account balances

They’re down.

And here’s the thing —

I’m up.

Yes, up — as in —

Uplifted by the possibility that this downturn will cause an —

Uptick —

On an altogether different grid. 

A grid where who we are and what we can do and are willing to do for ourselves and others is valued more than —

What we can buy or pay others to do — and in some cases —

How much we can throw away or afford to waste.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve nothing against being responsible and creating reasonable financial safety nets.  And I’m not happy that people are feeling devastated about not being able to leave the workforce this year after years of faithful investing for retirement.

But I am encouraged by the sea change promised with this shocking and significant drop in account balances. 

Because, perhaps, when it no longer makes sense to give a disproportionate share of our lives to diversifying and growing our portfolios —

There just might be greater acceptance for making choices that diversify and grow our lives.  

Ok — I admit it’s the belief that I would not survive without account balances —

That separates me most days from my truth — splinters my life into two pieces —

The one where I give the best I have to what I think I need to do to build my account balances  — commute, cube, computer —

And the one leftover—

Which I divide between recovering from the three c’s and quite frankly — and pathetically I must add —

Thinking about and talking about ways to escape the three c’s altogether and live the life I really want which is the life I think everyone would want if they could live it but maybe just maybe I’m wrong and anyway what does it matter whether everyone would want it or not and could have it or not —

But, wait —

Doesn’t it only matter what my truth is and whether I am willing to pay the price to live it?

I mean, do I really need a drastic drop in the market with people jumping out of windows to give me permission to pursue my joy?  Do I really need a worldwide sea change in values to have the guts to do what I know is right for myself?

Isn’t this really the message I’ve got for myself today? 

That I’ve been free all along to diversify and grow my life on my terms and —

If what brings me joy is —

Clearing land to grow things, gathering fresh bouquets from my own gardens, experimenting with color and fabric — and making old treasures, new —

Using a needle and thread, rolling out dough, and fixing things —

Cool breezes through open windows and lazy walks and pointless conversation —

Then, it’s up to me to make the change. 

And account balances — up or down —

Are just part of the arsenal of artificial excuses I fall back on when I don’t have the guts to —

Live my truth.

Well — ok, then.

Guess I told —

Me.

the current

Still waters, it is said—

Run deep.

Even when the surface is quiet and uneventful —

We are assured there exists — at some greater depth —

The current.

The current is now. 

The active, ever-present, and wow —

Now. 

I am reminded in writing this to seek the current in the moments I am given. 

To get in – and stay in —

Especially when it’s over my head.   

Especially when I want to resist.

Especially when I’m not sure where I’m going to —

End up.

Because the current is living —

The verb of life.  

And, it is in the current — that all things flow naturally —

But not necessarily, smoothly —

To where they belong.

graveside

The sun reflects off the snow onto the face of my sister standing next to me graveside.

The patterns made on her face by years of life mirror mine. 

Around our eyes — and especially —

Our mouths. 

Identical, I think —

Even down to the size and location of that blasted age spot on my right cheek I’ve been trying to banish.

It’s as if I see us, today, for the first time — sisters born 14 months apart — me first, her second —

In real time.

Me 49.  Her 48. 

Present for a good-bye that strips the last of an entire generation from the picture —

A milestone that makes us — and our contemporaries — realize we’re but one layer away from the finish line.

And I can’t help but thinking — while I still can, it’s time to —

Run!

Run, Julie —

Run!

“o” is for

Organic oranges.

I bought a bagful yesterday and placed them on the ledge in my office window — an arm’s length from my keyboard.

Promising orbs of  juicy pleasure —

Visible.  Touchable. 

And when I choose —

Edible.

I had a visitor to my office yesterday who commented on the oranges.

When I offered him one, he declined, explaining that while he loves the taste of oranges —

He cannot be bothered with the process of peeling —

“Too much trouble.”

“Too much mess.”

And I think —

“But the fragrance!   The juice!  The treasure within!”

And then —

It hits me.

Big time.

The critical importance of the orange test —

As a predictor of — er — compatibility.

Yes.  Yes.  Yes –

Oh —

YES!!!!!

warning: mature content

“So this is where all the hot chicks hang out.”

“I wouldn’t know, not lookin’ for hot chicks,” I reply, thinkin’ —

“Oh my god, is this one of those lines that might be cute, endearing or even — sexy — if the right guy said it?  Because I really can’t believe this guy I have never met before just said this to me before even saying hello and shaking my hand and oh my god, what was I thinking?  Ok, c’mon now, be open.  Be open —

“Just be open.”

It’s snowing a little bit outside and the gallery just opened.  I extend my hand and make the introduction official. 

We head down the hall to the exhibit, making small talk about the architecture and the last time he was here and out of the corner of my eye I take note of a small sign —

“Hmmm.  A polite warning of sorts,” I think. 

And then — on second thought —

“Odd, is it not?  I mean — Michelangelo’s David didn’t come with a ‘mature’ label — ”

And it is only myself I have to blame.  My idea.  My gallery passes.  My notion of a low pressure, interesting, non-threatening first meeting —

Yeah, right.  

How’s this for an innocuous way get to know each other — a stroll through three galleries gorged with —

Severed penises.   Hanging in droves from the ceiling.  Spewing social commentary.  Floating in jars.  Strung to the end of netting.  Grafted on to plants.  Chained to the ground. 

