Refocusing with less violins to distract

I dread the possibility of becoming a negative person.  And yet, the events over the last few days, the last week, have drawn me down, so that all I can see is down low.

These events aren't so important, really.  Things I thought I cared about going away.  Things I did actually care about. When I try to put into perspective (I have my health, Pip is doing okay, kicking along, I have my partner, I have a job, etc.), it doesn't take. It's more like a distraction, and then I will go on and do other things, but before I know it my mind wanders back and my heart is breaking again.

I guess that there are fundamental questions I need to ask myself.  For instance, how committed am I to working at a job that I treat in a sincere manner?  I have always been a person that has given 100% in her work, even when that work was menial.  My work now is not menial in that I am doing something that others would class as needing skills and garnering some respect, some status, but actually day after day, year and year, it has become menial.  The kids I work with can give respect and sometimes do, but there is also a "substitute teacher" vein in the larger culture that eventually gets to them.  I thought I had overcome it, with my commitment to my own dignity and the dignity of others, but I was reminded the other day that I am "only" this role.  A massive part that I had stepped forward to add on, that gave me a lot of meaning and that required a lot of my attention and effort was taken from me and given to someone of the appropriate status.  On one level, I know it is for the best.  The person who will receive this responsibility, when the time comes to transition, is a good person, with good intentions. He will do a fine job, and perhaps, although we cannot know the future, this will be the best thing for the kids, which is the most important thing.

But I am shocked at the seismic proportion of heartache I feel.  I feel like I am staring down the barrel of daily work that is sustainable in that it will continue and perhaps it will be better for me, me as a Mom, Pip, my family.  It just all feels so patronising and devoid of the sort of meaning that I gave it.  It was like when I managed a gas station back in the US.  I had a bit of a tendency to look after the homeless people that would come in and by their things there.  They were people I knew by name and when they disappeared for a while, I would ask after them.

Was I their "social worker"?  No, I do not have that qualification.  I was a person who cared, who was good at caring.

I gotta remember that it will be ok.  That this sadness, though unimaginable to others in a similar position and role, who have this responsibility like a yoke around their necks, not wanting it, in a larger culture that seems to take pride in not feeling, is ok for me to feel.

I just don't want to cry at work.  Please, universe, don't let me cry at work.

So, I am feeling less the negative person now, and just a bit miserable.  See, this too shall pass, is

Pema talks about how many people pride themselves on not letting their hearts be touched.  That they gird themselves against pain and anything getting inside and see this as a triumph when really, letting ourselves feel it, however horrible the "it" is, means we ultimately grow and move and get on.  This is the victory.

And I try to consider that just having a job, an in-and-out, don't suck up your life sort of task that pays the bills is ultimately a good thing. I never wanted to be a teacher.  It was looming up on the horizon as the other options fell away.  I didn't want to be that kind of teacher, the kind that didn't know what else to do, so they did this thing, this teaching thing, that actually requires much more of a person than that.  If they want to be a good teacher, the kind that makes a difference in young peoples' lives. So, why was I trying so hard to devote my life to this school in this way?

Bless Rob Breszny's Free Will Astrology.  My horoscope this week was a meditation on refocusing: "It's possible, my dear, that your tendency to overdramatize is causing you to lose focus. Let's trim the 90 violins down to ten and see if maybe that helps." Refocus.  Remember. This was a job for now, until the thing that you really want to do that you can't quite yet.  The thing where you will make the difference (and incidentally garner more for you in terms of status and in cultivating skill, a role that can't look menial, not even on Tuesdays.) 


Or write.  Continue to write.  Lay down the lines and then the next lines. Tell stories.  Some true and some made up.


There are so many things I would rather be doing.  This is the thing for now.  The job.  It's only a job.  I will find the middle path.  The meaning and the meaninglessness.  I will let go and hold dear.  


If I spent my life working in a school, I would consider it wasted.  I don't even really believe in institutionalised education.  Not at least how it is practised where students emerge mostly with an apathetic view of bureaucracy. Imagination is too important.  Freedom of self is too important. 


Remember this.  These kids will thank you for remembering this. Your kid will thank you for remembering this.  Your inner kid thanks you for remembering this.  

Baby Brain: Peoples' Evidence A

***Below is a reply to a friend's e-mail. She wrote from Ireland sending lovingly unsolicited advice.  Good advice.  And I went off one a bit.  Such is my lovely baby brain right now. I am quite enjoying it, but I wonder if anyone else is being driven slightly bonkers.  Well, sod 'em. Tangents are my lovely little islands of consciousness and I have a feeling that the in-between parts that I have only a passing awareness are now missing weren't really that important for the task at hand anyway.***

A--

Thank you so much.  I would class that all as intriguing advice, excellent leads from someone I really respect, and I really appreciate you taking the time to write it up and send it.  Do you mind me discussing a bit with you? If you do, skip to the bottom of this letter, and don't worry about it a bit.

As far as the advice: actually, one of the things I am doing is having a baby shower.  How typically North American, right?  But I like rites and rituals, so I am trying to make sure that there are as few nappy sculptures as possible and as much of lovely women space as possible. But one thing I wanted to do was ask everyone to bring a bit of advice or insight to pass along. I did this same ritual when T & I got married and the book that resulted has made the loveliest little memento and many things I don't need to consult the book for because they are firmly stuck in my head (like my friend Lydia [aged 8] who said "be fancy for each other" i.e. get out of the sweatpants every once in a while or my friend Mary who had been married and divorced three times who said: "You know, I am not that good at being married, but all I can say is, don't drag out the d word unless you really mean it." Golden stuff.)

