Day 12: A room of my own

Stolen from WebMD

While I wish I could write about vaginas every day, that's not very realistic, is it? Not everyone wants to read about vaginas. I've been told so. One old friend unfriended me on Facebook because I shared my blog posts about vaginas there. So tonight I shall gaze at my belly button, and you may join me if you'd like. Virtually, of course. It's too cold to sit around with my shirt up. Not that anybody wants to see that anyway!

Here we go. Have you ever had an idea that simply won't leave you alone? You poo poo it and send it away, but it simply won't give up? I have an idea like that. It has come to me in different forms, but it's still basically the same idea: I want a room of my own.

That probably sounds strange coming from a person who has an entire house. I have nine rooms of my own, not including bathrooms. One of them is an office, of sorts. It's where my desktop computer lives, as well as a work laptop for tech editing jobs. It's not a room that inspires creativity, I have to admit. I'm not sure why, but it doesn't.

And I have this living room where I'm sitting now. I have my laptop on my lap and the fireplace going on Netflix. I write most of my blog posts here, and I also do my watercolors here. It's inspiring enough, I suppose, but it's not my creative space.

I also have a dark dining room, which is where right now I have another art station set up for doing mixed media and abstract art. I hate using my dining room, because by the time my eight-year-old granddaughter Coraline and I both get out our art supplies, it looks like mess. Added to that, I store my art supplies under and around a small antique drop-leaf table, so even when it's all put away, it's still .... there. I hate the visual chaos. It's like a small stone in my shoe.

However even in this big house, I simply don't have a space where I can store and use art supplies, and were I can go to write with no other distractions. I want a room of my own.

A couple of years ago the house next door to me went on the market. I got excited because it had been empty for at least four years, a rental before that, and I thought it would go cheap. Turns out the owner was upside down on her mortgage and couldn't sell it for what I thought it was worth. And when I got a chance to look inside it, it was far rougher than I'd expected. It took almost six months for the new owners to rehab it. I had no desire to take on such a project.

My plan had been to make it into my creative space and a writers/artists retreat. Maybe rent out studio space in the bedrooms. Hold the bootcamps for writers/artists that I don't do enough of here in my own house there. Take out the fence between the two properties and have a decent yard instead of just a dog toilet. It wasn't a reasonable dream on my income though.

The idea left me alone for a while. Then my mom passed away a little over a year ago. At first I thought she had left a small inheritance, one that I could use to rent a studio in one of the converted factories near my house. I wouldn't have had to use all of it, and I think my mom would have loved the idea.

Turned out my youngest sister got to Mom's money first and ended up owing the estate far more than she was able or willing to pay back. After over 14 months we still haven't probated the will. By the time it happens, the lawyers and the executor will probably get more than any of the rest of us. And that's the way that goes. I can't let the loss of that money create yet another burden in my life, so I just try not to think about it. But the idea won't go away. It's like one of those flies that keeps landing on your head and won't leave you alone no matter how much you swat at it. Or a stray cat you fed that keeps coming to your door hoping for more. Or those last five ten twenty pounds .... well, you get the idea.

And that's how I think of the idea. It's a bother. I don't really think I deserve an office space or a studio. I'm not a good artist; I just like to do it. I'm a pretty good writer, but I spend my time writing these blog posts that will never bring in an income. I doubt anybody would be interested in supporting it if I put this blog or any other behind a paywall like Patron. I've always wanted to write books, and friends have cajoled me to do it as well, but do you know how hard it is to get a book published? And would those same friends actually buy my book? My doubts are usually enough to push the idea away.

A few months ago though my friend Chicken Grrrl, who is an amazing artist, rented one of those spaces to share with some friends who play together in a jazz/blues trio. And the idea came back even stronger. Like a regret waiting to happen.

So I'm thinking about it again. And what I'm thinking is that maybe I could commit to renting the cheapest space I can find -- $300-400/ month EEEK! -- for one year. Just one year. I could move my art supplies out of my dining room and keep the mess there in its own place. I could focus on writing without the nagging of chores that need to be done at home. And during that year I would commit to writing that brings in some income. Hint: It's not this blog. And do art simply because I love to do it, but it creates too much chaos in my house. And the goal would be to bring in at least enough income after a year to pay for the studio. Or I might find out I don't have it in me to make even a small income from writing and art, and then I would finally know and I could give up.

I worry though. I worry that I wouldn't be able to spend enough time there. Being a single parent and working several part-time jobs takes most of my time. Am I kidding myself that I could give enough of what's left of myself to make it worth the money it would cost? I could do a lot of other things with what that studio would cost for a year. Or would it be like the stacks of books I buy or check out at the library that I never get to? Would it sit there cold and lonely while I'm at my jobs and Girl Scouts and piano lessons and car pool and vet appointments and grocery shopping and ... ? I'm afraid it would.

