Soul Food

"Eat your bread with joy;

Drink your wine with a merry heart."

--Ecclesiastes 9:7

There was a period of time in my twenties when I began each day with a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a birth control pill. I ate too, toast or cereal. I was never one of those women who "forgot" to eat. But the daily essentials were the coffee, to wake me up after not nearly enough hours of sleep, the cigarette, to feed my self image as a tragically hip, urban young woman, and the pill, to minimize the consequences of some of that tragic hipness. While this breakfast of champions provided the essential nutrients for a dramatic, brooding lifestyle, it was thin gruel for the soul.


I lived in a house in the lower Haight Street district of San Francisco. Anywhere from five to seven people might be staying there at any one time, but only three of us were paying rent. The others included various friends, boyfriends, and friends of boyfriends. As you might guess, it was not the most wholesome environment. The dishes were never done, people were often hungover, the nights went on too long. For those of us who had jobs, the mornings were cruel.


Still, we managed to create moments of connection to sustain us. I could wander into Marsha's room on any weeknight at 6:00 and flop down on her bed to watch "Family Ties." (Though Marsha's boyfriend had a stiff black mohawk, she had a thing for Michael J. Fox). Molly lifted my spirits many times with a good story, a listening ear, and a soft, enveloping hug. Bobby could always make me laugh. And on many Sundays we gathered for pasta with marinara sauce and several glasses of Gallo Hearty Burgundy to share stories (often embellished) from our weekend adventures.  We were a messy, chaotic, dramatic, family of sorts.


I still love my friends from those days. Like siblings, we helped each other grow up. None the less, that life was far more draining than fulfilling. I was never really at home in that world of nightclubs, speed freaks, and cool indifference. I spent a lot of time in my head brooding and imagining different lives, knowing that I would not stay there long. That lower Haight Street world was a hollow one with a brittle shell. It had a lot of drama, but drama does not provide much sustenance.


Today my life could not be more different. I am greeted by a veritable banquet of food for the soul every day. I still start the day with a good cup of coffee, but the cigarettes are long gone, the pill no longer necessary. My life contains the ingredients of a hearty, soulful soup now: Family, close friends, an incredible religious community, fulfilling work, a good dog, abundant natural beauty, music, writing, and so much more. There is far less drama in my day to day life, but my soul never goes to bed hungry.

Collision Course?

"...I thought of one true thing, 

which is that sometimes I act as juvenile as I ever did, 

but as I get older, I do it for shorter periods of time."

-- Anne Lamott

My daughter Frances is 14, fresh from middle school and eager to move on to the next phase of her life. This summer she is taking huge leaps and bounds toward maturity and independence. So far, she is taking them with grace. She started taking Japanese at the community college this week, three hours a day. Today she took the city bus to and from her class for the first time. I started taking the city bus to orthodontist appointments in the fifth grade, but somehow this seemed like a big step to me when she did it today.  She got through a whole day, doing new and challenging things, hardly needing me at all. Later this summer she will be travelling to Japan with three other teens. It's hard to imagine her so far away, an ocean between us. But I am so excited for her. She is growing up, trying her wings, and it is thrilling to watch.


Frances has dreams. She is learning to play the guitar and she practices late at night in her room. She is imagining a future, full of possibilities. All of adulthood lies in front of her. I have dreams too. I have been playing my guitar in my room at night recently, writing songs for the first time in a very long time. My dreams are smaller now, pocket sized compared to adolescent dreams. When I was 14, I wanted to be a famous singer or writer. Now I just want to sing and write. Just because I love to do these things. You can keep the fame. I don't think I was cut out for it anyway.


We tend to focus on the turmoil of adolescence and midlife. And it's true that people make bad choices and take careless risks during these transitional times. Emotions run high, hormones are throwing a kegger inside our bodies. Frankly I was a little frightened at the prospect of navigating midlife at the same time my daughter was navigating adolescence. Would either of us be mature enough to handle it? Would we be on a collision course, hormones in the driver's seat? Would I be able to keep a cool head? Would I try to play out my dreams through her in some twisted unhealthy way? Would I be jealous that she has it all in front of her and hasn't had time to screw things up yet?


We're early into this phase right now, but I'm optimistic. In some ways Frances and I want the same thing: A little time to explore who we are and what brings us to life, a little loosening of the tethers that have bound us together through her childhood. I'm sure there will be some challenging mother daughter moments in the years to come. But I have faith in Frances. She has a good head on her shoulders and she makes good decisions. And I have faith in myself. I have a pretty good head on my shoulders too.  I don't want midlife to be about regret and the mourning of lost dreams. I don't want to wear clothes that are too tight for me and try to hide my age by borrowing my teenager's makeup. I want midlife to be about possibility. I don't want to high jack Frances' dreams. I want to show her that it is never too late to find what you love. 