Anyway-- (at least you wrote a lot about germane things!) I may--with your permission-- print out your note and put it in whatever the birthing equivalent book is. If you lived on this island instead of the next one over (and oh yeah, not a newly two-kidded mum), I would hope you'd be part of this day too.

Onto the advice. I have a good friend back in Oregon who is a hypnobirthing teacher.  If I was there, I would have signed up for her course. I am of two minds about it here.  First, it's pricey.  That puts Tony right off it and I need him participating. And I am wary that Londoners like charging too much for stuff in moments.  I will check out your friend, but the second thing that creeps onto my radar about it is in regards to instinct.  I have loved that part of being pregnant.  I feel like I am connecting to something really ancient and instinctual becoming a mother and being pregnant.  My inner voice that I have been trying to encourage and cultivate for years is louder and more sure of itself than... well, ever.  I don't know if I want to introduce a way of doing things, a philosophy. I don't know how much I feel like I need it.  That may sound ridiculously arrogant and naive.  It probably is to some extent.  But through my meditation practice as well that has been something I have worked with for years, I have been able to really practise observing pain and discomfort.  Even when quite intense.  Am I being really silly?

At the same time, I've never heard of the Ina May's Guide to Birthing, but I just reserved it from my local library, even though they are offensively disorganised.  (Sorry, their website makes me miss my old library so so much. And angry apparently.)  I can't believe I haven't heard of her as I have several friends that are midwives including my Mom's friend who delivered me. So thanks for compensating for this glaring discrepancy.

I will take my time to check out the other suggestions.  And stop writing for now.

But I wish you and M and S such enjoyment during this really special time. I am the eldest and I remember my sister's birth at our house, even though I wasn't even two.  It was an exciting night.  And then I had a little sister.  May you enjoy it and feel very loved and supported.

Bx

Hungry for Stories

I realise increasingly that I am constantly hungry for stories.

I read PostSecret religiously.  The fact that I made it to Wednesday this week before reading Sunday's secrets only indicates my baby brain has truly taken hold.  I haven't done that unless I have been truly out of e-contact... for like years.

I used to read the wedding announcements on the New York times website every Sunday before I got utterly sick of the classist perfectionism.  The snobbish money-ism. Did that increase recently or did I change? It used to be that my favourite stories were the improbable ones.  Not "she went to Harvard as did he where they met doing their PhDs in MBA blah blah", which seemed rarer, and you just know that these poor souls are striving for someone else's narrative, and measuring themselves in finite units.  I preferred the ones where he was her divorce lawyer as she tried to extricate herself from a difficult marriage.  (Actually, come to think of it, that was my great-grandparents.  Good story, but moving on.) But the ones where they were sweethearts in the forties, but fell out, but always missed each other, went on to marry other people, have a bunch of kids and really decent lives.  But when they saw each other the buffet sneeze guard, it was as if not a moment had passed...

I think that is another reason FaceBook and Pinterest are inextricable for me. Although to a lesser extent. And that's ok. Music with stories, with scenes, with original sentiments.  Cary Tennis. Pamela Stephens Connoly in the Guardian.  Heck, the whole family section of the Guardian.  Also religiously, but on Saturdays.

And I think this is a good indicator that my life's work really is to be some sort of a therapist or counsellor. I don't want to share the secrets and stories.  I just want to know that the boundaries of what people are capable of are ever-expanding with every glimpse into a story I hear.  That peoples' humanity can always surprise and impress me. That the longer I carry on in this lifetime, the less I will believe those people who set up short barriers and close-in boundaries as fact and then ask me to commiserate: "you know how it is".  Men are like this.  Kids are like that.  Work is like you-know-what.

No, actually, I really don't.  Tell me why you think that.  That is more insightful for me. 'Cause the one thing I know is asking why is one of the most natural impulses I have and it's always been that way. And you containing your life means something for you. Those are stories too.  Because it takes audacity to tell one's own story outright.  That's why PostSecret is so radical and safe.

And that's why I yearn to hear what people say behind those safe doors, with permission, in the somewhat privileged place of listener, confidant, guide, questioner. I am grateful that I know that, however "late" (to some peoples' minds) and however far off it is still will be. In the meantime, I have ye olde internet, depository for the human condition.

With a different perspective, all the time aspects of the scenario, of whatever scenario, are perfect.

Pregnancy is (7 months, one week, 2 days... approximately)

Pregnancy for me right now is wearing an apron to make even the simplest dish (avocado toast) even just for me... because I will spill on my belly.

It's being mystified and surprised by my energy levels.  One day, I can only drag myself through the simplest yoga class.  The next day, I am crushing my opponents (or so I imagine) swimming lengths in the community pool. (Ha HA, goes the inner dialogue.  Take THAT, beginner.  Slowpoke.  Watch out for me and my Pip!)

Pregnancy is, when totally sick and exhausted from said yoga class, swinging around, back and forth, back and forth, like I learned a baby likes in my antenatal pregnancy class and seeing... no, glimpsing my toes. (I thought I still had sparkly purple nail polish on.) Hi, toesies! Practicing peekaboo.  With my feet.

