When my daughter Rena announced her plans to visit me in Austin I felt guarded enthusiasm. In fact, I felt reluctance about receiving any visitors in fear they would rupture my newly constructed peace. For the first time in 30 years I was living in my own home, and although I have a roommate, we maintain mutual respect and boundaries. I vowed to prevent penetration of drama, negative energy or disruption to my agenda. This house was not Dohrmann Lane with my kids entering and exiting as they please, no advance notice given, every crack and crevice filled to the brim with 20 years of living.
On one hand I was thrilled Rena was coming to Austin for a visit. I wanted her to like my house, Austin, and be proud of what I accomplished. Like many mother-daughter relationships, ours has had its share of strife. We are alike in many ways, and rub each other the wrong way because of it. I admire Rena for her brilliance, determination, wit and tenacity. Despite severe ADHD, she completed law school and recently sat for her bar exam. She is a beautiful and talented artist, writer and performer. I believe Rena could do anything she puts her mind to. Rena's and my mutual admiration society has been fraught with intense emotional upheaval, fights and slamming doors, accusations of blame with no offers of apology on either end and sometimes weeks of silence.
The magical and horrific dynamic between mother and daughter has been written about from every angle. As both a mother and daughter I know the script well. In recent years, after a turbulent relationship with my mother, I have finally taken myself out of the equation enough to see her as a person whose dreams and hopes were dashed by the edict of a generation. A nurse rather than a neurosurgeon, a wife who followed rather than led, a parent who abdicated her role to a more dominant partner, and mother who buried her grief with her child many, many years ago. I had rightful gripes and hurt; however, at some point you either move forward or not. I can view my mother with compassion and still maintain my perspective on how I was raised and the effect it had on me, for the good and bad. In the aftermath of my father's death my mother has built a fine life for herself, is well regarded by her circle of friends and makes amazing jewelry. Every now and I then I recall her stories about being a nursing student in New York City, marching against fascism, and her years as a nurse in Boston. Always at the top of her profession, her ambitions and financial security were forsaken to follow my father from coast to coast until she had enough. The funny part was when she had enough and said no, he stopped roaming. All the anger and years of hurt will never be completely behind us; however, she is a big supporter and I know she is thrilled about what I am doing at this stage of life.
What was not done for me I have tried my best to provide for my children. Without a great deal of means on their parent's part, my kids have been fortunate to travel abroad, complete their educations, attend a wide range of cultural activities, meet interesting people and receive support and encouragement to pursue their dreams. Raising black children requires extra vigilance and resolve. Staying on top of racism on a daily basis is no small task, and reinforcing a positive sense of self in a society that sends message upon message that being black equals inferior requires a strategy and refusal to accept low expectations. I am still reminded of how institutional racism has formed my kids, and particularly in my son's case, no matter how much love and encouragement we showered him with, racism robbed him of confidence and put him on the defensive. Someone once said I was like a mother lion with her cubs, always ready to battle, and perhaps it is an accurate description of a mother who has fought and held her ground, looked into the eyes of those who would damage my children and refused to blink. As I sit in my Austin home, thousands of miles from where they lay sleeping, I can feel the anger rise to a boiling point when recalling the teachers, health professionals and passers by on the street who threatened their well being based on their skin color. I will never loose the resolve to flatten anyone who crosses my kids.
The intense love Rena and I feel for each other unfolds in many ways. Control, a battle for authority, protectiveness, and a recent tendency to back off and lick our wounds from a distance. We got off to a shaky start this visit,a fight on the phone before she departed complete with threats to leave on the first plane back to San Francisco. My desire to introduce her to friends (I am proud of you if you are listening!) and her resistance to doing what I want for whatever reasons (have to eat before 9pm) was our first and last obstacle. Once we passed that threshold, we were off and running to our happiest time spent together since she was a student in Paris. We experienced the best in each other. She got on well with my roommate Tara who is only two years her senior, the three of us sharing meals and discussions. It was smooth sailing and joyful. We walked the dogs at Red Bud Island, watching them romp on the trails, swim, and fetch balls. It was a comical moment when I fetched balls along side them in the water. In a short time we established our rituals; taking the dogs for their morning foray, stopping for hibiscus tea at Quacks, brunch at the Nomad Bar/Cafe, and swimming at Barton Springs.
When Rena left I held her tight and blinked back tears. I was reminded of our special time in Paris, our last evening spent at the coin laundry across from her small flat, sitting side by side, pressed against each other reading as our clothes tumbled in the dryer. Her hand reaches for mine. "Don't go Mommy." I had to though, my son was in his last year of high school and I was needed at home. There were jobs to do and bills to pay or I would have gladly stayed tucked away on rue St. Jacques. This time I was the one asking her to stay. "I will be back, maybe for your first day of class to pack your lunch and send you off, like you did for me." You are welcome, anytime, and I meant it. We elevated our mother daughter trajectory to a new level, one that included compassion, respect, mutual consideration and the ability to simply enjoy each other without the burden of a constant tug of war for control. Certainly the change of location and house had switched up the game; however, it was as it should be and my fears of constant jockeying went unrealized.
