Money

In keeping with recent self-indulgent posts, it is time for my semi-annual 'I need an attitude adjustment regarding making money' post. 
Fact: When I had my first job (working in the Kernersville Library) I loved making money. It provided a degree of independence from my parents that I really enjoyed. At some point, my attitude shifted. Maybe it was around the time my dad told me that I couldn't do art for a living. I'd have to find a career with which I could support myself and do my art as a hobby. A hobby. The thing I cared most about in the world was to be little more than a way to pass my Sunday afternoons. I don't know if that's when my attitude about money changed. Or if it was when I was forced to go to college when I really wanted to move to NYC and become a writer. For the New Yorker. Yes, I've always been a dreamer.
I dropped out of school at the urging of my boyfriend. I moved in with my boyfriend. Making money made sense then because it was a way to keep the two of us together. I married my boyfriend and had children with him. I stayed at home with the children. And eventually, I went back to work. Over the course of the years with the husband, money grew tight. We had arguments. He grew violent. I left. I went back to school. And I never ever picked a career. Why? Because my heart says to make stuff. And I feel like if I can't make stuff for a living (as per my dad) I will invest as little time and energy into making money as possible so that I can make stuff. But I find myself constantly chasing the dollar bill and not making stuff. I have lived below the poverty level most of my adult life. This has been a choice, to some degree as I have never chosen a "career."
People often compliment me. I understand these compliments to mean I have something of value to offer the world. But I cannot for the life of me figure out how to translate my value into money.
I don't need a lot of money. I've made do with less than $20,000 for the past ten years. But things are shifting in me. I find myself wanting to travel. Wanting to buy a pair of blue jeans. Wanting to go to the dentist.
I went to the bank yesterday. My checking account balance was a little over $100. I am comfortable with a little over $100. But once it gets below that, I feel uneasy. Because my account has gone down to one or two dollars way too often, causing me to worry about how I was going to eat. This just sucks. And I don't want to be like this anymore.
I hate having to rely on money. But I need to accept it as a fact of life. At age 56 I am saying this! I would like to have that feeling of self-sufficiency that I had when I worked for the Kernersville Library. Do I need to get an actual job? Stop doing the My Girl Everyday thing? I've been getting regular gigs and am extremely grateful that I've had this period of personal freedom from the job world. I am extremely grateful to all the people who have hired me. But I am still basically living hand to mouth. And this needs to change.
A friend of mine recently gave me a book titled "Money: A Love Story." This book is supposed to help me heal my relationship with money. I keep trying to read it, but whenever the author talks about her immense credit card debt as being the toughest financial crisis she's endured, I feel disgust. I had to keep my children warm when the gas was cut off. I had to cook rice and beans and onions and garlic enough different ways to keep them interesting. I've had to ransack the house looking for pennies to buy a gallon of gas so that I could get to work. I had to push my car down a hill every day to jump start it because I couldn't afford to have it fixed. It's hard to take this author seriously.
Still, throughout my entire journey, I've never been truly hungry. I've never been without shelter or clothing. I've never been without love. I am grateful to have made it this far having all that I have. A pickup truck. An ally. A roof over my head. Food. Health. Two little dogs. A wealth of love from family and friends.
I once said to a friend, "I don't want making money to control my life." He responded, "Lack of money controls you just as much as making money controls you." As much as I hate this, it is true.

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. 



 

Dear Lorenzo

Dear Lorenzo,

I received the gift you sent. Thank-you. And I finally sorted out its meaning. It took me all day to connect the dots. But I finally got it. I am so grateful!

Ever since the day that I saw you at the Cancer Center, my thoughts have been with you. I've been wondering about the state of your body and wondering how you were coping with it. I've been sending you love daily. I'm sure it has been a difficult journey. And now that it is over, I can hear your laughter.

Prior to receiving your gift, I had Christmas with my family. I drove to my mom and dad's house on Christmas Eve, listening to my friend's radio show on the way. You would love my friend. Dr. Roots, we call him. He plays old school rhythm and blues the first hour of his show and reggae the second. Dr. Roots is a holy man. He truly emits Love and Light. Just like you. During a voice break, he wished his listeners a blessed Christ mass and he told us to, "Make a joyful noise!"

