Nov8

matrix traffic

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Lest you might have surmised from reading this blog that I live a small, insignificant or boring life…well, you couldn’t be more wrong. Well, you might be bored living my slow life. My little mind finds infinite ways to entertain myself. Yesterday afternoon I made a quick run down to the local grocery store a mile from here, just to pick up a few ingredients for dinner and the weekend. I had the most surreal experience. I’ve had this kind of thing happen before, but not recently, so it really stood out.

It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Tourist season is over so the parking lot of the store was almost empty. I parked easily and slowly meandered in…and just at the exact moment I walked through the door, a woman came out of nowhere and met me – shoulder to shoulder – and we pressed up against one another to get through the narrow opening of the door. I, of course, automatically said, “excuse me,” thinking perhaps I had somehow stepped in front of her. I almost stepped on her.

But I hadn’t. She’d come from behind me. And then the weirdness started. I swore she walked around me when I stopped for a cart. But as I approached the produce department on my very specific quest for a lemon, there she was! Stopped, with a cart, studying the lemons. I waited patiently for her to move on.

We smiled at one another and continued on our merry way. But I could not lose her. My merry way was her merry way. I had about ten? maybe 12? items on my list to buy. Did she have the exact same list?!

TWICE I said, “pardon me, go ahead…” and waited for her to walk ahead. Otherwise our carts would have hit. Mind you, there didn’t seem to be anyone else shopping in the store at the time. I rounded the last aisle I would need to visit and made a beeline for the checkout. There was one – one – lane open. And as I put the first couple of items up on the conveyor belt, up she walked, crowded up behind me and began unloading her groceries up against mine. I had to insert my arm between our items and place the little stick down on the belt to differentiate them. Then as I walked away from the checkout I smiled at her and she said, and I quote: “have a nice day.”

I laughed out loud! Actually, I laughed all the way home. This is what my son calls “matrix traffic.”

He believes the traffic you suddenly encounter out of nowhere didn’t actually exist before you began moving. In this simulation where we are living our lives (that I have called life on the Holodeck), the matrix invents ways to slow you down or divert your path. I have always laughed and thought his viewpoint to be a bit of a conspiracy theory. But yesterday, I realized that this phenomena has occurred often throughout my life.

I was reminded of one such incident that happened decades ago. I was alone, driving home through Detroit late at night and my car stalled. I’d run out of gas – I had just realized that the gas gage wasn’t working on my car and I would have to get that checked first thing in the morning. I glided onto the shoulder of the freeway just at the entrance to a weigh station. The weigh station, built to check large semi-haulers are within legal limits, was not open. Or even lit up. I think I was in my early to mid twenties, long before the invention of cell phones. No one knew where I was.

I sat there a few minutes trying to decide what to do. And then a car pulled up behind me. I would have relished a police car at that moment, but this appeared to be a common SUV. An elderly man stepped out and walked up to my window. “Hello. What is your trouble? We have run out of gas. I’m going to walk up to the weigh station to use the pay phone and call for help.”

I was trembling. I informed him that I, too, had apparently run out of gas. He told me to sit tight. Not that I had any choice.

A few minutes later he returned – literally out of the mist – and informed me that his son was on his way from a nearby suburb and would bring two gallon containers of gasoline. They would then follow me to the next exit with a gas station and make sure I was safe. He then told me that his wife was in the car with a thermos of hot coffee if I would like to join them. And I did! I mean, if this were the unfolding of a Stephen King novel, I wasn’t getting away anyway. I might as well die drinking coffee.

We sat conversing and sipping coffee while their son put gas in both our tanks and started my car. They then followed me to the next exit and down the road a half mile or so of flat farm country to the gas station. I had scraped together a few dollars to afford a gallon or two of fresh gas. I was right behind him in line as we paid the cashier, and had kept just enough money in my pocket to repay him for the gallon of gas they had so kindly gifted me. And when I walked out the door seconds behind him, they were gone. I literally walked out past the gas tanks to look – there were no taillights in the distance. And I knew: they were angels.