Rena made one of her usual mad dashes for the airport. My friend Kim and roommate Tara wondered if she would make the plane. They were doubtful but I had been through this time and time again over the years. It no longer worried me. She would make the flight or she wouldn't. We fly non revenue and are able to wait for another flight or drive back home. Either way, I knew she would be fine. I felt confident to wager in her favor, Rena making the flight, breathless with a story to tell. I received a call when she boarded the plane, and as I predicted, there were twists and turns to recount but most important, she made it. The close calls and near misses, in addition to the planes missed, provide the perfect metaphor for Rena. One way or the other she will make it, no matter how close the call or great the obstacle. After all, she is her mother's daughter.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Who Let the Dogs Out? Peps and Pearl Come to Austin
I packed my SUV so tightly there was no room to spare. In the car were framed paintings, two portfolios of unframed work, 3 small suitcases, a rug and perhaps the most important cargo - my two Golden Retrievers, Pepsi and Pearl. Pearl took her usual space in what I refer to as the "way back" while Peps rode shot gun with me up front, strapped into the seat belt with her pink harness. She made people smile who pulled beside us with her regal stance and erect posture. I put the cooler in front and covered it with two layers of towels to form an expanded seat for her. The car was so full we had little view of Pearl who laid on the worn comforter from my bed, unwashed so the smells of home would help her feel secure. She shared her space with two small duffel bags, water bowls and toys. It was a brutal drive, 14 hours the first day and 17 the next, yet they both hung in there like troopers. The first night we arrived at the Fairmont Resort in Scottsdale at 10PM. I had gotten lost and called ahead, and the staff person guided me to the exit on the phone. I was worried they might be less than welcoming to a guest with two doggies; however, when I drove up they were waiting for me and received the dogs so enthusiastically they brought cold water for their bowls and offered to walk them.
The grounds provided ample walking territory for the girls, and the room was spacious and luxurious. I wanted to take advantage of the amenities such one the five pools that is open 24 hours to refresh me in the 115 degree heat. I tied the girls to the fence while I took a quick dip. They gave me a "that's not fair you get to go in and not us" look so I made it quick. We slept in comfort on a King size bed and awoke to a long day of driving ahead. I was so grateful to the staff for their help I made a special trip to the front desk to change a large bill to leave tips for the guys who were so helpful the night before. When I asked to see the manager so I could express my gratitude and compliment the staff personally, she came out and went crazy over the dogs offering to take them if I wanted to swim or relax on my own. In fact, she asked if I would mind following her to the General Manager's office so he could see the dogs - he was also the proud owner of a Golden Retriever. It was exactly what I needed, and they assured me next time I visited with the dogs they would be happy to dog sit for as long as I wanted. We went back to the room to eat our breakfast, room service for me and kibble for them. Reluctantly, I loaded the car and headed to Austin.
Originally I intended to stop along the way. As I drove through West Texas there was no place I felt comfortable staying. Each time I began to wane, the desolate and uninviting lodging renewed my energy. I stopped for gas and pee breaks as often as I could, and to let Pearl know we were still with her though she could not see us. I was amazed at how well they endured the drive. I soothed Peps by stroking her for hours on end, talking and singing to her. At one stop in West Texas I walked them in a scruffy area near the gas station and noticed Pearl limping. It was dusk so visibility was poor. I looked at her paw and stuck in between her foot pads was a fox tail and small pieces nailed directly in her pads. I pulled them out as best I could and then went int o the store to buy a tweezer to get the small shards. A woman whose Golden was at home came over to compliment me on the girls and saw the panic in my face. "Do you think she is walking okay?" I asked her, frightened and riddled with guilt that I caused irreparable damage by taking her away from the only home she had known.
"She is fine, don't worry, look at how spry she is".
In the middle of nowhere the kindness of strangers can be invaluable.
The three of us passed through time zones and miles of unforgiving landscape. Thirty four years of California played through my mind. Everything felt like a concept, the life once lived as well as the one yet to come. The concrete consisted of only the girls and I, contained in a passing vessel, threading together two distinct lives. When we finally arrived at Cloverleaf Lane, our long journey had concluded. After the girls romped in their large backyard we spilled onto the unmade bed, our old comforter with smells of life on Dohrmann Lane to cover us. As long as we have each other we are okay I assured them while trying to believe it myself. The sounds of our neighbors beginning their day lulled us to sleep.
