I have a new interest, maybe a hobby.  I want to make and taste historic recipes and when I say historic, I mean waaaaayyyyyyy back in the day, not just those weird savory jellos of the 1960s and 70s.  I found an amazing web site that lists recipes from the Renaissance.  Although I don't see myself whipping up a batch of marrow pudding anytime soon (yes, that really is made from what you think it is), as I was reading about these things, I found an entirely new lexicon that thrilled me to the gills.  I learned what ambergris was and where it came from (trust me on this, it's right on up there with marrow pudding). 

As for "why" as in why would I want to do this thing, I think the more appropriate questions would be "why not"?  For some reason it appeals to me and that's all the logic I really need. I just love to experience what is unknown to me.   

Snap judgments are easy.  They feel justified.  After all, we know everything about everything, right?  So when someone says their a swinger or they served some jail time or they're missing some teeth, it's easy to just write them off as degenerate or defective.  As hard as I try not to be judgmental, it comes so naturally that sometimes I've passed judgment on someone without even being totally aware of doing it. 

There was someone who came into my life recently missing a good portion of their teeth. Somewhere in my mind, the label "white trash" was automatically generated.  Not that I treated them any differently, but secretly, in my internal reception of them, I knocked off a few acceptability points.  I guess somewhere along the way I made a compromise with myself that it was ok to judge people as long as I only did so privately. 

Today, that person was talking with difficulty, like someone who has had their teeth pulled.  Concerned, I asked them if they were well.  They then told me that they were a cancer survivor, mouth cancer, and their radiation treatment had compromised and weakened their jaw bone.  They were having severe mouth pain and their oncologist was worried and wanted to see them immediately.  It was a double punch.  Not only were they not well, but still smiling and carrying on as if everything was a-ok, it also opened up a completely different perception.  I had labeled them one way without even knowing anything about them, just based on their appearance.  Boy, I hate superficial people.  Sucks when I turn out to be one of them. 

Maybe I scramble to label people and mark them down as inferior in some way because I myself feel so inferior much of the time and really struggle with my self-image.  I think a stronger, healthier, better balanced person wouldn't feel the need to categorize others the way I do. 

I bring up the swinger subject because the bomb dropped recently that an acquaintance of mine is one.  I like her.  She's friendly and personable.  I don't agree with some of the choices she's making because they clash with my value system, but I do like her.  This weekend she shared a little about herself and how she got into swinging and even if it didn't change my view about the lifestyle, it did give me some insight into where she's coming from.

In different ways, I'm learning and relearning not to be so quick or harsh in my judgment of others.  I really want to minimize that portion of my personality and expand my ability to empathize and connect with people.      

So.  It has come to my attention that I have so far lived my entire life doing the bare minimal possible to get by.  If I know the alarm is going to ring in 5 minutes, I don't anticipate my day, get up and get a jump on it, I lie in bed, clinging to my pillow and my dream life for 5 precious, tortuous more minutes, fretting as they count down faster and faster.  Assignments due in school, projects at work, house keeping chores; everything is done lackadaisical and with an eye for the quickest short cuts so I can get back to doing my favorite thing; nothing.  My aim in life so far has been to be as comfortable and as little bothered or troubled as possible.  It hasn't brought me much happiness or satisfaction.  Pleasure is not nearly the same thing as happiness.  I rush from one pleasure to the next like a child playing hopscotch in rapidly evaporating pools of light, pushed on by a hunger that nothing satiates.  I believe the hunger is for greater substance, for quality, for lasting meaning and for everything else that decadence and instant gratification can't equal.  I want freedom.  I have wanted to be free above all else my entire life, but it is a selfish freedom.  I want to have no demands on me, no pressure.  By running away from those things, I have abandoned goals, personal duties and my own best chance at lasting fulfillment.  I have avoided discipline like a mortal adversary, but as it turns out, without it, there is no getting anywhere worth being.  I will pursue more discipline in life, starting in small things and working my way up to greater commitments.             

Dearëst Zoë,

This is the letter I will never show you because I think on your own you'll soon enough learn the hard truths of life and I don't want to be the one to introduce them to you before it really becomes necessary. 

The truth is when you're an adult NO ONE wants to hear about your crummy day, your inexplicable bad mood, the irritations and injustices of the average work day.  Often, you're going to wonder why you get up in the morning and if you're going to be able to force yourself out of bed tomorrow or not.  You'll want to throw temper tantrums, complete with wailing and pummeling of fists on the floor, but as an adult it's no longer considered socially acceptable and will probably get you locked up so you're filled with frustration that you can't find an outlet for. 

What I pray for you is that your thoughts are not like mine.  I pray that you won't doubt 1,000 times a day if you're worth anything at all.  I pray that you won't feel the urge to push everyone who cares about you out of your life because you're convinced the only thing you're going to do is let them down eventually anyway.  I pray that you don't doubt your goodness and see going off the deep end one day as an indisputable given.  The truth is your mama really hates herself, the world at large and life in general quite often and I have no explanation or understanding of why that is.  I feel like an alien so often as if I just don't get what is so obvious to everyone else.  I'm often frustrated, irritated, petty, disappointed and sad.  Because you're a little kid, I try to hide all of this from you.  It's not right for me to put my problems on you, but I worry if my shortcomings will make it possible for me to raise you free of the taint of depression and anxiety.  I don't want you to adopt my neurotic ways as your own.  I pray that you take after your Dad more and be a relaxed and easy going person because life will be easier for you if you are.

