P.A.L. – “Know thyself”

Saturday, January 2nd, 2010

In the category of knowing myself comes the fact that I am not auditioning for a part on Survivor today.

It’s strange living in a writer’s brain, where scenarios get played out, even if very unlikely or even impossible, for the sake of exploring what “might” happen. The strange part is how I sometimes, for brief moments, forget that I am not a fictional character who might, for example, enjoy building shelters on a remote island or be able to scavenge for food or handle the strange politics of faux tribes and alliances or feel confident striding around in a bikini and talking about my fellow island competitors on-camera behind their backs. (”I just don’t know if I can trust Alicia….”)

I remember when Survivor first came on television, before reality TV exploded into the messy phenomenon it is today. I only watched snippets of the show, because I heard that people were getting hooked on it. I was appalled at some of the behavior, including the whole “voting someone off the island” thing and the fact that the man who won that first season did so through disunifying and unvirtuous behavior that was glorified as “playing the game.” I haven’t followed the show ever since (and didn’t even follow it that time), and I’m distressed by the idea of it. (On a side note, to see how Survivor would play out when taken to the extreme, read The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins. Very well-written and very disturbing.)

So why would I find out about Survivor auditions happening in Seattle and think, “Ooh! Maybe I could do that!” I know it’s just that writer-brain fantasy thing, but it still took me about half an hour to thoroughly unstick myself from the idea. “I’m a nervous traveler,” I had to remind myself. “I’d have to be gone 7 weeks – what would Doug and the kids do without me?” “Do they even pay you anything if you don’t win?” “There’s no way they would cast me, since I’m not busty and I’m not a model and I’m old by TV standards.”

But I still introduced the idea to Doug, saying, “Maybe I could win! I could be one of those background contestants that nobody notices and everybody keeps on the island because I’m not a threat. And then I come out to win it all!”

Then I remembered, with the assistance of my dear husband, how opinionated and judgemental I can be, especially under stress. If I were on Survivor, I would be just as petty as anyone else and end up being so ashamed of my behavior that I couldn’t show my face in public. But I would have to for promotional spots. And post-show tours. Especially if I won.

No, no, no! Being a Survivor contestant is not what I am meant to do! But what am I meant to do? Apparently I am too morally decrepit to work in kitchens anymore. At least according to the results of my Hartman Value Profile.

The Hartman Value Profile is an intriguing little tool, supposedly based on lots of research, that assesses a person’s inner being through two lists. Each list contains 18 items or phrases which the test taker is supposed to prioritize by number, “1” having the highest or most positive value on the list, and “18” having the lowest value. I love taking tests, especially ones that are supposed to assess my character, so I happily filled out the form, confident that I had valued things in the best way possible, and sent it off by e-mail to the Highline Medical Center’s HR department, knowing that they would want to hire me as a dietary clerk. This is the e-mail I received back:

“Thank you for returning your completed profile. Upon scoring it indicates your score does not meet the standards we are given to forward your resume. However, we do give the opportunity to re-take the profile with more clear instructions.”

I was genuinely surprised. The instructions for filling out the form were resent, this time with extra spaces between each sentence, the equivalent of speaking loudly and clearly to a person who needs a “little extra help” understanding things.

I immediatley went back to the forms that I had sent, thinking maybe the answers I had filled out had been erased from the PDF. But no, all of my answers were there, intact and making sense. Only when I looked at them again more thoroughly did I find a few of my decisions that may have scored poorly.

For example, I scored “a madman” with a higher value than “an assembly line”. The way I see it, a madman is a human being who may have many positive attributes despite having screwed-up brain chemistry, while an assembly line is a soul-sucking job I had once. But I changed the order of their values and then redid the whole form, trying to imagine what the “right” answers would be. Finally satisfied, but not as confident as before, I sent the profile off one more time. That same day I received another e-mail:

“Thank you for returning your re-take of the Hartman Value Profile. Your score still does not meet the “standards” in order to have your resume forwarded for open positions at this time. You may re-apply after 30 days for positions with requirements that match your qualifications.”

Wha…?

I find this situation fascinating! And I want to know the secret code! What does this HR person know about me that I don’t know?

New Year’s Resolution

Saturday, January 2nd, 2010

Forty one years ago today, I was born. I happen to have been born on the day when many people make goals for themselves and resolve to fulfill them during the coming year. Since I started my whole life on this particular day of goal setting, perhaps it’s natural that I take this January 1st reassessment thing fairly seriously. Except for resolving several years ago to finish my young adult novel, I haven’t set many concrete goals throughout the years. More often I spend those days around my birthday wondering what I’m doing with my life. It’s not always as angst-ridden as it may sound, but it can be uncomfortable, and the older I get, the more urgent the self-questioning has become.

Perhaps anticipating this upcoming life accomplishment question, I spent much of my pilgrimage prayer time asking what I need to be doing with my life, what God created me to do, and what job or career path I need to be taking. Writing is definitely something I want to keep doing, but so far it’s not bringing in any money, and I would like to earn some of that someday.

Baha’u’llah said, “Having attained the stage of fulfilment and reached his maturity, man standeth in need of wealth, and such wealth as he acquireth through crafts or professions is commendable and praiseworthy in the estimation of men of wisdom….” I have felt guilty at times that I have spent so much time and money getting an education towards a profession I don’t practice or earn money from. But the real kicker, the thing to pay attention to that guides one toward a craft or profession, is the first part of that quote: “…man should know his own self and recognize that which leadeth unto loftiness or lowliness, glory or abasement, wealth or poverty.”

I know myself fairly well, having had forty one years to get to know me, including five-ish years of therapy, but I still don’t know what I “should” be doing with my life, professionally speaking. While I was on pilgrimage, I prayed about this career issue, which is very important in the Baha’i Faith, not only from the standpoint of monetary wealth, but also of spiritual wealth, as evidenced by the quote: “It is enjoined upon every one of you to engage in some form of occupation, such as crafts, trades and the like. We have graciously exalted your engagement in such work to the rank of worship unto God, the True One.”

