I’m crabby. And kind of mad. Not about the usual dysfunctional governmental issues but about a phone. A 6 inch lifeline that changed our way of doing business and living our lives. It hardly seems possible that we managed to do anything before the cell phone. Remember, “I’ll email you when I get home!” or “Call me after 7pm when it is cheaper!” Those days are long gone. We are connected 24/7. We walk to and fro with phones, crossing the street, having dinner, driving. There is no escaping them.

I have always had a Mac computer but an Android cell phone. I’m not sure why–the Androids seemed sturdier, had better batteries and frankly, iPhones seemed a little pretentious. Make no mistake about it, Apple is a great company. Super user friendly and creative and beautiful. It is like putting a Subaru up against a Lexus. So, I went about my Android business and had no intention of changing.

My old Droid Turbo had been starting to slip, shutting off when still having power, apps freezing or starting to not work, battery draining quickly. I knew it was only a matter of time so I did a little research. Some of the new Androids were as much as the iPhone, some near $1000 and most $700 or more. I thought I might get a Motorola Z for about $20 a month but the battery life got a poor rating. I geocache and my cell phone is my only phone so a good battery life is important. A colleague at work whom I trust, suggested I get an iPhone. He helped me compare the phone and we decided that the XR would be my best bet.

I could have ordered it from Verizon Wireless but decided to go to the physical store because I would need help to transfer all of my information from an android to an apple. Really, the people were nice but always trying to upgrade or up sell, which I suppose, is their job. Cell phone companies and communication companies have us all by the shorthairs. They know we need it, they know we want the newest toy, they know we need the help to get there. It just left me feeling a little dirty—like I knew that I was getting fleeced and I just let it happen anyway.

I will get over it. I’m sure at one point I will take some pictures and be awed at the creativity of the Apple phone. I’m hoping it is soon, that extra $32 for the phone and $13 for insurance will remind me every month of my dependence on a business that cares little about the needs of the customer and more about how much money they can extract from them.

Sometimes you hear something you wish you didn’t or sometimes you hear something taken out of context and often, as you age, you hear something totally different than what was said but it turns out to be funny, sweet and story worthy, all at the same time.

Wednesdays, my day starts at 6:45 AM and I often go out for breakfast/lunch at one of my new favorite restaurants in Ann Arbor, First Bite. It is a gentle place, I think they are all Buddhists and they have water with cucumber in it, self serve. A sign near the napkins states, “Don’t take more napkins than you need.”. The table marker you take for your food order is a picture of a random animal. It is a good karma kind of place, where you clear your plates and use your manners. People are actually talking to each other at the tables instead of communing with their cell phones. They have the best $7.00 breakfast, Eclectic Breakfast-2 eggs any style, toast, jam and your choice of fingerling potatoes or bacon. They prepare the potatoes for each order, sliced in half and seasoned, grilled with onions. Fabulous. You feel good eating there and the price is right.

I mentioned to my co-worker that I was really excited because I was going to eat breakfast for my break, just as a woman came through the door to shop. She replied to my breakfast as ” Oh, do you have a dog named Rex? Is he black or white?” I replied, “Black” and she said “Oh, aren’t they the best??” To which I replied “Yes, the best ever!”

Now I could have corrected her and ruined a magical moment. She heard something that she related to and made her happy. Maybe she lives alone and doesn’t talk to a lot of people. Perhaps she has a bit of dementia and forgets. It was obvious that her hearing wasn’t the best but why correct her and make her feel bad for something she has no control over and already has distress about?

We spend a lifetime communicating or attempting to. Words get mixed up all the time and they can start wars, end relationships and mend broken fences. The world is becoming a place where headlines are all people digest while ignoring the meat of the story. Words scar and Words inspire. I think we are throwing words around too casually then coming up with lame and insincere apologies. Go gentle into the world with your words, think about how it might land on a sensitive soul. Do tell the truth but deliver it with a bouquet of flowers instead of an Uzi.