Have you ever had an idea that wouldn't leave you alone? One that is so appealing and yet feels like a risk too big? I need some stories about taking the risk, whether it worked out or not. Or I need for this idea to go away for good.

Thanks for looking at my belly button with me. To be honest, after writing this out, I'm left with two thoughts about this first-world problem. One, it doesn't seem like a good idea. And two, I should have written about vaginas. But it's 1:00 am and my alarm clock goes off early in the morning.

Thanks for listening.

Dreams: Day 4

The prompt for day one of NaBloPoMo18 was "What's your dream?" When I read the prompt I was sitting on a small stool at the farmer's market where I work one of my part-time jobs. Rain was pounding the corrugated plastic roof and customers were scarce. I realized dreams -- the kind where you wish for something, not the sleeping kind -- are something I rarely think about. They don't matter much to me at this stage of my life. Or maybe it's just that I've been teased by them too often. I don't tend to tempt fate with dreams these days. I know that sounds cynical, but I'm more likely to deal with what's in front of me than to imagine that things could be different. So here is my dream poem. What would yours look like?

Dreams

Bleached fish bones

Musty towels, forgotten in the washer

Chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a school desk

Spill of sour milk

Torn paper bag

Empty toilet paper tube

Cup of cold coffee

Cheating boyfriend

Dried-up bottle of Chanel perfume

Frayed rope swing

Alarm clock set to the wrong time

Rusty roller skate

Lonely clown

Damp wadded tissue

Faded for-sale sign

Pair of deuces

Smear of rancid butter

Blood on a clean white sheet

Backed up toilet

Moldy Wonder bread

Unresolved chord

Squirrel-eaten November jack-o-lantern

Missed shot at the final buzzer

Scratchy moth-eaten wool sweater

Flat tire and no spare in the trunk

Toilet paper stuck to the bottom of a shoe

Torn ear on a feral cat

A surprise package in the mail.

Day 7: All the Sex

Did I mention I'm in a show? It's our second bi-annual All the Sex Monologues, a fundraiser for Planned Parenthood sponsored by a group called PUSH or Professionals United for Sexual Health. Much as I love writing about sex, getting on stage and performing a piece I wrote about sex is even more fun. And this time, I'm performing two pieces I wrote about sex.

I know. Crazy, right? Like one 3 1/2-page monologue wasn't enough to memorize, I had to go and say I'd do two. I guess I should be grateful the committee didn't accept all four of the monologues I submitted. (I might have gone a little bit overboard. I really wanted to make sure I got to participate this year.)

Oh, and not only did I write the two that I'm performing by myself, I also put together a group piece for the women in the cast about #metoo. I guess technically I have 3 pieces in the show, although the stories from #metoo came from many different friends who bravely sent them to me for this purpose.

I have to ask myself why I would commit to performing two monologues. One was terrifying enough last time. I wasn't sure I could memorize that many words. But two?

The truth is I've had this dream of writing and performing a one-woman show for the past couple of years. I have no idea why. The closest I've come to a one-woman show is watching Carrie Fisher do it on HBO. I'm really not that kind of performer.

But you don't always choose your dreams. Elizabeth Gilbert, in her excellent book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, talks about how the Universe (for want of a better word) sends us creative ideas. And it's up to us whether we grab on and make something happen with those ideas. Kind of like what I call my Muse, Dolores, who often sends me nightmares when I don't listen to her. 

Sometimes the ideas or dreams just fly on by because we're not ready for them or we don't have the courage to make them happen or life gets in the way. I know I've let a lot of those ideas fly right on by me, mostly because I'm lazy. But maybe I'm lazy because I'm afraid I'll fail. My best guess is that it's both. And then there's life, and that tends to get in the way too.

Anyway, I was sent the idea for a one-woman show, and not much else. Like maybe a fucking topic or a few paragraphs or agents calling me up wanting to represent me. But no. Not even a deadline. Nothing. But I'm still hanging on to it.

I consider doing that first monologue two years ago, and now two monologues this year, a warm up. Maybe once this show is over, I'll latch on to that idea and ride it all the way to HBO!

Nope. That idea gave me a fucking panic attack. Breathe, Reticula. Breathe.

So our show will take place in a big gay bar on a stage with more bling than Mr. T. It's a drag queen stage, but for a couple of hours this Friday and Saturday, it will be the stage where 10 amateur performers gather up their courage and perform their stories -- some that they wrote, and some that were written by others, but all are original pieces. We've got stories about masturbation (that's me), dating a trans woman, tying people up, health issues, coming out, molestation, dating after 50, body image, suicide .... It's going to be a powerful show.