Two weeks of mornings have passed. Each day we feel more at home and gain distance from being a concept to being in our life. With the exception of a couch and chair yet to be delivered, the house is intact. The yard that may have felt like a park is now a known quantity complete with neighbor dogs to bark at and taunt through the fence. We have been swimming at Barton Springs several times, and made our first trip to Red Bud Island today, a dog park with trails and swimming a plenty. They seem happy though there is a sense that something is not quite right such as not looking out on Dohrmann Lane hours at a time, greeting Rena and Jonathan everyday, their Papa, Gene and Pac, the neighbor kids and the familiar scents of their "old house". For this reason I hired a dog trainer to come and work with me on "call back" commands. It was a matter of safety and neither dogs were listening to me when I called them. The motto dogs rule might need to be revised in our home after all.
I learned of the dog trainer at the local cafe. We had a long chat on the phone and agreed that private lessons the first few times would be most effective before small group. When she entered the house greeted her in their usual way, Pearl jumping up, Pepsi bringing a toy and Pearl snatching the toy from Pepsi. Within minutes I noticed the look of concern on the trainer's face and it got progressively worse from there. It was like a reality show I saw on a cable channel for people with untrained dogs. Pepsi refused to sit for her without a treat, a first in all her years of training and a Golden Retriever at that, even aggressive dogs have complied better than Peps. Pearl was a little better, but not much. The words alpha and confused and boundaries and obstinate flowed like the river Jordan. I wanted to laugh when Pepsi held her ground but plastered a silly smile on my face instead and shrugged my shoulders like I had no idea how this calamity had occured. After an hour of drills, there was reason for hope; however, it was a grim situation for sure, and it would take some time to reinforce basic commands much less compliance to "call backs."
We sat at the kitchen table to discuss a plan of action. She asked me a series of questions:
Do they sleep on the bed with you? (what do you think?)
Do you leave toys on the floor all the time? (how else are they going to play with them?)
Do you respond to their barking? (why not, aren't they smart for trying to tell me something? these are SPECIAL dogs)
Do you spit food to them when you give them commands? (huh?) Oh so they will look at you, that is clever actually...
Even simple questions seemed perilous:
How many times do you feed them? (Uh, two times a day????OK????) Train them before you feed them, they have to learn nothing in life is free..I barely taught my kids that but okay, here goes tough love for dogs.
How often do you exercise them? (every other day to swim, walk at night) At least 20 minutes, right? (do I time it? we just walk until I decide I am tired or have something else to do like go home and kill flying clicking beetles)
In fairness she was spot on for most things, particularly about safety, and yes these babies are attached to me, overly perhaps, and have separation anxiety. Peps is confused about being the alpha and who is in charge. The truth is I love Peps' personality and her obstinacy and Pearly's little attitude and how she gives you her little bark when she wants your attention. However, I want them safe and that will require they obey my commands and feel I am in charge which means I must train them everyday without fail. After the first day I called the trainer to let her know how well they were doing, and how proud I was of the strategy I discovered to train them to sit, lay down, stay and release. Rather than try to separate them, they are doing it in unison. I mean, how clever is that? And these brilliant dogs, can you believe it, they are like synchronized swimmers! What was her first response after the silence? Well, that is good but you will have to get them to listen on their own at some point but good for you finding what works! Hm mm, it might turn out that ridding the house of beetles will be a cake walk compared to training my dogs and winning her praise.
At the vet's office later that afternoon the subject took a more humorous turn. Dr. Chan and the Vet Tech chuckled as I recounted our session. They admitted to their dogs having similar issues: who has time to train after being with dogs all day? It eased the burden of shame and failure I felt, a total pushover who assigns "human" characteristics to her pets out of her own needs rather than what is best for them. My resolve to train them remained firm; however, we are a comical threesome my dogs and I, and truth be told, I would not assign human characteristics to these amazing creatures who in many cases are far superior to humans. They are wonderful companions who have taken the edge off pain in times of despair, they ask for little and give much in return, their joy is my joy and my pain is their pain. Watching them play brings a smile to my face. When I think of them uncomplicated and unconditional love without demand comes to mind. The thought of their passing is too much to bear. I look forward to turning the key each time I return home. If you are not a "dog person" this may seem self indulgent and frivolous; however, you may reconsider when you see first hand how they will not leave my side when I am sick or run to me the instant they detect even one sob, or bark when we raise our voices in anger. There is a reason dogs are trained as therapy and guide dogs, and research indicates that elderly live longer with pets.
Pepsi and Pearl connect me to life’s simple joys. Their curiosity and transparency are contagious. They find wonder in a blade of grass or smelling a plant, and follow birds in flight with a dramatic intensity. Watching them navigate the ocean waves or swim in the bay is nothing short of majestic. They inspire and connect me to the essential elements of life with their unmitigated joy, loyalty and pureness of motive. Other than basic survival needs, they yearn only for our love and approval without employing treachery or underhandedness. Love has no time line or expiration dates. It is not reserved for certain people, or dictated by others,it belongs to us and dispensed as we determine.