Be like Rex. The best black dog ever.

My blog was to be a practice in finishing, a commitment once a week to put some words down on the page regardless of whether I thought it was good, bad or indifferent. It has been a long week, extra busy with work, physical work that leaves this 59 year old actually tired. So, when it came time to write my blog, I was stuck and have been for 3 days.

I have been writing the daily baseball blog about the Detroit Tigers. They stink so it is a bit of a challenge to stay positive and not wallow in their misfortunes. It is something I do enjoy but it takes energy and time. And it is every day for the most part.

So what do you do when the words are few? There are endless stories about writer’s block. Maya Angelou explained in the book Writers Dreaming:

“I suppose I do get ‘blocked’ sometimes but I don’t like to call it that. That seems to give it more power than I want it to have. What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat,’ you know. And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’”

Toni Morrison observes. I was talking to a writer who described something she did whenever she moved to her writing table. I don’t remember exactly what the gesture was — there is something on her desk that she touches before she hits the computer keyboard — but we began to talk about little rituals that one goes through before beginning to write.

I, at first, thought I didn’t have a ritual, but then I remembered that I always get up and make a cup of coffee while it is still dark — it must be dark — and then I drink the coffee and watch the light come. And she said, Well, that’s a ritual. And I realized that for me this ritual comprises my preparation to enter a space that I can only call nonsecular…

I tell my students one of the most important things they need to know is when they are their best, creatively. They need to ask themselves, What does the ideal room look like? Is there music? Is there silence? Is there chaos outside or is there serenity outside? What do I need in order to release my imagination?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not comparing myself to these fabulous writers or any writer who makes their living being a wordsmith. I am merely a human with a desire to communicate and use my words to help me understand my world. So here’s hoping the words come in abundance and with grace.

There are many signs of spring. The snow melts away, the snowdrops and aconite arrive along with the crocus and daffodils. Day by Day, your layer of clothing gets thinner and lighter. The sun gets warmer, the breeze milder and the rain is more gentle instead of the freezing, dripping down your neck rain that often arrives in the post winter, pre spring month of March, April, May depending on where you live in the Midwest. Here in Michigan, we can have a 70 degree day one day and a 20 degree day the next. Thunder, Lightening, Tornados, freezing rain, snow–it often shows up when we think we are finally over winter.

Vultures are a sign that spring is really here to stay although I often wonder if a Vulture might be just a bit tougher than us humans. They just need the snow cover to be gone in order to do their job efficiently and that they are. I have a lot of respect for Vultures, they are the janitors of the animal world–keeping roadways and trails clean of fallen animals. They aren’t pretty and get a bad rep but you could call up a Vulture at 4 in the morning and he would be there for you, ready to work.

Pansies are the one of my favorite flowers and one of the first flowers that people rush to plant in pots on their porches or windowboxes, as they can take the cool nights of early spring and thrive until the hot sun of June does them in. Brillant Big Headed yellows w/purple centers, frilly small flowers in apricot and burgundy, Dk violet with white centers and a yellow splash. One is not prettier than the other but we all have our favorites. We crave the weather of pansies, the rite of passage between drab winter and brilliant spring. Pansies are our transport to that place of warm sun on our cool cheeks.

Baseball is the game of spring. Often too cold to grasp the baseball, pitchers blow into their hands for warmth. The hitters are heavy handed and stiff, needing the warm days of June to really start hitting the ball. Every Spring is a new chance to right a wrong season, acquire a new player, find a gem in the farm system, revive the career of a veteran. Baseball is a hot dog and a beer in the bleachers on a warm spring day. A kid’s game played by kids in men’s bodies–fantasizing hitting the winning homer in the World Series, hope springs eternal.

Springtime in Paris, Cherry Blossoms in Washington, D.C., Tulips in Holland, Michigan. Asparagus, Fiddlehead Soup, Lilacs, Lilies of the Valley, Forsythia, everything bright and yellow and spring green. We wait for this day all winter and relish in its glory. Spring, glorious Spring. I’ll take two!