I feel so privileged to be a part of it, because one, we're raising money for Planned Parenthood, an organization that helps so many women. And two, it's the kind of thing I always dreamed I'd do when I was  little girl growing up in a small town in Iowa. Not that I specifically thought I'd write sex monologues, but being on stage and performing something somewhat outrageous. And finally, I get to work with a group of people I admire and like. This, and the support and encouragement we give each other, is the ground of what it means to be human. It's a peak experience to share something like this. And OK, it also makes me feel cool. Like I'm one of the cool kids. Nothing hateful about that.

I really hope our audiences love it. I know they will laugh and cry, get angry, maybe feel some catharsis. One of our pieces in particular will hit hard. I hope that one goes OK. We're going to have a counselor who specializes in sexual assault there in case anybody needs professional support. We are breaking boundaries.

So that's what I'm doing this week. Rehearsals every night, and performances Friday and Saturday nights. I know I'm going to feel those post-show blues when it's over. But it's also been hard being out so many evenings, setting up childcare and keeping Coraline up later than I'd like. We'll also be glad to get back into our routine as the days grow shorter and colder.

Maybe I'll be inspired after this to put together that one-woman show. Hell, I've probably got enough material here for 10 of them. It does excite me to think about it. Or maybe I'll just write a novel about a woman who writes a one-woman play and then drives an RV all over the country performing it. See? The ideas are right there if I want to grab them.

What ideas or dreams are flying by you these days? Are you grabbing them? Or is it not the right time? 

NaBloPoMo #21: The weight of the world on the shoulders of little girls

I've got pumpkin bread and muffins in the oven tonight at 1:45 am, but I can't say I've got a blog post in my head. On day 21 of the challenge though, I'm not going to quit, so I'm just going to tell you what I'm thinking about.

When I was a little girl growing up in a small town in Iowa, I dreamed about the things I would do when I was old enough to get away and go to the big city. I have to admit, my dreams were vague, because I didn't even know anybody who had done those things I thought were out there, and what did I know of the world anyway except what I'd seen on TV and in the movies? I just knew there was something better, and I was going to experience it. Which means satisfying that little girl's dreams is more a matter of retrospective thinking than a fulfillment of any actual plan she had other than getting out and going .... somewhere.

This weekend -- and it's only half over -- has been one of those weekends when I can say to that now imaginary little girl, "Hey, I'm doing it. I'm doing those things you dreamed about doing. What do you think of us now?"

Maybe those things I offer her in retrospect aren't exactly what was on her mind. She wanted to go to college -- something that she was actively discouraged from doing -- and now she has a master's degree that isn't really worth much except the pride she takes in it. She was going to have a career, and so far .... well, she didn't really know what it would be like to be a military wife and mother, which is not considered a career, so that dream was deferred. But she knew there was music and theatre and food and people who loved books and music and theatre. And those things ..... we're doing pretty good with those things.

Last night I took Coraline to her first real, full-length play. We saw James and the Giant Peach at the school for the arts where I taught creative writing for a while. She loved it, especially when she got to meet some of the kids who were in the play out in the lobby afterwards. Then we came home, popped some popcorn and watched Monsters Inc. Hey, when I was a little girl we had 3 channels in black and white. Even watching a DVD is kind of cool to Little Reticula. Then this morning we got up and ate chocolate-banana pancakes with Elvira when she came to pick up Coraline.

The actual cast we saw

In the afternoon, I went with 3 girlfriends to see the touring show of Menopause, the Musical. It was hilarious, relevant (to many of us), uplifting, kind of depressing sometimes, but still uplifting -- if you think fucking hot flashes, night sweats, foggy brains, weight gain, and  all that other shit is funny, that is. We did. We laughed out loud for most of the performance, and then a couple of us even got on stage at the end. (Don't worry. We were invited.) Good times.

After the play, 3 of us went to a coffee shop to wait for the nearby Thai restaurant to open. The shop wasn't really open, but the owner let us come in while they were getting ready for a private party there later in the evening, and she made us hot chocolate and coffee.

Once we were seated at our little table on the balcony at the Thai restaurant, we ate coconut milk soup and spring rolls, tangy mango salad, warm, salty edamame, and sauteed vegetables with tofu. Zero heat, thank you. We drank hot sake and tea. We told stories, and laughed some more.

Finally, after a stop off at home to let my dog out and eat a couple of designer cupcakes, 2 of us went on to a local night market where we ate absinthe cotton candy, sampled Haitian chocolate, shared a piece of frozen banana chocolate pie, and visited with various friends who were there either shopping or selling.

In spite of the rain and plunging temperatures, it was a practically perfect day, and now I'm sitting in my kitchen surrounded by the smell of pumpkin bread, drinking a glass of chardonnay and writing my words that some people will even read. I'm a fucking writer, you guys! Little Reticula is thrilled. This! This is what she knew was out there in the world. Theatre, music, great friends, food adventures .... 