Now, were these angels real? Absolutely. Solid as a rock; that I didn’t doubt. Had I just had a surreal, otherworldly experience? Yep.

Many such things have happened since. (Although I have never run out of gas again!) I don’t doubt my experiences any longer. I’m not hallucinating. I’ve never been more sober than in the middle of one of these occurrences. I trust them. When you pray for divine intervention, you’d best accept it however it shows up.

So I told my son about the woman in the grocery store and we laughed and laughed. Exact right place, exact right time. She was my matrix traffic and I hers. There isn’t anything sinister going on. What I call God and he calls the Matrix might be very different in concept and purpose. But it’s always a sign to slow down and notice. To me, at least, it’s always a blessing. Don’t tell me I don’t live in a magical world. And you are right here with me.

Nov6

forever trusting who we are

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Needless to say (is it?) the short and sweet visit with family triggered an avalanche of sorrow. I miss my family terribly. It was great to see my sister. I love her dearly. I love my nephew with all my heart. He is a wonderful man, a terrific father to his three daughters, a great friend to his cousin (my beloved son).

They grew up spending many Saturday’s together with Nana, my Mother, while we parents were working. In the summer months that often meant she took them golfing. I don’t know what we would have done without her. We talked about that on the visit last week. We played euchre and laughed. It was more pleasant than I expected I guess. Maybe age or distance has mellowed our differences. It has surely made us more appreciative of our brief lifetime together.

Once home in Cincinnati, my well meaning sister began texting me photos of dogs up for adoption near me – in northern Michigan. I don’t believe we talked about my getting another pet at all. Apparently she decided on the long ride home that I needed a dog. I can just imagine her voicing her ideas from the back seat. And the three of them unanimously deciding. For me.

It’s been five years since I lost both of my elderly dogs in the same year, and a year since I lost my cat. I’m not sure my heart can take much more loss. I’m not ready to muster up the emotional generosity to adopt another dog or cat could I afford it. Which I cannot. I’m barely making ends meet these days.

I’ll admit, however, that the sweet face of an 8 year old miniature beagle in the local shelter really sent me into a tailspin. Oooh, sweetheart – how ever did you end up here at eight years old…in a cage without a home? How does that happen? I’m so so sorry. My heart aches for her. And I’m a bit angry with my sister, but she doesn’t understand my circumstances, nor the depth of my grief. “Struggling” means something different to everyone. It’s relative. Literally.

So I am keeping vigil for Lelo, praying for a kind and loving heart to find her quickly and make the rest of her days gentle and joyful. Had my former husband not died in April, I might have called him about adopting Lelo. I’d have told him that I didn’t have the adoption fee and he would have said, “meet me there in an hour.” I couldn’t live with him but he was still a loving friend – with a little gambling cash always set aside. And so I miss him acutely again, not that I haven’t been grieving his loss in other ways on other days.

It has brought back memories of the dogs and cats that have graced my entire life. Each of them made me a better person. And my “grandbird,” a parrotlet named Lovey who I kept with me for a year and flew to New York City with in a soft backpack cage on my chest. We had some great adventures together. She was so smart. I’ve known extraordinary animals, mine and those of loved ones around me. I miss them all.

It has also made me think about how my parents and my siblings and I have all gone through time periods of estrangement, when we absolutely could not abide one another’s presence – until one of our pets was in trouble and we would rally around in a care routine, contributing any way we could. We got that much right at least.

The expensive wisdom of age teaches you a few things well, like that it is much easier to love someone than it is to like them – let alone forgive their behavior. And it is impossible not to love an innocent animal in their hour of need. After all, they are entirely at our mercy.

Nov5

“Up and not crying”,

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as the Norwegians would say when asked “How are you?” Why didn’t I think of that?!

My sister did respond to the video I texted her. After her brief inquiry of the band Tool during her recent visit, and knowing she likely wouldn’t listen to a heavy metal song, I texted her an acoustic video cover of one of my favorite Tool songs, Right In Two. Her response was, “not my cup of tea.” That reply felt all warm and wonderful to me. And do you know why? Because it was entirely different than any way my siblings have ever responded to me. Entirely different.