Humans spend a lot of time waiting. Whether it be on hold, in a grocery line, in a hospital waiting room or for an answer–it takes a big chunk of our lives. Some people are good at waiting, patient and philosophical, never batting an eye when the answer comes. Others are pacing, wringing their hands, thinking the worst, having no doubt that the end is near. I guess I’m in the middle of the pack, always hoping for the best and verbalizing that “everything is going to be okay ” but secretly fretting that at any time the situation will go “pear-shaped.” It was a phrase that a former boss of mine used and it seemed to always describe the situation perfectly.

Growing up in the 60’s when I did, there wasn’t as much technology as we have today so we didn’t have thousands of channels to choose from. Really only the local channels- ABC, CBS and NBC plus a community access channel that hardly anyone watched. I remembered always waiting for Sunday Night when Disney came on, probably 8:00 and almost too late for my bedtime. It was something to look forward to, there wasn’t any binge watching a whole season in two days, you actually had to watch for the next week until the show came on.

People were always telling you as a kid, ” just wait until you are an adult, then you will understand how carefree being a kid is!” The younger kids wanted to be older, the pre-teens wanted to be able to drive and the teenagers wanted to be in their 20’s so they could move out of the house and have their own lives. Everyone was always looking ahead to the next chapter of life, always anticipating, impatiently waiting for the next step, marriage, house, kids, retirement, grandkids. Always wishing for time to speed up, milestones to pass, faster and faster it went as we go speeding down the road.

Now as I approach a milestone birthday in 2020, I want to push the slow motion button or even the pause. I’m amazed to find myself at this age and continually wonder how it all went so fast when it just seemed like yesterday that I was waiting for my name to be called to receive my high school diploma. I’m certain like everyone else, I’m still waiting for the answers to life’s questions and wondering how much longer it will be be before the Detroit Lions win the Super Bowl?

rou·tine

/ro͞oˈtēn/

noun

1 1.
a sequence of actions regularly followed; a fixed program.”I settled down into a routine of work and sleep”

2 synonyms:

3 procedure, practice, pattern, drill, regime, regimen, groove; More

We all have them whether actively working, retired, independently rich or dirt poor. They are part of our lives that we cherish and curse at the same time. Routines are just not about events of the day but people that occupy our lives. When our routines change for one reason or another, our brain goes into autocorrect like when you move your dresser from one place to another and still go to the first location for a few times until your brain is redirected.

My daily routine is, of course, mainly dictated by my job and my cat. I’m not really clear what is one and two unless you ask the cat. Since I have been working earlier shifts which require me to rise at 5:30, this is a problem for the cat. Normally, her waking time is 6ish but she is not allowed her breakfast until 7:00 –too much later and the paw is inserted into face, claws in but still a paw that has been in kitty litter, well, you get it, right? We get up, I make a pit stop in the bathroom, to the refrigerator for the wet food, meow, meow! As she is eating the wet food, her glasses of water, placed strategically, get dumped and refilled with fresh water. Then for the highlight of the day, dry cat food in the living room! Crunch, Crunch! Off to the shower for me, then a hair brushing for the long haired creature and the rest of her dry food for the day. Out the door at 6:35 for the short walk to the next part of the routine.

One of the aspects I love of any job I’ve had is the combination of routine and surprise. Procedures that happen every day like clock work—punching in, turning on lights, unlocking padlocks, making coffee are automatic and face it, sometimes boring. The fun comes when problems arise and solutions need to be found. It doesn’t happen everyday but being able to solve a problem, small as it may be, is very satisfying to me. Whether it be helping a customer solve a problem or figuring out a display or finding a better price for a product we sell, I am a fixer at heart. That has been a steady routine for me all my life. I don’t expect it to change anytime soon.

