it feels good to steady the mind upon an object, even if that object is itself unpleasant. And it also feels good to have a conscious experience of being aware of something, whatever it may be, because the nature of consciousness is peaceful and joyful, as can potentially be experienced by anyone.
The longer I walked and the more I felt, the happier I became, and was finally so overcome by gratitude that I put my hands together and bowed, just there on the street, that holy spot.
When I got home, I listened to previews of Adele songs on Amazon. (The title of this post is a line from an Adele song.) Then it occurred to me: “Wait, could this possibly constitute wasting time?” But, no, it didn’t, because this is another thing Howie (more or less) said to do: appreciate Adele. I ended up buying four songs: “Rolling in the Deep,” “He Won’t Go,” “Right as Rain,” and one other, which I heard about five times in a row, and by the last time, I was sobbing my heart out, tears dripping down my shirt: “Melt My Heart to Stone.” Good song. Howie was right, as ever.
In the evening, C. and I walked clear to Ananda Fuara and had a very leisurely and agreeable dinner.
Monday, June 04, 2012
Toe Stub Hazard
For literally decades, C. has attended a poetry open mike Wednesday evening at the Sacred Grounds Café on Hayes St. The Wednesday before last, I accompanied him and we sat together on a comfortable small couch against one wall. Evidently the sight of C. with a lady companion was extremely novel to some, as evidenced by the large African seated in front of us, who turned around at intervals to stare with open interest.
The following day, C. and I both had errands in Noe Valley, so we walked over there together along the grassy islands in the middle of Dolores St., which I’ve never done before. It was enchanting, like suddenly being in the country. Post errands, we had dinner at El Majahual.
The next day, the Friday before last, I was finally able to travel to Michigan, on a flight that ended up being delayed by seven and a half hours. I got to know the couple seated next to me in the airport quite well, if you want to know anything about their daughter, her fiancé, or their rental property in Oakland.
On the plane, a little Japanese-American boy seated in the row ahead stood up to face the rear of the plane and sang “Happy Birthday” to me in a tiny, sweet voice. As we were deplaning, I told his mother that her son had sung to me and that it was particularly appreciated because my birthday is coming up soon, and she explained it was his birthday that very day, his second, which is why he was all ready to go with the birthday song. I’m not sure I could have sung “Happy Birthday” to a stranger at age two.
The day after I arrived was for reading and resting, and on Sunday (not yesterday but the one before that), my mother and father and I drove to Grosse Ile, an island south of Detroit, to visit my Uncle Rick and his fiancée, Janet. Janet made us a beautiful vegan lunch, which we ate on the deck behind their new house, on an inland lagoon (not on what they call the “big water” of the Detroit River), and they also treated us to a tour of the island.
Several years ago, I read a riveting biography of Henry Ford, and thus learned something about Harry Bennett, a colorful character and right-hand man of Henry Ford’s at Ford Motor Company in the 1930s and 1940s. As we were motoring about Grosse Ile, Janet pointed out Harry Bennett’s pagoda and it further emerged that Janet’s father once worked for Harry Bennett!
When Janet’s father left Ford to use his GI benefits, Henry Ford gave him a number of wooden pallets, some of which he refurbished and sold back to Ford; others he used to start a business making packing and shipping containers. My uncle worked for Janet’s father decades ago, eventually buying the business, which he runs to this day. Which started with Henry Ford's pallets! Very exciting.
Last Tuesday, Amy and I had lunch at Seva in Ann Arbor and on Thursday, Mom and Dad and I went to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn for the Titanic Exhibition. (My father said you could tell it was special by the fact that they called it an “exhibition” instead of an “exhibit.”) Afterward, we drove by two houses Mom lived in when she was a girl and in the late afternoon, I drove to Chelsea to see Amy and her darling boys, Chris and Mike. Amy made us a delectable vegan feast.
On Friday, it was back to Seva (a restaurant I love) for lunch and a nice chat with Ginny, who was wearing a lovely and striking chain around her neck that she had made herself. On Saturday, my parents and sister and I had an early birthday celebration for me. In lieu of cake, Dad obtained a loaf of walnut bread, which he garnished with blueberries, and he also roasted portabella mushrooms and steamed some asparagus.
Yesterday I flew home to San Francisco. In the Detroit airport, I was sitting across from a woman with her son, a very personable four year old. She asked him, “Do you want to get on the plane first or second” and the child said firmly, “If anyone gets on before me, I want to stub their toe.”
The following day, C. and I both had errands in Noe Valley, so we walked over there together along the grassy islands in the middle of Dolores St., which I’ve never done before. It was enchanting, like suddenly being in the country. Post errands, we had dinner at El Majahual.
The next day, the Friday before last, I was finally able to travel to Michigan, on a flight that ended up being delayed by seven and a half hours. I got to know the couple seated next to me in the airport quite well, if you want to know anything about their daughter, her fiancé, or their rental property in Oakland.
On the plane, a little Japanese-American boy seated in the row ahead stood up to face the rear of the plane and sang “Happy Birthday” to me in a tiny, sweet voice. As we were deplaning, I told his mother that her son had sung to me and that it was particularly appreciated because my birthday is coming up soon, and she explained it was his birthday that very day, his second, which is why he was all ready to go with the birthday song. I’m not sure I could have sung “Happy Birthday” to a stranger at age two.
The day after I arrived was for reading and resting, and on Sunday (not yesterday but the one before that), my mother and father and I drove to Grosse Ile, an island south of Detroit, to visit my Uncle Rick and his fiancée, Janet. Janet made us a beautiful vegan lunch, which we ate on the deck behind their new house, on an inland lagoon (not on what they call the “big water” of the Detroit River), and they also treated us to a tour of the island.
Several years ago, I read a riveting biography of Henry Ford, and thus learned something about Harry Bennett, a colorful character and right-hand man of Henry Ford’s at Ford Motor Company in the 1930s and 1940s. As we were motoring about Grosse Ile, Janet pointed out Harry Bennett’s pagoda and it further emerged that Janet’s father once worked for Harry Bennett!
When Janet’s father left Ford to use his GI benefits, Henry Ford gave him a number of wooden pallets, some of which he refurbished and sold back to Ford; others he used to start a business making packing and shipping containers. My uncle worked for Janet’s father decades ago, eventually buying the business, which he runs to this day. Which started with Henry Ford's pallets! Very exciting.
Last Tuesday, Amy and I had lunch at Seva in Ann Arbor and on Thursday, Mom and Dad and I went to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn for the Titanic Exhibition. (My father said you could tell it was special by the fact that they called it an “exhibition” instead of an “exhibit.”) Afterward, we drove by two houses Mom lived in when she was a girl and in the late afternoon, I drove to Chelsea to see Amy and her darling boys, Chris and Mike. Amy made us a delectable vegan feast.
On Friday, it was back to Seva (a restaurant I love) for lunch and a nice chat with Ginny, who was wearing a lovely and striking chain around her neck that she had made herself. On Saturday, my parents and sister and I had an early birthday celebration for me. In lieu of cake, Dad obtained a loaf of walnut bread, which he garnished with blueberries, and he also roasted portabella mushrooms and steamed some asparagus.
Yesterday I flew home to San Francisco. In the Detroit airport, I was sitting across from a woman with her son, a very personable four year old. She asked him, “Do you want to get on the plane first or second” and the child said firmly, “If anyone gets on before me, I want to stub their toe.”
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