And then I started thinking .... I grew up in a poor family (money-wise), in a relatively poor town, in the middle of corn country. I had no reason to believe I'd ever leave there. In fact, I was told I never would, and that I might as well stop acting like I was better than everybody else and find that farm boy I was going to marry, because that was my future. Well, I did marry a farm boy, but he didn't want to stay on the farm any more than I did. So there.

We have so many choices in this country even when it seems like we don't have any. If we can dream, we can choose where to live based on whether the temperature is hot or cold or a mixture; whether the climate is humid or dry; whether the population is dense or sparse, urban or suburban or rural; near the mountains, desert, valleys, oceans, farms, tundra, or rivers; near people of our own ideology -- liberal, conservative, hands-off. In my own family one sister lives in a college town and works as a manager of a plant that makes electronic components, one brother lives in Minneapolis and the other in Alaska, and my youngest sister stayed close to home. That's just my one little family. When you consider that 319 million people live in this country and they all have dreams and aspirations ..... The possibilities are staggering.

What a privilege. What a blessing. I'm ashamed I don't give thanks every day for all that I have. I take it for granted too often.

I can't imagine what it's like to be a child who lives here .... 

.... What does she dream of doing when she grows up? What does she even dream for the next day? The next hour?

I wish I had the one perfect right answer. I don't. I understand why people want to help. I understand why people are scared to help. Don't hate. I live in the gray areas where we're all in this fucking mess together. There are no easy answers in a world that has become so very small, with problems that are so overwhelmingly large.

When I was a little girl dreaming about the big world that was out there, I couldn't have known there was also .... this.

Can I interest you in a little sex therapy?

I started watching the Showtime series Masters of Sex recently. The show is about the lives and work of William Masters and Virginia Johnson -- Masters and Johnson -- who pioneered the field of modern sex research. Believe it or not, a lot of sex happens during each episode. And even more talking about sex happens. It's a sexy romp through a serious subject. I like it.

This isn't a review of Masters of Sex though. This post is about what the show has brought up for me personally regarding my own dreams and career path.

I wrote recently about this being a big year of change for me, and it really has been so far. Travel adventures, new friends, buying a house. If nothing else happens, it will already have been a pivotal year.

I wrote in that post that I couldn't remember what my dreams were, and I wasn't sure I really had any. Watching Masters of Sex reminded me -- and reminded me hard -- that I really do have a dream, and I think it was a dream even when I was a kid, although I couldn't have put it into words any more than I could have told you what a vagina was.

If I could choose any career at all, I would not choose one of the prestigious, well-paying careers like doctor or lawyer or engineer or president of the United States or even best-selling novelist .... OK, that's a lie. I would choose best selling author.

But in addition, what I would really like to be when I grow up is a sex therapist. Sex therapy is my dream job.

I've wanted to do this since I was a little girl,  or maybe I should say I've been called to do it since I was little. When I was 6, I was the class expert who informed the other kids that when a man and a woman have sex, the man puts his ding ding into the woman in a place between her legs even I didn't have a name for (but could be the place she pees from), and he pees inside her. This is also how babies are made, although the man and woman have to be parents to have sex. It doesn't pay to think too hard about this now. A couple of years later I had to revise my explanation.

I also spied a lot on my parents and their friends, and I repeated all of my dad's wide repertoire of sex jokes many times, especially the one about the pink puppy noses. I was obviously called to be a sexpert even as a child.

I also have what some of my friends call my superpower. And my superpower is that people talk about sex openly and a lot around me. Almost every conversation I'm in eventually turns to sex, even though I don't always bring the topic up. In fact, even if I make a point of not bringing it up, before you know it somebody is telling a story about her recent vibrator malfunction. Whether in groups or one-on-one, people will tell me more about sex than they've ever told anybody else. And often they learn things they didn't know, because I have a treasure chest of information about sex in my head.

Disclaimer: My superpower does not, unfortunately, have any effect on my own sex life. It does not attract appropriate and talented sexual partners -- although it often attracts the wrong ones -- and it doesn't even mean I get more action than the normal un-superpowered person. I'm pretty sure I get much less than I deserve. It does mean though that sometimes people go home feeling pretty randy after a rousing conversation about sex with me ..... but I'm not the one getting laid.

It's a fucking shame, isn't it? But I digress.

The important question is: Could I really become a sex therapist?

The answer is: I don't know for sure, but I'm certain it would require another degree. I've already got a bachelor's degree in social work. Probably in this state, I could become a sex therapist if I got a master's degree in social work and became a licensed counselor.

The obstacles are few, but large. First, I can't afford it. Not that I can't afford the time, but I can't afford the tuition. I paid for my last master's degree by working my ass off teaching composition at the university. I can't imagine that kind of gig exists in the social work department. And I refuse to take out tens of thousands of dollars in student loans. I'd never be able to pay them off.

