I'm coming back to blogging.
I realize I've said that more than once in the past few years.
I have to say, I was "blogging" before it was "blogging": back in the day when it was "online journaling" and you had to build your own website and join a web circle. It seemed more real then. Seems like the genre now is all full of people trying to get a book deal for their "mommy blog" or their DIY blog or their lifestyle blog showing how much more beautifully they live than you.
I don't live more beautifully than you.
My home is plagued with roving bands of dog-hair dustballs. My blinds and shelves are filmed in dust. There's liquid lettuce in my crisper drawers. My lawn is mostly dirt. My clothes are a random, ill-assorted collection of items from thrift stores given to me by my thrift-junky Bosnian neighbor, items purchased retail at least 15 years ago, things given to me by my mom when she lost a bunch of weight, and a few things I got from Stitch Fix back when I could afford such luxuries.
It's been a rough year.
In January I lost my job, and I went six months before I found a new one that came close to matching the salary I'd made before. In the meantime I did a lot of crafting (I had this idea I'd set up an Etsy site and sell mosaics), a lot of writing (I was going to become a freelance writer), a little editing (also freelance... hated it), and then a lot of working retail for $9.50 an hour at JoAnn crafts and fabric. This last I found both exhausting and rewarding, though it was very awkward when someone from my "previous life" as a salaried professional would come in and see me in my green apron, stocking shelves, cutting fabric, or standing at the cash register. I could see the dismay and dare I say pity in their eyes. But there was something enjoyable about the work It was so immediate and task-oriented. I especially liked working in the loading dock, receiving freight then opening boxes and sorting the new merchandise into plastic bins to go out on the floor. It triggered what seems to be a deep-seated need for classification and organization in me.
You wouldn't know this by looking at my home, I warn you.
Then in July I got another "real" job: a full-time position working for city government, managing the website. It's not quite as far as you can get from editing, but it's definitely in a different neighborhood.
I like the people I work with, and when there's plenty of work, I do enjoy what I do. But there are down times that lead to boredom and inertia: my old arch-nemesis. It will definitely do for now... but not forever.
So, here I am, at age 52, back to wondering what I'm going to be when I grow up.
Friday, November 2, 2018
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
Ghosts of Friendships Past
Okay, I said I was taking up the blog again, but it's been 9 months since I said that. But here I am again. Like a bad penny, right? Or a business card. You can never throw those things away, but then when you need to find a specific one... it's never findable.
Today I'm posting about dreams. I've been keeping a record of my dreams since I was about 13. Not ALL of them, of course, that would be tedious. (Actually, probably any record of my dreams is tedious, but I do it anyway.) I like to watch for themes. I used to dream about houses all the time: I was inheriting a wonderful old house, or I was living in a ramshackle house, or I discovered a whole new wing of my house with rooms after rooms after rooms. In one I was living in an old strip mall. Now that I own my very own house (yes, we did close and it's mine all mine now), I don't dream about houses as much. But I've been dreaming about old friends and old jobs.
Last night it was about old friends AND old jobs. I often dream about my time working at the Arts Institute, perhaps because it was such an all-encompassing job. I spent literally six weeks working 15-hour days every fall and three weeks working around the clock every summer, plus all the months leading up to both those programs, hiring faculty, ordering supplies, and overseeing the move of all that stuff to the site. It's been almost 20 years since I had that job, yet I still dream about it: either that I've been asked to come back, or that I'm suddenly back in the job and trying to figure out how things are run.
I dreamed that I met certain people who were my friends at the Institute, and discovered that they didn't actually like me. In fact, they reviled me. And I was heartbroken. And then I was angry. And I thought about doing something really dastardly. But then when I was handed some responsibility for the organization (moving parts of a sculpture from point a to point b, if I recall), I dutifully did what I was supposed to do, even though I was thinking of all the things I could do: pushing the stuff down the stairs or something. But I didn't. I just swallowed my pride, moved the stuff I needed to move, and the slipped out the door.
This reminded me of how I felt when I was there. I was good at my job, but I never belonged there. I was never part of that social strata, if you will. Art is always surrounded by money. And I didn't come from money or the social set who had it. No matter what I did, or how good I was, I would never wear the right clothes or eat at the right restaurants or know the right people or value the right things to make me belong there. It didn't matter what I could do. It only mattered who I was. Or what I was, perhaps. And though I had what I thought were real friends then, I knew that if they were having a dinner party, I wouldn't be invited. I just wasn't the right sort of person.
It preyed on me for a while, but I came to deal with it. And one of the things that helped was when I applied for a leadership position there and didn't get it. I knew it was, in large part, because of this class thing. And I was hurt. But my friend came to me and she said "Linda: you are a wonderful person. You're not like anyone else I know. Everyone who meets you loves you, you affect people's lives. Don't worry about what those people at the Arts Institute think. you shouldn't try to be like them. Just be you."