Perhaps I am just another woman on the cusp of middle age fending off loneliness. Over the years I have learned a thing or two about where to invest my energy and love, and my girls are a sure bet. On the rebound or smarting from a devastating blow, we often convince ourselves that we are better off alone and need to cultivate our self-reliance. In itself it is not bad advice; however, as a reflex action from scarcity and not abundance it can be a double-edged sword. Even the most independent of us are not harmed by some degree of love and need. For me the verdict is still out on romantic love, and though my kids are still orbiting my universe, I have relocated to a new city to begin a new chapter. What it means to be alone or have friends or a partner is as fluid and changing a notion as what it means to be a mother with grown children, artist and PhD student at 52 years of age. In essence, love comes in many forms, and whether it is love given and received by pets or people, we are fortunate to claim the blessings. Peps, Pearl and I are a work in progress, learning and instructing, exploring and discovering the new smells of Austin, and in due time perhaps the old comforter in Pearl's "way back" of the car will come to represent both fond memories from Dohrmann Lane as well as our new beginning in Austin.
The grounds provided ample walking territory for the girls, and the room was spacious and luxurious. I wanted to take advantage of the amenities such one the five pools that is open 24 hours to refresh me in the 115 degree heat. I tied the girls to the fence while I took a quick dip. They gave me a "that's not fair you get to go in and not us" look so I made it quick. We slept in comfort on a King size bed and awoke to a long day of driving ahead. I was so grateful to the staff for their help I made a special trip to the front desk to change a large bill to leave tips for the guys who were so helpful the night before. When I asked to see the manager so I could express my gratitude and compliment the staff personally, she came out and went crazy over the dogs offering to take them if I wanted to swim or relax on my own. In fact, she asked if I would mind following her to the General Manager's office so he could see the dogs - he was also the proud owner of a Golden Retriever. It was exactly what I needed, and they assured me next time I visited with the dogs they would be happy to dog sit for as long as I wanted. We went back to the room to eat our breakfast, room service for me and kibble for them. Reluctantly, I loaded the car and headed to Austin.
Originally I intended to stop along the way. As I drove through West Texas there was no place I felt comfortable staying. Each time I began to wane, the desolate and uninviting lodging renewed my energy. I stopped for gas and pee breaks as often as I could, and to let Pearl know we were still with her though she could not see us. I was amazed at how well they endured the drive. I soothed Peps by stroking her for hours on end, talking and singing to her. At one stop in West Texas I walked them in a scruffy area near the gas station and noticed Pearl limping. It was dusk so visibility was poor. I looked at her paw and stuck in between her foot pads was a fox tail and small pieces nailed directly in her pads. I pulled them out as best I could and then went int o the store to buy a tweezer to get the small shards. A woman whose Golden was at home came over to compliment me on the girls and saw the panic in my face. "Do you think she is walking okay?" I asked her, frightened and riddled with guilt that I caused irreparable damage by taking her away from the only home she had known.
"She is fine, don't worry, look at how spry she is".
In the middle of nowhere the kindness of strangers can be invaluable.
The three of us passed through time zones and miles of unforgiving landscape. Thirty four years of California played through my mind. Everything felt like a concept, the life once lived as well as the one yet to come. The concrete consisted of only the girls and I, contained in a passing vessel, threading together two distinct lives. When we finally arrived at Cloverleaf Lane, our long journey had concluded. After the girls romped in their large backyard we spilled onto the unmade bed, our old comforter with smells of life on Dohrmann Lane to cover us. As long as we have each other we are okay I assured them while trying to believe it myself. The sounds of our neighbors beginning their day lulled us to sleep.
Two weeks of mornings have passed. Each day we feel more at home and gain distance from being a concept to being in our life. With the exception of a couch and chair yet to be delivered, the house is intact. The yard that may have felt like a park is now a known quantity complete with neighbor dogs to bark at and taunt through the fence. We have been swimming at Barton Springs several times, and made our first trip to Red Bud Island today, a dog park with trails and swimming a plenty. They seem happy though there is a sense that something is not quite right such as not looking out on Dohrmann Lane hours at a time, greeting Rena and Jonathan everyday, their Papa, Gene and Pac, the neighbor kids and the familiar scents of their "old house". For this reason I hired a dog trainer to come and work with me on "call back" commands. It was a matter of safety and neither dogs were listening to me when I called them. The motto dogs rule might need to be revised in our home after all.
I learned of the dog trainer at the local cafe. We had a long chat on the phone and agreed that private lessons the first few times would be most effective before small group. When she entered the house greeted her in their usual way, Pearl jumping up, Pepsi bringing a toy and Pearl snatching the toy from Pepsi. Within minutes I noticed the look of concern on the trainer's face and it got progressively worse from there. It was like a reality show I saw on a cable channel for people with untrained dogs. Pepsi refused to sit for her without a treat, a first in all her years of training and a Golden Retriever at that, even aggressive dogs have complied better than Peps. Pearl was a little better, but not much. The words alpha and confused and boundaries and obstinate flowed like the river Jordan. I wanted to laugh when Pepsi held her ground but plastered a silly smile on my face instead and shrugged my shoulders like I had no idea how this calamity had occured. After an hour of drills, there was reason for hope; however, it was a grim situation for sure, and it would take some time to reinforce basic commands much less compliance to "call backs."
