58 Gratitudes for 58 Years

I was born in 1960, which technically makes me a "boomer" - a much maligned segment of the population. This could be why I feel increasingly irrelevant and why I feel like I am merely wasting space and dwindling resources. Why have I been allowed to live this long when others with more promise were not?

My birthday falls on ... no, "falls on" is too dramatic, too momentous to describe my birthday. My birthday elbows its way in between Christmas and New Year's. It is overcrowded, overwhelmed and overrun by the slew of holiday parties and family rituals mandated by this point on the Gregorian calendar. I suppose this is the reason feeling relevant has been one of my biggest challenges.

This feeling of lacking relevance has most recently manifested itself in the arena of motherhood. The people that I allegedly birthed - because the idea of it is so hard to conceive of at this time - are adults living in different cities, living their own lives. I am contacted periodically by one or the other of them. I contact one or the other of them from time to time. There is happy chit-chat. But there is an underlying discomfort in my lack of understanding of my role in their lives at this time.

I feel sorry for myself for not knowing. Not knowing how I should be using my talents, not understanding why I chose to derail myself so severely at an early age - a derailing that has required years of putting things right with myself - not knowing what I mean to the people I allegedly gave birth to, not knowing how to care for my aging parents, not knowing what my role is in the larger scheme of things. I feel sorry for myself for not knowing.

Because one of the things I measure my success by is travel, every year on and around my birthday, I grow depressed at my lack of will, my lack of initiative. Because I allowed another year to go by without taking a trip out west. I have never been out west, you see. And I feel like something is waiting for me there. But year after year, I ignore this. Here I stand, again, in Greensboro, NC, wondering what the Hell is wrong with me.

All this gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair aside, I recognize I have done unique things in my life that have enriched it, even if they were hard at the time. I recognize that I have encountered and even personally known a great many exceptional people who have brought meaning to my world. I recognize that while my family is not perfect, they are my family, my place of origin, my roots. And for them, I am grateful.

I decided this year to relive my life briefly by stating 58 gratitudes that include moments lived, people known, tasks achieved. They are not in order of importance. They are in the order I recalled them.

1. I am grateful for being born in the small clinic in Denton, NC with a head full of thick black hair. I gave people something to talk about and was, at least for a day, the town attraction.

2. I am grateful for snakes. They mysteriously pop up in my dreams and my waking life and draw me in to a world both of mystery and deep knowing.

3. I am grateful for horses. All pre-adolescent girls, from what I'm told, love horses. That may be. But horses became and still are a huge part of my psyche. They represent the untamable power inside of me. They represent freedom, dignity, and grace. Always.

4. I am grateful for my father. He taught me to read. He taught me an appreciation for music. He taught me playful mischievousness.

5. I am grateful for my mother. She taught me about love. She taught me to sew. She taught me to color. I am even grateful that she passed along the curse of perfectionism because it makes me push myself to be better.

6. I am grateful for my sister, Rebecca, who has helped me to survive 58 years on the planet. She is younger but in many ways wiser. She helps me get off the train of self-destruction. She helps me put positive spins on situations. But she also joins in when I need to bitch about something. Beyond all that, she makes me laugh most heartily.

7. I am grateful for my family physician, Dr. Stephen Hux, who first diagnosed my depression and prescribed medication for it. He helped me get right with myself after many years of self-annihilation.

8. I am grateful for Dr. Edith Wallace, who taught me that I have everything I need to solve my own problems. I have a direct link to a divine source of creativity that will teach me, heal me and help me to be my best self. She taught me to honor my inner jester. She helped me remember to play.

9. I am grateful for my sister, Helen, who helped me to understand that the ways of the patriarchy need not be my ways. She modeled an independence of thought and action that I aspire to even today.

10. I am grateful for my brother, Robby, who taught me hard lessons about standing up for myself.

11. I am grateful for my brother, Brett, who taught me silliness and to embrace the weird.

12. I am grateful for my two children. I am grateful for the experience of being pregnant and giving birth. I am grateful for the experience of breastfeeding two beings, nourishing their bodies through my own. (What a uniquely intimate experience this is! I never would have known this intimacy otherwise.) I am grateful for the residual stretch marks that remind me that all of this really happened. I am grateful for the strength that arose in me from knowing motherhood. I am grateful for the lesson of unconditional love that my children taught me.

13. I am grateful for the being that my daughter has become.

14. I am grateful for the being that my son has become.

15. I am grateful for Robin White Star, who reunited me with the parts that had broken off due to trauma. I am grateful for her wisdom and healing over the many years that I have known her. I am grateful for her teachings of Native American spirituality. These have enriched my life greatly.

16. I am grateful for the love of my friends. There are so many who have braced me up when I have fallen, who have laughed with me, cried with me, danced with me, played with me, listened to me and talked to me.

17. I am grateful for Tim LaFollette. I am grateful for having had the privilege of serving him as he lived with ALS/Lou Gehrig's disease. I am grateful for his grace, his wit, his passion, his determination. I was honored to observe the many changes his body went through during his journey with ALS. I was honored to give him care.

18. I am grateful for Britt Harper Uzzell, a.k.a. Snüzz, who by some stroke of luck caught wind of one of my stupid songs and invited me to record it. His generous spirit and fun-loving nature enveloped me, making me feel important and well loved.

19. I am grateful for Lee Wallace, who taught me about bravery. He shared his love of music and great movies with me. And he shared his dog Stella, whom I spent lots of time walking. All over, we walked. We explored. Stella helped me get out of my stuffy brain and enjoy the beauty all around me. I am grateful for that time of being in Lee's life, helping him by walking Stella, listening to his pondering, seeing a miracle performed that saved his life, watching him grow stronger and able-bodied.

20. I am grateful for WQFS, a college radio station at which I had a weekly radio show. For roughly 15 years, I sat in a tiny MCR and sent my musical love letters out into the world. I gained friends there. I gained awareness of new bands. I gained a sense of meaning by simply attempting to inspire listeners.

21. I am grateful for UNCG, where I learned to trust my instincts and study theatre.

22. I am grateful for Deborah Bell, who taught me mask-making.

23. I am grateful for Marsha Paludan, who taught me so much more than simply how to be in my own body. She exemplified a spiritual approach to performance that now exists in my bones.

24. I am grateful for Lorraine Shackelford-Giddens, who introduced me to Gabriel Roth's Five Rhythms. This is a life-changing practice that I return to again and again for release and clarity.

25. I am grateful for Bob Hansen, who taught me about the history of theatre, who cultivated in me an even deeper respect for the medium and a joy of academia.

26. I am grateful for Great Aunt Minnie Lee, who exemplified true Christianity with her unconditional love, generosity, and grace. I am grateful for the feeling of genuine acceptance I experienced when in her hugging arms. I am grateful for the example of integrity she left me with, for her creativity and her humor.

27. I am grateful for all my relations. Aunts, uncles, cousins. All the family get-togethers. All the many shades of myself I experienced in their presence.

28. I am grateful for nature, for going outdoors and sitting in the sun, for taking long walks in the woods, for riding down a river, for climbing a mountain, for sleeping in the cold, for looking up at the stars, for feeling the rain pour down on me, for playing in the snow, for seeing new landscapes, for witnessing wildlife, for the smell of rich dirt and decaying leaves underfoot.