Today it is Sunday, time to change up the routine and throw caution to the wind. Coffee with Bailey’s, reading in bed, throw open the window so the cat can smell the air and hear the birds. Let my brain deal with it, I’m going for broke.

Ropes are useful to secure mattresses to your car, play tug of war, for hanging a swing in a tree. Sometimes the ties that bind are invisible and unbreakable by the fact that both ends are hanging on but what happens when it is time to let loose, break the chain, the proverbial letting go?

Patterns of accepting less than for too many years fray away at the edges of the rope, work its way into the center until a discernible break is formed. “People are people, that is just the way they are, be the better person, don’t be so demanding and dramatic, just accept the way things are.” Those are phrases used over and over again to justify bad behavior and poor relationships. The vicious cycle of cause and effect that eats away at people who try to right the ship when there are storm clouds, find themselves the odd man out when it comes time for a seat in the lifeboat. The rope doesn’t reach, falling short of the target, leaving you hanging in the wind.

So, how to let go of the rope? We all fear change or think we do. Change is all around us, every second the earth rotates on its axis, we grow another second older, another person dies, another is born. The fear of change is really the fear of staying static, not inching forward but standing still and having everything race past us. By continuing to hang onto the rope, we deny ourselves the chance for new calluses. By continuing to hang onto the rope, we force ourselves to accept less than what we deserve or at the very least, a chance at something different. Something less toxic and cleaner.

I’m loosening my grip on that rope. It’s a struggle to watch the pieces of my life that fall away, some forever lost, some floating slowly to the ground, perhaps slowly enough to catch for another time where a new, stronger rope can be woven. Gilda Radner, talking about her cancer journey, spoke of “sweet ambiguity”, not knowing how the story is going to end despite our desire to tie it all up in a neat little package. I’m ready to be surprised and ready to accept the ambiguity of life without a rope. I’ll save them for tree swings and tug of war.

I have a lot of stuff. Beautiful folk art, books, art supplies, tiny red fimo hearts, bits of flora and fauna that want to be art projects and beautiful linen sheets. It makes me happy when I wake up and see my art pieces on the wall,tucked in corners and peeking over edges. I wouldn’t change a thing but I find myself yearning to be a minimalist as I near my 60th year. After a recent painting project which involved removing everything from the walls, I am left with piles of stuff. It turns out I’m not the the only one.

According to a New York Times article today,it appears Musuems are stuffed to the gills with stuff. Many house objects that have literally never been displayed but have to be stored in climate-controlled spaces. The Musuem of Fine Arts in Houston has an overabundance of ashtrays, cocktail napkins and wine glasses. The Indianapolis Art Museum has doilies, neckties and women’s underwear. The Brooklyn Musuem even has a full-size Rockefeller Center elevator and a collection of fake old master paintings that cannot be sold. The director of the Indianapolis Museum of Arts at Newfields, Charles L. Venable, was about to spend $14 million dollars to increase its storage space and then he changed his mind. Instead, the museum went about the grand effort to rank each of the 54,000 items in the collection. Each got a letter grade, 20% receiving a D grade which will allow them to be sold or given to another institution.

This gave me pause. How do you grade the things you love? Do they get extra credit for longevity? Cost? For being sublime? I have been sitting with my painted walls, waiting for them to tell me what they need. In the meantime, my stuff is leaning against walls, is stacked on shelves, is scattered amongst the rooms of my small apartment. I have attempted to move a few pieces around, gather some speed to finish the project, create a more “adult” space. What percentage of my stuff is a D? Does that make me a bad collector of art or has my eye sharpened over the years?

I’m going to sleep on it. Grading is subjective and how can a mother grade their own children without guilt? Each piece has a memory attached to it, a memento from a trip, a significant birthday gift, a revelation. My stuff tells the story of my life, how art and creativity have opened my eyes and my heart, given me another perspective in this dimensional life. That is an A+ in my book.

