Flying Into a Rage

"People who fly into a rage always make a bad landing." - Will Roger

I heard a story recently about a romance that ended because the woman, a psychiatrist ironically enough, had a tendency to fly into a rage--an activity I've always believed to be singularly useless. I can only remember actually doing it a couple of times, both of which I thoroughly regret. More often I detour around rage, prompted by numerous signs along the roadside:

Potential Rage Ahead
Warning! Rage May Ensue
Trucks Shift Into Lower Gear, Rage in 1.5 Miles
In Case of Rage, Climb to Higher Ground

Isn't there always higher ground to climb to, or is there a place for flying into a rage? I once deliberately geared myself up to fly into a vicious rage with somebody I loved very much, not to release pent up anger but more in hopes I might finally persuade him to change and choose a less self-destructive path. Here is a list of activities on that same level of futility:

* Banging your head against a stone wall
* Pissing in the wind, tilting at windmills, clutching at straws
* Changing practically anything but your own reactions
* Sewing a cambric shirt without seams or needlework
* Finding an acre of land between the salt water and the sea sand

See also Scarborough Fair with a shout out to folk singers everywhere.
"But everybody needs to vent," you say.

Venting is different--properly done, it's letting off steam with somebody who cares enough about you to be sympathetic just long enough and no longer, lest you find yourself in a rut.  Whereas indulging in full-on rage usually results in your saying hateful things you don't really mean in a nuclear escalation that often includes you subsequently hearing hateful things from the distant past and/or your misbegotten youth.

Instead, release the pressure a bit at a time with patience and direct communication, and nobody gets hurt. Clare Pinkola Estes tells the story of the faithful wife's long search for the tiger's eyelashes, a promised cure for her husband's debilitating post-traumatic stress. In the end, the patience that was required to obtain the tiger's eyelashes was itself the cure.  What her husband needed most was her patience and love.  Rage was just an unnecessary and stressful stop along the way.

All of that said, I am working on being more comfortable with anger, which is not the enemy, but a friend, a signpost pointing to situations demanding a closer look. It is okay to feel anger (and any other feeling), and nothing to fear. The key is what happens next.

Empty Nests

On today's walk I found some branches and leaves scattered on the ground after last night's rainstorm.  And on the rough gray sidewalk an empty bird's nest caught my eye.  It was only later I saw the connection:  after several lovely visits and stays from grown children throughout the spring and summer, the house is now quite empty, our cat commandeering the guest room bed as her personal divan, and fall is fast approaching.

I'm pretty sure birds are unsentimental about their nests once the chicks have flown (as I'm fervently hoping was the case for this nest).  Humans are a bit more complicated: proud of the courageous and independent flying they observe, and yet a little melancholy all the same.

It's small compensation to know we're now free to indulge in various 60-something eccentricities:  strolling down the hallway stark naked after a shower, cooking new recipes that bubble ominously on the stove and later sliding inedible experiments unceremoniously from plate to compost bucket, having long heart-to-heart conversations with the cat about appropriate timing between treats and what effort ought to be made to earn those treats, mildly cursing the iPad when a Scrabble opponent plays an obscure word, having a tad too lengthy a couples conversation about various bodily emissions, reading for hours while eating popcorn, gelato or cheese, watching movies inappropriate for our age, attempting to learn one-footed Yoga positions from a DVD and teetering over, and other activities left to the reader's imagination.

The fledglings' imaginations will fill in the blanks deliciously; or more likely we will rarely cross their minds.  If all else fails we'll serve as horrible examples.  Is the image of an empty nest sad?  It represents those happy fledglings taking flight to go build their own nests. Mother birds have no choice but to rejoice, and breathe in the freedom.  Care for another Cheezit?

Grieving in Place

Grieving in Place

Searching for light in this beloved face,
And well-remembered passion
Lost in the present

The presence of light
Still under the surface
Still sending small glimmers upward

Sometimes these storm clouds
Float far enough away
And a small patch of blue smiles,
Or a sunset glows in orange and red
Fading so breathtakingly soon back into deep purple
Then midnight blue and gray once more.

Searching for light in this beloved face
Grieving in place

Weatherwaxisms

On Father's Day eve this year I'm thinking a lot about my Dad.  I miss his unique and eccentric humor, his irreverence, his generosity. On his March 29 birthday in 1986, around the time when Dad retired from RCA, his good friend and co-worker Sandy Lynch compiled this list that always helps me remember him better; some were uttered by him with enthusiasm, others with irony or thinly-veiled sarcasm.

It's like poetry I think.  Those who knew him (or me) or worked with him (or me) or have been lucky enough to join us long ago for one of Mom's Sugar Acres dinners one evening may remember some of these phrases.  There are many parts of life where this vernacular suits, and why not?

Weatherwaxisms*

 Marvelous!

Hell of a plan (deal)

Absolutely ecstatic

You got it, little sister

I'd do it for a dog

You're a hell of a nice lady

You ain't all bad

May I help you?

Appling

Alleying

Sitting up late with sick friends

What is it that you want to have happen?

He/she is a bonafide flibbertygibbet

Poor damned thing

Floundering around aimlessly

I hope so--fervently

Depend on it!

The bean cannery

Right before your horrified eyes

Where will it ever end?

Basically bad

Ya done good!

Oh dear!