We sat at the kitchen table to discuss a plan of action. She asked me a series of questions:
Do they sleep on the bed with you? (what do you think?)
Do you leave toys on the floor all the time? (how else are they going to play with them?)
Do you respond to their barking? (why not, aren't they smart for trying to tell me something? these are SPECIAL dogs)
Do you spit food to them when you give them commands? (huh?) Oh so they will look at you, that is clever actually...
Even simple questions seemed perilous:
How many times do you feed them? (Uh, two times a day????OK????) Train them before you feed them, they have to learn nothing in life is free..I barely taught my kids that but okay, here goes tough love for dogs.
How often do you exercise them? (every other day to swim, walk at night) At least 20 minutes, right? (do I time it? we just walk until I decide I am tired or have something else to do like go home and kill flying clicking beetles)
In fairness she was spot on for most things, particularly about safety, and yes these babies are attached to me, overly perhaps, and have separation anxiety. Peps is confused about being the alpha and who is in charge. The truth is I love Peps' personality and her obstinacy and Pearly's little attitude and how she gives you her little bark when she wants your attention. However, I want them safe and that will require they obey my commands and feel I am in charge which means I must train them everyday without fail. After the first day I called the trainer to let her know how well they were doing, and how proud I was of the strategy I discovered to train them to sit, lay down, stay and release. Rather than try to separate them, they are doing it in unison. I mean, how clever is that? And these brilliant dogs, can you believe it, they are like synchronized swimmers! What was her first response after the silence? Well, that is good but you will have to get them to listen on their own at some point but good for you finding what works! Hm mm, it might turn out that ridding the house of beetles will be a cake walk compared to training my dogs and winning her praise.
At the vet's office later that afternoon the subject took a more humorous turn. Dr. Chan and the Vet Tech chuckled as I recounted our session. They admitted to their dogs having similar issues: who has time to train after being with dogs all day? It eased the burden of shame and failure I felt, a total pushover who assigns "human" characteristics to her pets out of her own needs rather than what is best for them. My resolve to train them remained firm; however, we are a comical threesome my dogs and I, and truth be told, I would not assign human characteristics to these amazing creatures who in many cases are far superior to humans. They are wonderful companions who have taken the edge off pain in times of despair, they ask for little and give much in return, their joy is my joy and my pain is their pain. Watching them play brings a smile to my face. When I think of them uncomplicated and unconditional love without demand comes to mind. The thought of their passing is too much to bear. I look forward to turning the key each time I return home. If you are not a "dog person" this may seem self indulgent and frivolous; however, you may reconsider when you see first hand how they will not leave my side when I am sick or run to me the instant they detect even one sob, or bark when we raise our voices in anger. There is a reason dogs are trained as therapy and guide dogs, and research indicates that elderly live longer with pets.
Pepsi and Pearl connect me to life’s simple joys. Their curiosity and transparency are contagious. They find wonder in a blade of grass or smelling a plant, and follow birds in flight with a dramatic intensity. Watching them navigate the ocean waves or swim in the bay is nothing short of majestic. They inspire and connect me to the essential elements of life with their unmitigated joy, loyalty and pureness of motive. Other than basic survival needs, they yearn only for our love and approval without employing treachery or underhandedness. Love has no time line or expiration dates. It is not reserved for certain people, or dictated by others,it belongs to us and dispensed as we determine.
Perhaps I am just another woman on the cusp of middle age fending off loneliness. Over the years I have learned a thing or two about where to invest my energy and love, and my girls are a sure bet. On the rebound or smarting from a devastating blow, we often convince ourselves that we are better off alone and need to cultivate our self-reliance. In itself it is not bad advice; however, as a reflex action from scarcity and not abundance it can be a double-edged sword. Even the most independent of us are not harmed by some degree of love and need. For me the verdict is still out on romantic love, and though my kids are still orbiting my universe, I have relocated to a new city to begin a new chapter. What it means to be alone or have friends or a partner is as fluid and changing a notion as what it means to be a mother with grown children, artist and PhD student at 52 years of age. In essence, love comes in many forms, and whether it is love given and received by pets or people, we are fortunate to claim the blessings. Peps, Pearl and I are a work in progress, learning and instructing, exploring and discovering the new smells of Austin, and in due time perhaps the old comforter in Pearl's "way back" of the car will come to represent both fond memories from Dohrmann Lane as well as our new beginning in Austin.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Life away from the Bay Area, or "Learning to live with flying clicking beetles"
I confess: I hate bugs, critters and most things that slither. Imagine my distress when I laid my body, worn out and weary from hours spent in stores and setting up a new house in 100 plus degree heat, down onto my new expensive bed and heard the mini blinds rattling. For a minute I considered a "haint" was in the house, what the family in Mart Texas call ghosts. I had been hearing about haints since I met my husband 34 years ago, with humor (from him) and with dead on (forgive the pun)seriousness from the Davis family. When I switched on the light and saw a flying insect that looked like a roach soaring through the air and banging into the mini blinds, I almost wished it had been a haint. "Shit! I cannot believe I left a bug free existence to join air borne roaches." Peps and Pearl watched me with concern as I ran about the room with a shoe chasing these elusive flying insects. The cable/Internet had been installed earlier that day, and I ran to the living room, the only location I could access the Internet with an Ethernet cord stretched to capacity from my office. Sitting on the floor, I googled flying roaches in Austin and anxiously awaited the search results. I scrolled through numerous tales of woe and being grossed out. I went back to bed with a shoe in hand and my eyes refusing to close despite my exhaustion. Thoughts such as "I can't believe I spent all this money on a house with bugs, or I can't believe I left home for this crap, or who cares about a PhD when bugs rule the world?" ran across my brain like a ticker tape. At some point, though I cannot recall when or how, I fell asleep.