Clutter and Mess

"Don't touch my stuff.

I know right where everything is.

What you're callin' a mess

is my organizational system."

--Zach Gill, Don't Touch My Stuff

I am not a neat person. I admit it. You would not find housekeeping anywhere on a list of my talents. Sentimentality, procrastination, poor time management skills, the teeniest tendency toward hording, a lack of DIY skills, and downright laziness conspire against any fantasy I might have of a house that will one day be discovered by Sunset magazine. 


Paper enters the house at an alarming rate. It multiplies in baskets and piles all over the house. Orgies of bills, school notices, old homework, sheet music, junk mail, retirement statements, and check stubs all wait (or rather riot) for someone to discipline them. Open any closet and you will be assaulted by all manner of toys, backpacks, pictures, clothes, and random "stuff," unceremoniously shoved inside in half assed attempts at housecleaning. There's almost always laundry waiting to be washed or folded and dishes in the sink. Housecleaning is so darn Sisyphean. I hate that.


Here's the thing though. While I am ready to stand up and testify at any slobs anonymous meeting, my dear husband holds on to the fantasy that he is a beacon of cleanliness and organization in our family. He is the Savior and, if only the kids and I would follow in his footsteps, we would find salvation from the tyranny of clutter and mess that rules our home. I'm here to tell you this is just not true. I need only point to the growing pile of mail that is currently preventing him from joining the family at the dining room table, or the unworn 1970s fashions that still hang in his closet. It took both of us to conceive our children, my dear. And it took both of us to conceive this mess.


It's all about priorities. I'm not claiming any higher ground here, but given the choice between cleaning the bathroom and going on a long walk with friends on a beautiful afternoon, I will choose the latter in a heartbeat. There are piles of laundry staring me in the face right now, but I would so much rather write about them than wash them. And I hate to call my husband out on this (actually I love to call him out on this), but I have watched his pile of mail grow while he sits contentedly in the backyard with a beer after a long run on the beach.


I actually subscribe to Sunset magazine. My husband calls it porn, pure fantasy. I prefer to think of it as inspirational reading. Maybe someday we'll find a way to strike a balance between long walks and a clean bathroom. With a little acceptance and a lot of patience, I'd like to think we can create a home we love. Anyway, doesn't Sunset do home makeovers? Sign us up!


I

Waking Up

"... Except for paying attention, 

what else is continual prayer?"

-- Samuel Green, The Grace of Necessity

8:47 AM. This morning I have the gift of time. Nowhere I have to be. Nothing to do that can't wait a couple of hours. This is what I have done so far. 

I stumbled downstairs, my brain still wrapped in its thick fleece robe, not eager to wake up. I took note that the day was starting out sunny and warm, June gloom apparently on holiday somewhere up the coast. I smelled the coffee before I poured a cup, feeling grateful to my husband for making it every morning. (I'm not quite capable of making coffee until I've had coffee.) I decided to take my cup outside and take advantage of this glorious morning.

Stepping out the front door all of my senses began to wake up, the way they do when I crawl out of a tent on a camping trip. I felt the cool morning air on my bare arms. I heard the birds and the neighbors bustling about in their morning routines. I noticed the sun illuminating the leaves on my two Japanese Maple trees, one with green leaves, one with red, and remembered planting each of those trees, amazed by how much they have grown in a few short years.

My dog Zeke padded outside and requested a belly scratch. I obliged and then he stretched out at my feet, my loyal companion. I smelled the comforting aroma of morning coffee with each sip and felt the caffeine waking my sleepy brain. A gust of cool air caught me in its path, lifting my hair off my shoulders before gently letting it fall back. I wondered when the inevitable summer fog would return.  

I picked up the book I received in the mail just a few days ago. It had been waiting patiently for me, calling to me with its' new book smell and crisp, stiff cover: The Pen and the Bell: Mindful Writing in a Busy World, by Brenda Miller and Holly J. Hughes. After reading the first chapter I knew I'd found the perfect inspiration for writing this summer. 

Back inside I brewed another pot of coffee, awake now and able to appreciate the ritual of measuring the water, grinding the beans. Listening to the gurgle of the coffee maker, I turned on the computer. And when the coffee was ready, I sat down to write.

***
Confession: Postcards from Tuesday is appearing on Thursday this week because I was sucked into an episode of the BBC show, Sherlock on Tuesday night, a fun summer diversion if ever there was one.