Of course, she was one of the ones who wasn't inviting me to dinner parties. But I still considered her a friend. I think now that in a different way, she also struggled with that gap between worlds. She came from the upper crust: the right clothes and wines, the right social circles, the right social graces. She could visit my world, and I could visit hers, but neither of us belonged there. She married money. I changed jobs and went my merry way and that was the end of the friendship. But what she said did help, at the time. And I believe she was sincere. I think she was telling me it was okay for me not to belong there.
I think all my life I've been looking for that niche where I truly do belong. I have found a few places I like, places I'd like to belong, places I nearly belong, places I belong for a while and then don't anymore... but never a full fit. Maybe that's my niche: nearly belonging.
This morning, after that dream, I thought about these things. Seems I'm always trying to figure out what I should do to perfectly suit or embrace or express who I am. I think I'm seeking some sort of consistency. As if anyone was consistent.
Today I'm posting about dreams. I've been keeping a record of my dreams since I was about 13. Not ALL of them, of course, that would be tedious. (Actually, probably any record of my dreams is tedious, but I do it anyway.) I like to watch for themes. I used to dream about houses all the time: I was inheriting a wonderful old house, or I was living in a ramshackle house, or I discovered a whole new wing of my house with rooms after rooms after rooms. In one I was living in an old strip mall. Now that I own my very own house (yes, we did close and it's mine all mine now), I don't dream about houses as much. But I've been dreaming about old friends and old jobs.
Last night it was about old friends AND old jobs. I often dream about my time working at the Arts Institute, perhaps because it was such an all-encompassing job. I spent literally six weeks working 15-hour days every fall and three weeks working around the clock every summer, plus all the months leading up to both those programs, hiring faculty, ordering supplies, and overseeing the move of all that stuff to the site. It's been almost 20 years since I had that job, yet I still dream about it: either that I've been asked to come back, or that I'm suddenly back in the job and trying to figure out how things are run.
I dreamed that I met certain people who were my friends at the Institute, and discovered that they didn't actually like me. In fact, they reviled me. And I was heartbroken. And then I was angry. And I thought about doing something really dastardly. But then when I was handed some responsibility for the organization (moving parts of a sculpture from point a to point b, if I recall), I dutifully did what I was supposed to do, even though I was thinking of all the things I could do: pushing the stuff down the stairs or something. But I didn't. I just swallowed my pride, moved the stuff I needed to move, and the slipped out the door.
This reminded me of how I felt when I was there. I was good at my job, but I never belonged there. I was never part of that social strata, if you will. Art is always surrounded by money. And I didn't come from money or the social set who had it. No matter what I did, or how good I was, I would never wear the right clothes or eat at the right restaurants or know the right people or value the right things to make me belong there. It didn't matter what I could do. It only mattered who I was. Or what I was, perhaps. And though I had what I thought were real friends then, I knew that if they were having a dinner party, I wouldn't be invited. I just wasn't the right sort of person.
It preyed on me for a while, but I came to deal with it. And one of the things that helped was when I applied for a leadership position there and didn't get it. I knew it was, in large part, because of this class thing. And I was hurt. But my friend came to me and she said "Linda: you are a wonderful person. You're not like anyone else I know. Everyone who meets you loves you, you affect people's lives. Don't worry about what those people at the Arts Institute think. you shouldn't try to be like them. Just be you."
Of course, she was one of the ones who wasn't inviting me to dinner parties. But I still considered her a friend. I think now that in a different way, she also struggled with that gap between worlds. She came from the upper crust: the right clothes and wines, the right social circles, the right social graces. She could visit my world, and I could visit hers, but neither of us belonged there. She married money. I changed jobs and went my merry way and that was the end of the friendship. But what she said did help, at the time. And I believe she was sincere. I think she was telling me it was okay for me not to belong there.
I think all my life I've been looking for that niche where I truly do belong. I have found a few places I like, places I'd like to belong, places I nearly belong, places I belong for a while and then don't anymore... but never a full fit. Maybe that's my niche: nearly belonging.
This morning, after that dream, I thought about these things. Seems I'm always trying to figure out what I should do to perfectly suit or embrace or express who I am. I think I'm seeking some sort of consistency. As if anyone was consistent.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Dark Days: Bright Spots
I haven't written here in a year, which surprises me. I suppose I've turned inward as my focus has returned to my family and my daily life. My last post here was about losing my best friend. But I'm happy to report that I've since regained him. Last August John put down his foot and his vodka bottle and sobered up. It was a tremendously brave and difficult thing to do: more difficult than I can really imagine. He's been sober for more than a year, now. Last fall he tiptoed back into my life and we orbited each other gently through the turn of the year, waiting to see what would happen.