29. I am grateful for my dogs Soupy Sales and Flossie Mae, who teach me about love and playfulness, about loyalty and service and who help me get exercise.

30. I am grateful for the life of Melchior the cat, who was seriously my soulmate. She was with me through all sorts of maladies. She comforted me. She amused me. She loved me and I loved her.

31. I am grateful for music in all its forms. I will listen to be inspired, to learn about different cultures, to break down barriers in myself. I will play music to learn discipline and how to create sound that moves others. I will sing to release joy, sorrow or to be silly. I make up songs to make people laugh. I love music that makes me cry, that pierces my soul with longing too epic to describe. Nothing else can do this.

32. I am grateful for the radical people in my life. The ones who do not accept the status quo. The ones who understand that our current system of government is by its very nature oppressive and must be eliminated. I am grateful for the people who are brutally honest with me about politics and systems of injustice, who call me out when I'm being lazy or naive, who help me to examine the ingrained biases I have. 

33. I am grateful for Gwen Frisbie-Fulton, a single mom who exemplifies the struggles that I experienced as a single mom with much more integrity than I ever had. She forges a path of fighting for a more just world. While it seems idealistic, even unrealistic, this path needs to be forged. And I need to be reminded of it.

34. I am grateful for the experience of having been married to Steve Mitchell. From it, I learned to be true to myself, to honor who I am with great ferocity, to never allow violent words or acts be directed at me, to fight the patriarchy with all my might, to value my gender, to defend and fight alongside my sisters who are struggling against a system of oppression.

35. I am grateful for the many routes my activist nature has travelled over the years. Writing letters to foreign governments asking for the release of prisoners of conscience, marching in the streets with signs and banners, shouting slogans, painting graffiti, organizing Really Really Free Markets, engaging in community dialogues, listening to others. While I still don't know how to save the world, I am dedicated to continue trying.

36. I am grateful for learning to trust my inner knowing enough to heed it.

37. I am grateful for great literature. Victor Hugo. Mark Twain. John Steinbeck. Kurt Vonnegut. These writers helped shape my world view. I am grateful for good books that immerse me in a world unlike any I've known and carry me away on a storyline that I believe in wholeheartedly.

38. I am grateful for film as an art form and the directors who know how to use it as such.

39. I am grateful for writing. It is something I have done for as long as I have known how. (My first book was titled "Happy the Duck." I wrote and illustrated it.) I have poured my heart into notebooks and journals, periodic articles in local rags and blog entries. Some things are read by others. Some not. Sometimes I gain praise. Other times, I write only for myself. Outside input is nice, but I write as a way of putting order to a world which often seems to lack it. I am grateful for words.

40. I am grateful for dance. Truly beautiful choreography executed flawlessly by physically capable beings. And spontaneous dance combustions executed clumsily by my self.

41. I am grateful for food. For growing my own vegetables, for preparing meals, for enjoying nourishment as I take it in to my body. I am grateful to have this luxury of being able to nourish my body when so many are not able to do this.

42. I am grateful for my health. I have experienced health crises in the past. Cancer. ITP, which I still live with. But in general, at this point in time, my body is healthy and able to do the tasks I need to do on a daily basis. I am grateful to have mobility. I am grateful to have the use of my brain. I am grateful to have strength to move and to make things.

43. I am grateful for the doctors who have helped me achieve health.

44. I am grateful for the teachers I have had throughout my life who taught me more than just the subject at hand. They taught me to think independently, to be myself, to love myself, to explore knowledge, and to question.

45. I am grateful for my creativity, my urge to make things. Whether it is a painting, a play, a song, a mask, an embroidered piece of fabric, or a patch for some jeans, I live for making. Without the spirit of creativity, I am nothing.

46. I am grateful for humor. For all the beings who help me laugh at myself. For all the beings who help me laugh at the idiocy of this world. For all the beings who taught me about the idiocy of this world through humor. Laughter heals. I am grateful for this healing force in my life.

47. I am grateful for all the animal beings that inhabit the planet. All the creepy-crawly insects, all the furry four-leggeds, all the winged creatures, all the reptiles, all the ocean dwellers, river dwellers, creek and pond dwellers. I am grateful for the quality that each of these beings brings to the world. I am grateful for their unique wisdom and teachings.

48. I am grateful for my grandmother Helen, whom I never knew. She died when my mother was nine. But I feel as if her presence has always been with me. I feel as if she has moved through me in loving and playful ways. I feel as if I would have loved her greatly had I known her. But then again, I feel as if I have known her.

48. I am grateful for the roots that my family has here in North Carolina. I am grateful for this state's mountains and coastline. I am grateful for its history and its pre-history. I am grateful for the town of Winston-Salem and the special affinity I have with it.

49. I am grateful for my time spent serving The Garage, a now defunct music venue. It was so much my heart and soul for a time. I am grateful for all the musicians that enriched my experience there. I am grateful for the different sound people but especially for Brian Doub, who was most consistently there and who always produced the best sounding shows. I am grateful for Vicki Moore, Doug and Molly Davis, who worked with me in the beginning of my stay there. I am grateful for Richard Emmett for creating The Garage in the first place and then for providing me with an opportunity to work there.

50. I am grateful for my experience working around books. Kernersville Public Library, B.Dalton Booksellers, Waldenbooks, Borders Books and Music. These were my loves. Everything about working there was a pleasure. The people I worked with, the people I met, the joy of reading which turned into the joy of spreading the joy of reading via the distribution of books. I had so much fun in all these places.

51. I am grateful for the experience of managing a little gift shop in Harper's Ferry, WV. It was a magical little place filled with warmth, lovely smells, beautiful objects, silly cards and music. I honed in on my business skills and my love of creating a pretty and welcoming environment. I met interesting people from all over and made a lasting friend.

52. I am grateful for the hard experience of living at Claymont. It served its purpose of acting as a sort of pressure cooker to expedite needed change. It served my children well by offering them both the wild-ness of the landscape and a nurturing school environment. It gave me rich and challenging experiences which helped me to grow into the person I needed to be. Above all, it reinforced my need to maintain my individuality and my critical thinking.

53. I am grateful for the experience of attending the NC School of the Arts in high school. I am grateful to have been shown that world. Though challenging in its own right, it definitely impacted me positively. I learned of whole different populations that I had previously not been privy to. Gay men, gay women, transvestites, transsexuals, artists. It broadened my perspective and appealed to my desire for a more liberal and liberated life.

54. I am grateful for the lovers in my life who valued me as a partner. Who honored my sexuality by pleasuring me.

55. I am grateful for my current ally, Brian Talbert, who offers me all manner of support, who honors me for the person I am, who calls me out on my bullshit, who makes me laugh a lot, who taught me about riding rivers and gave me immense thrills by taking me down white water. We vowed to make our lives better together, both individually and collectively. And he has upheld his end of the bargain. He makes me happy. I am most fortunate.

56. I am grateful for the house I live in. I am grateful for the neighborhood, for the neighbors, for our yard, for the dogwood trees, for the front porch. I am grateful to share this house and my existence in it with Brian. I am grateful for the work we both put into keeping the house in working order as well as looking pretty.

57. I am grateful for the people who currently employ me in a variety of ways. Cleaning houses, pulling weeds, doing estate sales, making masks and Bohemian Prayer Flags. All of these people are granting me a form of freedom that I need in order to feel more fully myself. For this, I will be eternally grateful.

