One Track Mind

For most of my adult life, I've considered myself to be a multi-tasker, a good one at that. However, lately I'm thinking I may have had it all wrong. I am no multi-tasker. Rather, I am deeply set in my one-thing-at-a-time ways; a fact brought to my much tormented attention this week.

How did that happen, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Obsessions.

If you must know, this week's obsession comes in the form of a series of young adult novels by Scott Westerfeld. Maybe you'd heard of them? Book one: Uglies. Book two: Pretties. Book three: Specials.

At any rate, about two months ago, I started this fantastic routine of setting my alarm 30 minutes earlier than normal, dragging my ass out of bed right away, downing a glass of water and EXERCISING! And it was really paying off, too. Life was great, my body felt great, my food choices were improving on a daily basis. This new lifestyle was quickly becoming a habit I looked forward to.

Then I picked up Uglies. My focus redirected at head-spinning pace. Getting up early to read until the clock insisted I get ready for work because I'd read away every last possible free morning moment seemed like the best choice I could be making. This morning, as I instinctively reached across the pillow, flipped on the light and dove into the book (halfway through Specials, which was started last night), it finally hit me.

In a matter of ten measly days, my fabulous exercise routine was reduced to gloriously long stretches (no, not that kind of stretch) of lying down -- bed, couch, floor, no matter to me -- and reading. Just reading. Reading. Reading. Reading...

Single-minded. One-thing-at-a-time. Obsessed.

It rattles me that one's self-image can be so off target for so many years of one's life. It's not exactly that the notion of being a multi-tasker so deeply defined me; but I suppose sometimes you just don't know what you've got 'till it's gone.

Boy howdy, it sure could explain a lot, this revelation o' mine.

Perhaps this is why my school grades always sank while taking 6-7 courses at once but soared when narrowed down to 2-3 at a time. [Note to self: the few months each at Evergreen and UCSB are different since I was living on my own for the first time. One could put forth that learning how to take care of business is why I had to drop out of college; you know, seeing as I'm not a multi-tasker.]

Next, perhaps this contributes to my tendency to get overwhelmed, lose patience, shut down brain function when trying to be comfortable within a large group. Attending parties where there are lots of people who I don't know is always cause a bit of anxiety. I tend to find myself hovering around only those who I already know, all the while marveling at the husband's knack for diving into all sorts of fascinating conversations with strangers. It's not that I'm not a people person, it's just that I'm not a multiple-people-at-once person.

I'm really on to something here!

Indeed, I think I've been creeping towards this new self-awareness for the last several months. In February, as the holidays had worn thin and my waistline picked up the slack, I began to accept that my aging body is just going to have to look at exercise as a fact of life. Little by little -- and sheer force of will -- I managed to turn my daily work commute in to exercise.

Quickly, I realized that the walking alone was not enough; my body was already craving more movement. Nice! I spent the last couple of months diligently weaving an actual workout into 3-4 mornings a week, which I mentioned above. Along with this new habit, I have worked on meal plans, shopping locally/organically, cooking and eating at home as often as possible. Sure, it's time consuming, but the benefits are too significant to ignore.

It was finally clear to me now: all I have to do is take good care of my body and then I'll be able to do the other things I long to do, like write! Slowly and surely, I built physical strength, overcame the tendency to eat a pound of chocolate in daily sittings, and enjoyed the extra energy.

Then, summer arrived. Sweet summer, that mistress o' mine. Gloriously long, warm days filled with endless fun activities that surely cannot be passed up by any rational person. Trips, parties, concerts, events fill my every waking moment. The next thing I know, my workouts were bumped off the regular schedule and the summer reading list took over.

And here we are. Today. Clarity presents itself. Then confirms my suspicions as I bear witness to last week's powerhouse of multi-tasking come crumbling down around me. Turns out I don't have the willpower to just put the book down and exercise instead. The bod is stiff and sore from bursts of activity followed by long periods of stagnation (aka reading) and going out for food rather than cooking at home. Moreover, it turns out I don't have a clean record of not making scheduling mistakes at work. This morning at least five separate error rose to the murky surface. Blast it!

One thing I do have going for me is the willingness to be shocked and appalled by myself. That, and taking it straight to the written word. My goal when I started the whole diet/exercise thing, after all, was to work my way into including writing in my daily schedule once again.

Well, one out of three, ain't bad.

See?

One-obsession-at-a-time.

What Is It That You Do Do?