I prayed about this career issue often in the shrines, and the topic came up a few times when I talked with fellow pilgrims. Once, while chatting and drinking tea during a visit to Bahji, a fellow pilgrim from Seattle told me about a program that offers an accelerated nursing degree to people with other degrees. It sounded like it could have been an answer to prayer, but I wasn’t sure. And now that I’m home and have had a chance to research the program, I see that it would take a lot of money, which I don’t have, and which I can’t risk spending on a career I’m not sure I want to pursue. I’ve already gone that route as an unemployed holder of a master’s degree in nutrition.

As I tried to focus my prayers and to summarize my feelings and desires into words, the phrase that kept coming to my mind was, “How can I be of service?” So even though specific fantasies would enter my mind (from as mundane as me teaching ESL to as inflated as me being interviewed by David Letterman about my book-turned-movie), I usually end up praying in the direction of “How can I be of service?” After all, if you love someone, you want to be of service to them. And in questions of motivation or direction, love is a pretty good place to start.

So even though I don’t know exactly where I’m headed as far as a career or job goes, I keep writing, and I keep looking at jobs listed online, and I keep trusting that God will answer my prayers as long as I keep doing the footwork.

PAL – Pre-New-Year Entry

Friday, January 1st, 2010

I was tempted to feel guilty for not blogging yesterday, but decided that one day of rest, having such a distinctive place in many religions, isn’t so bad. Two days of rest, however, just doesn’t seem right. So here it is 11:21 p.m., and another day – and another year – is about to end. But I want to write one more entry before it does.

Speaking of days of rest, and trying to pull this blog entry back to the subject of my pilgrimage, Doug and I could tell which religion Haifa shopowners ascribed to by noticing which day of the week they were closed.

Our hotel was located in the German Colony, a traditionally Christian area. In 1868, the German Templars camped out at the bottom of Mount Carmel waiting for the return of Jesus Christ. The buildings they built out of the resident limstone lined and still line the street which eventually became Ben Gurion Avenue. The Wikipedia entry for “German Colony” shows a wonderfully sparse “before” sepia-tone picture of those buildings, and the “after” picture shows the modern view of Ben Gurion Avenue from one of the lower terraces of the Shrine of the Bab. Some of the people in German Colony still seem to be Christian, and so of course those shops were closed on Sunday.

There are many shops with Jewish ownership, of course, and these were closed on Saturday. There was only one shop that I noticed being closed on Friday. I hadn’t really thought of it until we ate there on a Saturday, when some other places were closed. It was a sandwhich shop, offering what turned out to be huge sandwiches on long, skinny loaves of freshly baked bread. There were two small tables outside and two tiny tables and a counter inside. Doug and I sat in the table to the right of the door and waited for the owner to serve a few other customers who came in right after us. Trying not to feel slighted by the order discrepancy, I looked up at the TV almost directly above me and let myself be entertained by videos in another language that didn’t sound like Hebrew. Modern-looking men and women sang about what must have been love, the difficulties of relationships, the differences between men and women. It’s all the same in any language, isn’t it?

After Hafez, the owner, an old man with gray hair and mustache, named the lumps of meat in the deli case (turkey, beef, duck, others), and Doug and I placed our orders, I asked him what kind of music was playing.

“This music is Palestinian,” he said. “It is from a Palestinian station.” I saw “Egypt” flash at the bottom of the screen.

Later Hafez, smoke swirling from the cigarette in his hand, came to ask us where we were from. We talked with him briefly, but soon his attention was pulled outside, and he excused himself at the next break in conversation. I turned to look behind me and see who Hafez was greeting, and it was three lovely young girls, maybe 12 or 13 years old, each with long curly black hair. He gave each a high five before they came in to sit at the other inside table.

I surmised that maybe Hafez was the grandfather of one of more of the girls, who seemed very at home there, even squeezing past me and Doug to get behind the counter to the frig where the coca-cola was kept.

I loved that these girls had a place where they could go and feel appreciated and even loved as they had their lunch. I saw this pattern repeated over and over, actually. There were many little shops all over the city of Haifa, small and fairly basic, but very well-frequented. There were rarely any lines, and never long ones, and the people working in those shops were individuals who clearly knew their customers well. The cashiers were often obviously related to the others working there. In one case three brothers owned a little grocery store. One shop was run by a wife whose husband chatted outside with a friend. A restaurant was owned by a man and his wife, who was there with their tiny baby. The workers didn’t have that empty look that comes from just putting in time to get a paycheck. These were chosen livelihoods, and customer service directly related to their income. It felt nice. Personal. Real.

Well, hear I have it, a somewhat rambling entry, and not even finished before the New Year announced itself with the neighbors fireworks, popping and snapping and booming. I took a little break in the middle of blogging to go to my mother-in-law’s next door, where Doug and the kids are watching some local coverage of the midnight clickover to 2010. I am now very tired and ready for bed.

Happy New Year everyone!

PAL – Arriving in Haifa, sick and well

Tuesday, December 29th, 2009

One thing I like about being sick is that it decreases my capacity for fret and worry. Granted, it also decreases my capacity for just about everything else, as well, but there were times at the beginning of our trip (during the times I wasn’t vomitting) that I was actually thankful for the focus that my sickness offered.

After Doug and I were well, someone jokingly referred to our sickness as a pre-pilgrimage “cleansing”, and I had actually thought of that to a certain degree. Not only was I not able to rely on comfort eating to deal with my anxiety about travelling in a foreign country, I wasn’t able to rely on most of what I count on – physical strength, clear thinking, a home I can easily get to with phone access to doctors, familiar pharmacists who can recommend medicine, probiotics and soy yogurt from Trader Joe’s to help repopulate the good bacteria in my intestinal tract, Emergen-C drink, sports drinks for renewing electrolytes – none of that was available, at least not without expending much more time and effort than Doug or I could afford.

So without any of those fallback comforters, it was easy to remember God’s role as Comforter. And without physical strength to draw on, it was easier to remember that I have spiritual strengths as well, and to tell myself this was a good opportunity to use them. Patience, faith, love, persistence, determination, appreciation of beauty, and probably many others came into play as I moved my body along when I had to, sat when I could, and silently said the “remover of difficulties” prayer when I needed to. Remembering regular prayer and meditation has been a challenge for me in my daily life, but here I had been given an opportunity to give my outer life a break while the inside life got its workout. That was a blessing.