58. I am grateful for today: my 58th birthday. A day in which I may reflect on my life, on the errors and subsequent corrections I've made. On my ability to overcome obstacles and remain true to myself. On my ability to survive all manner of challenging situations and come out victorious. I am grateful for all lessons learned and all teachings that remain. I am grateful for this path, which is uniquely my own. I embark upon my continued journey without judgement, with an open heart, and love of the unknown.

The Importance of Magical Thinking

These are confusing times. Anything is possible. Anything.

Yesterday, I went downtown early in the morning with my ally, Brian, who has been commissioned to film the process of two murals being painted. Brian flies drones and sells his aerial photography services to anyone who needs them. I went with him to scope out the site, meet the muralist and film the boom lift being set up.

Downtown Greensboro is nice in the early morning before all of the hullabaloo of the day begins. I guess almost any place is nice during that time, when the world has not yet swung into full motion. It is conducive to a peaceful, contemplative state of mind. I wandered about taking photos of emptiness and quiet.

A car pulled up and three people emerged. I looked for the muralist. Brian had the impression, for some reason, that the muralist is from China. I observed a white man, a black man and a brown girl. There was no overtly Chinese-looking person. The young girl approached me with a large smile and introduced herself. She was the most exotic looking of the three and I looked for indications that she might be from China. I decided looks cannot be trusted and she must be the muralist. The fact that she looked no older than 12 made me doubt this belief and I considered simply saying, "Are you the muralist," but thought that would be rude. Instead, I waited for the information to present itself as information often will.

Let us focus on this state for a moment. For a second, I believed that a girl, age12, had been commissioned to paint two gigantic and prominently located murals in Greensboro. That reality existed in my brain. This experience can be attributed to a state of magical thinking: a moment in which anything is possible. There are no fixed definitions of anything. There are no imposed boundaries or beliefs. In the world of magical thinking, there is absolute freedom and expansiveness.

To experience such freedom even for a second is such a blissful thing. This passes quickly, for the constraints of the world are quickly imposed upon us. There isn't much room for magical thinking in the hullabaloo.

As such, it was determined that the white man is the muralist. The information regarding the muralist being from China did not reveal itself. Nor did I seek clarification.

The importance of this missive is to define that moment in which all possibilities are equally viable. A clown can be president. A boddhisatva can be a dishwasher. Friends can become enemies. Enemies can become friends. Truth can overcome lies. Justice can be delivered. People can have enough to eat. Healthcare can be available to everyone. The power that was put into the hands of the wealthy can be taken from them. We can live in solidarity with one another. We can care for each other. There is such freedom, such expansion in these thoughts. Let us focus our attention there. We must silence the inner editor and actively put our attention into that space of any and all possibilities. And someday, a 12-year-old girl with exotic eyes and brown skin will paint a gigantic mural in a prominent location in your town.

Caution: Morning Ramble Ahead

Patton Oswalt strikes me as funny and so I sat down to watch his Netflix standup thing, "Talking for Clapping." He lost me at "there were these three menacing black men." 

I cringed. Why was that necessary? 

I'm sure he doesn't consider himself racist. In fact, he condemns racism. And probably I am not familiar enough with his m.o. I mean Louis C.K. certainly breaks the bounds of propriety. So I could be wrong. But he lost me. Sorry, Patton. I just couldn't watch any more.

~~~

I had another wretched nightmare full of violence. This time, it featured ex-husband-guy. And his venom, as portrayed by my subconscious, was so true to life that I woke up feeling queasy and scared. This dream had an added feature of sexual abuse of minors and offspring. It was the last dream I had before waking, which is why it's so hard to shake.

I marvel at the way the mind works. I believe dreams occur for a reason. They aren't just the offspring of late night Chinese food. Although, I am beginning to feel that there is a correlation between drinking wine and having nightmares.

See what I just did? I referred to my late night food as Chinese. Is that racist?

Is it necessary to refer to people by their allotted nationalities? I feel this is an arbitrary categorization based on boundaries established by men hundreds of years ago.

At any rate...

Prior to the nightmare, I had a nice dream in which I saw Sweet Sally Possum out in the wild. She smiled at me. This made me feel incredibly happy. I will try very hard today to focus on the smiling possum rather than the aforementioned awfulness. 

~~~

Yesterday, I met with a doctor about having a colonoscopy. The doctor who will perform this procedure is a beautiful East Indian lady. And I only mention her nationality because I have an envy of the beauty of East Indian women. I want to dive into their bosoms and inhale their musk. This sounds sexual, but it is so much more than that.

At any rate...

I was in the process of cleaning a house that is about to go up for sale when I had to dash off to the colonoscopy doctor. I was improperly dressed. My jeans were my standard paint-spattered and grimy. I had on my neon pink "Who Arted?" t-shirt. I was sweaty and gross. I drove like the devil to get to my appointment on time, all the while, strategizing.

When I reached the parking lot, I stealthily removed my t-shirt and put on a sweater that I had worn over it in the chill of the early morning. I used the water from my water bottle to dampen my t-shirt and wipe the sweat and grime from my face and neck. My arms would be covered by the sleeves of the sweater. I wiped off my Merrills, which are casual but could easily pass as dressy casual when the dirt is removed. My jeans, I decided, had been bought at Nordstrom's. I was cutting edge. Thanks, Nordstrom's, for giving me permission to dress like a slob.

When I walked into the reception area, I noticed the receptionist acknowledge my presence and then immediately look at my jeans. I didn't let it faze me. They were from Nordstrom's.

The nurse who took me back into the examination room similarly stared at my jeans. I felt an instant of judgment so I decided to let her in on my Nordstrom's joke. She hadn't heard about the $425 jeans with fake mud on them. So we had a good laugh and I successfully broke through her icy demeanor.

I was left to wait for the doctor in the examination room with only a diagram of the digestive system to keep me company. I stood up to examine it closely. I read about the functions of the duodenum and the villi. The villi really get me. I mean seriously, what a brilliant system. This body that allows me to enjoy a planetary existence is a delicately balanced ecosystem that demands respect and care. Not the abuse I usually heap upon it. I treat my body like a giant landfill sometimes. Dumping crap in it that does nothing for its healthy functioning.

I was standing there, marveling at the magnificent engineering of the human body when the doctor entered the room. Her eyes met mine and we shook hands. She has a very gracious smile. It wasn't until I hopped up on the examination table that she commented on my jeans. "Are you a painter?" she asked. I admitted that I am. She asked if I am a house painter or an artist and I told her that I do both. She asked about the sort of art I do with genuine interest. And she smiled as she said, "You are so fortunate. I wish I could paint. I am not artistically inclined at all." I replied, "Everyone is artistically inclined!"

"Oh? You just have to practice, eh?"

"No! You just have to play! Art is fun!"

She asked about my masks and then about papier mache. She told me about the elaborate paper mache lamps and bowls in India. She spoke with a passion for beauty and a deep appreciation of art. Again, she made a regretful comment about her lack of artistic skill and said, "It is interesting, the choices we make." And I said, "Not to downplay the fact that you are a doctor or anything..." and she laughed heartily. And I thought you're going to go up into my bowels, for goodness sake! The skill required to maneuver a precision course like that....if that isn't artistry, I don't know what is!