You know how it goes; you've probably even done it yourself. You're at a shindig and the occasional acquaintance sitting next to you turns and asks, "Soooo, what are you doing for work?" And you think to yourself, "How many times has this particular person asked me this particular question and they still don't know the answer?"

Then you start to question your work. What IS my job anyway? It's somewhat of a sore subject in some regards because my answer -- "I manage a small doctor's office where I'm the only employee" -- doesn't really lead to much further discussion about what I do, who I am. And, at this ripe age of middle thirties, there's beginning to be a bit of judgment in response to my answer, which quite frankly is coming from both sides of the table.

What is this woman doing with her life, anyway?

Well, I'm paying the bills for one thing. Besides that, I've begun to delve a little deeper into the conversation about my work when posed the question. It's been nearly fifteen years now (gasp!) that I've been hopping around office jobs, just trying to keep afloat and stay put in this little paradise of a town. For the last six years, I've been in the same office working one-on-one with a "going to retire someday" hand doctor. Here's a surgeon who always runs on time, looks his patients in the eye, and never operates unnecessarily. He's the very first boss I've ever had who has treated me with the respect and trust that I earn as a dependable employee. And I never have to ask for time off, I just take it...how sweet is that?

Let's face it: we've all been on the patient side of the waiting room and we all have doctor's office horror stories.

What this job has given me is the opportunity to save our patients from that experience of feeling like a number, of not feeling heard or cared about. I'm blessed with time in our daily schedule to listen to them share their painful (and sometimes completely, insanely inappropriate) experiences. I get to empathize and sympathize and ease their suffering. My job is in a doctor's office where our patients leave feeling as though their questions and concerns have been addressed, not dismissed. And it's my pleasure to help these crazy sons of bitches, too.

So, what I do is that.

Plus, I'm a writer who is trying desperately to be able to confidently say "I am a writer" without the addendum of "but I'm not really writing anything right now." Damn it if that's a tall order, but I'm getting there.

Lessons in Perspective

Shitgoddamn and hallelujah!!!

Yesterday was like a hangover. I had to send myself home early from work to sob my little heart out on the couch. At first, I cried because it didn't feel like I was happy enough that the right man won the election. That pesky problem with staying in the moment really challenged my ability to absorb the significance of the day. And my ego worked its way in there some, too.

In high school, I was deeply obsessed with everything sixties. Oh, how I longed to have come of age in that era so I could have participated in the social movements, been witness to the changes taking place. It didn't seem possible that I would ever live through anything as significant as what went down in the decade prior to my birth.

And then I started to witness some things:

• first voting experience in 1992, electing Clinton
• the fall of the Berlin Wall
• the Gulf War
• grunge and Kurt Cobain's death
• Nelson Mandela freed from prison, elected president of his nation
• two stolen elections
• 9/11
• wars in Iraq and Afghanistan
• hurricanes
• tsunamis
• genocide
• traveling abroad
• LIVE MUSIC
• marrying a true love
• nine, going on ten, nieces and nephews
• too many years of illness and the death of a sibling
• college graduation
• Barack Obama elected president

All of these things make up our lives. Yet, it wasn't enough for me. The progress of humanity wasn't fast enough for me. That sinking feeling that we're never going to get it right -- it's all been too little and too late -- pinned me to the couch in my personal despair.

It didn't feel like I thought it would feel when I was a teenager, this witnessing of momentous change in our country's -- hell, our world's -- history. My naive idealism had me thinking such a victory would heal the millions of hidden scratches just as surely as the obvious gaping wounds. When reality didn't match my imagination, I got sad and allowed my brain to concentrate on severe pessimism. How could I celebrate when we're still involved in two hopeless wars? What about over-population, global warming and the coming the machine people? How could I be happy about our president-elect when Californians actually passed Proposition 8 on the same day? What's my damned problem for letting myself miss out on the pure joy of this moment?

Then the television caught my attention. It was Martin Luther King, Jr., urgently reminding me of the bigger picture:

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

This slapped me in the face, sat me right up and cleared my eyes of the tears. All kinds of perspective came running through the door, tackling me with a swift kick in the ass. I had to laugh at myself for letting it go too far.

No matter how slow I think humans are changing our ridiculous ways, I have to admit that we are changing. We can only move one generation at a time, can't we? No matter how slow it feels while you live it one day at a time, we are inching our way towards tolerance and right action. No matter how much we want it to be perfect now, we can't reasonably expect all of our ignorance to end at one time in one place. If we do expect that, we're just going to end up a limp, crying mess on the couch. And, really, what does that do to help bring us together?