At the Haifa train station, there were hardly any folks besides me and Doug, maybe because they had all moved to the main lobby much more quickly than we were able to. As we shuffled our way out the front door, we saw a group of dark-haired men talking and standing near a series of about four small white cars. One of the men nodded to the others and came up to me and Doug as I sat on the stairs to catch my breath. “Taxi?” he said. Doug’s face looked pained. I had figured out from the map that we were not very far from our hotel, and under other circumstances we probably would have walked.

“How much?”

“Where are you going?”

“Haddad House.”

“I know that place. Forty shekels.” The man gave a side-nod of the head, his arms out in a brief gesture that seemed to imply he was giving us a deal. His stance showed us he was ready to either grab our bags or walk away.

Doug looked at me, I shrugged, and Doug turned back to the man. “Okay.”

Once in the cab we went through the familiar, “Where are you from?” bit, but this time with a twist. Doug told the driver we were from Seattle, to which the driver replied, “Seattle Super Sonics!” Doug’s face lit up and fell at the same time, a smile and mock-mourning sharing time on his face. “Oh,” said Doug. “Not anymore.” The two of them talked NBA for the rest of the trip, which, predictably, was not very long, though longer, we later discovered, than warranted by what was essentially a 5-block distance. It didn’t matter, though. We were glad for the transportation.

Haddad House is on the main road leading from the Haifa harbor up to the base of Mount Carmel. From there, the terraces of the shrine of the Bab take over, nine long and beautifully landscaped terraces leading up to the shrine, which is known for its beautiful and distinctive gold dome, different from a mosque, but just as inspirational of worship. As Doug and the cab driver took our luggage out of the trunk of the taxi, I let my gaze wander up Ben Gurion Avenue to the mountain, and I was surprised. “Doug! Look at the shrine!”

Doug looked up to see. What should have been a gold dome not too far in the distance was just a large mystery object wrapped up in light beige cloth – another pilgrim later compared it to a gigantic lampshade. We found out later that the gold tiles of the dome were being replaced one by one and that the whole project would take three years. I loved it, though I couldn’t describe why. Maybe it was because the wrapped up dome reminded me of a Christo art piece. But now, after I’m home, it seems like it was another sign to pay more attention to the draw of the spiritual than the flash of the physical.

PAL – Child soldiers

Monday, December 28th, 2009

Having the end-of-the-line bus station next to the train station is very handy, and doubles one’s people-watching pleasure.

I felt lucky, as we walked to the ticket booth and then to the stairs down to the train platform to be surrounded by Israeli soldiers. It was a welcome distraction from nausea to absorb the sight of hundreds of young people in khaki green uniforms milling around. I had forgotten that Israeli citizens are required to serve in the armed forces. From what Doug and I could tell, they must be conscripted right out of high school, because they all looked so young.

“Children with guns,” Doug commented later. Only a few of them actually carried large plasticky-looking guns, a shade darker green than the uniforms. At first Doug and I had the brief impression of the guns being toys, but we were pretty sure they were real assault rifles. Doug remembered that Uzis are made in Israel (a very guy thing to know) and he wondered if that’s what we were seeing. I only saw young men, no women, carrying these weapons, slung cross-ways over their shoulders, often with one hand touching the rifle casually as the other hand gestured toward a fellow khaki-wearing soldier.

It was one of these soldiers who pointed out to Doug a level below us where we should wait for the train to Haifa. Amidst the casual bustle of a pleasant afternoon, Doug headed down the stairs as I stopped and caught my breath. A non-soldier young man spoke to me in Hebrew and pointed behind me to some elevator doors. I smiled some thanks, maybe even said “Todah” (thanks in Hebrew), but decided to follow Doug, who was way ahead of me and out of earshot, so that he wouldn’t be worried about where I was.

What a warm day it was, so different from what we had left at home. We settled in a sunny spot on a black mesh-metal bench, one of many on the long concrete platform. I lay down, my head on Doug’s lap, and soaked in the sunshine, letting it heal me as I watched a group of women soldiers gather on and around the bench next to us. Some of them wore kelly green rimless soft caps, but more often the caps seemed to be tucked into a little shoulder strap, adding a splash of color to their outfit, like a cheerful, oddly-placed boutonniere.

Once on the train, Doug and I sat across from each other, Doug next to a gentleman who spoke a little bit of English, asking us, “Where you are?” Brief confusion resolved in an understanding that he wanted to know where we (obvious foreigners) came from.

“Seattle. Washington. United States.” “Ah,” he said with a head nod. And soon we and all of the passengers filling every seat of the car, felt the rythmic vibrations of moving along on a train. Some people talked, some people fell asleep, and I finally felt useful as I perused the maps I had gathered and figured out which of the three Haifa stops would be closest to our hotel. I could understand better than Doug the prerecorded woman’s voice coming over the speakers, announcing each stop. So I listened for her voice and alternately watched passengers and scenery as the train lulled me into a comfortable semi-doze. In about an hour, we were in Haifa.

PAL – Phase one

Sunday, December 27th, 2009

And now we come to the “At Least It Makes For a Good Story” portion of our program. An illness turns Doug’s and my boring plans of exploring Tel Aviv into An Adventure In Trying Not to Puke.

I really thought Doug was being a wimp when he started complaining of nausea. I didn’t tell him that, of course, trying to be a supportive wife and all. I thought maybe he had just tired himself out.

As soon as we had gotten to our room in the Center Hotel in Tel Aviv, I had plopped down on the bed and promptly fallen asleep. Five hours on a plane, a seven hour layover, and ten more hours on a plane had taken its toll on me. I pride myself on being able to fall asleep anywhere and under any circumstance, but for some reason, plane slumber had eluded me. It might have had something to do with the pull of the personal movie screen in front of me and a large selection of movies to choose from (including Bollywood! Woo Hoo!) But whatever the reason, I was so tired that by the time I had access to an actual bed, there was no stopping the coma-like somnolence that ensued.