Pregnancy is being grateful a lot for how people help me out, even if I don't always really need it.  For the students, who have suddenly sprouted ancient manners way beyond their years, awkwardly trying on chivalry.  It's sweet and entertaining if nothing else.

Pregnancy is insisting that no, I can still carry very little things.  Being lovingly tricked out of carrying out the rubbish by my partner and walking as far as I'd like, thank you very much.

Pregnancy is something I already feel is escaping away from me in the finite way that temporary states do. Seven months already. And knowing that I want to only do this once makes it sweet and sad.  Very, very special.

Pregnancy is forgetting to wash certain parts of me because they are hidden other, or rather, on the other side of certain other parts of me.  I almost have to have a check-list in my head.

Pregnancy is re-launching this blog although I long for a more apt moniker.  Why?  It is silly, but it is me.  From childhood, across the ocean and a few trips here, there and back to another childhood.  One that I am growing with my greatest, best intentions.  Getting this thing reloaded now has the feel of preparing the bottle for a message to be sent out.  There may be times when, at home with Pip, on my own or overwhelmed, I may need to cast it out there and see if anyone is around.  Though the ocean seems a more friendly conduit than the internet.  More comprehensible.

And pregnancy means that I am in training, multi-tasking and super-efficiency training.  I know that I will have to get smarter about how I do things with the arrival of this baby.  The mommy olympics.  London 2012.

Heh.

Pregnancy means pregnancy brain, which means I get my jokes at least. The pressure to be intelligent is officially a lost cause, and therefore, off.

(a misery post)

drat.

Mondays blow so hard... working in schools (and it's not just the dismal, barely-keep-you-fed-pay, although I pride myself on not caring about such trivialities... I find that I am starting to resent people who make more than me with equal or less work, which is most people because I work a lot and don't make much. Do people decide to make more or do they just care about it and prioritise money more?).

How can this be the reality that anyone is expected to endure? It wasn't even that bad. It just feels like it will be this way always: too much to do, not enough time to do it, feeling not enough for not doing it.

And my sense of gratitude feels long gone. My sense of joy in life with. Talking about it doesn't seem to be helping. In fact, it is one of those rare cases where talking about is just spreading it around outside myself.

Tomorrow could be totally different.

I'm cured!

I won't actually say this out loud because it seems to be that this may be overly-presumptuous and the heavy hand of fate (or fist rather) will flatten me, but after nearly a week of feeling ill and under the weather (and the weather in London this week has been dreadful so that says a lot), I am feeling better.

And it is through just a little practice of ye olde yoga... and least it seems to be. Yes, hippies, we have yet another victory over the people firmly steeped in the mainstream. Those taking pills and tablets and addictive syrups. (My righteousness is cut short, as usual, by the headache that was still dogging me nearly the entire day and the whiff of ibuprofen that took care of that.) My chi is restored. Being in touch with the "subtle energies" creates an authority to say that it was because of the yoga I practised before dinner. A self-fulfilling hippy science. Not unlike the more conventional schools of science.

But this is the first evening in well over a week where, come evening, my limbs are not freezing and my finger and toenails are not purple, where my nausea hasn't crept in post-meal to help me remember (in an almost itemised, uncomfortably visceral fashion) what I just ate and where my energy is merely a figment of my memory. Yes, a few sun salutations (despite the soggy lack of sustainable sunshine) has put paid to my flu.

Hallelujah!

On the couch

Normally this would mean something different for me, but this week, it is more literal.

I have apparently contracted a stomach bug and have been, therefore, banned from going to work, since I work in a school. Although I often joke that it is a "germ-redistribution centre", I don't think they want that to be its official purpose, so one day off (Tuesday) to recover from dizzy, flu symptoms has now become four days off.

I am a bit sad.

I like work. And not only do I like work, but I like to be a "good" worker. This probably stems from some version of the "nice girl syndrome" whereby little girls want to grow up to be "nice and pretty" or something similar. Here I am a grown woman, who truly believes that if someone is ill, they should keep themselves home, take care of themselves and keep their mangy plagues to themselves. I too have read the shocking statistics about "presenteeism", worse in the States than here in the UK, I suspect, what with everyone actually having medical care and all, but there is still guilt that niggles.

But this is no drippy nose. And I cover a lot of food technology lessons. The mind boggles at the potential for an unwitting carrier to spread the virus (I am assuming it's a virus) I apparently am currently carrying. I feel like I might say to my kids next week: look kids! I stayed home! I didn't come and cook pizza with you even though it was going to be fun!

And by stressing about missing work, I will only make myself more miserable. I didn't even make this choice after all. I have to see this as a considerate thing I am doing for others, so they do not get sick. I am walking the walking. Or lying on the couch. Whatever.

"And that was number one!"

Basically, these fantastic women at the Unitarian community I am apart of came up with this idea: we are now one hundred people. If every one of us did radical, audacious, kind, caring, wonderful things, what a change that would create!

Well, I do some of the things they spoke about already: volunteer, meditate, etc. so this has to be outside my "normal range" in order to challenge and push me. I immediately thought of homeless people. I am really so bothered, as a human being, to wander down the street and ignore people living outside, sitting there. Ignoring is the default, the easy answer. But what do I do instead? Do I give money? I don't have a lot of money to give, particularly not equally or meaningfully to everyone. Would they want anything else? How can I help?