What a strange and beautiful moment. What a strange and beautiful life.

After I left the doctor's office, I drove home where I ate a bit of lunch, changed back into the t-shirt I had just used as a washcloth and shoeshine cloth and proceeded to finish cleaning the house I was working on. At the end of the day, I stood back and admired my work. There is artistry in everything we do as long as we are working for the betterment of a situation or a thing. And this is why art, and only art, will save us.

The Craft of Witchery

When I was your age, I started making potions. Witch's brews. No one taught this craft to me. It was a knowledge which seemed to have been imprinted in my DNA.

Remember that song you sang in Kindergarten? Stirring and stirring and stirring my brew, OOOOOoooooo! I sang that song, too. And it meant something to me. It stirred a longing deep in my chest. And then I heard - from who knows where - a Shakespearean couplet: “Double, double toil and trouble: fire burn and cauldron bubble.” I knew that sensation – that fire burn and cauldron bubble sensation. Innately, I knew it.

I would go to a secluded part of the woods and set up next to a creek. I dug my fingers into the rich black dirt creating a hole big enough to accommodate a standard mixing bowl from my mother's kitchen - one which I had taken for this purpose. The bowl was placed into the earthen pit. And then I gathered my ingredients.

I collected creek water in a cup, ceremoniously walking down the bank to the edge of the water, filling my cup, walking back up the bank and emptying the cup into my “cauldron.” I repeated this process until there was enough water with which to create my base. I added soil, which I stirred in sweeping circular motions with a stick. Stirring with a stick was elemental in the process. Sometimes the brew was thick, sometimes not.

I gathered ingredients as they spoke to me: the prickly sweet gum balls, which looked like futuristic modular housing for alien beings. These would invoke a higher knowledge, one with which this world is not acquainted. The seeds of maple trees resembling tiny fairy wings would, so I believed, imbue my potion with a bit of fairy magic: part mischief, part delight. The flower petals from the tulip poplar tree - sometimes whole blossoms - would be included. Bits of moss. Oak catkins, which when intact, resembled stringy green caterpillars. But I crushed the stamens releasing the granular bits of pollen and stirred them into my brew.

When I had been jolted out of a synergy, whenever I felt displaced or disconnected from everyone around me - but most importantly, from myself – I would make a potion. It wasn't even a conscious decision. I just found myself going to the creek bank and setting everything up. The potion's purpose, which was not known to me at the time, was simply to bring myself back to my core, back to my heart and spirit. It was to reunite me with magic and hence, with life.

Considering circumstances that arose when I was six, it makes sense to me that I would embark upon this practice of making witch's brews. I was deeply injured by someone I trusted. I was violated in a way only a woman can understand. I sought justice from my parents on this occasion but it was to no avail. Some things are better swept under a rug when you are a working parent, exhausted from long hours of a thankless job. It takes less effort to stifle a child and pretend nothing happened than to confront a wrong and stand up against it. I completely understand their perspective now. But at the time, I retreated to my own world of making something new from preexisting crap in an attempt to order my world, to make sense of it all.

Soon after that, I began to make potions. I cast spells of wellness out into the world. Spells of justice, of making things right. As I meticulously selected my ingredients, I felt a personal sense of well-being. I felt right with my world. As I combined my ingredients into the basin I'd planted in the earth, I felt my sense of wellness being projected out into the universe. I felt a powerful force field growing larger around me. I was creating a charm of protection, of self love, and of well-being. I see this now. Back then, I acted on impulse.

As I grew older, I fell out of the practice of casting spells. I followed in the footsteps of those who had come before me. I found employment in order to make money. I married a man. I gave birth to two children. The wildness within me was tamed. I stayed in a small box of acceptable behavior. And this box grew tighter and tighter, compressing me, stifling me.

My daughter began making potions around her sixth year. She gathered rainwater and rich black dirt from the woods. She too stirred her potions in a sweeping, circular motion with a stick. She selected tree bark and acorns, pine needles, leaves and rocks to go into her brew. One day, she found a dead bat in her brew. This was both alarming and mysterious. But we are taught by our Native Ancestors that bat medicine signifies a rebirth – the end of one way of life and the beginning of another. We were getting ready to move to a different state, away from the only home my daughter had known. And so it seemed that the bat had found it's way into the brew for a reason. I cried the day my daughter found the bat and I did not understand why.

In time, I reached a point in which I could no longer breathe. I could not speak. I felt a heaviness in my heart. It became necessary to break out of my small box and to set my heart free. I planted seeds and pulled up weeds. I caressed earth worms and carried water to my plants. I again experienced the sense of well-being that I had known as a child. I grew wild again.

We have a wild streak that should never be tamed, you and I. You will notice when people try to tame you. They will tell you that you can't do something that you want to do. They will tell you that you do not have the wisdom to make choices for yourself. They will tell you how to behave, how to dress, how to manipulate your face and hair to fit their definition of acceptable beauty. They will not see the beauty of your heart. They will not see the beauty of your wildness. It will be hard for you to keep your wild heart alive. But this is necessary to your survival.

When we lose our connection to nature and our urge to create, we lose our life force. We begin to feel sad and lonely, or strangely empty inside. This is because we are neglecting our wild and magical nature: that which creates a desire to dwell among forests, mountains, oceans and rivers, to interact with all living creatures and to make things.

This is why magic is necessary for you to practice. This is why you must make your own potions. It will help you to put order to a world which makes no sense. It is necessary to invoke the help of our Mother Earth because her strength cannot be conquered. Through Mother Earth, we experience the mysteries and wonders of nature. Through her, our urge to create grows strong.

The knowledge of crafting witch's brews can take many forms. Sometimes it is in the form of paint on paper. Sometimes it is in the form of a mask one paints on one's face. Sometimes, it takes the form of words on a page. It could be a cake you bake. Or a song you sing. You must find your own means of crafting a witch's brew. And you must hone your craft well. Do this for your own protection. Do this for your own sense of well-being. It is up to you to carry on the tradition of magic-making.  

Christina the Astonishing

It's a beautiful day.  The sun enlivens the world with light and shadow.  Dogwoods are in full bloom.  North Carolina in the Spring is just fabulous.

I listen to people complain a lot.  Nothing angers me more than people complaining.  Because it seems to me that the people who really have something to complain about just don't do it.  All the others are just pissed that the world doesn't revolve according to their specifications.  When I look at a day as beautiful as today, I think, what's there to complain about?

That being said, I have a complaint-ridden brain at the moment.  And due to my own aversion to complaining, I have a hard time allowing my complaints to manifest.  I'll tell you a story instead.

I have a painting that I made roughly 22 years ago.  It is of a lizard.  A Parson's chameleon to be exact.  They live only in Madagascar.  They are highly unique and I love them.  So I painted this picture of one as an experiment to see how realistic an effect I could achieve with watercolors.  Up until this point, I had not utilized watercolors in any capacity other than creating washes of color.

The end result of my experiment was surprising.  I managed to - without any formal training - create an accurate representation of a Parson's chameleon via a photo I found in a National Geographic magazine.  I felt like I had accomplished something significant.

I had this painting matted and framed.  Over the course of many years and many different living situations, I entrusted this chameleon, whom my daughter named Christina the Astonishing, to the care of my sister.  For years, the chameleon was proudly displayed in a central location of my sister's house.