Doug, however, had spent a few hours walking around our temporary neighborhood instead of sleeping. A few hours after he finally came to bed, Doug was puking loudly in the toilet. I was embarrassed at how loud Doug vomits. I’m not saying it’s a character flaw, but I was sure he was waking the neighbors.

That morning, between his digestive tract convulsions, Doug would rest, and I would lament the fact that he wasn’t able to come do things with me. I was feeling very intimidated by the foreignness of everything. Doug did manage to come with me to the breakfast provided for us at the Cinema Hotel, just steps away from our place. He barely took in some coffee and water while I feasted on cucumber/tomato salad, some kind of purpley pickley fish, and some spinach-filled pastries, washed down with orange juice and topped off with coffee. Doug kept holding his head in his hands, elbows on the table, hardly being sociable at all, finally saying that he really needed to get back to our room. Once there he immediately vomitted in the toilet. The bathroom was so small that Doug’s bottom half stuck out into the room – thus leaving no way to close off the thunderous noise.

I was feeling even less sympathetic when I decided to go out and exchange money. I went down to the front desk, a compact affair on a level next to and slightly above the waiting area where two couches faced each other and were surrounded by clear plastic chairs. I asked the man at the desk where the post office was, and he smiled in humorous pity, because it was directly across the street, its red and white sign fully visible through the completely glass front of the hotel lobby. Of course the sign was in HEBREW, and I had no idea what it said.

I walked over the to building, which soon revealed its postal workings through large glass windows. As I stepped inside, a series of numbered booths and waiting pull-numbers and a screen with Hebrew directions and people speaking things I couldn’t understand intimidated me so thoroughly and quickly that I stepped right back out the door and back across the street to our hotel.

As soon as Doug started feeling a little more settled, it was mine turn to get sick. I’m happy to tell you that MY vomitting is not embarrassingly loud, but is instead quite dainty and feminine. (Yeah, right.)

Anyway, hotel checkout was noon, but Doug asked the front desk for one more hour. Though both of us were weak, we headed down to the lobby at 1:00, and Doug both impressed and humilated me by having a very easy and enjoyable time exchanging money at the post office, having figured out the instruction screen and the number waiting system with no problem.

When we found out that a taxi ride to Haifa was going to cost 500 shekels (100 dollars = 371 shekels, so 500 shekels = too much), we decided to take the 5ish shekel per person bus ride to catch the 26 shekels per person train to Haifa instead.

But the going was slow. Standing up was an exercise in stength, and Doug and I had to walk about 3 blocks to a bus stop, each of us carrying a backpack and a wheely bag. It was definitely not comfortable. And once we were on the bus, it took me a few blocks’ worth to decide that I really needed to get off the bus. At the next stop, it took us longer than the bus driver appreciated for us to gather all of our stuff together, and he started driving off after the quicker passengers had left. But he did stop, a little past where we finally pulled all of our stuff together on a bench, just in time for me to hurry toward a little tree behind a fence, where I puked and puked until I finally no longer felt the compulsion to do so. Then I wiped my mouth a little, lamented the terrible taste , and joined Doug to wait for the next bus.

“Pilgrim at Large” Begins

Sunday, December 27th, 2009

I have been wondering where to begin my writings about pilgrimage. And amidst all of the images and ideas in my mind, it finally occured to me to write about the application process, since that is where pilgrimage begins.

It is enjoined on all Baha’is, of which there are 5 million (and counting) worldwide, to go on pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime. To do this, they must request permission, and that request is put on a waiting list that lasts years.

At this point I can’t remember how I requested a pilgrimage. What did I say? Did I begin with, “Dear Universal House of Justice” or “To Whom it May Concern”? Or did I just start right in with a direct request: “I would like to be considered for pilgrimage”? Or maybe I even decided to flower it up a bit and ask to be considered “for the blessing and opportunity” or the “grace and privelage” to be able to go on pilgrimage”?

However I said it, I’m pretty sure it was through snail mail, since my first request was in 1994, and I was a few years from having an e-mail address at that point. In fact, I didn’t have internet access at all. I think my friend Roger had e-mail, but that was a college student thing, and far from common, at least in my world. Actually, it was Roger who first encouraged me to sign up for pilgrimage. I was single then, unaware of the huge changes that marriage and children would soon bring to my life.

So I mailed a letter, however it was worded, and on December 18th, 1994, I recieved a letter from the Universal House of Justice, “Baha’i World Centre”, that said my name had been placed on a waiting list and that it would take “one to one and a half years” for my name to reach the top of the list.

In July of 1995, I married Doug. In 1996, we had a baby and moved. In 1998 we had another baby, and Doug became a Baha’i. In 2000 we moved. In 2004 we moved again. In the course of those years, I didn’t keep a record of all of my pilgrimage correspondence, in part because it was mostly through e-mails (my husband became very techno-savvy over the years), that became lost due to various computer changes and/or malfunctions.

Since I don’t have good records of that time, I’m not sure when I came to the top of the list that first time. I know once Doug and I waited for 6 years, one time for 4 years, and there was at least one or two more waiting periods. Each time I or Doug and I had to defer pilgrimage due to our kids being too young, our lives being too busy or our pockets being too empty.

In March of 2008, we received a letter saying we had reached the top of the pilgrimage list once more, and this time Doug and I decided to do it. We knew we couldn’t afford it, but a friend of ours said we would be doing our patriotic duty by running up our credit card debt. Just in case we might pull it off, we prioritized, by number twelve different dates from June 8, 2009 to January 18, 2010, with December 7, 2009 beoing our number 1. We decided that we probably wouldn’t be taking the kids, but we kept the option open, in case something miraculous happened (such as coming into the posession of millions of dollars and being able to afford extra plane tickets and an amazing nanny). Who knew? A lot could change in a year and a half.

What is a “Pilgrim at Large”?

Friday, December 25th, 2009

As previously mentioned, I’ve been thinking about elaborating on my pilgrimage experience in blog form. Part of me wishes I had been more diligent in recording my observances and experiences as they were actually happening in Israel. But another part of me understands that I need time to process things, and that my immediate recording of pilgrimage was bound to be a rough-draft note-taking and not a full elaboration of my experience.