Kinda makes your sphincter tighten

Not too shabby

Feigned ardor

Why not?

Fair enough!

A live one

Try not to panic

Suits!

Pitiful

Hybrid vigor

Someone has to serve as a horrible example

*(So you don't forget the vernacular)

Curiouser and Curiouser

Fern Canyon, Boulder CO

"Life is meant to be lived, and curiosity must be kept alive.  One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life." - Eleanor Roosevelt

For those of us still curious about life, the Internet is one fine invention because its hyperlink structure allows you to wander from one related (or not so related) idea to the next so very easily.  It's like taking a hike in a vast forest and being presented with many twisty passages, all different. Exciting to explore, easy to get lost and follow a path that seems to dwindle to nothing.  But even at that point of nothingness, new rabbit holes pop up along with new ideas if you have enough curiosity to take the plunge.  To me, curiosity is essential to joy in my life; however, I also want to be someone who can provide some guideposts along the path.

Recently, a group of people I worked closely with for many years before my retirement in February were laid off, after two decades or more of faithful service to the company throughout its various transformations, iterations and new-old strategies.  This latest development was described by the company's leaders in Orwellian newspeak as "simplification."

I've only been laid off once several years ago, but the experience is still vivid in my memory:  the initial feeling of being jettisoned out of the spacecraft with limited oxygen in the tank, the processing of the various stages of grief, the questioning of self worth, the terror at the unknown.  So my heart has been with these friends as they each travel their new paths--some elated, some scared, some elated and scared, some just thinking they'll take the summer off and then decide what to do, some kicking into courageous high gear to finally fulfill that beautiful writing project or Caribbean dream they've been envisioning these many years.

After talking to some of them, I'm not heartbroken any longer.  I'm thrilled for them.  Yes, yes, yes, as always there are practical considerations.  If they asked me, I would tell them there are many paths in the forest, and curiosity is the best gift.  Don't deny those urges to explore the less traveled side paths. As has just been revealed once again, you never know what you'll encounter on the next steps in the journey and that's what keeps it interesting.

There Are Seven Letters in Wavicle

On Mother’s Day yesterday, Caitlin and Shannon cooked me a wonderful dinner:  beet salad, braised chicken with olives and capers, and molten chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream.  And they indulged me by playing four games of Scrabble.  They have both gotten good enough now that they are perfectly capable of trouncing me at the game, and are much less likely to be cowed by my knowing smile when they consider challenging a word I’ve played.

I learned Scrabble during long wintery Indiana evenings from my Mom and Dad, who were both excellent players.  My Dad’s strategy was setting himself up to play bingos (using all 7 tiles at once for 50 extra points).  My Mom’s strategy was short, tight plays leveraging high scoring tiles on triple score squares.  My Dad’s plays opened up the board, and my Mom’s plays closed the board right back up again.  I tripped along behind both of them, grasping at any and all opportunities that presented themselves along the way.  The best part was looking up a word I’d challenged and discovering I was right.

When you look up a word, there’s an irresistible urge to peruse adjacent words in the dictionary (if you love words the way we do).  That’s how Shannon discovered a very good word last night while looking up my play of “waver” (which he was sure had to have an i in it, despite my knowing smile):

Wavicle:  a subatomic particle that can act like both a wave and a particle.

And, as it happens, a 7-letter word.

Eating Artichokes

The other day artichokes were on sale at King Soopers, 2 for $3.  I bought two and took them home to cook the way Mom used to cook them:  cut off the tough stems; put them in a pot with salted water to cover (although the little dudes float, so covering them is an impossible quest); add chopped garlic (Mom used garlic salt instead); and then boil them to within an inch of their lives, for around 40 minutes. Chill them in the fridge for at least a day, then eat them cold for lunch with plenty of real, salty-lemony mayonnaise (Hellman's, not that sickly sweet Miracle Whip crap).

Eating an artichoke is a unique experience.  The boiling gives them a dark army green color.  You set them on a large plate so you have room for the discarded leaves, with plenty of mayo on the side, then you add another spoonful of mayo for good measure. Peel off one leaf at a time, dip the non-pointy end in just enough mayo to make it tasty, then scrape the soft green stuff into your mouth with your lower teeth.  Artichokes have kind of a vegetably, mayonnaisy flavor (some say they are merely an excuse for eating mayo--I've been known to eat cold leftover cooked broccoli the same way).

As you remove the leaves one by one, eventually you unearth a cluster of remarkably lethal-looking leaves in the center with pointy purple ends that can actually prick you if you're not careful.  You gather these together and pull them out of the remaining artichoke heart in furry little tufts, and then you're left with what my mother called "a delicacy," the artichoke heart.  And if you've been careful with your mayonnaise you have enough left to do it justice.

Artichokes remind me of my mother, who ate them with matter-of-fact gusto as if they didn't look like small green creatures from the planet Vegeton.  Sometimes I was allowed to pack one for my school lunch.  How the mayonnaise was preserved in my un-refrigerated little lunchbox so that it didn't kill me off with salmonella by the time lunch rolled around I'm not sure.  I do know that the other kids at my grade school, their lunch trays loaded with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and mystery meat, would gaze at me with a mixture of revulsion and admiration while I ate the artichoke in the time-honored fashion--just one of many things back then that earned me and my family an eccentric reputation in a small southern Indiana town in the early 60's.