Something inside of me clicked into an awareness of a new level of responsibility. I have to step it up in my life. It is not enough to practice gratitude, to feel the grace of abundance. I must celebrate this gratitude by making "a joyful noise." I must speak my gratitude, sing it, yell it, clang it, bang it, ring it, strum it, clap it, tap it. I must sound off: "Present!"

I was so overcome by the Love issuing forth from the radio on Christmas Eve that I called Dr. Roots to thank him. In his gracious manner he told me that he can only give what others reflect back to him. So he thanked me for receiving and reflecting the Light.

I slept under the Christmas tree at my parent's house. The 50 Christmases of my life swirled in my mind as I watched the twinkling lights reflect off the ceiling and walls. They all - even those that occurred during the most turbulent of times - contain the commonality of gratitude, peace and supreme Love. No matter what, I always seem to be able to find these qualities.

Christmas morning was charming. My mother and I exchanged gifts before anyone else awoke. My sister cooked breakfast for my mother and me. My father had a terrible chest cold and sequestered himself off from the rest of us. I crept in to see him when I knew he was awake and gave him my love. I took Toby the dog for a walk through the woods. We came back covered with beggar's lice.

The day progressed. My great aunt arrived with her date. She is a youthful 86 and is another Being of Light. I am certain the two of you will meet one day. My brother, my nephew, my other sister and my brother-in-law arrived and we sat down to our Christmas feast. Afterwards, we exchanged gifts: material goods that symbolize our love for each other. My gift to everyone was the random chaos of a dirty Santa game. I had procured lots of items for cheap or free from various sources, wrapped them in Christmas packaging and placed them in a pile. Each member of my family proceeded to pick from the pile or take the gift of someone else that had already been opened.

The results were unexpected. A temporary fight broke out between my two sisters over an article of clothing. My nephew sulked over receiving no toys. My brother ended up with the toy-like gifts that I had hoped my nephew would somehow receive - as well as a relatively tacky beach shirt, which seemed to make him exceedingly happy. This is the same brother with whom I have a long and tumultuous history. I think I completely unintentionally managed to make him the happiest of anyone.

I can hear you laughing as I write this.

After the gift-giving extravaganza, people began to leave. My father joined me and my sisters in the living room and all three of them proceeded to fall asleep. It was at this point that I began to feel the inexplicable heaviness setting in. I arose and began to gather all my things. Before I left, I showed my father a couple of videos of arias from Rigoletto sung by Renato Bruson. I am overcome with emotion when I see these videos. And I attributed my approaching sorrow to having watched them.

I left my parent's house and drove back to Greensboro. On the way, I called my daughter to see how her Christmas had been. We chatted briefly and upon hanging up I felt the sorrow becoming more pronounced. I miss her. And my son. He lives in New York now as well. I don't think you met him. He's an impressive entity. At any rate, I attributed the welling sorrow to the fact that I missed seeing my children on Christmas.

Once home, my boyfriend came over. We laid in bed together reading. I turned to him at one point and said, "I don't know why I feel so sad." He asked me if anything had happened. "No," I said. "There is no reason for me to be sad. It was a good day. Nothing bad happened." He held me as tears rolled down my cheek. I breathed deeply and returned to my book. I read until the heaviness set in and pulled me under the waves of consciousness.

And then I received your gift. It took the form of an elaborate dream. I was at a university. I was marginally involved in theater projects as well as discussions on film and film-making. I belonged to a writing group. I felt completely vital. Everything was of quintessential importance in my mind - each passing conversation, each spirited discussion, each performance, every creation. I was in my element. And radiantly happy. A man took an interest in me. And I welcomed his interest happily, not as an indicator of an impending romance but as an indicator of the creative life ahead of me.