Recently, I took Christina the Astonishing home with me because I felt like she would fit right in with my new surroundings.  I hung her in a central location of my new digs.  But she was replaced by a larger painting done by my housemate's mother.

Christina sat on the floor for a couple of weeks until I decided to hang her in a new spot.  It was still a central location though less visible.  After a couple of days hanging there, Christina fell, shattering the glass which contained her.

I've been having a bit of a dry spell, artistically.  For whatever reason, I've ceased doing any visual art.  My thoughts keep drifting to an upcoming community art show in a local coffee shop and the conceptual pieces I want to produce for that.  I was pondering this project, which I haven't started, right when Christina fell.  The noise she made sounded catastrophic, as if some ancient wail  originating in Madagascar had been released.

What was this wail?  How was I to interpret it?  What is Christina's unspoken desire?  How may I ease her longing?  What, then, must I do?

Christina sits on the floor again.  Her encasement is broken but she continues to live behind it.

I live with a person who likes to crack jokes.  He likes to take those sorts of little jabs that I often interpret as serious/hurtful comments.  But he's joking.  He's a lighthearted kind of guy.  I, on the other hand, have lived with so many verbally abusive people over the years that I react adversely to such jabs.

Girls: remember the little boys who used to pick on you because they liked you?  I hated those guys.  I thought they were bullies.  Maybe this feeling originated with my father's sarcastic remarks to us as children: "Why don't y'all go play in the street!"  I knew he wasn't serious.  But these comments were hurtful, nonetheless.

Ex-husband guy, similarly, used to "pick on" me.  He also used to beat me.  Were his punches jokes too?

After reacting adversely to one of my housemates cracks, I sped away to an appointment with my therapist.  Good day for a therapy appointment, I thought as I was driving to it.  I arrived four minutes late and my therapist's office was dark and locked.  I waited on a bench outside for ten minutes before the anger welled up inside of me.  This is a pattern with my therapist.  And my last "appointment" with her hadn't been properly entered into her computer.  So she double booked.  Meaning I didn't actually have an appointment with her.  Which I didn't find out until I drove all the way to her office and waited for twenty minutes before she showed up.

Is it any wonder I'm fucked up?

Christina sits on the floor in her broken cage.  Maybe I'll set her free.  Maybe I'll send her to Madagascar.

Maybe I'll go too.

Moral Pontifications Regarding Babies and Monies

I sat in the cafe area of Planet Care yesterday eating my dinner: a banana, an apple and some peanut butter.  I've run out of money again.  I rely heavily on peanut butter and bananas for my sustenance at times like this.  It is unfortunate and ironic that I work in a supermarket filled with healthy foods that I cannot afford.  Sometimes I laugh at the irony.  Sometimes my ire is too great for laughter.

As I looked out the window of the cafe area of Planet Care, I noticed a pregnant woman and a man, presumably the person who impregnated her, get out of their car and walk across the parking lot to the doors of Planet Care.  I had an immediate sensation of revulsion in my gut upon seeing this pregnant couple.  I examined this revulsion and found myself thinking, "Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age?!"

Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age.  

Suddenly, the realization hit me: I have allowed the cannibalistic mentality of society to consume my thought process.  I have, to a degree, lost hope that our world will improve.  I have temporarily become That Person Whom I Abhor at any sort of family or social gathering: the Pessimist. The Nihilist.  The one who focuses on the destruction of the planet's natural resources, the monopolization of our food supply, the corporate takeover of our government, the unwillingness of the NRA to be reasonable, the vast number of people who are blatantly angry and aggressive who contribute further destruction through their anger and aggression.  I have grown angry.  And I am contributing to the destruction of the world around me through this anger.

My thoughts have been cycling around the topic of money to the point of obsession.  How can I make more?  What job can I see myself doing that would pay enough to comfortably sustain me?  I've invested money in therapy so that I can overcome the obstacles to my own growth....so that I can get a job that is more in alignment with who I am and what I am, a job that pays me a living wage.  I have taken money out of my food supply and put into a professional counselor for this reason.

The stunning realization is that there is nothing wrong with me.  I am merely trying to conform to a world whose principles I reject.  I have worth, despite the fact that I earn substandard wages.  When I have time to write or paint or play music, I am aware of my place in this world.  Everything makes sense.  When I put  time and energy into the pursuit of money (job-hunting), I feel like I've raped myself.

The thing that has become abundantly clear is the need to create a new world for myself.  A world of freedom.  A friend once told me that we are all slaves to money.  Whether you have it or whether you don't, your existence is ruled by money. My goal is to emancipate myself from this mental slavery. My goal is to spend more time enjoying my life by doing the things that I find rewarding and less time chasing money.  It is an attitudinal shift. Not a financial one.

While it can be argued that one needs money to do the things that one enjoys, I will argue that one can find a way to do the things one enjoys without money. For example, I was painting with The Greensboro Mural Project one Saturday and a man pulled over in his car and offered free paint.  Free paint?!  How can that be?!  He's a painting contractor.  He has a lot of left-over paint from jobs he's done.  Rather than take all this to the recycling center, he would like to give it to people who could use it!  Imagine that!  Free paint from someone who was just going to throw it away!

There is a facebook group called "Friends Swapping Stuff"  where people will post the need to get rid of certain items and the need to acquire certain items.  Sometimes it works like this: someone will announce that they have a couch they no longer need.  They would like to have garden tools.  So someone with garden tools approaches them about swapping for their couch.  Or, someone who needs the couch finds someone with garden tools and gives that person something that he or she needs and then swaps the tools for the couch.  Sometimes people offer things for giveaway and do not ask for anything in return.  I got a piano this way.  The only thing I had to do was move it.

I want to believe in a world where money doesn't rule.  I want to utilize resourcefulness and cooperation rather than fear and competition.  While I recognize that money-making will be a part of my existence, I do not want my existence to be defined by money-making.  Rather, I want my existence to be defined by the sheer joy of living as manifested through creative acts.

I went on a job interview recently in which I was asked what I would like to see myself doing in a job scenario.  I immediately said I'd like to write.

"What else?" he asked.

"I'd like to utilize my networking and promotional skills."

"What else?"

"I'd like to work with the public."

"What else?"

"I'd like to....."

I started to zone out here.  What was he asking me exactly?  How was I supposed to answer?  I was really trying to avoid saying things like "I want to paint vaginas all over Greensboro.  I want to make mask and puppet theatre pieces in the park downtown.  I want to bring Carl Sandburg's "Rootabaga Stories" to life.  I want to be in an all girl cowpunk band that writes and performs silly songs.  I want to make movies."  I knew if I said these things, I wouldn't get the job.  But those are the things I really want to do.  So I edited my answers. There was a time when I did not do this.

I had an interview once in which I was blatantly honest.  I did not get the job.  But I was on top of the world at the end of it. Happy beyond measure.  Because I'd told the truth.

To lie to myself and others is to diminish the life force inside of me.  Creativity is my Truth.  I vow, therefore, to only speak the Truth and nothing but the Truth. 



 

The Continuing Trials and Tribulations of a Living Statue

I have a long history of problems with police. And I have a relatively short history of problems doing my living statue in conjunction with the Indie Market on First Fridays in downtown Greensboro. So as the October First Friday rolled around, I found myself committed to doing my living statue for the sake of earning bread money. However, the desire to avoid any roadblocks to my creative fun time manifested as a lack of motivation.