In the morning I surveyed the dead, defeated bodies on the floor. I made a desperate call to my friend and real estate agent who talked me down, and another to my friend Chris, leaving a message to call me. I called an exterminator company and left a frantic message. It was a Saturday, leaving me two days before I could plead with someone to drop everything and come to my rescue. I became obsessed with roaches, trying to sneak up on them with my shoe. Not so fondly, I recalled my days as an art student living in roach infested apartments in San Francisco, riding on public transit gazing into the windows of homes and flats, the world divided into two categories, those with and without roaches. I unfortunately fell in the first group in each flat I resided in, tormented by their thousands of years of survival, knowing full they well they would outlive me as well.
When Monday rolled around I called a company first thing, non toxic of course, and they assured me they would do away with these non paying roommates. The next day a man in a crisp uniform and soothing voice, with a large flashlight and fearless tone in his voice showed up at my door. Within seconds he made his first observation, my personal terrorists were not roaches at all, in fact they were clicking beetles. When I googled flying beetles the search results were about the singing group Beatles (if I spelled it correctly I would have avoided this), not the sort that fly through the air and crash into your body, bed, windows and desk. I was beyond joy when he said they were seasonal, that is until he visited the attic and discovered roach droppings, confirmed by the dead American Roach (patriotic roaches?) lying on my living room floor. He reassured me they would be disposed of and sent on their way for a fee. Where do I sign I asked? How soon can you get started? In my desperation and revulsion, I might have signed over my first born, a newly minted lawyer, or my recently graduated son from university, a handsome guy with potential earning power as a model if it would secure a pest free existence. I came to my senses when a check was all they required in return for assurances that these unwanted and uninvited pests would be banished from my otherwise wonderful new home.
I greeted the pest control man like a returning war hero when he arrived at my door. Humble and polite, he carefully grinned at my distress, amusement he no doubt had felt many times before. He explained things might get worse before they get better as the nervous systems start to go ballistic on the chemicals he sprayed around the perimeter of the house and in the dark corners of the interior. The dogs and I trailed him at first, then backing off as I mumbled prayers to myself that my house become a living breathing example of their ability to rid a home of pests. After speaking with my friends Chris and Kim, I felt confident this distress would soon become a distant memory.
In reality, the problem had been blown out of proportion and was not as bad as I first feared. Although there are roach droppings, I never really saw them. The clicking beetles and I engage in daily (and nightly) battles sometimes, me armed with my shoe and they with a relentless stamina acquired through thousands of years of breeding. Mother nature always outsmarts us humans, and we never seem to learn or pay homage to her beauty, power and wisdom, particularly when nature enters our sealed existence. I am waiting for the season to change or their timely submission to the chemicals. In the meantime, I talk to them when they crash into my computer screen like drunk drivers, or start clicking and rattling the mini blinds when I lay down to sleep. I proclaim victory when my shoe lands hard and fast on their bodies and makes a loud crunch. I have learned to live with the clicking beetles, and feel gratitude that they are not roaches, and that they are seasonal.
What is the lesson here? And is it really about clicking flying beetles at all or the roller coaster of change and transition? Fear can engulf you, strangle your momentum and leave you with nothing but doubt and recrimination. The pests reminded me the challenges ahead would be many, from statistics to writing papers in accordance with APA guidelines, and beyond. I left my familiar existence, and even if the familiar is squashing us, we cling to it for the reassurance it provides. It is a bait and switch though, a deception that tethers us to stagnation and provokes fear of change. I have felt this trepidation and doubt before, each time I traveled abroad to paint and write, explore and be a person in the world away from my trappings and identity as a mother and caretaker. I never regretted my decision to venture out, the benefits I reaped have far outweighed the cost or recrimination I encountered. The constellation of dear friends who have enriched my life and the life of my family, the paintings painted and words written, and vistas seen have made my life magical. Moving to Austin is yet another journey, one that exceeds the usual duration of a month, and clicking beetles or not, I am confident it will alter my life in ways I cannot imagine, more for the better than worse. So move over clicking flying beetles, I have a closet full of shoes and an exterminator who has seen the likes of you before.