So, there I was. Age thirty-four being snapped out of a personal crisis of faith in humanity with the realization that I'm dangerously close to being a grumpy old man because I expected everything could be fixed within my own lifetime. Let's call it a moment of clarity. And humility. And, of course, perspective. Thank you MLK.

Today is one of the most beautiful that I've ever seen in Santa Barbara. It's bathwater warm outside. The air smells clean and crisp. The sky is the clearest blue. The sea is sparkling against the huge islands, which reflect their counterparts rising up proudly behind our bustling little city. Neighbors and strangers are greeting each other warmly, enthusiastically, with genuine appreciation for one another.

It's a new day, indeed; and here's what I know: we have got to work pretty damned hard on lightening up and love is the answer.

I'm Just Saying...

It's election night and here I am with clowns to the left of me and jokers to the right, feeling stuck in the middle with myself. Actually, truth be told, I'd probably place somewhere in the midst of the clowns if you're going with the political metaphor. But that's not what I meant.

Frankly, I'm plumb worn out by this business of living. There's so much to be nervous about these days that I've found it difficult to be present, no matter what it is that I'm doing. A simple jaunt downtown to support local farmers and cart home this week's stock of organically grown produce can lead to an existential crisis complete with tear-stained cheeks before I can get myself out of the crosswalk. I'm torn right down the middle. Either I'm caring far too much about every single ridiculous, destructive human soul or I'm counting down the minutes until whatever doomsday device -- nuclear fallout, killer virus, alien invasion, locusts -- finally delivers Mother Earth her much deserved sweet release from us over-populated masses of idiots who think we have a friggin' clue as to what we're doing here.

I mean, I'm just sayin...

I'm just saying that people have been inhabiting the earth, forming governments and religions and philosophies and sciences and arts and he saids and she saids for thousands and thousands of years and we haven't really made a helluva lot of progress (betcha I can use and in a sentence more times than you and you and you).

I'm just saying that if you found yourself some random quote about government from, say, Napoleon (like I saw somewhere or another today), you'd find yourself scratching your head swearing you heard a political pundit on CNN say that very same thing just last night.

I'm just saying that if you consulted Shakespeare for a lesson in classic storytelling, you'd find that when it comes to the human condition, about the only things that have changed significantly are formalities like clothes and mannerisms.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

What sets me to worrying about having been so hyper-focused on this stuff is that I am now one of two things. Either I am on the slippery slope of taking everything far too seriously; thereby sucking all the fun, beauty and hopeful possibilities out of my one shot at life. Or, I am already at the bottom of said slope and have utterly lost my formerly effortless knack for lightening the fuck up.

See?

Clowns -- Me -- Jokers

I'm just saying that this election has me on edge. Or maybe that's just my excuse of the moment.

Apathetic Tendencies

Lately, as my friends will attest, I've been borderline fervent that "my" generation (and those that have followed "mine") have fallen victim to a raging case of entitlement. Which, I've observed, has turned us into a sorry bunch of apathetic, uninvolved, uninspired -- and uninspiring -- whiners. It's maddening and often sends me into weeks of the poor-me mopes when I notice my annoying active participation as a member of the club. How did we manage to land smack in our adulthood without a real sense of who we are? How did we get here without a stimulating, motivating passion for something, anything?

Was it that we weren't taught what it is to have a work ethic? Was it the glutton of the 1980s and 90s that confused us? Was it that the technology boom overwhelmed us with multi-media distractions?

I wish I knew. I wish I knew how to inspire myself and those around me into productivity and right action.

But first things first -- gotta check my email. ==========

OK, back.

This afternoon I'm, once again, crying over something I saw on the Internet. It's not over the content of the You Tube video, although it is moving; rather, it's the sense of hope that people might actually be doing alright in spite of all the obstacles we've put in our way.

I'm reminded that there are, of course, creative, intelligent and active folks out there representing and working hard to inspire our generation to knock of the entitlement apathy nonsense. For all the crap that technology brings us, I can't forget to check out all the beauty and good that comes along with it. I can't give up on the possibility that we might turn out OK, after all.