Adding to my lack of motivation was the fact that I had been invited to go to a music festival in a bucolic setting with a left wing activist group. I could be outdoors on one of those beautiful near autumn days, enjoy a variety of music for free and talk about revolution: three of my favorite things to do. Yet I returned to the awareness that I needed grocery money for the coming week. And after a conversation with a good friend upon whom I rely for reality checks, I decided I would remain in town, do the living statue but focus on having fun, not making money.

I decided that since it is October, I would create a witch character and hand candy to anyone who tipped me. I bought a ton of cheap candy, made a witch hat, painted an old cauldron-looking pot and ladle gold to go with my color scheme. I applied make-up, dressed, donned my wig and hat, double checked to make sure I had my panhandler's license, tip bucket, candy bucket, back-up candy supply, gloves, keys, driver's license, cell phone, water bottle, and glasses. And I proceeded downtown.

I found a parking spot very close to the Indie Market. I double checked to make sure I would be parking legally. The sign read "2 Hour Parking from 9 a.m. til 6 p.m." It was 5 p.m. After my two hours had lapsed, it would be past 6 p.m. and I could remain in that space indefinitely - until 9 a.m. the next morning, I suppose. But that wouldn't happen and I would be fine.

I had checked in with the folks at the Indie market in advance. They told me that there was no room for me inside the Indie Market but they would love for me to stand outside the market - as long as I have a panhandler's license. Which I do.

I felt like all my bases had been covered. So I proceeded to the Indie Market and looked for a good place to set up: a place that would be highly visible to passersby and was the required - as per the regulations of panhandling - 20 feet away from the entrance to the Indie Market. I found my spot, set up my tip bucket, my sign with panhandler's license affixed, my crate and I assumed the position of a statue.

Roughly half an hour after I arrived, two cops on bicycles began circling me. One approached me and asked me if I had an arrangement with the Indie Market to be there. Staying in character as much as possible, I pointed to my permit. He said, "Yes, I saw your permit. I need to know whether you've arranged to be here with the Indie Market." I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Yes."

"Well then, if you want to go set up inside the Indie Market, that will be fine. But you can't stay here." I told him I did not understand why. He said, "If you want to set up inside the market, you can stay. But I can't let you stay on the sidewalk. If I were to let you stay here, I'd have to let other panhandlers stay here, too. You know - the ones with the signs?"

Right. The shabby-looking riffraff that frighten or disgust the beautiful people - you know, the ones with money.

I told him that I thought I was operating within the constraints laid out by the panhandler's license. I told him that the person at the Indie Market with whom I'd exchanged emails had told me that there was no room for me inside the Indie Market but that I was welcome to set up outside the market. He told me that I could not stand 20 feet from a parking deck. I had to leave.

I looked at the cop who was speaking to me and I told him that I had reviewed all the regulations prior to coming downtown and that there was nothing about parking decks. Could he please clarify. The officer told me that the regulations had changed. He pulled out a copy of the amended regulations and read the pertinent passage aloud. I asked him what constituted a parking deck. He pointed to the parking lot in which the Indie Market was set up.

"That's a parking deck?"

"It's a surface parking lot. The regulations apply to surface parking lots as well."

"Even if it isn't being used for parking?"

"Yes."

At this point, the cop was clearly not into the idea of making me leave. Or else he saw the red flames of hatred blazing in my eyes and was afraid for his life. You see I've been watching way too many videos of police attacking peaceful demonstrators in the Occupy Wall Street movement recently. And I'm a little bit edgy. Plus, this dude was fucking with my plan to have fun while making grocery money. These are two crucial elements to my survival. I was pretty damn furious.

The cop, seeing this, or sensing the ridiculousness of the situation, suggested I simply move twenty paces from the edge of the parking lot. He paced it out for me and showed me where I could stand. Right beside the road, about eight inches from the curb.

At least he's not making me leave. Fucking cops.

I hauled my stuff over to the side of the road, climbed back up onto my crate and stood still. I was less visible than before. But once people noticed me, they felt more comfortable stopping and staring at me than they did when I was in the middle of the sidewalk. So it seemed like things had actually changed for the better.

People came and went. Some tipped, some didn't. Some completely enjoyed my schtick. Others seemed a bit annoyed. One woman in particular stood with her three children and watched me, repeatedly asking her children whether I was a real statue or not. The children all believed I was. She said she didn't think so. She thought I was just a person painted up to look like a statue. She commented on the fact that I had a beggar's license. "Why would she have a beggar's license if she were a statue?" I'm thinking, What the fuck, lady? Yeah, ok, I'm a beggar. I'm a beggar dressed as a statue. Let your fucking kids have a little fun, how about it?

The mother and her three gaunt and mousey but well-dressed little children observed other people drop money into my bucket, at which point I sprang to life and offered them candy. Gasps and giggles ensued. People were having fun.

This phenomenon was apparently alien to the three model children. They were lured to this "fun" as a moth is lured to the flame. They asked their mother if they could drop money in my bucket. The mother asked, "Why?" The children were as perplexed as I was by this question. "We want candy," they said. "I don't want you to have candy," she said. Yet they continued to stand there staring at me with their hollow eyes.

Eventually, the mother relented and gave her spare change to each of her children. They eagerly approached my tip bucket and deposited their quarters, nickels and pennies. I guess the mom reserved her paper money for the family's fine clothing. I blew each child a kiss. I squatted down as I reached into my bucket and handed them each a plastic ring with a spider or bat on it, thinking I was doing a good thing by not offering candy. The children thrust their hands into my bucket and grabbed candy anyway. They groped around inside my bucket as if they would find a life for themselves in there. When they seemed satiated, I blew the mother a kiss and thought everyone would leave happy.

From that point on I had a lovely time messing with children and startling grown-ups. And then another cop approached me. He told me that I didn't have to break character by talking to him - which I thought to be an astute thing for a cop to say - but I would have to leave. His supervising officer said so. I drew in a deep breath, feeling this was not worth fighting for. But then, the first cop reappeared and approached the second cop. The first cop said to the second cop, "I've already talked to her. She moved 20 feet away from the parking lot. She's fine." The second cop said to the first cop, "You need to check in with *insert supervising officer's name here.* He said she has to go."

I waited. Unmoving. Unmoved. Cops talking to a statue had attracted a bit of attention. People stood around watching and wondering what was going to happen. One man approached the second cop and said, "You know, people really enjoy what she does. Kids love it. It's really a lot of fun to watch her stand still and then suddenly move. I don't see that it's bothering anyone." Nice man. The second cop did not say anything. Because at this point the first cop reappeared and told me I had to go. It was after dark.

"Any person who begs or solicits alms for his or her own personal gain after sunset or before sunrise is guilty of a misdemeanor. "

Without a word, I climbed down off my crate, threw everything into it, picked it up, put it on my hip and walked away. I looked at no one. I looked at the pavement in front of me. When I had to cross the street, I barely looked to see whether cars were coming. Let them fucking come. Let them hit me. Fuck them.

Fortunately for me, my car was close by. Fortunately for me, I live close to downtown. Fortunately, the time that lapsed between being asked to leave and my arrival home was minimal. So I didn't have to wait very long to unload my tears of rage and frustration.