Second ..... there is no second. Money is the only obstacle, unless becoming a licensed social worker isn't enough, and I'm certain it is.

The advantages: I would be doing work I would absolutely love. I would be a good -- maybe even a great -- sex therapist. And I would get paid a decent wage for my time, which is not the case with either writing and teaching.

Oh, yeah. I just accepted a job teaching creative writing at the only magnet school for the arts in the city. I'll start in January. I've already done some substitute teaching there this fall, so I'm already familiar with the job, as well as what some of the challenges will be, and I've already formed relationships with my colleagues and some of the students. I'm excited about teaching creative writing as opposed to academic. Also it's only a few blocks from my new house -- within walking and cycling distance.

So here I go, back to teaching, the job where I love many of the kids, dislike, or even hate, the grading, and work twice as many hours as I'm paid for. It's something I can do and do well, but it's not the same as following a dream.

My two dreams: to write, which I do, and to talk and write about sex for a living.

Why am I writing about this here? I know it's neither funny nor poignant, not about the vagina or the penis, which is probably what you came here for. It's not even really interesting to anybody except me.

I just want to put it out there. A dream often won't happen unless it's put forth as a possibility ..... OK, I'm not even sure this one is a possibility. It's just a dream, and so many dreams never come true. I'm probably more likely to get struck by lightning or grow a latent vestigial penis.

But it never hurts to say a dream aloud so somebody can hear it.

So how about it? Anybody want to kickstart my career in sex therapy? I'll give you a post-dated coupon for your first 5 sessions free ... and that number can be negotiated.

Brain dead but still writing

Back in September I wrote about how I expected this year to be full of big changes and adventures, because there seems to be a pattern to my birthdays. I posted a photo of one of those changes yesterday. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by that one, so I'm not ready to write about it yet. It's certainly not the only one to come into my life since July 19.

Since then, I've made some new friends, and I know they will be important in my life .... already are important in my life. I foresee shifts in other relationships as well.

I've gone on a couple of wild adventures, and I've said "yes" to doing things that push the limits of my comfort, like singing in a recording studio, giving piano lessons, and producing a horror film.

I've also been working on bringing a TEDx experience to Dayton, and that will happen next Friday, November 15. I'm terribly excited about it. I'm on the audience experience committee, and we've been working for months planning a peak experience for those lucky 700 who get to come. (We sold out a couple of weeks ago.)

One of the best things about working on TEDx is meeting new people and getting to know acquaintances better. Just going to a full day of TED Talks would be an inspiring experience, but doing the work with people I've never worked with is even more rewarding. I'll report back on that next week.

For tonight, because I'm feeling utterly brain dead and not one bit clever, I'm going to share my first and favorite TED Talk, The Power of Vulnerability by Brené Brown. I cried the first time I watched it, and I've probably watched it a dozen times since.

As a writer -- especially a writer of personal narrative -- I know my words are shallow drivel unless I dig deep enough to expose my vulnerability. Sometimes I can do it, and sometimes I can't. There are several topics I've wanted to write about ... topics that can jam me up like a beaver dam ... topics like bullying and dating .... that I haven't put words to because doing so would leave me vulnerable -- not to the people who love me, but to those who are always looking for a place to slide in a blade.

Every time I watch this video, I vow to do better at vulnerability, because I know that's the place where the energy of my words connects with my readers' experiences -- my heart to your heart.

On to the video though. Brené Brown says it better than I can.

If you could give the talk of your life, what would it be about?

Shelf of broken dreams

In July I suffered through tolerated celebrated my birthday. Most people consider the birthdays that end in zeros their big birthdays. I don't. My big birthdays are the ones that end in fives. I didn't realize that until this year's birthday.

I didn't recognize that there was a pattern to my years -- a wobbly pattern, to be sure -- but I'm calling it a pattern. I've always done big things during my 5-years, or big things have happened. Here are some examples.

I started school when I was five years old, and learned to take tests and count the slow seconds on the clock.

The year I was 15, I probably smoked my first joint, and I got drunk the first time right after my 15th birthday, which may have set the pace for the rest of high school. It doesn't seem that significant. What is significant is that I fell in love for the first time that summer, and also set precedents for choosing the wrong men and taking a very long time to heal from a broken heart.

The year I was 25 two big things happened. First, my dad dropped dead of an unexpected heart attack at age 46, leaving my mom with 2 kids at home, and 2 more barely out the door. It was my first deep experience with death and adult grief. A few months later when my neighbor's plane flew into a mountain, I was one of the few people who knew how to deal with the grief, if such a thing is possible. I knew something about life that was hard-won.

Second,  we decided to get pregnant with my son Drake. Balance.

Fast forward and I sold our house during a 5-year and bought another one. It was in the same city, which was a first for us. Air Force families don't do that very often. Another 5-year I indulged in an enormous mid-life crisis, lost a bunch of weight, and decided I'd better start living a little harder if I wanted to suck all of the juice out of my life.