I awoke this morning wanting to linger in my dreamland. But I arose and proceeded to check in on my facebook world. It was in this way that I learned you died last night. I was immediately relieved to understand the source of the sadness I had experienced. On some level, I sensed and responded to your passage without knowledge of it. I did not feel the impact of loss upon receiving this news. But I felt more and more confused as the day wore on.

At work, when Pam learned of your death, she said, "Now we can talk to him whenever we want."

Doug reminded me that "we have to stay strong."

Cindy's eyes welled up with tears when she learned.

I found myself becoming irritable at work. I spoke words of veiled anger. I grew weary and depressed.

After work, I spoke with Mekare about your passage. She informed me that it is possible to receive teachings from you during this time if I remain open.

My boyfriend came over to my apartment and I immediately had to lie down. He approached my bed to check on me. Tears slid down my cheek as I told him that you had sent me a dream but I did not understand its meaning. He asked me what the dream was about and as I spoke of the events in it, I realized what you needed to tell me.

To experience awe and wonder is to be in my right station in Life. To be aware of the tiniest, most seemingly insignificant details and marvel at their existence. This and nothing more is my purpose: to exist in joyous wonder.

When this became clear, I saw your beaming face as you exclaimed with exuberance, "You got it!" And then I heard your hearty laugh.

Your generosity of spirit carried me through many troubling times. You gave me so much during your sojourn on earth. And now that you are traveling on your next adventure, I anticipate periodic messages from you. We will continue our journey together, despite the fact that I will no longer see your physical body. I can feel you as strongly as ever.

I love you. Be happy and free. All is as it should be. All is well.

Of Tim and Cicada Song

My friend Tim is going to the hospital tomorrow. He's going to have a tracheostomy. Tim has ALS - amyotrophic lateral sclerosis - and needs a tracheostomy in order to breathe.

Tim's voice is not as strong as it used to be. This is in part due to the fact that he hasn't the lung capacity to support the mechanics of talking. But it is also part of the degenerative forces at play in ALS. After his tracheostomy, Tim will be unable to talk for a time. But there is the possibility that he will never be able to talk again.

It was a bittersweet evening last Wednesday when I hung out with Tim and his wife Kaylan at a friend's house. We sat around having drinks and food, talking, singing and laughing against the backdrop of cicadas' song. As the night drew to a close and I said my good-byes, I realized that I may never again hear Tim's voice, as it is currently. While this realization saddened me, I was completely grateful to have had this time with Tim.....to have shared one of his last nights before the tracheostomy with him.

Today, Tim's dad, Hugh, came into Planet Care. He had just arrived from Florida and had stopped in to pick up some food prior to going to Tim and Kaylan's. I was in one of my self-absorbed states. My body has not completely recovered from its bout with cellulitis. It has been a struggle for me to do the usual things required of me at Planet Care with an attentive smile. In fact, my smile feels more like a grimace these days. Part of my brain is in worry mode as I contemplate all the things that either are wrong with me or could be wrong with me. And when customers come through my line, I acknowledge them with a curt nod and grimace-smile.

Hugh appeared to know me. But I was lost in Hypochondrialand. Until he spoke to me.

"Hi Kathy. I'm Tim's dad."

I looked up at him through bleary eyes, allowing them to slowly gain focus. In the time it took my eyes to focus on his face, all proper connections were made in my brain and I understood who this man was.

Tim's dad. Hugh.

We had met several months earlier at Planet Care when he had brought Tim in with him to do some shopping. This was when Tim could still use his arms and hands. I was happy to see Tim. I was happy to meet his father.

Hugh told me that he spends 8 days in Greensboro with Tim and Kaylan, then returns to Florida for ten days, then comes back to Greensboro for 8 days. I don't know why this impressed me so.