P.S. DON'T FORGET TO VOTE

Book Report

The Poisonwood Bible
by Barbara Kingsolver

For the better part of a decade, this hardcover book lay dormant under my bed, collecting dust bunnies. That was back when I wasn't reading books. Pity. My mom had given it to me, and I remember distinctly how highly she recommended I take a look at it.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when at least three, if not more, women insisted that I drop all other books and just read The Poisonwood Bible already because it is a life-changer. Say no more; and, boy howdy, were they correct.

This is one of those books that you read and it just about knocks your whole self right over -- repeatedly and profoundly. You find yourself breathing long sighs of relief that you are not the only person who has come to view the world in these ways. By the time you reach the last word of the last sentence, the magic of a nearly perfectly told story has somehow lightened the burden of knowledge of the tragic, beautiful suffering that is humanity. You are moved another step closer to understanding that we are at once witnesses and participants in each other's stories, of our far away histories, of the non-stop mysterious ways of this complex world. Another step closer to grasping muntu -- all that is here. It is what it is. We are what we are. I am all that is here and so are you and you and you. The good, the evil, the incredible, the horrendous. We are what we are, mistakes and all.

At least, that's what it did for me. And I'm awfully tempted to turn around back to page one and read it all over again.

P.S.
Actually, that's not all I got out of this book. In the interest of keeping track of how reading novels is helping me understand how to tell a story, I have to mention it. Each chapter in this book is told from the perspective of one of the five Price family women, primarily the four daughters. Not a new method, by any means, but this book offered me that elusive a-ah moment. I get it now: the concept that each character in a story believes themselves to be 100% correct. Each character has their unique point of view and that is how they should come across to the reader. And, in order for that to happen, the writer must explore corners of each and every character that the reader will never see described on the page, but will come to understand nevertheless. Such a simple concept (that I've nodded along with many times) with a complex application (that is daunting yet exciting) and is absolutely essential to a good story.

P.P.S.
In the aftermath of reading The Poisonwood Bible I put down some words to remind myself what I'm taking away from the experience. It's a rare day that I write a poem, and, when I do, they never follow any rules of poetry, as far as I can tell. But, a poem nonetheless.

Forgive yourself the times in which you live
Forgive yourself the times that came before you
Forgive the mistakes you have made
Forgive but do not forget
Forgive and continue moving on
Forgive and be free of the weight that halts your steps

Identity Crisis

Around about the time I got home from South Africa, something possessed me: the desire to be tan. Which is entirely out of character. Normally, I'm the girl hiding under a hat, an umbrella, long-sleeve shirts and layers of SPF 45. I'm the girl who proudly returned from a week on the beaches in Costa Rica without so much as a whisper of a hint of color on my hide.

But there I was, every afternoon throughout the entirety of spring, sitting in the sunniest parts of the back yard exposing my chest, stomach and legs. It became a ritual I really looked forward to with my after-work beer and the book of the week. "I must need the vitamin D," I'd hear myself explain to the husband. He'd humor me with a grin, but always took the opportunity to remind me how much he happens to love my usual glow-in-the-dark tones.

Oh, how I fancied my golden-tan on graduation morning as I zipped up the favorite brown, strapless dress. Everything about the dress and accessories were enhanced by the color I'd so diligently worked on for the last couple of months.

A few weeks later, we found ourselves hanging with the family on the beach. What a glorious time we had playing in the water and visiting in the cloudless, perfect bikini-weather summer day. At the time, it seemed an entirely reasonable decision to copy the gaggle of girls with their countless re-applications of spray on coconut oil. I had a solid base, after all.

Wrong again.

My obsession got away from me and came back in the form of a raging virgin-sunburn on my stomach and upper thighs that lasted the better part of a month. Thanks to my coveted lotions and potions, I didn't blister; but a truly impressive peeling phase lasted two whole weeks.

Now, I'm left with this sort of asymmetrical reverse reminder of my bikini when I look in the mirror. For once in my life, the red of a sunburn didn't return my skin to the usual white but has become slightly less white. There's nobody in the world who would examine my belly and call it tan...except for me. Even better, it's only my front half that received punishment. My back half remains the same, pre-South Africa white with a very discernible front/back delineation on my outer calves.

One might argue that I got what I wanted with this Summer 2008 "Tan" o' Mine. Yet, this is not anywhere near what I'd envisioned. This palette resembles more of a poorly designed patchwork quilt of unfamiliar body parts.

Who is this person following me around, wearing my clothes, attached to me below the neck?

At the moment, I don't really know.