One idea I’ve had is to write about pilgrimage for ten minutes a day, inspired by a “scene” from memory, a passage from my journal, or perhaps a quote or idea I’ve researched (such as comparisons between Baha’i pilgrimage and how other religions view and practice pilgrimage). Ideally, these blog entries could engender comments that may even inspire more blog entries, or would at least bring up new things to think about and/or discuss. However, due to some technological snag, my blog does not accomodate comments. This needs to change. But technology-related change happens very slowly in my world. Still, I must move forward!

I like the idea of a ten-minutes-a-day discipline. And I dislike my tendency to procrastinate. So here goes the first entry in my Pilgrim at Large portion of this blog. Topic to discuss: Why the title, Pilgrim at Large? (I’m going to set the microwave timer for 10 minutes and see how far my riffing takes me.)

Being a pilgrim is an isolated experience, with its quiet removal from the noise of daily concerns. Pilgrimage is enclosing and protective, like a family or meditation or a womb, and it is meant to be temporary. However, I believe that, like a family or meditation or a womb, the effects of such nurturing enclosure are meant to be lasting. After the experience of pilgrimage, a person is changed and is sent out into the world, on the loose, “at large”.

The value of being at large struck me when I pondered the lives of the Baha’is working at the Baha’i World Center (Haifa/Akka). Baha’is are not allowed to teach the Baha’i Faith in Israel, and there is no official Baha’i community in Israel. No Feasts* are held, there are no local spiritual assemblies, no firesides* or outward-reaching study circles*. Baha’is who work in Haifa and at the holy places in and around Akka are in a sort of shell, a gestation zone in which they can hold Ruhi classes*, study the writings, pray at the shrines, etc., but they cannot practice outwardly among non-Baha’is. It’s out of respect for an agreement between Abdul-Baha and the Israeli government that the situation exists. And I’m not saying that I want it to change. But I was thinking, while in Israel, that I might get tired of that after awhile.

It’s like exercising in a gym without going anywhere. I have done gym aerobics and benefited from it, but I enjoy exercise much more when it has an interactive purpose. When I move, I like going places, like walking somewhere outside, with sun singeing my pale skin, or cold pinching my cheeks and nose. It’s nice to be warm in a heated location, wearing leggings and a t-shirt, walking in front of a stationary television. But not nice enough for me. It’s boring. Somnorific.

Could I ever insinuate that a life serving in Haifa would be boring? Not really. As a matter of fact, just living in another culture would be exhilirating, and the opportunities to study Baha’i writings and to pray in the shrines would be wonderful. But it would also be like book learning without a practice element.

So now that I am home in Seattle, Washington, U.S.A., at large in the “real world”, I wonder how I have been changed. And what will I do with the changed person that I am?

During one of our first evenings in Haifa, Dr. Penny Walker, a member of the International Teaching Committee*, gave a talk to the pilgrims. In it, she talked about the change that pilgrims go through. In my journal, I wrote down, right after “Ridvan* 2008 – reread 1st paragraph” (though I don’t know if that’s where the following comes from):
“1) Transform ourselves
2) Help transform society”

I want to do both of those things.

Note: Items marked with an asterisk (*) may be unfamiliar to those who are not Baha’is. I will try to define and elaborate on some of these terms in later blog entries.

Pilgrim Thoughts

Thursday, December 24th, 2009

I am back from Israel. Doug and I spent approximately two weeks abroad, sans children, for the purpose of Baha’i Pilgrimage. Before going, I had the idea that I would write in my journal semi-constantly, or at least consistently, capturing the experience as it happened. But with illness and jet lag and busy schedule, I barely touched the surface of what I saw and heard and did and felt. I guess I could have written more on the plane, considering the trip was about 15 hours each way, but I spent most of that being uncomfortable, tired, and watching on-flight movies on the personal screen in the back of the seat in front of me.

One of the movies I watched was Julie and Julia, about a woman, Julie, who is a writer otherwise employed and who decides to blog about cooking her way through Julia Child’s first cookbook. It was a simple, feel-good movie, but I ended up crying for much of it – the I-recognize-a-truth-here kind of crying. I identified with both Julie and Julia in their quests to do something they love, something that inspires them and makes them better and ends up inspiring others. It was the culmination of all of my “What do I do now, God?” prayers to watch these women struggle and work and overcome as I flew back home to the real world and the prospect of needing to find a job, despite my writing aspirations.

The pilgrimage experience sat with me, somewhere deep, while I applied for jobs online (Early Head Start teacher, Dietary Clerk, Kitchen Aide), unpacked, and readjusted. I thought maybe my comments on the experience were used up, that maybe I had absorbed everything and didn’t have much to say about it. Then I saw my therapist, and he asked me how my trip was. Once I started talking, I had trouble stopping. I was surprised, but not that much. I know enough about myself to realize that sometimes all I need to get words out is an opportunity. I would like to give myself that opportunity. Inspired by the J&J movie, I have decided to write a blog inspired by my pilgrimage. I’m thinking of calling it “Pilgrim At Large”. It’s more of an idea than a solid decision at this point, since I have some details to work out. But if I write 10 minutes

Hot peace

Sunday, November 29th, 2009

In approximately five days, my husband and I will be on our way to Israel for Baha’i pilgrimage. Though the word “pilgrimage” sometimes brings to my mind vague rituals involving shaved heads and traveling miles on foot, a pilgrimage is basically a trip that a devotee (the dictionary’s word) takes to a shrine or holy place. Although I could argue that the whole earth is a holy place, being the home of some of God’s greatest work, the middle east is a hotspot of holiness, and Israel specifically is widely acknowledged as a significant place for many religious people – Jews, Christians, Muslims, Baha’is. We all want to be there to experience some of the spirituality that has inspired so many.

I find myself wondering what I will find over there. Of course there is a certain amount of oft-controlled dissension, a sort of cold war that may be better described as a hot peace. But beneath the nervous tension and anger at the “other” invading one group’s special place is a belief in something wonderful that needs to be respected, protected, and loved. I want to be in that hotbed for awhile and feel human interactions influenced by sacred writings in tension with their shadows of jealousy, revenge, and distrust. I like to observe messes like that, try to figure out what’s going on, and then leave and go back to my life. Maybe that’s why I watch reality TV shows, such as Dr. Drew’s Sex Rehab and Real Housewives of Orange County.