The 60’s were a tumultuous decade and I was born at the very beginning. This made me too young to truly experience the Beatles, Rolling Stones or Motown but there was Looney Toons. Many a Saturday morning was spent on the couch, eating toast with raspberry jam, watching Fog Horn Leghorn, Tweety, Sylvester, Pepe LePew, Elmer Fud and of course, Bugs Bunny. It is no accident that the only “doll” I remember having as a kid was a talking Bugs Bunny stuffed animal. If you pulled the string, it would say, “What’s Up Doc?” and 10 other sayings that have faded from memory. There were the obligatory chase scenes of Tweety and Sylvester, the heartbreaking flirtations of FogHorn LegHorn, (did he ever get his chicken?) and What’s Opera Doc?! “Kill the Wabbit, Kill the Wabbit, Kill the Wabbit” sang Elmer Fudd while Bugs Bunny, cool as a cucumber, ate his carrot.

This was originally aired in 1957 and quite quickly became a classic. I didn’t know what opera was then but I loved the costumes, the booming music and the dramatic tension of two characters at different odds. Granted I didn’t have the words for all of this as a small child but its bigness touched a nerve. Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd sang in English which is not the true language of Opera but it was a cartoon so they played to their audience.

My experience of live opera didn’t occur until my 20’s when I started working in Ann Arbor at the Cottage Inn and met my friend Theodora. I’m still not sure how we started our opera adventures but we would wear nice clothes, drive to Detroit to the Masonic Temple and later the Detroit Opera Theatre to sit in the darkness and hear the room fill with glorious music. Aida, Norma, Don Giovanni, The Magic Flute, so many more. It was thrilling and filled all the empty spaces inside of me with wonder at how a voice could do such gymnastics. I had the privilege to see Joan Sutherland in one of her last performances of Norma.

Then I discovered Jessye Norman. I felt like I had walked through an electric fence the first time I saw her at Hill Auditorium. A giant, literally at 6′ 1″ tall, yards and yards of gorgeous flowing fabric and regal as a Queen. A voice that literally lifted you into the air, sent you swirling around and somehow, set you back on the ground. I had never seen such confidence and command, she willed you to be in the moment and drink down the elixir of operatic high C notes. She had gone to school at UM so she was often doing concerts here and I made sure every time she was in Ann Arbor, I had a seat to witness her genius.

I haven’t seen a live opera in a few years. The expense of the tickets, the bother of driving to Detroit and figuring out who to go with has made it less likely that I am sitting in a darkened theatre waiting for the opening aria to begin. I’ll get there again and when I do, I’ll be sending a shout out to Bugs Bunny, my opera muse.

I live in a small apartment with 4 rooms and lots of angles. So when I decided to take a staycation and paint my apartment, I had to strategize. Painting is not my favorite chore and my diminishing eye site makes close up work a challenge. Rolling walls is relatively painless but trim and cutting in, on vey!

Choosing the colors of your project is always key( thanks to Kay for helping with the process!) .Whoever has the job of naming paint colors must have a lot of fun; my colors are Exhale, Rocky Shelter, Cool Vapor and Chrome. Mostly grays and a gray blue that reminds me of Lake Michigan, I’m bringing the outdoors inside.

Light is the great color equalizer so what looks great in the store doesn’t work in the house. I painted several pieces of poster board and put them up around the apartment to see how they looked at different times during the day. Luckily, it was pretty apparent what colors belonged where.

My apartment is in an old house so the walls are plaster and uneven, flawed. So prepping the area was essential and tedious. Shelves had to be emptied, trim tapped off, trim sanded, walls washed, all before a single paint can is cracked open. Then pain the trim, let it dry and paint it again. Then the ceilings, cut in the walls, roll the walls and watch the paint dry.

The process of painting quite naturally follows the process of everyday life. Choose carefully, always be prepared, allow for extenuating circumstances, be patient and steady. A job well done is its own reward. I think I am going to be well rewarded after this painting project and will be happy to wait another 10 years before I pick up a paintbrush again.