My attempts in the past to rectify this, even minorly, I felt, came off as patronising and not really helpful. Nor did these attempts inform me of how to be an ally in the future.

So, my task for the hundred acts project (link to follow) is that I am going to have 100 conversations with people who are homeless. It is scary to me that I might offend people and I am one of the masses who find security in not talking to strangers so... wow... a challenge indeed.

Except today I surprised myself.

My mom and my Tony and I were walking down the street. I had my brolli, ma had her raincoat, and as the forecast did not call for rain, Tony had borrowed a brolli off of Andy. We were walking down the street to the train and I saw a guy, sitting on the pavement of upper street shivering. Now, I like my brolli. It is cute and small and fits in any bag. And as a bonus, I found it on the tube so it didn't cost me a farthing, but I knew...knew that I value other people more than the ownership of my brolli. I knew this was more important.

So, I ran back and leaned down and said, "Hey. Would you find this umbrella useful?" He said, "Sure, but what about you?" (As an aside, is it offensive to find his selflessness amazing? He is the one shivering in the rain and he is concerned for me.) I said, "My husband has a massive one that will cover us both." He said, "Sure." I gave him the umbrella and caught up with ma and Tony.

"And that was number one!" feeling pleased that I had started right away on my task (not procrastinating as is my default when I find something difficult or scary), but I became instantly aware as well that me feeling chuffed with myself was not the point.

I didn't hear him say thank you if he did and it didn't matter. I remembered my dear, departed Jo who taught me that one.

We finally got home (bah: unannounced engineering works!) and I checked the book of face. I saw one of my acquaintances on their who is living on the street and in shelters in California. Could she be my number two?

Regardless of the number, the take-home point is clearly that homeless people are people, as diverse as any demographic on the planet. They just happen, through circumstance, to live outside. It is obviously way more deep and complicated than that, and inevitably, I will have to face this during this time too, but that means that every one of the individuals I have the opportunity to talk to during these 100 conversations will be as easy or as difficult as any other person to talk to.

It is funny too because in my own weird way, I think this is my way of confronting the fact that for the longest, scariest night of my life, I was homeless. I tried living in a car and it was so so hard, even as it was nothing compared to what the people I will be talking to are dealing with, either in terms of ultimate or material support or in terms of conditions and the time actually spent in so potentially a vulnerable and unstable condition.

I feel gratitude for the opportunity to learn more, gratitude that my first conversation was an easy and kind one (so I can find encouragement to continue, and dare I say it? To be excited), and I feel grateful for the support I get from my community to do courageous things I never otherwise would have considered doing.

Reflections on the quotidian

I de-scaled the kettle today. For most people in the US, making boiled water doesn't require an electric kettle and so this may not make sense, but in England where tea is so English that school kids lecture me on how English it is, Miss, even as I insist that yes and no: tea was brought into the culture relatively recently, one must remove the build-up of a lot of water as it boils away.

This set of facts may already be boring you. In fact, it is not the point of this story.

I was proud of de-scaling. That is my point.

Despite my feminist upbringing and my post-post-post philosophy, I am loving the domestic routines that I have developed. Every school holiday, which (thank the effing heavens) occurs about every 6-7 weeks, I descale the kettle. And get my hair trimmed. And catch up on sleep.

So, while accomplishing the first, I reflected on the quotidian. (In my top 50 words of all time, by the way.) The mundane and the routine, the daily, can become a gorgeous dance, a ballet of balance. And yet, I knew instinctively today that it will someday become a prison of hang-up and unquestioned habit. I knew someday, I would break free of this thing I so enjoyed currently. Over the sink, removing the yellow-white build-up on the inside of our kettle in a satisfyingly effective rhythm, I knew that this was my cycle: create, build, get accustomed, practice, practice, practice, question, dismantle and maybe burn it all to the ground. The routines I mean.

It becomes a little tinderbox for the rage I (and probably most people if they let themselves) inevitably feel at being boxed in tigers in a society that thinks much, much less of us all and expects things completely opposite to our natures.

This was a happy sacrifice. Someday this routine will be a happy little ephemeral moment only.

Today I saw the future, and like the certainty of forest fires scorching the earth and opening up pine cones so that new seeds can germinate, I found a little bit of peace in this.

A year on...

I am glad I saved this blog. Because I feel like writing again. The book of face (with so little of either) does not serve me well and I find the character-limit... limiting. And everything I want to put on there feels like I am exposing too much when I do.... I want to write: I will have art damnit! And it feels like I am yelling at my co-workers.

So, instead I will reflect into the void and trust that those who want to participate will and those who want to hear it can, while those who do not, do not have to be yelled at about my intense need for art (that follows along closely with my intense wishes that my sensitivities were other than they are).

I have been a writer since I discovered the combination of blank books and learned how. Blank screens will do for now.

An impulse.

I haven't written in nearly a year. I started writing and then I stopped. Everyone has a blog or two. I follow odd ones, or none at all as the mood strikes me. I am fascinated or overwhelmed. We are creating all this text. Tap tap tap. And who will read it all. My heart hurts with the thought of the abandoned words, not really existing anywhere, and everywhere at the same time. The abandoned blogs. The lost hours and impulses and thoughts and tangents. All those gorgeous tangents.