It was generous. It indicated maturity in our relationship. Because it was not punitive; it was not corrective. It was not judgmental. It was not hostile. For the first time I remember in my lifetime it was about her, not what I was getting wrong. Which meant it implied respect. We can be different. We can have different likes and preferences and even values – and we can still love one another. Her response was spacious.

I’m not kidding when I tell you what a remarkable change this seemingly small, insignificant shift means. It shows me that light years of growth have occurred…somehow. That only took about sixty years too long for my liking. Maybe it just means they have given up trying to save me. Whatever it means, I’ll take it.

To say that I have been the black sheep of the family all my life would be a gross understatement. Acceptance was never going to happen, let alone any meaningful connection or companionship. I have spent a lifetime being jealous of women with close sisters. I’ve long been grieving the loss of what would never be.

And it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying on my part, albeit coming at it from my needy, codependent campaign for their acceptance. Once the lightbulb finally went on there and I stopped trying to prove my worth everything changed. See how that works? We choose freedom, health, self-acceptance, self-love. And then we get the acknowledgment. We were enough all along.

Nov4

angels on the sideline again

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“Repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability to lift an eye to heaven, conscious of his fleeting time here…” – Tool

This past week some of my family came to visit. My younger sister and her son. His girlfriend came along to help with the ten hour drive north from Cincinnati. I was glad to meet her, and I was excited to see them. I hadn’t seen her in the two years since my brother’s memorial service. My nephew had brought his three young girls up to visit us last summer. They were “t’weens” then, so who knows when I might see them again. Teenagers have their own busy agendas and are probably less likely to indulge the boring elderly aunt.

This visit had a different purpose, actually. They drove a rented truck up to deliver the granite headstones my sister had made for my parent’s and my brother’s gravesites. Cemeteries are governed by strict laws now that require professional installation and maintenance. They came to oversee that.

We all went out to eat near my home. My son wore his Tool sweatshirt, the one that features the colorful Alex Grey illustration featured on the Lateralus album. I bought him that sweatshirt for Christmas a few years ago, so he put it on without thinking about it – which immediately raised questions. And so began a short conversation about the band Tool.

My son introduced me to Tool years ago. Since my days at the Grande Ballroom in Detroit I have been a heavy metal fan, thank you Black Sabbath. I took my son and friends to their first rock concert as teens. We went to see Metallica. It was great, even if I was way older than the rest of the audience. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for my son and how he enriches my life every day in a million ways. I’m trying to pay attention, because WHO GETS TO BE THIS BLESSED?!

If I’m honest I had mixed feelings about seeing my sister. I love her dearly. We have little in common. Our values are so different. We have a third sister in this area; she and I have no contact. I knew that the two of them were going to meet also. Family, at least mine, is always a mixed bag of emotions. You never know how it’s going to go.

However, I do not have mixed feelings about Tool. I am a die-hard fan for life. I have referred to them as the Mozarts of their generation. Their music is a complex, brilliant treatise on the human condition. As usual…artists are the keepers of the truth, after all. The alchemists who turn our fodder into gold. And now I am also a fan of Band of Echoes. How is this song the perfect metaphor for my family relationships…how is my heart to survive these divisions?

But as it turned out we had a wonderful visit with my family. Politics and religion never entered into the conversation. We are aging. Our younger brother died of a heart attack two years ago. Our time here is fleeting. My sister and I both know that every visit is a privilege and could certainly be our last. We also know that our sons – our beautiful genius sons, will love each other long after we are gone. “Good Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise,” as my southern grandmother Mimi would have said.

So as a continuance of our conversation I searched for an acoustic version of a favorite Tool song to share with my sister. I knew she wouldn’t listen to the heavy metal original. We will see how this goes…

Nov3

the work of happiness

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It’s been decades since the dream. I remember it as if it were last night. I was awake, and knew I was “away,” not in my body. Do you call that lucid dreaming? When you know you are asleep in your bed and also awake in this new place? I can’t pretend to understand it when it happens.