Past 5-years have been both positive and negative, obviously. I don't know what to expect this year, except that this will be the 5-year to end all 5-years.

I was telling Drake about my 5-years, and he said he predicted "a rich boyfriend and a muscle car parked in front of my house."

I'm not saying "no."

"Mine or his?" I asked. 

"Yours, of course," he said.

"Both of those things would be big and unlikely," I said. "But I'll be glad to let you drive the one that's possible when you come to visit."

I talked to my daughter Elvira about it, and I said I wasn't sure what might happen this year. I told her what Drake had said, and we agreed he didn't know me very well.

I said I hadn't had a real best friend in several years. Lots of good friends. An embarrassing richness of good friends, as well as my kids and their beloveds. But not a best friend to go places with and share intimate best friend experiences. It takes a lot of work and some fine good luck to find and keep a best friend for any length of time. (It's not me. They find spouses eventually who become their new best friends.) I've had a true best friend for most of my life, except for the past few years.

I told Elvira that could be something that would happen this 5-year. And I said I also wanted to travel more. And I wanted to let myself fall into adventures.

But I don't really think I have that much control over the 5-years. I was just trying to dream. Because ...

Shortly after my birthday, I was listening to a speaker talk about dreams. He told a story about when he was a kid and he wanted to be a drum major, but his dad squashed that worthless wish. He talked about dreams, and how they often get put away, forgotten.

As I listened, I tried to remember what my dreams were when I was a kid.

I couldn't think of any. Not one single dream. I started to feel anxious. Surely I had dreams. Everybody has dreams, right?

I tried to listen to the speaker, but my mind was working in the background looking for dreams. C'mon now. There has to be a dream back there somewhere. Sift. Sift. Sift.

College! That was a dream. I wanted to go to college. I received about as much encouragement as if I'd dreamed of being a lion trainer.

OK, I thought. College. But college itself isn't a dream. What did I want to do? What did I want to study?

As I sat there listening, I couldn't remember wanting to study anything. (As I wrote this I remembered tossing around wanting to be a doctor or a psychologist. Yes, that would be it. A psychologist. I'd help people. It wasn't much of a dream. Lots of kids choose psychology because they can't think of anything else to study and it seems achievable. Like them, I didn't realize the years of school and licensure it would require. I did get a social work degree though, so close.)

Doesn't matter. What I really dreamed about was getting the hell out of that small town and living in a city.

But I couldn't remember any dreams that morning during the talk. Not one, except that vague dream: college. In fact, I haven't been able to remember any dreams until I started writing this tonight. And then I remembered when I was 7 I dreamed of being a writer. And I always yearned to play the piano. And .... that's it. Leave as soon as I could, write and play the piano.

I did all that. But those don't seem like enough. Why can't I remember having concrete dreams that would move me forward in a direction?

What I dreamed was vague. To have a career. To be a liberated women who knew what she wanted and didn't care what other people thought -- especially men. (Maybe that one is still in the box.) Those are character traits, not dreams.

The speaker said it was time to realize those dreams, to get that old, dusty shoe box down off the "shelf of broken dreams in your heart closet."

I wrote it down because it hit me so hard. If something big was going to happen this 5-year, I needed to figure out what my dreams are. It has to be now. I need to use this special year while I've got it, but I need some dreams.

I mean, I'll take the muscle car if it happens and it's cheap. The boyfriend -- rich or not .... well, if he's been sitting on a heart-shelf in a dusty box, he's probably desiccated  I don't want dreams that are half-dead or not achievable.
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The best friend .... maybe. I can't force that one, and I can't call it a dream really. I'm OK with having lots of wonderful friends, and a few who are close enough to get past the sand beaches of my island.

So far, I've had a couple of surprise adventures. I'm not sure if they came out of my shoe box though, because they were more a result of my saying "yes" to whatever was offered, whether it was comfortable or not. There's definitely value in that. I'll be writing more about those adventures. They are a valid part of 5-year.

But they're too fresh to be dreams that have been shoved to the back of my heart closet in a dusty box.

I'm sorry to say, I haven't located the box, much less opened it. Writing this helped. I realized I did have a couple of dreams, and I've achieved them. Writing. Piano. Leaving home when I was 17.

I'm still searching for my shoe box though. I'll let you know if I find it.

Do you have a shoe box on your shelf of broken dreams? Is there anything in that box that you want to dust off and make happen? Inspire me! Tell me one broken dream.

And I'm sure one of these days I'll find that box and tell you mine.

(All photos stolen from the interwebs.)