Masquerading as caterpillers.  Or — if you prefer — chrysalises. 

Neon colored parakeets.  Caged and perched — erect. 

I find myself especially drawn to a piece with a netted brain tethered to the requisite anatomy —

Tetsumi Kudo’s “Wandering Boy Forever Attractive” —

But — let’s continue, shall we? 

Because I don’t know about you, but I sure am curious about how a guy who delivers a first line with “hot chicks” will possibly capitalize on this big — uh —

Home team advantage.

And you know I can’t help thinking about what he’s thinking it means that I’ve invited him to this penis arcade — I mean —

Well — what would you think?

Sure ‘nuf — toward the end of the exhibit, Kudo’s “Monument of Metamorphosis” — 

A gigantic phallus relief hewn out of a wall of rock —

Hits him like a handful of Viagra. 

And after mentioning that at 53, he still has a very strong libido, he adds —

“Sure wish I had 82 feet to give the ladies.”

“ Sure wish I could pretend I never heard you say that,” I think.

And you know what?

That’s exactly what I’m gonna do —

Right after I give my number to Wandering Boy Forever Attractive.

fro-zen

It’s day three of the minus-series.

The garage door has the guts to keep opening so I keep approaching it — 

Because — yes — there’s life at fifteen below —

And there’s even —

Enlightenment.

It starts with deep concentration on the temperature gauge on my dash.

The dive from 65 to 0 — as I leave heated underground parking — takes place in less than two tenths of mile.

And by the time I’ve slid another couple of blocks, I see minus 15 —

Then look to the heavens and cross myself  because it’s not my car that’s wrapped around the stop sign at the bottom of the hill.

At the next intersection, I hesitate — just seconds —

Then turn right, because I’d rather die from exposure on the 25-yard-walk from my car to the Dunn Bros front door than get on the 394 without coffee.

After running my stainless steel travel mug under boiling water for several minutes, the front line at Dunns fills it up and I’m outta there and onto the line to get on the ramp —

A 30-minute wait that’s just made for all kinds of life enhancing activities. 

I choose behind-the-wheel yoga poses and marvel at how the clouds of exhaust give these morning exercises a make believe quality that cannot be found anywhere else on earth.

Namasté.

best ever cutouts

“Never do things others can do and will do if there are things others cannot do or will not do.”  Amelia Earhart

Not many people like to  make cutouts, but everyone loves to eat them!  This recipe is the one I’ve been using for at least 15 years.  It’s good ol’ Betty Crocker, but you can make it yours!   

1 1/2 c. powdered sugar

1 c. butter, softened

1 t. real vanilla

1/2 t. real almond extract (I add a splash more)

1 egg

2 1/2 c. flour

1 t. baking soda

1 t. cream of tartar

Mix powdered sugar, butter, vanilla, almond extract and egg in large bowl.  (I recommend using a stand mixer)  Stir in flour, baking soda and cream of tartar.

Cover and refrigerate at least three hours.

Heat oven  to 375.  Roll dough and cut into desired shapes.  Bake 8 – 10 minutes.  Cool and ice.

Icing:

Mix powdered sugar,  half and half and almond extract until it’s the consistency of a heavy glaze.   Sorry, I don’t have amounts for this, you’ll have to “be the Betty” on this one until you get the right consistency.

Dip cookies (one side only) and use a knife to remove excess icing.  Add sprinkles if you want.  Let cookies stand (do not stack) overnight to set icing.

tawdry tawk

Pull up a chair, order up a drink, put your jaw on the table —

And jabber away without purpose, path or destination —

One remark sparking another — and another — until you spin by your tongues around the edge of —

Tawdry.

Then just — go there! 

It costs nothing, adds up to nothing — and best of all —

There are no strings attached. 

Nada. 

This is cheap talk at it’s finest.  

Which is not to say it’s talk that’s cheap. 

Or that it’s talk that’s not cheap. 

It’s just one of those things —

People who like eachother do with eachother. 

And I love it.

ties that bind

I slept later than usual this morning, reluctant to part from the company I was keeping between the sheets —

And yet. 

Throw back the sheets, I eventually did —

Breaking company with an old flame — uh, ok —

More like an old —

Hot water bottle. 

But — hey.

It kept me warm and I — I needed it. 

Believe me, it was hell to let it go.  And, it didn’t happen overnight.   And, yes — 

You know as soon as I feel the slightest chill —

I will want to reach for it.  Want to fill it to the brim with steaming hot water and jump back in the sack with it. 

But — I won’t. 

Nope — because this —

This is the year, you see.  And I’ve got a big strong —

Wind on my side. 

A wind to push me away from the moorings and remind me every step of the way in 2009 that this is the year to —

Live free.

Oh, it’s a tall order I know.  And while I’m not lookin’ for someone to keep the shivers away, I don’t intend to go it alone.

In addition to my mighty wind, I am gathering people to me who understand that giving birth is supposed to —

Hurt like hell.

I’m talkin’ about friends who will hold your hands, wipe your brow and let you scream it out —

People who will stand on the other side and cheer you on when the slack in the rope is gone and you decide to tap your reserves and —

not just stretch the cord —

But snap it.

Yes, for me —

This is the year to sever the ties that have been binding me —

And experience true freedom of movement. 

Freedom to roam and soar — and most important —

Freedom to return.