And then I just sit back and remember the story of the woman that burned her journals. She burned them all and couldn't write until she knew that they would be burned.

And I am not her. I want someone to read this, oddly, but I am not exactly sure why, but for some misaligned hankerings of my ego, to be lauded and honoured for my genieus.

But maybe I will sit back and say, hey, I am the product. And resist the capitalist implications of turning everything, even me, into a commodity for value.

Or maybe I will think of another circle to go around in my head.

Back to School

I was running in nearby Grovelands Park last night, enjoying the sunny cool weather now that we are back in London from our journeys around the US. (It was about 90 degrees Fahrenheit there. I can't seem to get celsius, even though I have been living with it for years. I just made celsius sound like a disease.) I was enjoying the Fall-ness (ahem), the Autumnal quality of the air when I happened upon a football practice. Boys were wearing pinnies, but I didn't pay much attention or observe much else about the practice because I was suddenly drawn back pretty much against my will to the Falls of Michigan past.

I remember returning back from vacations with my family much like the one Tony and I just returned from: hot road trips where we stayed with a lot of family and made distances, not always space or time to relax. Great holidays, like this one. Not anything I would trade for the world, but always felt abrupt when we returned.

Before you even got a chance to unpack (I still haven't for example), you were back to school (with or without the apparently requisite supplies or new clothes) and suddenly there was that first soccer practice. You might be on a new team, mostly not, but there were changes. New kids. Same kids only bigger. You were bigger. Suddenly you were in that next grade, the one that intimidated you last year. And the air turned colder, and you remembered that however impossible it may seem, where there had been the utter, dire necessity of popsicles and air-conditioning, there would soon be the necessity of massive winter coats and layers of clothes and rubbing your hands together and sticking them under your arms and between your thighs to keep them from needing to be removed by a medical professional. Or so it seemed.

It seemed impossible. And yet here it was, the tangible evidence. Those falls introduced me to the sensation that time was going too quickly. Perhaps it is because summer was (and will always be) my favourite season. But most likely it was because that week or two right before and as school starts, time becomes distorted, like it does in so many other lovely and breath-takingly heartbreaking and aching moments of our lives. We anticipate and resist in equal measure. We are scared for change and hungry for it.

And now I work in a school and want to become a teacher. The idea that this annual sensation, as crisp and painful and cherished as it is and all the memories and associations that it attaches to is something I am inviting into my life is mind-blowing for me. Not only because it is something that scares the hell out of me, but because I know that fear is exactly why this is the right choice.

An open letter to the Amazon help-desk with a shout out to Jah people...

Hi. My father has been getting me gift cards from amazon.com for years. Recently, I relocated to the UK permanently and so far I have not been able to order *ANYTHING* with my gift card. The lovely pannier bag for my bike could not be shipped here. The runner up pannier bags on the amazon.co.uk could not use my gift card because they are non-transferrable, even between different parts of your own company. And now, I find out that I cannot even download mp3s with the dang thing!!! This is RIDICULOUS. So, is this an end of a family tradition for gift-giving via amazon or can you people suggest something I *can* do with my gift card?! Right now, it seems like a pretty piss-poor situation. PS To the person reading this, I realize that amazon is a HUGE company, anti-union and probably not nice to workers. And I realize that the person reading this message probably has utterly no control over policy, so know that I do not mean to direct *any* of my negativity at you, but the ridiculous company you work for. I hope they treat you better that this utterly outlandishly frusterating customer policy regarding gift cards would imply. Be well and thank you, Britt

a visit to Moldova, the poorest country in Europe you've never heard of

It was great to have you two here. Hope the trip back was not too hard. But you have now toured a part of the world that will be off the tourist trail for a long time and you know why. I am sorry about all the food and drinking but folks here have so little to enjoy and they want to show visitors their best and boy did you get it. Hope you all have time sometime this week to catch up on you sleep. Love, Mom

Pan Godchaux
In Moldova!!
www.pangodchaux.blogspot.com

Britt Doughty-Godchaux to Pan, anthony

5:07 PM (2 minutes ago)

Hi Mom,

No worries about anything. It was a lovely lovely week, even with all the poopy business and drinking. Actually, the drinking was fine. We just weren't used to it.

But we made it to the airport with three-and-a-half hours to spare before our flight, miracle of miracles.

It was sorta amazing. And I wanted to tell you a bit about it. I think Na'ima might be interested in it as well.