Is that why I’m travelling to Israel, despite going into debt to do so, despite my nerves twinging with guilt and worry at the thought of leaving my daughters for two weeks? Is Israel just a reality TV show to me, that I can sit in front of for a temporary escape from actual reality?

I have trouble getting to the heart of what I’m feeling about this trip. I want it to heal me, I think, pull me out of my struggles, cure me of seasonal affective disorder, reorient me to a spiritual life based in outward reality, show me what my purpose is here on earth, find me a job and get me out of debt. I want the magic of that part of the world, like the geothermal hot spots beneath Yellowstone National Park, to warm up the clay of my being, bubble me up into mud and reform me into something spectacular, something inspirational, something worth driving miles to visit. I want to come back tranformed and focussed on what I need to accomplish, and how I need to do it.

Is that too much to ask?

Rejected!

Wednesday, November 11th, 2009

I have been officially rejected by an agent! It actually feels good, because it only took one day to receive, enabling me to quickly query (I love alliteration) a different agent. This one says on her web site that she will respond within two weeks. That’s pretty good. The first two agents I queried said “If I don’t respond in 8 weeks, that means no.” I am not a big fan of the 8-weeks-of-limbo “no”. So bring on the 1-day to 2-week rejection! I’m on a roll!

Bellydance Performance

Friday, October 23rd, 2009

I bellydanced in a Greek restaurant last night. It was student night at Dino’s, and I was one of three invited by Layla to perform. I wore the blue $300 costume that my mother-in-law bought for me, and I used the veil that I had cut out and beaded the edges of myself. I wasn’t sure I would make it through two songs, as I’m still recovering from a week’s worth of recovering (ie. lying around in pain, sleeping, and watching TV). But adrenalin is the best performance-enhancing drug ever. I was planning on using my second song as my departure music, but I ended up dancing to almost the whole thing: Dick Dale’s 2-minute Miserlou, aka the opening song from Pulp Fiction (minus the F-word dialog at the beginning).

I forgot to take off my glasses before I danced. I guess it’s against my nature to go around blind when I have the option of seeing where I’m going and who I’m looking at. Despite the spectacles, I was still described as “hot” by one of my fellow dancers. And really, in that costume, I could have just walked around gracefully without any pretense of bellydancing (well, maybe just the pretense of it), and people would have been impressed. It’s pretty and sparkly. And I don’t even need to fill it out in the chest, since the beading makes for a stiff and solid (though modest) cup form that holds its own shape. Works for me!

This morning my shoulders/back/neck are stiff, and the left side of my mouth is throbbing. But it’s good to have been a part of something group-oriented and public. And to be able to come home and be private again.

Body balance: a potential metaphor

Monday, October 19th, 2009

It’s a little embarrassing to admit that my tongue is currently inhabited by critters, but it’s true. I have thrush. It’s a self-diagnosis, but one I’m pretty sure about, though not comfortable with. According to the wholistic home remedy books I own, thrush happens when a body is out of balance and/or the immune system is compromised. What threw me out of balance was the ripping out of three of my wisdom teeth (only the one with the unreachable cavity remains in my mouth) and the ensuing consumption of pain meds and milk shakes. It took about 5 days before I could eat anything more solid than applesauce. And now I have a yellowish white yeast carpet on the back of my tongue. I want it removed, but the heal-thyself books, which I do appreciate, focus on the get-back-in-balance method, rather than the get-this-goldarn-living-throwrug-out-of-my-mouth approach. So unless my oral surgeon returns my call and prescribes an anti-yeast mouth rinse or pill or something, I guess I’m stuck with having to make healthful (and soft) food choices and hope that with time it adds up to a healthier body.

I know there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. But I’m too tired to think about it right now.

Where am I?

Wednesday, May 20th, 2009

Where have I been? I’d like to know, too. I know where I’ve been physically, geographically, emotionally, but career-wise? Not so much. I have taken on my Mom-wife-housekeeper role with a little more vigor, now that I don’t “work” anymore. Plus, I have attended one writer’s retreat and one conference for children’s book writers and illustrators. I’ve ridden the self-confidence roller coaster concerning my young adult novel (”It’s good!” up up up “It’s crap!” down down down, repeat….). But I need more. What? Community? A consistent routine? A critique group? A writing practice group? A good massage? Hmmm.

Changes

Sunday, April 19th, 2009

Wow, it’s been awhile since I’ve blogged. I’m in the middle of some change right now; specifically, I have given notice at my job. I only work 2 days a week, so when I gave 2 weeks notice, it meant I only had to work 4 more days. And just in time. The job was hard enough, affording me little break time (if I want to get my job done, that is), but it’s become even more difficult since the executive decision to go from “line cooking” to “short order” cooking. Last Tuesday, I was not able to sit down and rest my feet until 7 hours into the job. And even then, my boss, the consultant managing the transition, had expected me to do more. He’s not evil, though. When I sat down in his office and told him I hadn’t gotten a break yet, he told me to go take one. I would have done it without his permission at that point. My feet were throbbing, my back was hurting, my attitude was stinking… I even told one of my co-workers that I felt like crying. He laughed. “I’m serious,” I said. And I was. Thanks to sleep deprivation, constant standing, and PMS, I was in bad shape. But I was sustained by the thought, “Only two more days after this…”

So I will soon be a free woman. A “kept woman”. Hah. What a terrible phrase, making woman think that just because they don’t earn money they belong more in the category of “pet” than “fellow human”. I’m struggling with the idea of not having a “job”. Even though there are many things that I want to do at home, the fact that they won’t be bringing in money seems to make them less important somehow. And I hate that. I have lists and charts of all the things I want to do with my “extra” time, and despite that, I find myself scanning the classifieds for jobs in the area, “just in case” this whole stay-at-home Mom thing doesn’t work out.

But I hope it does work out.

Full time, Big time, Where’s the time?