But there I was on a hillside looking over a pond, huge old barn on the opposite hill, old white farmhouse behind me. There were a group of us strangers. Somewhere in the Eastern U.S. we had gathered for a writer’s workshop. So early in the morning, and crisply cool this fall day. My head hurt and I was craving coffee.

Patiently we waited our turn to be ferried across the pond in one of two rowboats being piloted by a couple of young men. Students at the nearby college perhaps. The day’s activities would take place in the barn. I was hoping I’d dressed warm enough. Finally, it was just myself and a slightly older woman standing to my left. We approached the boat as it pulled alongside the small platform. Once seated she introduced herself, offering a handshake. “May Sarton.”

As the day went on I would come to find that she was one of the two instructors of the workshop. At some point in time I had the thought, “don’t forget her name when you wake up.” And so without coming fully awake, I reached over to my nightstand and clumsily scribbled m A Y s a R to N and went right back into the dream.

I didn’t remember the dream at all in the morning until I saw the paper. I could barely read what I’d jotted down in the dark. Years before the internet or cell phones, I would have to go the library to research and try to find out if she were actually a real person. Did she exist? If so, was she a writer?

The thing that astonishes me now, remembering the dream, is that I had that experience and still did not realize that I am a writer. I’m only just realizing that, here, today…I wonder if I’ll ever truly believe it.

Nov2

always a swap-around

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In my younger life I worked as a designer in furniture stores. That was my dream job. One of my coworkers had a very talented daughter who was starring in the local theater production of Annie, so of course I bought tickets. I decided to take my little niece and nephew. It would be the first live stage performance they would attend. And as we drove to the theater that night I explained what to expect, how this was not like a movie, how they couldn’t get up or make noise, how there would be an intermission, etc…and when I paused…from the back seat my niece declared in a low, brusque imitation of me, “AND NO OVERHEAD LIGHTING!”

Out of the mouths of babes, as they say! Apparently she had heard me – perhaps more than once – expounding about my disdain for overhead lighting…bless her heart. Hahahahaaaaa!

The short version of lighting class is this: 3 types: general, task and ambient. Of those, overhead fixtures, like the ubiquitous boob light in every American ceiling built after 1930, are the worst. Just the worst. They are ugly and inefficient. For the love of God, TAKE THEM OUT. They’re inhumane. They do one thing well, and one thing only – cast shadows. If you really must be able to walk into a room, flip a switch and have the room light up like an interrogation cell, at least install something less offensive. Something that throws light off to the walls perhaps. Preferably attach lamps to your switch. It used to be that each light switch inside a door would control the top plug of the nearest outlet…back when houses were built for civilized people. With intention, being to improve the quality of our lives. Chandeliers, btw, are not overhead lighting. Lighting means fixture. Light is what comes from a fixture or a lamp. A chandelier is a lamp. Do keep up. And a chandelier needs to be on a dimmer…you do know how to install a dimmer, right?

At any rate…I’m winding up this series on cottage sensibilities. Time to move on. I have. I’ve fallen back in love with my life and my home. Lifestyle changes are afoot and I will see where they lead. My love of the cottage aesthetic has not changed; I find it deeply healing and comforting. But I no longer feel the need to effort after it…I am the refugium. Ultimately it comes back to what it always comes back to: trust. I trust that the more I live intuitively, the better my surroundings support me.

There is such a thing as a country cottage life in a city townhouse, and Fin Fellowes proves it.

And a southern cottage…well…that is another lovely creature altogether. With no overhead fans…another bugbear – right up there with overhead lighting. There is something dastardly about a spinning fan overhead that gives me the willies. Don’t do it. Just say no. Be strong in your design convictions like Ellie Proctor.