Away

We went away for the past 3 nights.  It was both amazing and frustrating.  Zoë had no intentions of living up to any Norman Rockwell moments of family travel.  She cried, fussed and tantrumed her way through the entire trip, interspersed with some life-saving moments of spontaneous cuddling and sweetness.  I think it's a built in defensive measure.  Right when she gets me to the frothing at the mouth point, she'll turn around and do or say something that defuses my anger and melts my heart.  Stinker. 

It surprised me to realize that it wasn't the much anticipated evening at Disney or a stay in the Castle hotel where we honey mooned 7 years ago that really brought me the most pleasure.  My favorite part of our trip was the last evening.  We stayed at the Shamrock Thistle and Crown Bed and Breakfast in Weirsdale.  We spent the night in the Victorian Cottage.  Again, much like everything else on our vacation, things didn't go entirely as planned.  The fall harvest festival we planned to attend at a local farm started too close to Zoë's bedtime so we had to skip it, but it was no great chore to spend more time in our beautiful, cozy little room with a private hot tub out back.  What struck me was the quiet and the weight of time that hung in the air.  The main house was built in 1887 and remained in the original family until 1988.  I love old buildings and this one came complete with one of those wrap around porches that the south is famous for, complete with white-washed rockers, a porch swing and a friendly, chubby orange and black cat that trotted up to any obliging hand for a scratch behind the ears.  Mike and I rocked on the porch and surmised that maybe this was Heaven.  The only reason I knew it wasn't was because my Poppy, Granny and Aunty Edith weren't there with us.

My other favorite moment was on the way home, Zoë and I lay on the back bench, she was curled up asleep in my arms and the early afternoon sun filtered down gently like a gossamer curtain of pure gold to fall over the folds of my bunched up pillow.  Zoë's lips were pressed against my cheek and she was snoring softly in my ear.  The metallic thrum of the wheels on the road provided a soothing background noise and everything seemed right with the world at that exact moment.               

Every time I think I'm all together and just fine, I come across another random reference to birth mothers and adoption and I just want to throw up.  I'm so SICK of that subject.  It's like lighter fluid and matches.  I want to cry and scream and beat something all at the same time.  Why is it so complicated?  Is it just because I'm the one making it complicated?   Why isn't it something I can get over and be over and just forget about?  It's a battle inside because I know she didn't have the advantages I have had and I had Zoë when I was much older and in a settled, happy marriage.  She had none of that so partly I feel sorrow for her and for the child I was and angry at her and angry at myself today for not being able to let go.  I would never recommend an in-family adoption.  It's been a miserable experience for everyone involved and on the other hand, I also don't think my life would have been as good if she had kept me.  My parents were able to give me things she couldn't, most importantly, a stable home so somewhere amidst all the other emotions is gratitude and guilt as well.  Guilt overshadows everything else.  I feel like my inability to get over makes everything worse.  I don't want my parents to think that I don't love them or that I regret being their child because I don't feel that way. I don't know.  I'm just so conflicted and I hate this subject.

I am a carp

Once, a long time ago, someone in my life chastised me for the language I used.  Not because I swore because back then, I was too young to curse often without fear of what my mom would do to me if she caught me.  No, I was lectured because I used words that I was told by my lecturer were too obscure and made me difficult to understand, to connect to.  That little rebuke changed me.  From then on, I clearly remember being very careful to not over-express myself through word choice or subject.  Other people clearly thought I was odd.  I wanted to distinguish myself from the crowd, but not by being the otherwise unremarkable odd-man-out.  I lost a little love of language that day and the courage to speak/write/think without obsessive pre-editing myself.  My focus became to be understood, to feel like I was making connection with others around me rather than truly expressing myself most authentically.  But what good is it to belong, to blend in and live in a fake skin, in a fake brain in a fake self all your life?  To be so heavily constrained, both inwardly and outwardly that you forget yourself.  It's like dying in slow motion.  I think Da Vinci was credited with saying that it is better to be alone than in inferior company.  To that, I would say it's better to be alone than in fake company.  Even in your own company.

This little cascade of thoughts was invoked by my photography class today.  We critiqued one another's work and looked at the work off different well-known photographers and it challenged the way we view the world around us, the way we view ourselves even.  I can't see myself for all the fear in the way.  Fear that I might seem ridiculous, odd, inept, inferior, incomplete.  Fear I might say the wrong thing, offend someone, hurt someone, reveal the edges of my ignorance.  All these things get in the way and become bricks in the wall I'm entombed behind, barely alive behind the facade I've built up for approval.  Most of my life revolves around distraction and staying on the surface because going any deeper than that gets me weird stares from most people who don't want to pay attention, question or challenge their own assumptions either.  Today though, surrounded by a group of people who are actively seeking to open their eyes wider, to truly see, experience and feel the world around them, I felt in my element.  The exchange of ideas and perspectives was exhilarating. The questioning, challenging wasn't intended to be offensive, but rather to bring about greater levels of awareness.  It was revitalizing.  I feel more alive when I leave those classes, closer to the person that I am rather than the one I try to make myself out as.

A great pain of writing the words as they come to me is the thought that people will interpret me as a pompous, blustery narcissist.  I guess the truth behind that is that sometimes that's exactly what I am, not always, but sometimes and I just don't want to expose myself so nakedly like that.  Yet how can I be my most authentic self until I'm willing to accept that portrayal will also include some inevitable flaws?  In the short and long term though, I think I'd rather take the risk of being who I am, all of who I am, including those less than flattering qualities than faking it.  The majority of people that I have met are comfortable staying on the surface most of the time, distracting themselves from strict self-examination by removing their awareness from the moments they inhabit.  Me, I'm happier diving deep, mucking about in the depths and cloudy silt, stirring everything up until it's almost unrecognizable.  The authentic life can be a lonely life, but nothing is lonelier than fitting in where you don't belong.