So, the taxi driver who drove us to Georgia-lesc [sp] (who kept singing the sappy English love songs along with the radio, which was adorable particularly as he had that captain's hat and reminded us of Bluto) got us there within 40 minutes, including when he turned off the car to drift down hills and save gas. There was a line there, but people didn't exactly speak English. In fact no one did, really. The tip there is to find a car to ride in at the *front* of the queue. The people at the back were nice and offered, but then you had to wait. Instead we found this lovely Moldovan couple who work in Belgium (and spoke French... thank goodness we do a tiny bit too) and they were at the front, but not the very front. But then the guy went and talked to the guard and suddenly (like 5 minutes later) we're zooming through. We were to Galati in no time and they dropped us (refusing any money) off at the correct bus station with 40 minutes to spare. Ana was a doll, waiting for us when we arrived. She chatted and was lovely. Apparently, she told John that the 6am from Cahul to Galati was very unreliable. (Good to know, eh?) And she also said that the GSM trans doesn't run every half-hour, but that other mini-buses might. We parted by saying, "see you in London"! The GSM trans website seemed to be correct and we caught the 8:30. Nice bus (air con) and it cost 80 ROL for the both of us. We arrived at the Gara de Nord at 1 (since there was a bit of a traffic hold-up on one of the one-lane-highway parts and the driver did some very ballsy, fancy tricks to push us to the front of the jam) and then caught the 1:39 bus (that came at 1:25) to the airport. Along the way, there was about 1/15th of the traffic there had been, and we got there in little over a half hour. Then we got our flights back, but because our connection in Amsterdam was so tight, our bag was left there, which was yet another blessing in disguise as then we didn't have to haul back all 19.7 kilos of it on our tired, poopy backs on the tube and train. KLM delivered it to our door a few hours ago, free of charge.

And I just unwrapped Iona's home-made wine and it made it safely. The dirt on the side of the pop bottles was still in tact. Good job wrapping those up. Feel free to bring more at Christmas (if you want... hint hint).

It couldn't have worked out better if we had planned any of it.

Tony would like to add that the sweetest bit is that the 500 MOL bill will be waiting for you at X-mas when you arrive.

In any case, I would not try to recreate this set of miracles to get one to from Cahul to Bucharest, BUT if you can find a good way to Galati, it is an easy, potentially more flexible way to Bucharest.

And may Moldova stay off the beaten path. When we got back to Bucharest, we were sorta simultaniously appalled at the way that capitalistic "success" manifested while simultaniously wary of getting ripped off because of the profiteering mindset. We did not get KFC as Tony's tummy was still terribly off and it is still normalizing today. Luckily, his work shifts got cancelled anyway.

We are home, sleeping, resting (well, I worked today) and recovering.

Thanks again for everything. Thanks for going to Moldova which is as ridiculous as it is lovely. I think it has cured me of any need to ever go to Russia though, so it was a money-saving trip indeed.

Anyway, say hi to everyone there. Thank Parascovia and her family again for the hospitality!

Love you. Talk soon,

Britt

czk7hyti3w

A covering letter that was good for my soul to write.

Once on Talk of the Nation, there was a segment on this horrendous economy of ours. I cuddled up in my pubicle, processing lawsuit claim forms and listened as people phoned in with fascinating stories of surviving and survival jobs (the jobs that we would never take under any other circumstances, but these) and the surprising ways they grew, nonetheless. In any case, one dude called in and said that he had landed a sweet gig by break from the mold of respectful and boring demureness to say what he really wanted to. He threw caution to the wind, (and this is my interpretation) trusted the universe, and leapt, only to find a sweet-ass, golden-threaded net to catch him.

I am not keeping my hopes up so high, but while searching for jobs to apply for, opportunities of any sort, I somehow stumbled upon Weiden+Kennedy's website.

Maybe it was listening to Grace Jones or M.I.A. or that I needed some job-searching that didn't demean my being, but I wrote this, cut-and-pasted here for your entertainment:

Gis a Job

Wieden + Kennedy London

16 Hanbury Street

London E1 6QR

020 7194 7000

london.jobs@wk.com

10^th of July already!

Hello!*

I am interested in applying for the as of yet unadvertised temporary job that you will inevitably need to fill for the summer.

I am inexplicably attracted to your firm, having stumbled upon you through a series of non-linear turns of perhaps fate, and perhaps it is only the latter 90% of my brain that I do not have direct access to that will know why I am feeling such motivating to write this letter. Perhaps this numinous thread will reveal itself in a dream. My waking self loves your style, however, and not merely of the adverts you have created and displayed on the website (clever, inspiring; there’s nothing like a good advert), but in your style of communicating your expectations for any prospective minion.

As a prospective minion, I am outlandishly open and flexible. I can be surprising things, which means I can do surprising things. I am originally from the US (with full rights to work in the UK, no worries), have lived in five countries on three continents, have varying language skills, a Masters Degree in Anthropology, extensive organizational and office experience, and have been practising insider art and writing since I was eight. My style would best be described as artfully mixing the likes of a disciple of Grace Jones while colluding imperfectly with Frida Kahlo and meditating as a student of Pema Chödrön. My skin is thick (I have been literally physically harmed at work and returned for more, but not because I am a masochist, but because it was a worthy cause) and my humour, like all things balanced, combines the dark and light.

Three things I am most passionate about are art (whatever form it takes; whoever does it), sustainable health (spiritually, mentally, tangibly, ecologically, socially) and love (as defined by bell hooks: “the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth”).

A moment in my life where I embraced failure was when, upon reaching the UK with my partner last September after travelling literally around the world, I realized that visa policies had gotten a lot more stringent and inflexible than they had been when I had last gone to live abroad and that there was no way I could stay in the UK legally. And I had very little money. So I lived beyond sparingly, tapped unknown resources and figured out a way. It included returning to the US, getting married to my partner there, and returning after living apart for eight months all the while cultivating a lot of character. It inspired a chapter for my book entitled, “Rejected by Empire.” It was a very good time for me creatively and soul-wise.