I am a beggar. Not an artist. I am an undesirable element that must be hidden from the patrons of shops and restaurants, clubs and coffee houses downtown. I dirty up the streets. I frighten and repulse good people, people with grocery money. I am little more than a criminal. But no matter. I have always known I belong somewhere else. This incident merely reaffirms my belief.

Maybe someday I will find my home on this planet.

Tonight, I am so filled with negativity that I feel polluted. I suppose the thing to do is to flip this around and focus on the positive.

My car passed inspection today, thanks largely to my boyfriend, who disconnected the battery last night and re-connected it this morning so that the "Check Engine" light went off. Otherwise, it would not have passed. Otherwise, the car guys would have told me I'd need to spend $1500 to replace the "carbon canister." My boyfriend saved me a good deal of angst.

I had a hilarious exchange with a worker at the Dollar Store over candy. Bags of candy have serving sizes listed on the back. The serving size of mini Tootsie Rolls, for example, is six pieces. Six mini Tootsie Rolls constitute one serving of Tootsie Rolls. How is it we were never taught this in nutrition class?

Despite attempts by Greensboro police to prevent me from doing so, I managed to earn a little money tonight. I will have to watch each quarter, nickel and penny carefully. But I should be able to last until payday.

And despite the fact that I was in Greensboro fomenting revulsion rather than revolution, it was a beautiful day.

The Interview

Sometimes, I amaze myself.

I had a job interview this week: my first in a few years. While I am still under the employ of Planet Care, I send out resumes and applications periodically, in case there's a better job situation floating around somewhere. I look at it like fishing. I keep casting lines out into the sea of potential jobs to see if I get a bite. Quite surprisingly, a casual inquiry led me into the office of a small business owner looking for a Jane Do-All sort. An impromptu interview was arranged.

1) Do not arrive late.

I arrived two minutes late. And while that is not significantly late, one does not need any additional stress or self-doubt clouding one's psyche during an interview.

2) Bring a copy of your resume.

Additionally, I realized too late that I had not bothered to dig up a copy of my resume.

3) Dress better than you would under ordinary circumstances.

I walked in off the street, hurried, disheveled from a gusty wind, feeling the particular kind of gritty that comes from working around the flying cotton and hemp fibers at my second job and from sitting in the grease-coated interior of my boyfriend's Volvo. I had taken the time in between working at my two jobs to participate in this interview. I was dressed in the clothes that are appropriate for my sewing job and my can-stacking job.

The business office which I entered had a sterile environment. Walking in, I became aware of the expanse of floor space between the main desk and the front door. The walls were a dark color. There was no art hanging behind the desk. And there was no music. I become acutely aware of the lack of music in spaces that have none. This is an unnerving sensation.

Jane Do-All stood behind the desk. I walked the requisite floor space to bridge the gap between her and myself. "Are you Kathy?" she asked before I had a chance to ask if she was "Jane." I extended my hand to clasp hers.

Jane Do-All is a highly competent lady with a distinct sophistication. Most likely she is younger than me, but I felt like an untrained teenager in her presence. Which is not to say she was intimidating. On the contrary, she was most gracious and did her best to make a roustabout vagabond like myself feel welcome.

I became acutely aware of her appearance and the way every aspect of it was acceptable. The length of her hair, her choice of jewelry, the tasteful application of make-up, her standard issue shell dress, an understated confidence. The combination of all of these elements created a subtle air of professionalism which I admired.

Jane Do-All explained that Mister Master, the business owner, had stepped out but should return momentarily. She directed me to a lounge-like area to the side of her task station. Puffy fake leather chairs - or maybe they were real - in beige and red were clustered around a low table. A badly rendered floral painting with garish colors hung on one wall. I was instructed to have a seat. And within seconds, Mister Master arrived.

Mister Master sported a suit jacket over a t-shirt, along with jeans and boots. It is one of those familiar quirky looks reminiscent of a Woody Allen character or some cool guy one knew in the 80's. It is completely unoriginal and tired. And Mister Master struggled to keep it fresh and vibrant.

4) Even though people tell you to be yourself, don't do it.

The requisite polite banter ensued. I felt an air of discomfort. I examined this while attempting to maintain continuity in the banter. I was not personally uncomfortable. There was something about me that was making Mister Master and Jane Do-All uncomfortable. And I was picking up on this.

I tried not to psyche myself out. I tried to relax and be myself. But there was this nagging voice inside of me saying, "Act professional! Act professional!!!"

How can I act professional when I look like I just came in off the range?

Project confidence!

How do I project confidence?

Believe in yourself! Believe in your ability to do this job!

How do I know whether I can do this job when I don't know what this job entails?

"Here's what this job entails," said Jane Do-All. And she proceeded to explain all the do's that must be done.

5) Pretend like the job you are applying for is the most important thing in the world to you.

I interjected, whenever I felt an opportunity to do so, that I have experience in this capacity as a result of having been employed at X. And I have experience in that capacity as a result of having been employed at Y. And my employment at Z made me great at networking. At which point, Jane Do-All said, "You have a variety of experiences. What makes you choose the jobs you get?"

Panic.

No, no!!! Don't panic! You have an answer!

"Well, in the past I've looked for jobs that would challenge me...."

Good! Good!

"....jobs that would allow me to expand my skill set....."

Nice!

"......jobs that would enable me to learn and to grow as a person....."

A little over the top, but you're doing fine!

".....and to be honest, I was a single mother for years. I had to take whatever job would pay the bills....."

Mmmmm.......I'm not liking this direction.

".......Currently, however, I need a regular paycheck. I've had some unstable job situations in the past. Now I'm happy just to have the steady income."

No! Wrong direction! Turn back!!!

8) Do not mention your true passion in life. Rather, pretend that this job is of the utmost importance to you.

"My current job just doesn't pay me enough. I'm an artist. This is my vocation and the thing of primary importance in my life. I want to earn the money I need to survive so that I have the freedom to create."

Crap. We're sunk.

The professional woman and the business owner were uncomfortably silent for a few seconds. Until that point, they hadn't missed a beat. And this is when I realized I'd taken this being myself thing too far.

Mister Master explained that he was really hoping to find someone that would think of this do-all position as a career, not just a job. He was hoping to find someone that would feel excited about seeing the business not only flourish but expand. He wanted to find someone that would enjoy reaping the benefits of said expansion.

I wondered how I might reverse myself gracefully. Luckily Jane Do-All asked if I had any questions for them.

Ok! Here's your chance to come up with something that indicates your level of interest!

I asked her to describe her average day. She struggled to do this, which I found peculiar. The thing that immediately came to her was, "On Monday we meet with the bookkeeper who looks over all the receipts I've saved and everything I've entered into Quickbooks. Mostly I just sit around and wait for her to finish. That takes up most of the day. Sometimes we have meetings with CEO's of agencies. Sometimes I have to entertain clients."

"Anything else?" she asked after this vague description.

9) Do not further indicate your obvious lack of professionalism.

"Well, yes. I, um, forgive me if this seems superficial. But I came in today dressed as I normally dress - because I have to work at both of my jobs today and sandwiched this interview between them. I notice that your attire is more business-casual. And you carry an air of professionalism. Is this a vibe that you wish this office to maintain?"

What the hell? Are you actively trying to insult their intelligence?