I told Hugh that I would be holding Tim and Kaylan and himself in my thoughts and in my heart. I am unable to say "I will hold you in my prayers." For whatever reason, those words are less concrete, less genuine. It feels much better to say exactly where I will be holding a person. Plus, it offers them a visual image to hang on to.

~~~

I am limited in my ability to ease suffering. This much I know. I witness my limitations over and over again. It is a disagreeable sensation to realize that I can do only so much and no more.

For example, there was a woman who came in a few weeks ago. I had just been describing my floater turd epiphany to one of my favorite customers - the old guy with the drawn on eyebrows and overly dramatic nature. The former concert pianist who spent a summer at Haight-Ashby living with members of Jefferson Airplane. I enjoy entertaining him. He enjoys entertaining me. Meanwhile, a woman patiently waited for me to turn my attention to her.

I apologized for the self-indulgent description of my epiphany. "But," I said to her, "once you realize your life mission, it is cause for celebration after all."

She began to look agitated. "I wish someone would tell me what my life mission is," she said.

I watched her countenance darken and offered a meager, "Well, it is important to have compassion for yourself while you're on your quest." She then described to me the feelings of immense sorrow and rage she has been experiencing about the Gulf Coast oil catastrophe of 2010. She feels the death and devastation on a personal and organic level. Her co-workers have grown annoyed with her for talking non-stop about this atrocity. She cannot understand why no one shares her pain. She feels helpless in the face of it all. And her helplessness is causing a deep psychological and existential crisis.

In an attempt to help, I offered this: I approached a Native American wise woman/healer in a very similar state and asked her what must I do, how must I focus my energy and thought? She responded very simply, "The sea beings need us to express our gratitude for them." Upon hearing this, I experienced a stabbing sensation in the pit of my gut. But as I absorbed these words more fully, I understood that to fret and worry about the situation in the Gulf Coast only adds more toxicity to the environment. This is not what is needed at this time. It is necessary to put some love into the environment. And the best way to do that is to focus on the feeling of gratitude.

I shared all of this with the woman in crisis and her eyes filled up with tears. Her face turned bright red from the sheer force of having to hold in the tears that wanted to be unleashed. She nodded in recognition of the truth to these words. And she thanked me.

While it seemed like I'd been able to help this woman, I know that it was only a temporary fix. She will continue to experience her suffering. Because suffering of this nature is habitual.

A few days ago, a woman came through my line. She looked as if she had been ill - thin, frail, a greyish pallor. I asked her how she was doing. That question alone seemed highly invasive to this fragile being. She struggled to be remotely positive. I could tell there were immense volumes of despair locked away in her private library. I caught a glimpse of one of the tattered covers. I wanted her to know that I heard her, that I read the title of one of her books and it resonated as familiar. All I could say was, "I hear ya."

I hear ya.

Her purchases totaled five dollars and fifty-five cents. I commented that her total was three fives, and that had to be lucky. She said she could use some luck right about now. She handed me a ten dollar bill and I made change. As I handed it back I said, "I think your luck is changing. I can feel it." She told me that I was very kind and thanked me. She headed into the cafe to have some food.

It grew busy and I did not notice this woman go to the back of the store. But I noticed her return to the cafe. She had been crying. She had just engaged in an absolute emotional collapse cry, presumably in the bathroom. And she had braced herself up enough to go back out in public. She had attempted to put on the immovable warrior face. But her inner dissolution shattered that mask.

I wanted to chase after her. I wanted to hear her tale. I wanted to just listen. Really listen. And allow her to rail against God and the Universe. But customers were lining up. I fell out of my heart and back into automatic functioning.

~~~

I had been functioning in a similar automatic state when Tim's dad Hugh appeared. I had mentally checked out while the repetitious task of checking customer's groceries ensued. Hugh awakened me from my unconsciousness, and I was greeted by a person whose personal suffering - not to mention the suffering of his son and daughter-in-law - is too great to measure. The significance and implications inherent in Tim's decision to have a tracheostomy are staggering to ponder. As an outsider, my pondering is merely philosophical. There is no way I can understand the nature of having to make the decision to prolong my life by way of a mechanical breathing device.

~~~

It is half past midnight. The cicadas tease me with their night songs - songs that echo restless teenage summers. My heart is restless still. But rather than self-indulgent teeny bopper fantasies, I now entertain the notion that the words that I write make a difference. The cicadas' power is potent. I believe. Yes. I believe.