I am currently breaking the rules of our larger society even as we shift away from an ethic of blind, unequivocal pursuit of profit. I have employment come late September, and although I have been offered several permanent roles, I have turned them down despite the fact that I am quite broke, because to take them would mean lying about how long I plan to work there. I believe to live unethically, to lie, or to divide oneself up living in an unintegrated fashion (i.e. without integrity) hurts these organisations, which affects the already dying economy of such a former philosophy, hurts individuals’ abilities to trust each other which unravels the social fabric, as well as hurting myself as someone living without a complete integration of my own life. It is for the greater good. We will see if this will offer any tangible or material benefit to this particular individual in the end.

Clearly, I would love a response from Wieden+Kennedy. Let me make you tea or answer your phone. Let’ see what we can come up with. If it is meant to be, everyone involved will benefit in exponential beauty.

Be well,

Britt {last names}©

---

* How’s that for avoiding gender mishaps/dichotomies? And a sincere greeting to boot!

© PS I tried to work in some sort of reference to chocolate, but it would have been too much an obvious anomaly, even for me. But dark, organic chocolate with ginger…and that whole thing about integrity? Out the window.

I gotta... WRITE!

Like that scene in Dazed and Confused when the guy in the back of the car sorta randomly and non-sequitously says, "I gotta DANCE!" Accept that I think he says something else, but that is how I remember it, how I prefer to remember it.

That is how I am this morning.

Yesterday, I went for quite a good interview at quite a good company. The job would have made me happy. The unhappy part? It was for a permanent gig, so after a fair amount of soul searching ("where are those ethics of mine? I know I had 'em in here somewhere?") I decided to withdraw my name from their list of candidates. After all, I have a job that I am really excited about and committed to come September.

It's just the money in the meantime issue... again.

I feel like I've had this issue this entire last year. When I was in Portland, it was the same thing. I wanted to work, but couldn't commit to six months or a year. The crazy lady (and I use this term with deep respect being a crazy lady myself and all) that wanted to hire me as a manager at Target because of my personality and anthropology background "if that whole fiance, marriage thing doesn't work out", but wanted a commitment? Out of the blue, odd, and I am glad I turned it down. But then of course, temp agencies in Portland employ people sometimes. Here, it feels like there are a million people wanting temp jobs and about six to go around.

So, I am broadening my search. I am going to go around to neighborhood pubs with my CV that has zero pub-related or drink-serving related experience on it and offer myself up anyway. I am going to call my one temp agency that has gotten me some work and lower the bar for the amount of money I will accept as an hourly wage. Short of standing on a corner in a mini-skirt asking guys if they want a date or dancing around a pole, I am really opening myself up and trying to think creatively. (Do you live in London? Do you need child-care? Painting? Cleaning? Yard work done? Where is Craig's List when you need it?)

We are not desperate. Thank goodness for T. He has work and enough money coming in to keep us housed and fed. But it would be nice to visit my Mom this August in Moldova, go to the coast once, go into London to a museum? It would be nice not to be hella broke... still... again... and it would be nice if I could contribute to our household costs.

It just feels like about the fifth time in the last year that I have been looking for work/money/resources and the effort I thought it would take times 7 still doesn't cut it. Not to whine. Not to complain. Just to notice a pattern and have faith that this too shall pass.

++Author's note: as I was writing, I got a call from the temp agency for a permanent role in a school being a mentor. Agh! Why these conundrums?

I {heart} British television.

Weird.

After resisting for so long, not owning a television myself for... YEARS, I will finally admit it: I love TV... in the UK.

Not all TV, not all the time. I still gotta write my novel, right? And resist. But sometimes, somethings... genius.

{And I will say that there are some US shows I like, namely things I can't afford to see unless someone lends me their hyper-pricey HBO or I rent them on DVD: Six Feet Under, Big Love, etc. but even that is rare. And resisted.}

But in the UK, they have TV geeky enough even for me!

A few examples:

1) Countdown

In this locally shot (in Leeds in the north) show, contestants *don't play for money*! Instead, they come on and have word and number challenges. They must make words (the longer in length, the more points) and solve math equations using randomly chosen letters and numbers respectively. There is a resident word geek with a rotating guest. The word geek presents information about arcane and underused terms like the origin of the term "Curling", like the Scottish sport so popular with Canadians. Apparently, there is an old Scottish word that means “singing” that is "curring", so as the stones (usally flat, irregularly shaped river stones) glide over the ice, so the theory goes, they sang. Thus curling’s nickname: “singing stones.” Of course. The champ of Coundown right now, Ennis, is probably on the spectrum. (He is almost an “octo-champ.” I’ll take that over Octo-mom.) And the pretty, young blonde thing acting as the local Vanna White? She's a math genius, who checks the contestant's figures... live. And they are there for the sheer love of it. I repeat, no money is involved. I wonder if the presenters get paid for their sheer and palpable love of being there and geeking out. Brilliant.

[Tony loves the show afterwards, Deal or No Deal, because you come to care about the characters of real people who may or may not win a huge amount of money, and as a result, may or may not have their dreams come true. He likes caring about people. Very endearing.]

2) Revelations

This show is a documentary/ investigative show that goes into religious places (that usually restrict access particularly) to explore the issues of faith and culture (or cults) that arise. The show last week was about the English Christian movement, the Alpha Course, that takes agnostics through a pretty low-pressure 8-week-course (ok, so they speak in tongues) that may or may not change their undecided faith. Next week, it is an expose of a Muslim school. Pretty smart stuff.