In the morning I surveyed the dead, defeated bodies on the floor. I made a desperate call to my friend and real estate agent who talked me down, and another to my friend Chris, leaving a message to call me. I called an exterminator company and left a frantic message. It was a Saturday, leaving me two days before I could plead with someone to drop everything and come to my rescue. I became obsessed with roaches, trying to sneak up on them with my shoe. Not so fondly, I recalled my days as an art student living in roach infested apartments in San Francisco, riding on public transit gazing into the windows of homes and flats, the world divided into two categories, those with and without roaches. I unfortunately fell in the first group in each flat I resided in, tormented by their thousands of years of survival, knowing full they well they would outlive me as well.
When Monday rolled around I called a company first thing, non toxic of course, and they assured me they would do away with these non paying roommates. The next day a man in a crisp uniform and soothing voice, with a large flashlight and fearless tone in his voice showed up at my door. Within seconds he made his first observation, my personal terrorists were not roaches at all, in fact they were clicking beetles. When I googled flying beetles the search results were about the singing group Beatles (if I spelled it correctly I would have avoided this), not the sort that fly through the air and crash into your body, bed, windows and desk. I was beyond joy when he said they were seasonal, that is until he visited the attic and discovered roach droppings, confirmed by the dead American Roach (patriotic roaches?) lying on my living room floor. He reassured me they would be disposed of and sent on their way for a fee. Where do I sign I asked? How soon can you get started? In my desperation and revulsion, I might have signed over my first born, a newly minted lawyer, or my recently graduated son from university, a handsome guy with potential earning power as a model if it would secure a pest free existence. I came to my senses when a check was all they required in return for assurances that these unwanted and uninvited pests would be banished from my otherwise wonderful new home.
I greeted the pest control man like a returning war hero when he arrived at my door. Humble and polite, he carefully grinned at my distress, amusement he no doubt had felt many times before. He explained things might get worse before they get better as the nervous systems start to go ballistic on the chemicals he sprayed around the perimeter of the house and in the dark corners of the interior. The dogs and I trailed him at first, then backing off as I mumbled prayers to myself that my house become a living breathing example of their ability to rid a home of pests. After speaking with my friends Chris and Kim, I felt confident this distress would soon become a distant memory.
In reality, the problem had been blown out of proportion and was not as bad as I first feared. Although there are roach droppings, I never really saw them. The clicking beetles and I engage in daily (and nightly) battles sometimes, me armed with my shoe and they with a relentless stamina acquired through thousands of years of breeding. Mother nature always outsmarts us humans, and we never seem to learn or pay homage to her beauty, power and wisdom, particularly when nature enters our sealed existence. I am waiting for the season to change or their timely submission to the chemicals. In the meantime, I talk to them when they crash into my computer screen like drunk drivers, or start clicking and rattling the mini blinds when I lay down to sleep. I proclaim victory when my shoe lands hard and fast on their bodies and makes a loud crunch. I have learned to live with the clicking beetles, and feel gratitude that they are not roaches, and that they are seasonal.
What is the lesson here? And is it really about clicking flying beetles at all or the roller coaster of change and transition? Fear can engulf you, strangle your momentum and leave you with nothing but doubt and recrimination. The pests reminded me the challenges ahead would be many, from statistics to writing papers in accordance with APA guidelines, and beyond. I left my familiar existence, and even if the familiar is squashing us, we cling to it for the reassurance it provides. It is a bait and switch though, a deception that tethers us to stagnation and provokes fear of change. I have felt this trepidation and doubt before, each time I traveled abroad to paint and write, explore and be a person in the world away from my trappings and identity as a mother and caretaker. I never regretted my decision to venture out, the benefits I reaped have far outweighed the cost or recrimination I encountered. The constellation of dear friends who have enriched my life and the life of my family, the paintings painted and words written, and vistas seen have made my life magical. Moving to Austin is yet another journey, one that exceeds the usual duration of a month, and clicking beetles or not, I am confident it will alter my life in ways I cannot imagine, more for the better than worse. So move over clicking flying beetles, I have a closet full of shoes and an exterminator who has seen the likes of you before.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Austin or Bust
Two days and 31 hours of driving with my two Golden Retrievers brought me to my new home in Austin Texas. At 6AM, after a brutal 17 hour drive from Scottsdale, Arizona, Pepsi, Pearl and I arrived exhausted, but safe. I drove with vigilance and determination through the Texas Hill Country, my hands gripping the steering wheel in fear that I would collide with one of the many deer that dotted the road, or in one case, darted out onto the deserted main street of a small town along 290. I was advised to take 290 when I asked folks at gas stations and coffee shops, though it was always tempered with a warning to "watch out for those deer". And there were plenty to watch out for. It was last hour or two that tested me, when Austin seemed too close to surrender to the temptation to stay in one the quaint lodgings in hill country. I had the dogs, and by the time I checked in and got them walked and settled, I could be in Austin, climbing into the bed waiting in the guest bedroom, in an otherwise empty house. So I drove on, arriving as the sun began to rise.