Dreaming

I don't put much faith in dreams, although I dream every night and usually remember at least one or two. The most logical explanation for them seems to be that they're the unpredictable firing of brain cells while the owner of the brain is unconscious. Often I can tell some movie I watched has shown up mixed up with some other events that happened. More often they don't make sense at all, like they're just experimental stories or mind masturbation. I certainly don't believe in symbolism in dreams. But then there are those times when I have no choice but to believe ..... something--very much like I don't believe in Tarot except when I have no choice. When I dream and within days or weeks the dream turns out to be prophetic, and I can't deny that there's some weird thing that happens with dreams that I can neither predict nor understand.

Tonight I don't want to write about all the times that's happened. Unless I'm really interested in the person, I don't find their dreams all that interesting, so I'll assume the same of you. (Although I'm sure you'd find my dreams fascinating.) I seem to be in a phase of dream predictions the past week or so though, and I have to admit I'm both curious to see what will happen next and, as usual, a little freaked out about what might happen next.

Last week I wrote about a dream. Often I dream about people and they pop up unexpectedly the next day. I've gotten used to that, even if I haven't heard from the person in years. You all do that too, right?

Last night though, I dreamed I was driving on a highway near my hometown. Without warning, the highway ended, and in front of me was nothing but grassy prairie and stands of trees. I wasn't sure why, but it reminded me of a post-apocalyptic movie--only without the apocalypse. In the dream, I continued on foot to where I was going.

After several hours of doing dream stuff in that place, I found myself driving a car, trying to find my way to what was home in the dream. I took a different paved road that eventually and unexpectedly turned into a dirt road. When I looked behind me and couldn't see an alternative, I continued on the back roads. I was obviously lost, and although I kept trying to tell from the sun which direction I should go, I came to a place where I wasn't sure which way to turn. At the corner was an old farm house so I rode my bike--yep, that's how dreams work--up into the yard. There were a bunch of people there but they only stared at me. They knew I was lost, but they didn't want to help. I rode through the yard, past the people, until I came to a head lying on the ground. I was trying to figure out where the rest of his body was -- if maybe it was buried and just his head was sticking out -- when a woman came out on the porch and said, "Don't ask him. He ain't gonna tell you the truth anyway." So I chose a direction and rode away, still lost. The end.

I was telling my son Drake about the dream this afternoon and he had some ideas about relationships that have changed, how it might be about that. I said maybe so, but it felt like one of those prophetic dreams -- which, of course, it couldn't be because we weren't really expecting a fucking apocalypse.

After we talked, I got out my bike and headed off to the post office. I wasn't going to miss taking at least a short ride on a 70-degree, sunny day in March. After I left the post office, I decided to ride down to a nearby neighborhood and look at a house that was for sale there. I wanted to see what the ride was like, how near it was to downtown. I found the street and the house, and then decided to keep riding. City neighborhoods are tricky. A street with huge, lovely old houses, like the one I was on, can butt right up to streets with burned out or boarded up crack houses lined up in a row.

I rode past some nice, old houses and eventually a mix of nice and not-so-nice. So I headed back the way I'd come .... or so I thought. As I rode I realized I was on streets I hadn't been on before, but some of the names seemed familiar so I figured they had to lead back to the main road. I kept riding and turning down streets and sometimes finding the same street but still not finding my way out.

Eventually I was in one of those neighborhoods with the boarded up, burned out houses and the apartments with bars on the windows. Rough, pitted out streets with lots of speed bumps to slow down high-speed chases with cops and broken glass on the sidewalks. And the few people who were out just looked at me without expression, without saying hi as I road by in my sexy, stretchy cycling clothes on my expensive bike ... not saying hi like people do in my neighborhood (which also has boarded up houses, but not like this).

I saw a sign beside an apartment building and realized I was in a really bad part of the city -- a part I would only want to go through in my van with my doors locked. Only I was on my bicycle and I was lost. It was a neighborhood I'd read about just last week, in an article about how the police have failed to control the gang violence there.

I kept riding. I knew I could stop and call a friend to look up a map and give me directions to get out, but I didn't feel safe; I didn't want to stop and I didn't want to look lost. I knew I could call and a friend would fucking leave work and come pick me up. But I also knew I wouldn't feel safe waiting for him to get to me. I felt too vulnerable, too exposed, too obviously out of place. So I kept riding. And riding. As fast as I could given the condition of the streets and the pitch of some of the hills. I rode on streets I'd already been on. On streets I'd never seen before. I tried to think where the main road might be by where the sun was in the sky, but knowing where west was didn't help me because I didn't know where I was. And I also hadn't told anyone else where I was going.

It was ridiculous really. Stupid. I've been lost in cities all over the country. I sometimes take a wrong turn on purpose and get lost -- on fucking purpose -- just in case I find an adventure out there in the unknown. Getting lost doesn't fucking scare me. I always find my way home just fine. My city doesn't scare me. I ride my bike downtown late at night by myself, and I live in a neighborhood where they put in gates in the 90's to stop the high-speed chases. I'm not fucking scared ..... Except today there were times I was really scared and I can't even explain why.