3) Question Time

Ok. So someone needs to come up with a better title. Last night’s show featured a bunch of MP’s (Members of Parliament) and ministers of various wings of government, all from a variety of parties, an obnoxious newspaper naysayer and Jarvis Cocker, the lead singer of Pulp. Of course. And people just ask questions from the audience. And it gets sorta heated, but is very informative, interesting, and pretty darn accessible.

And then there is the BBC and their news and specials and Russell Brand, saying the rudest sh*t, you know, just on the TV. Maybe it is novelty, but I am not as upset as I thought I would be about our TV set playing such a prominent role in our living room.

In other news, today was my first day of work in the UK. I took a one-day temp gig taking notes during a meeting. It was good. It feels good to work.

I was running yesterday (as in, for exercise) and I was thinking that North London could do with a local chapter of We've Got Time to Help. In Portland, it has meant that unemployed people can inject a little extra pride and meaning into their lives, do good and get out there while they are also looking for work. It occurred to me because I was running through a park near our house that is incessantly covered with litter. Sure, there is about one bin (a.k.a. garbage can) for the entire park, but please people! What a better place to be, I mused, if the litter was gone. Something to think about.

That is the latest from a gorgeous Friday afternoon in North London. We are heading up to a friend’s 40^th party this weekend in Standon, a little hamlet near Bishop’s Stortford, about a half hour north of the M25. It is 70s themed and I am going as a disco ball. I can’t find my pink wig, BUT I will use the word “boogie” in the proper context and think of my friend Lynn at Smith Rock in Oregon, biking and being a rad babe that still says “boogie.”

My writing sounds so banal and specific. It is about on part with the Writer’s Almanac and most of the stuff that Garrison Keilor does. As Homer screams (as he beats the TV with his shoe): “STOP BEING BORING! STOP BEING BORING!” {PS Why is this not a youtube clip?!)

Waiting for the Mom

Interesting life this one.

I could start off nearly everything I write... ever... with that little sentance.

I have been waiting for my mom to get online for the past two hours. As Moldova is two hours ahead of us, and she said she would be home at three her time, that she has not been on and it is 3 London time means... I am about to give up.

Meanwhile, in another part of my brain, I am trying to keep in mind what is going on with other parts of my family. My 93-year-old grandmother broke her hip and has been moved to hospice as surgery would not actually help her and the experts have apparently informed my family there that this is it for her.

She has always been a formidable force in my family, this grandmother. And although she and I have not seen eye-to-eye on nearly anything, it is amazing to consider that someone is going through such a phenomenal transition right now. Someone I am related to. One of my foremothers. Someone I love.

And of course, it is this intellectual/emotional/spiritual detachment that is mitigating the actual distance I feel from my family, a distance that is about average of what the distance has been over the years, physically, but has changed as far as how often we are in touch because of all the technologies at our disposal. This distance is my own personal version of my family's comfort level, lacking much in the way of ceremony or shared ways of marking transitions.

And although for some reason my lunch made me really very tired for some unknown reason, and the heat probably isn't helping, I am set on getting out on my bike today, going to run some errands, pick up my UK equivalent of a social security number, visiting a yoga store where I applied for a job, and eventually end up at "Ally Pally" (Alexandra Palace) where I will read, relax, and probably write some more of my super-secret book.

Fighting through the weird tiredness is interesting though. I am afraid of having of having one of those auto-immune mystery diseases because as it stands now, I could probably sleep 9-10 hours a night anyway, and take naps! Amazing being of kapha constitution. No nap, gonna go!!!

Would tea help?

a letter to Liz

Hey Lizaliscious--

Psychic much? I just applied for a summer gig at a yoga prop/book/tea/mat/etc supply company to be their German customer support. It sounds like a sweet gig chock full of kindred spirits. We will see.

But yoga has been ranging widely in my psyschic terrain so we will see.

I am glad that the little ginger tin with note and singular earrings found its way to you and the other brilliant mommies.

I hope the distance isn't that big a thing, although it clearly won't be the same. Particularly as you and I seemed to just get things really cinched before I kicked off to this island.

Hum. Would like to see the photos. I don't know how that would work sans la familia.

I am thinking of starting a blog. Stay tuned. Will let you know.

Anyway-- i hope you have a great time in Cali as your facebookness seems to be indicating you are heading south. It is pretty hilarious. Everyone asks me where I am from and I say, Oregon. Everyone says, uh huh and nods. {Pause.} and I say, do you know where that is? And they say,

no.

And I say, north of California on the west coast. I am sure you have probably had the same conversation at some points.

PS you came up at lunch today. I was eating with Adrian, Tony and a few others at this pub way the hell out in the country and we were talking about the shortage of nurses in the states and the way they get paid more than over here and about the lack of spots in training programs, and Adrian was mightily impressed that you were in. He is so funny and laid back, he was sorta like, "Liz? The Liz I know?" yes, Adrian... Funny this lifetime.

I don't mean to dangle cuteness under your nose.

ANYWAY-- gonna go. Seem to be in a write-y mood. Maybe I will start my blog with this note to you.

Much love.
Big hugs.
Your MIT,
B