In the driveway I surveyed my home for the next 3-4 years, perhaps more depending on how long it takes me to complete a PhD and the opportunities that unfold as a result. My aching and stiff body betrayed my 52 years, no longer able to sustain the rigors of marathon road trips as I did on the old days. We did it I said to Peps and Pearl, this is home from now on. It was an epic journey on so many levels. I drove away from my home in California two days earlier, tears streaming down my face as I glanced in the rear view mirror at my two children and their father, waving to me. They never saw those tears, nor were they privy to the doubt, fear and guilt I felt as I drove away from a street I had lived for 20 years. I raised my kids on that street, in a house I never wanted to live in, a poor substitute for my dream to move to Seattle. It all seemed so long ago, the big and small episodes, crowded memories tucked into a few boxes and the many more left behind, almost suspended in motion between my old and new life. Those four walls protected me and received me in my various states. It withstood the slamming doors, my meltdowns and fits, and it witnessed my lowest ebbs that I managed to keep hidden from the world. We harbor secrets, that house and I. When I floated on my dreams and painted hours on end, spent a year and a half writing a book and held those I love, it enclosed my joy. I learned to love that house, perhaps grudgingly, but I loved it nonetheless. And like many loves, it can slowly close you in and take the air out of your lungs, the walls closing in and blocking light. That's how it felt, though the house was not the culprit, it was simply time for me to shake up the marbles and make a leap of faith. If I was to pursue and complete a PhD it would require me leaving my life, family, and the familiar. No more drops ins, piles of other people's laundry, housework for three, or easy access.
What led me to Austin is part of a larger trajectory. I intend to retrace those steps as I chronicle my life here. The ordinary is always more extraordinary that the grand gestures. The composition of moments, hours and days that form the contours of our lives; the range of emotions felt, interactions, relationships and experiences provide a vantage point of who we are, where we have been and where we wish to go. I am committed to taking a chance on magic and welcoming the unknown. History is worth recounting, memory holds place and establishes a context for our always developing selves. I can account for the past; however, the future is a blank slate. I can work with that. The important thing is to get started. So in official blog capacity, my life in Austin has begun. If you care to, follow along and let's see where it takes me.
In the driveway I surveyed my home for the next 3-4 years, perhaps more depending on how long it takes me to complete a PhD and the opportunities that unfold as a result. My aching and stiff body betrayed my 52 years, no longer able to sustain the rigors of marathon road trips as I did on the old days. We did it I said to Peps and Pearl, this is home from now on. It was an epic journey on so many levels. I drove away from my home in California two days earlier, tears streaming down my face as I glanced in the rear view mirror at my two children and their father, waving to me. They never saw those tears, nor were they privy to the doubt, fear and guilt I felt as I drove away from a street I had lived for 20 years. I raised my kids on that street, in a house I never wanted to live in, a poor substitute for my dream to move to Seattle. It all seemed so long ago, the big and small episodes, crowded memories tucked into a few boxes and the many more left behind, almost suspended in motion between my old and new life. Those four walls protected me and received me in my various states. It withstood the slamming doors, my meltdowns and fits, and it witnessed my lowest ebbs that I managed to keep hidden from the world. We harbor secrets, that house and I. When I floated on my dreams and painted hours on end, spent a year and a half writing a book and held those I love, it enclosed my joy. I learned to love that house, perhaps grudgingly, but I loved it nonetheless. And like many loves, it can slowly close you in and take the air out of your lungs, the walls closing in and blocking light. That's how it felt, though the house was not the culprit, it was simply time for me to shake up the marbles and make a leap of faith. If I was to pursue and complete a PhD it would require me leaving my life, family, and the familiar. No more drops ins, piles of other people's laundry, housework for three, or easy access.
What led me to Austin is part of a larger trajectory. I intend to retrace those steps as I chronicle my life here. The ordinary is always more extraordinary that the grand gestures. The composition of moments, hours and days that form the contours of our lives; the range of emotions felt, interactions, relationships and experiences provide a vantage point of who we are, where we have been and where we wish to go. I am committed to taking a chance on magic and welcoming the unknown. History is worth recounting, memory holds place and establishes a context for our always developing selves. I can account for the past; however, the future is a blank slate. I can work with that. The important thing is to get started. So in official blog capacity, my life in Austin has begun. If you care to, follow along and let's see where it takes me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