Thursday, April 2nd, 2009

This month’s Writer’s Digest magazine has an article entitled “Is full time the key to the big time?” The concept itself doesn’t exactly apply to me since if I quit my part time paying job, writing wouldn’t be exactly “full-time”, since I will still have other jobs, such as raising children, caring for my mother-in-law, Baha’i work, etc. If I quit the 16 hours a week as a cook, I could apply some of those hours to writing, but some would definitely go toward other things, like sleeping and more family-related stuff.

I’m having trouble focussing while writing this with hyperactive video game music plinky playing in the background and kids talking chatting cheering. This is one of my jobs – facilitating kid interaction, even if only through video games. But what about writing? I feel like a whiny little kid with all my “Why do I have to have a job?” stuff. I’m not trying to avoid responsibility – I’m trying to face what my real responsibilities are. Writing? Cooking at a retirement home? Complaining on the internet? I need to figure this out, and soon.

Job thoughts

Wednesday, March 25th, 2009

I’m ready to quit my job. Sort of.

I only work two days a week, but those two days seem to dicombobulate my schedule and sap me of energy and rob me of time to the point where I have to ask myself if I or my family need my earned money more than my time. I realize that I’m recovering from a sinus infection, and it’s been a busy week, and I’m in a “bad mood”, so I didn’t take myself too seriously when I came home from work Monday afternoon and told Doug that I wanted to quit my job. But he turned away from his Mom’s computer, where he works from home a few days a week, and he listened to me complain about how my head hurt and my body ached and how I was tired but wouldn’t be able to take a nap, etc., and he said, “Okay.” He said he’s been seeing how work has negatively affected me for four years now (even though it’s been good for me in some ways, too), and that maybe we’re in a place where we can afford for me to quit.

That threw me for a loop. I wasn’t prepared to actually look at the idea seriously. During “these difficult economic times”, who in their right mind would abandon an opportunity to earn money? Especially with two children to support, hardly any savings, and a myriad of things to pay for? Including an upcoming trip to Israel?

Then again, Doug and I surmised that if I didn’t work those 16 hours a week, I would have more time to garden, write novels, help with Baha’i projects, and assist Doug’s Mom with some of the things that have become difficult for her to do on her own, things I don’t do now because I don’t seem to have the time. Also, I might have more time and energy to devote to budgeting, using coupons, paying bills on time, recycling and composting more, eating out less, etc. – all things that would save money for the family.

And who knows? Maybe with more time and saved energy, I would be better able to write a novel that actually gets published, so I could earn money for the family that way.

This is something I will have to pray about, think about, and look for answers to. There are so many permutations and aspects of the “no job” option that I haven’t mentioned here. But it’s not easy to think while I have a headache. Plus I need to go do housework, make dinner, and get ready for some of Doug’s family coming over to celebrate my younger daughter’s birthday. There’s always something to take up my time. What will I choose to take up my time in the future?

I’m a mentor!

Saturday, March 21st, 2009

I’m a mentor! Really! It’s my official title! There’s paperwork to prove it! My friend L.B is a high school student whose senior project is to write a novel. Since I had written a novel, she asked me to be her mentor, something every senior-project-doing student needs in her school.

So today was our first official meeting. We went to a Starbucks near her home, and in between sips of a vanilla bean frapaccino, she told me all about her characters, her process, her plot, her challenges and accomplishments, and she even showed me some of her visual research for the characters. I was very impressed, not only with her novel progress, but also with her attitude and maturity. Even though she will likely not finish her novel before the end of the school year, she realizes that it was unrealistic to think that she would in the first place. When I was a high school student (admittedly a pretty neurotic one), that would have felt like failure to me. But she knows that she’s learned a lot about writing a novel just by doing it. The process is probably more important that the final product, though she’ll persevere to get the final product done, eventually, too.

Another thing that impresses me about L.B. is that she knows who she is. She told me about how she has conversations with her characters while she’s walking to school. And she knows this doesn’t make her crazy. It took me decades to figure that out about myself. I was pretty sure, most of the time, that I wasn’t technically crazy, but I didn’t really get that I was creating stories, figuring out the way people interact with each other, actually doing something worthwhile with my imagination. My problem was that I would imagine scenarios mostly about real people – like cute boys who would suddenly realize how desirable I was. I would also replay conversations in my mind over and over to make them go better, making “friends” say something more kind, a teacher say and do something much more instructionally effective, and of course I would make myself more on-the-spot clever.

I used to try to get myself to stop “fantasizing” about people and just deal with reality. But I’m pretty sure that was and always will be one of my main ways of dealing with reality. These days, though, I focus on fictional characters, because those scenarios are MUCH more realistic than ones in which real people are involved. AND I realize that this is a helpful skill for writing, and in fact may have been one of the signs all along that writing was something I needed to do.

Anyway, I was so happy to see L.B. knowing herself so well, learning more about herself, and moving forward in a direction that it took me so long to admit I wanted to take, too. She said she might not be a writer in the future, because she also has her heart set on working with animals. But I told her, “You are a writer. You’ll always be a writer. That won’t go away.”

Go L.B.!

One small step

Friday, March 20th, 2009

It seems like a strange victory to have just barely gotten something done, and to have done it in what I consider possibly the most mediocre way possible. But it was a victory. And mediocre, in my world, sometimes means that instead of sweating and worrying and getting my stomach tied up in knots, I just did something without all that. Anyway, here’s what happened.

A month or so ago I signed up for a writer’s conference that will be held in May, and for an extra $35 I had them throw in the “manuscript critique”. I found out later that it’s actually more of a “first five page of your manuscript” critique, but I figured that was better than no professional feedback at all. And then my negative thoughts kicked in, the first sign of which was procrastination – “The deadline’s a month away – plenty of time!” The second sign was feeling out & out lousy about what I’d written, thinking that I couldn’t possibly send in the first five pages until I had revamped them, preferably through the help of a professional. (Strange logic, I realize now. Must get professional feedback before I get professional feedback – I know, I know.) And then it moved full circle, all the way back to procrastination.

Until today -the date that the manuscript pages had to be received at a particular post office box in Enumclaw. I live about an hour away from Enumclaw, so I originally decided, with the encouragement of my husband (without whom I probably would have abandoned the project altogether) to have a courier take the manuscript down there. That was $40, but Doug said go for it. However, courier companies won’t deliver to Post Offices.