Finally I came to a 4-way stop sign that was pretty busy. I had to stop, so I waited and noted most of the cars were going one direction. I decided to follow them. So I turned and rode with the traffic. Finally I could see a busier street up ahead and sure enough: it was the 4-lane street I needed to take home. As I turned onto the sidewalk, I realized I was a couple of miles north of where I'd turned off, and I was at the top of a huge hill. I didn't care now that I knew where the hell I was -- and some people would consider where I was hell.

I had ridden about half a block when I saw a young man walking toward me on the sidewalk. He was wearing gang colors. He looked up and saw me ... and then he squatted down in the middle of the sidewalk to tie his shoe. Fuck me, I thought. I finally find my way out of the jungle and now I run into a gang banger. Why is he tying his shoe? Nothing to do but keep riding. The traffic was heavy and whizzing by so I couldn't cross the street, and I sure as fuck couldn't turn back. I couldn't ride too fast because he was on the sidewalk. I eased up to him and edged by. He didn't even look up, but I took the brakes off and let the hill take me faster as soon as I was past.

When I could, I crossed to my own side of the road and eventually into my own neighborhood. As I turned down my own street, I was even relieved to see the drug dealer who lives three doors down sitting on his front steps. It all seemed pretty anticlimactic by the time I lifted my bike up my own front steps, but my lungs were burning because I've sat on my lazy, fat ass most of the winter and gotten out of shape and my legs were shakier than a ride of that length warranted.

It wasn't until I'd eaten lunch and was in the shower that I remembered the dream I had last night. The dream about getting lost and trying to find my way by the sun. It's just how these dreams go. The setting isn't the same, but the story is close. I don't really believe in dreams though. They're just the random firing of brain cells. Nothing a logical woman like me would believe in .... except when I have no choice.

Some people think prophetic dreams are a gift. I'm not too sure about that. Mostly it freaks me out because it doesn't make sense, and yet I can't deny that it happens. And I have no fucking control even when I know something is going to happen.

What about you? Do you believe in the prophecy of dreams? Have you ever had a sleeping dream come true in the waking world? If so, doesn't it just scare the ever-lovin' shit out of you?

Coda: Five and a half hours after I published this, I got up and read the following message from TUT in my email:

"Always trust your dreams, [reticula]. They've chosen you, as much as you've chosen them.

Tallyho,
    The Universe...

And it really ticked-off all the other dreams, too, [reticula]." 

WWJD

I know. I haven't posted the past two nights. I'm not doing NaBloPoMo this month, and end-of-the-quarter grading vision loss has set in, so I slacked off a couple of nights. I'm humbled by those of you who wrote or told me in person that you missed reading here. Thank you. I write here at night like that late-night DJ who spins his tunes in the lonely dark while everyone else is sleeping. Thank you for reading.

I was reminded tonight of something I need to think more about and it's this: When we set out to intentionally hurt one person, we will inevitably hurt others too. Maybe the collateral damage is worth it, but maybe we don't notice or care that we've let off emotional tear gas in the building as we're leaving. Maybe we should notice. (Or maybe hurting people on purpose sucks big green donkey balls, but some people seem compelled. That's 'nother post.)

Just to keep this real .... look, I'm easy to hurt. I lead with my heart. I make no secret of my vulnerability, and I take most blows head on because I don't live life behind a shield. But a direct strike at me can hurt others who don't even know to duck. I watched it happen tonight.

I can't do anything about other people's behavior. The lesson for me is that the next time I feel like striking out at someone -- and that's a rare occurrence except on the highway -- I'm going to think a little harder about who else I might be hurting at the same time.

I'm not an expert on Jesus, and I don't play an expert on TV. As far as I can tell, he was a cool, liberal young rabbi of his time, and I don't claim to know his heart or even his words. But I believe he said something like whatever you do to the least of these, you also do to me. Don't worry. Jesus wasn't hurt tonight, but I understood what he meant. When you hurt someone, you don't just hurt one person. There are innocents all around. 

Have you ever hurt someone out of anger or meanness or fear of losing something, and then realized you unintentionally hurt someone else, caught someone in the cross-fire? Is it possible you've done it without knowing it?

I'm going to consider this question myself. I may write more about it.
 
I had a dream last night, and in it I guess I received a message. I don't believe in dreams, but sometimes it happens. In the dream somebody stood beside me and said, "It never could have worked. He's not allowed to talk. He's not allowed to touch her. He's not allowed to be himself. You have to know that's more compelling than anything you have to offer." In the dream I walked out of the room ... and then I woke up. I woke up months ago.

I rarely strike out, because more often than not, I understand. Even without dreams, I understand.