The words escaped my mouth even as I realized it was an inane thing to ask. The damage was done. I needed to simply accept that some part of me had chosen to tank this interview. I may as well fully commit to that decision from this point on.

"Oh that isn't superficial at all. There are days when we meet with CEO's of different agencies and we feel it is important to dress up to their standards."

"Not me," says Mister Master. "I dress as I please."

"Well, that's not entirely true. Remember that time I wouldn't let you wear your hoodie."

I felt like that exchange was for my benefit.

At the end of our chat, Jane Do-All asked if there was anything else I wanted to ask or say.

"Yes. Thank-you for taking time to meet with me and tell me about your business. It sounds truly great. And I think that my skill set is compatible with the position you need to fill. However, I have to be completely honest with you and say that I would not view this as a career. It would be just a job for me. I am 50 years old and I've denied myself the opportunity to fully explore my creative life. At this stage in the game, making art is all that matters to me. So if you want someone who looks at this as a career, you would be short-selling yourself if you were to hire me. "

The shock was as thick as the metaphorical rope I'd bound myself in, the room as quiet as death.

"Well.....we....thank-you for your.....honesty."

The eyes darted anxiously around the room. No one knew how to end this interview. So I said, "Good luck on your search. Mister, great meeting you. Jane, thanks so much. You've both been most gracious." I stood, tossed my messenger bag over my shoulder and started toward the front door. Without turning around I said, "And if you decide you need an artist who just wants a job, call me."

They both laughed. Nervously. I'm sure they needed the release.

As I walked down the street, I felt giddy. This sensation mystified me when I had clearly thrown away my chance of securing a desk job. I examined the root of this sensation and realized that I had spoken the truth. And this was a liberating feeling. I had broken all the standard rules of engagement in an interview scenario and had been completely honest. Everything I said and everything I asked came from an honest place in me. Even when I asked, essentially, whether I would be expected to dress nicely. I really wanted to know if I needed to alter my personal dress code. I really wanted to know whether I needed to invest money in a new look. I needed to consider that piece of the daily grind.

I was absolutely true to myself. I indicated to the interviewers that I felt myself capable of performing the tasks associated with the position. I know in my heart that this is true. At the same time, I did not feel compelled to jump and spin and dance on my heels for their amusement. I inquired about a job. They had a job. It was pretty cut and dry to me. It only became dishonest when tainted with the thought that I must turn this job - which was just a job - into a career. I was simply unwilling to assume that attitude. It made no sense to me to do this. I would work and work hard. But at the end of the day, I would care no more for this job than for the job of stacking cans on shelves.

These realizations made me appreciate my current job at Planet Care. When I clock out at the end of the day, I can release the job and engage in the activities from which I derive a deep-seated satisfaction. I can make things. And there is nothing and no one connected with Planet Care that demands anything otherwise.

I wonder, if I had not been employed and had gone on this job interview, would I have conducted myself in the same manner? Did I insult Jane Do-All and Mister Master by my lack of interest in the standard interview process? Will I ever find a job that I might treat as a career? At the end of the day, none of this matters. We can only answer to our inner knowing in any given moment. The moment of the interview has passed. I am currently in the moment of making as I pound out letters on the keyboard, forming words that coalesce into sentences.

I hope this moment of making, which has been so completely satisfying to me, brings you some degree of enjoyment.

To re-cap:

If you want to succeed in a standard interview scenario, heed the following:

1) If you don't care enough to be on time for the interview, most likely you won't care enough about getting the job.
2) Ordinary clothes get you an ordinary job.
3) Bring a copy of your resume with you.
4) If you choose to be yourself, be willing to accept the accompanying consequences.
5) Commit to your enthusiasm. It doesn't have to be false when you make a conscious decision to pursue it.
6) Act thoroughly interested and excited about everything that the prospective boss tells you.
7) Do not mention your true passion in life. Rather, pretend that this job is of the utmost importance to you.

And for bonus points:

8) Laugh enthusiastically at the prospective boss' jokes, no matter if you understand them or not. 

Living the Dream

My daughter just quit her job. She tried to leave somewhat immediately, but her employer asked her to stay through July. She said she would. But she's leaving a job that was destroying her.

She said she knew it was time to leave when she noticed that she no longer enjoyed talking to people and that she felt anxious every time the telephone rang. "That's not me, Mom! I love talking to people!" she said. And because of this, she quit her job.

And then, as if the Universe was acknowledging her decision to take care of her Soul, she got a job acting with a regional theatre company in White River Junction, Vermont in September and October. The company is Northern Stage. The production: Amadeus.

White River Junction sounds like a good place to have adventures.

My daughter is an actor. She has been acting since the age of three. Acting has been the primary driving force in her life. She pursues her dream relentlessly. My daughter is the most genuinely happy person I know. It is for this reason that she is my hero.

I dream of quitting my job at Planet Care to pursue my dreams. But then I think about Medical Insurance and a Stable Paycheck. I think about all my Medical Bills, Groceries, Telephone Bills Car Insurance, Rent: I think about maintaining some degree of The Status Quo Lifestyle. And I say to myself, "I'll quit my job when I've secured a reliable source of income."

Now the problem with this line of thinking is that it is first necessary to cut off dead branches before new growth can occur. And sometimes by stepping outside of your comfort zone, you open yourself up to possibilities that might not have presented themselves to you otherwise. This takes a giant leap of faith and courage. And to date, I have not mustered the courage and faith required to make such a leap. The awareness of this creates a friction between the lower self and the True Self. It is an uncomfortable sensation.

This weekend, I participated in the 48 Hour Film Project. My team leader and I had never done this film-making thing before. But we had both dreamed of it. When I was 13, I knew that I wanted to be a film director. But I did not have the resilience or the resourcefulness of my daughter. After being made fun of by people whose opinion mattered to me, I soon put my dream on the back burner. Then I took it off the stove top altogether. But it never completely disappeared.

The lead actor in the film project I worked on was my friend, Joe. Joe and I are a lot alike. We both get distracted by status quo type things and often fail to fuel our creative fires. We both dream of being free - of having a life of unhindered creativity.

Joe and I had a scene together. It was the final, thus, pivotal scene in the story's resolution. The final lines of dialogue are:

Me: "OK! Let's roam!"

Joe: "I'm ready."

There's something strange that happened in the filming of this scene in general and in saying these final lines in particular. It was as if Joe and I simultaneously imagined our lives on the road - free to create. Riding off into the sunset to who knows where with nothing but the possibility of adventure alive in our hearts. For a moment, it was as if we were living the lives of the characters we were portraying.

Last night, I had amazing dreams of expansion and freedom. All day, the taste of these dreams teased my tongue. I felt an indefinable excitement. I began to wonder if simply by pretending to be courageous and filled with an open heart and open mind, one could actually develop these attributes.

All I know for sure is that over the weekend, I honored my childhood dream of making a movie. It was a leap of courage and faith. I walked into this project knowing nothing about film-making. The equipment that we used was completely low-tech as compared to other teams in the project. We had all sorts of technical obstacles. And at one point we were afraid we would need to scrap the story altogether and come up with a "Plan B." But there was a guiding force that kept things together. Maybe it was simply our determination. Maybe it was a mutual sense of Living our Dream. Whatever it was, it had a distinct and potent quality that left a residual confidence and happiness. And today, I am in love with making movies.