Having been out "on the market" in the dating world, I had gained some perspective. I'm old enough now to recognize my own patterns and weaknesses where relationships are concerned. The upshot: I can't be trusted with myself. I try to make every shoe fit. I fool myself into believing things are what they aren't. I want to BELIEVE. What I should have been doing all these years, instead of trying to make every relationship work, was to shut up and pay attention when it told me that it wouldn't work, and to bow out gracefully.
Love is so much more about comfort and trust than it is about passion or even "compatibility." To be "compatible" implies shared interests, tastes, histories. But comfort doesn't give a rat's ass about all of that. Comfort means you've found a nest that fits your shape. Comfort is the ability to be exactly who you are and know that whether or not that is the same as your beloved, it is accepted and cherished. It's a feeling of home.
In the spring, Grayson and I invited John to live with us, and we are gradually settling in together. This is a huge move, as I swore several years ago I would never bring someone into our home. But it felt right. I've found that comfort with John. And I have also found something I didn't know I was missing so much: a feeling of family. For the first time in 8 years, my home includes two adults and a kid: a nice stable tripod of daily living that doesn't put too much weight on any one part. It changes the dynamic, loosening the symbiosis between me and Grayson a bit... just when he really needs it, I'm sure. At 16 he needs to turn his attention toward his friends and the discovery and development of his tribe.
For years he was all I had, my everything. I felt like it was Grayson and me, back to back, standing together in the face of a difficult world. Perhaps that wasn't the most healthy way for a boy to grow up, I don't know. I'm sure I did a lot of things wrong because I was angry and sad and damaged. But whatever missteps I took, my boy can never say that he wasn't loved. He was obliged to deal with some adult realities that I wish he hadn't been part of. But it was what it was what it was, and thought I didn't make the best choices every time where he was concerned... I did the best I could at the time.
So: family. It's a good place to be.
This gives me hope in the face of last night's election and the somewhat grim future we face. Perhaps we were all wrong, and Donald Trump won't turn out to be the incompetent, bloated gasbag of self promotion and bigotry he gives all indication of being. Or perhaps he'll drive the country right into the ground. But I have a loving family to come home to... Grayson has a posse of friends and a school he likes, John and I are healthy and employed. None of that has changed. So we keep on in the face of uncertainty and disappointment and doubt with some scrap of hope to light the way.
And there's more good news. Next week I will close on the purchase of our house. We've lived there for five years. This is my third attempt at buying, and home prices have gone up by about $10,000 since the last time, but this time I think it's going to go through and I'll be a home-owner again. For some reason this has been immensely important to me. I've felt so temporary as a renter, unable to make changes or improvements because the house wasn't MINE. Grayson held off on hanging posters in his room for the first couple of years, because he had also come to expect "home" to be temporary. Now at last we can pull up carpet, paint walls, dig gardens, and sink our roots into this little house and little square of land because it belongs to US.
The fifteenth is the tentative closing date. Wish me luck.
Having been out "on the market" in the dating world, I had gained some perspective. I'm old enough now to recognize my own patterns and weaknesses where relationships are concerned. The upshot: I can't be trusted with myself. I try to make every shoe fit. I fool myself into believing things are what they aren't. I want to BELIEVE. What I should have been doing all these years, instead of trying to make every relationship work, was to shut up and pay attention when it told me that it wouldn't work, and to bow out gracefully.
Love is so much more about comfort and trust than it is about passion or even "compatibility." To be "compatible" implies shared interests, tastes, histories. But comfort doesn't give a rat's ass about all of that. Comfort means you've found a nest that fits your shape. Comfort is the ability to be exactly who you are and know that whether or not that is the same as your beloved, it is accepted and cherished. It's a feeling of home.
For years he was all I had, my everything. I felt like it was Grayson and me, back to back, standing together in the face of a difficult world. Perhaps that wasn't the most healthy way for a boy to grow up, I don't know. I'm sure I did a lot of things wrong because I was angry and sad and damaged. But whatever missteps I took, my boy can never say that he wasn't loved. He was obliged to deal with some adult realities that I wish he hadn't been part of. But it was what it was what it was, and thought I didn't make the best choices every time where he was concerned... I did the best I could at the time.
So: family. It's a good place to be.
This gives me hope in the face of last night's election and the somewhat grim future we face. Perhaps we were all wrong, and Donald Trump won't turn out to be the incompetent, bloated gasbag of self promotion and bigotry he gives all indication of being. Or perhaps he'll drive the country right into the ground. But I have a loving family to come home to... Grayson has a posse of friends and a school he likes, John and I are healthy and employed. None of that has changed. So we keep on in the face of uncertainty and disappointment and doubt with some scrap of hope to light the way.
The fifteenth is the tentative closing date. Wish me luck.
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