If “God is in the details,” as architect Mies van der Rohe famously said, this cottage is heavenly:

Nov1

meteor of joy

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Well, it happened that I had a completely different post scheduled for this morning. It’s a closing statement of sorts for the cottage rabbit hole I’ve been lost in the past couple of weeks. I rescheduled it for tomorrow. This just came up in my feed…and, well…it reminded me to appreciate being alive. Look at these faces and feel your heart open. Let’s join them in celebrating 20 years of The Marginalian and the joy of our humanness. “The music is to remind us how short a time we have a body.” – Richard Power

Meteor of Joy: The Young People’s Chorus of New York City Sings Bird Divinations
Oct22

the fool on the hill

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The cottage within me, within you, is our true heart. It is where we are safe and warm and known. For me now it looks like a midcentury modern perched high on a hill facing east. Like the prow of a ship it is strong, steadfast, dependable. A new roof here means that the house is secure again, watertight and ready to face the winter gales off Lake Michigan. This is my own personal House of Belonging.

You may remember me tell of “hearing” in meditation that I was being placed here. Of being taken out of dreams and flown here by witches, shown this was their well worn path, this sacred highway through the woods. Later the indigenous tribes would begin to follow the deer and bear that had traveled parallel the shore for centuries. Eventually it would be paved and become one of the most beautiful scenic roads in North America, M22.

Just outside the front door stands a crooked old Hawthorn tree, probably as old as me and house. Hawthorn is the sacred tree of the Celts, considered a portal between our world and the fairy realms. One of the first mornings after moving in here I woke as dawn was just peeking over the eastern hills, and walked silently out front with the dogs. We were face to face with dozens – maybe hundreds – of Cedar Waxwing resting in the Hawthorn. But they didn’t move. They stared at me as if I’d been expected.

It turns out they foretold of the many flocks of wild birds to come, resting here on their migration up the coast. I would wake on other mornings to a sea of red where my front lawn belonged, carpeted with Northern Flickers. And I would be awakened from an afternoon nap in the sun by the haunting calls of forty or more Sandhill Cranes just clearing the roofline as they flew above me. I’d also have to use my snow shovel to fend off a pair of bald eagles boldly eyeballing my little dogs that next winter.

Out the picture window to the south a triple birch tree rises well above the surrounding evergreens. It appears to be dancing joyously in the wind. It must provide a distant vista; it’s canopy is often full of crows. And outside my back door, on the western side of the house, are a maple and a tulip ash before the hill falls away toward the lake. There are three pair of Cardinal nesting there now. They wait patiently for the seed I put out; the Chickadees don’t even bother to leave the bench while I fill the feeder. Oh! And the twelve friendly turkeys just reminded me not to forget them this morning.

Something magical is going on here. I’d have to be a fool to ignore it.

I’ve talked about moving, and I might…from this house perhaps. But not from the area. This is my heart’s home, if not my dream cottage. That said, I won’t leave here lightly without thought. Or to be more honest, I won’t leave here unless I am re-placed. I won’t leave unless spirit guides me. I am in my 70’s now. It has taken me a lifetime to learn to live intuitively. I won’t go back to living conditionally. Me and my birds. And my trees. We will know.

Oct16

the quintessential cottage

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Okay, so I know I said that my quintessential cottage style is Cape Cod. But today I want to take you to visit one of my very favorite house tours. It’s not Cape Cod. It’s a classic American Foursquare. It just so happens to belong to one of the premier architects in the country. It also happens to be in New York City.

This house literally makes my heart flutter; I have a visceral response. There is a longer tour on the Homeworthy channel if you’d like to see more.

I woke up this morning having dreamt about having friends in my new home. We were gathered around a big dining table eating and laughing. It wasn’t the house I recently missed out on. And I began to let go…not easy for me and my little ADHD brain. It organically and spontaneously occurred to me…as I woke and sat up, slowly…that perhaps there is something even better to come. And now I am free of the sense that I missed out. It had to happen for my nervous system in it’s own sweet time, and I knew it would. Maybe that trust is something that comes with age; I’m not sure. I’m onward and upward now…developing the dream. Following the intuitive clues. With a heart full of hope and wonder.

Oct15

they came for lunch and stayed for life…

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…and if that doesn’t epitomize cottage life, well…I dunno what does. And this house showcases why I love Cape Cod architecture. Bead board paneling, wide board floors, double hung windows, butcher block and marble, big deep sink…lots of white and cream and colorful artwork. Wicker and wrought iron and wonder. Playful and life affirming. Collected. Warm and friendly, relaxed. This is cottage.