So I became the courier. After my therapy appointment, I drove down, sunshine and rain trading off with each other all the way there. When I got to the post office, with the help of Mapquest, it was sunshine’s turn, and in I went. I asked the nice folks behind the counter if my 9″ x 12″ envelope would definitely get into the P.O. box today, and they said definitely. And even though “the lady” who picks up the mail from that box had already come by, she had said she would come again before the end of the day.

“And don’t worry! You’re not the only one! Another person drove here from Bellevue today to meet the deadline, and we received 9 overnight packages this morning!”

So it’s done. And in May, an actual professional agent or writer will critique my work. Bring it on! I can take it!

I should be napping

Tuesday, March 17th, 2009

Today has been one of those crazy examples of feeling good and bad at the same time. My sinuses are causing my head to hurt, my mouth to feel perpetually dry (since I can’t breathe very well through my nose), and my energy to diminish into an almost-dizzy state of “gotta sit down”. But I was happy, too. My sister, Eva (co-cook at the Kenney), must be given a lot of the credit for that. At one point she made me laugh so hard I almost fell on the floor. When I told my boss I wanted to leave 15 minutes early because I didn’t feel well, I felt weird, because to an outside view, it probably looked like I felt fine.

It reminds me of depression. Sometimes when I’m in mostly-fine physical health, and to outward semblances have nothing to complain about (I’m sheltered, well-fed, loved by millions (an estimate)), I can be in the clunkiest, heaviest of mindsets. My body might be fit and able to dance or pick weeds or whatever I might ask it to do, but something comes in between the asking and the doing.

Today it is my mind, or will, or just plain old soul that is doing well, pushing my headaching body beyond what it might otherwise not be able to handle. But, like a good body owner, I need to take care of myself before whatever is in my sinuses abscesses into my brain. A doctor appointment would be nice, but my doctor’s all booked up this week, so I’ll have to call them tomorrow morning to see if they have any cancelled times I can squeeze into. In the meantime, I better take a nap.

Shnlurrdt

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

I have been a slug all day. Except I don’t think slugs have noses, and they probably don’t get sinus infections, which is what I believe I have. I didn’t change out of my pajamas today, and I occupied the couch for most of the day, sleeping, reading, and blowing my nose when I could. Most of the gunk in there is unmovable, though, a now glacial component of my head. When I did leave the couch today, it was to brew and drink tea, boil water and breathe its steam under a towel, swallow pills, eat, go to the bathroom. Nothing productive. My main accomplishment was to take a nap on the opposite side of the couch from which I usually do, so that the OTHER side of my head was clogged solid, freeing the right side of my nose to allow a tiny passage of air that makes a lovely “shnlurrrdt” sound when I breathe in forcefully.

It’s a sad state to be in where breathing becomes my main focus. Yes, it could be meditation, but in this case it’s just annoying. I think of all the other things I could be doing. And maybe I could even force myself to do them. But I don’t want to. I’m tired of functioning at sub optimum. So I refuse to function at all. Pessimism has invaded my brain along with the sinus gunk. If I let it get out of hand, I even start to think that God doesn’t love me anymore, and that maybe I don’t deserve God’s love. Hopefully all I need to get out of this funk is a few prayers, a day of work (it’s hard for me to call in sick when I only work two days a week), and some antibiotics, which I hope my doctor can prescribe for me tomorrow. Unless I’m miraculously better, free of yellowish head puss and negative attitude, before I can get a doctor’s appointment.

Tough Stuff Unpublished

Wednesday, March 11th, 2009

I have just deleted one of my previous entries. It was one of my most truthful and possibly well-written blog entries, but I decided to take it off for the sake of people who would find the publishing of said truth difficult and hurtful. So it’s gone. I don’t like the fact that the absence of that entrance leaves a hole that might leave too much imagination room. But somebody died. It’s a difficult thing to talk about, especially under the circumstances. So I’ll try again later and just stick the original entry in my personal journal. It’s probably better this way.

Blahg

Wednesday, March 11th, 2009

Finding the time to blog is proving to be difficult, and involves a question I need to answer; namely, is this a come-as-I-am blog, or am I going to make sure I put on my metaphorical makeup and have better-than-average not-so-metaphorical brain chemistry before putting my thoughts on virtual paper? I’ve definitely been a blah blogger of late. I’ve been thrown by the death of a 12-year-old friend of my daughter, attacked by viruses that ravage my sinus passages and make my head hurt, and I’ve been overwhelmed by simple things that seem difficult or impossible to accomplish, in part because of their extreme numerosity, and in part because of the way I seem to function in late winter/early spring. I am the self-appointed poster child for SAD – see me there with the saggy eyes and the mouth poised to say angry words at my children who are having fun instead of doing their chores?

Is that the way I want to present myself to the world (or to the few people who read one’s blog)? No. But if that’s the way I am and it’s proving difficult to change, should I crawl off silent into a cyber corner so that no one sees me or is subjected to me? I suppose it’s not a bad idea, if that’s what I need to heal. But I think isolation can work against the healing process in some cases. And probably in this one.

So here I am, feeling neither clever nor wise nor worthy of space on a server, but typing in letters and sentences anyway. And I feel a little better. And writing probably shouldn’t be a one-size-only experience. It’s got to be a real experience to be worth doing.

It reminds me of a friend who wanted to lose weight. I suggested that she might want to try bellydancing. And she said, seriously, not even noticing the irony in her words, that she would want to lose weight before joining a bellydancing class. Really! I tried to explain that women of all body types enjoy bellydance, but the conversation faltered – she was embarrassed about her body and didn’t want to take it out in public where people could plainly see it in action – despite the positive changes it may have had on her body (and self-esteem!).

I understood how she felt, though. At times I am embarrassed about my self. This person I’ve come to be and know is a strange mix of smart and stupid, happy and depressed, encouraged and apathetic. I would rather present a more consistent picture of humanity to the world. But since when has humanity been consistent? What I’d like to be and what I am sometimes don’t coincide. I’ll just have to deal with that.

Good morning

Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009

It is approximately 4:15am, and I need to be out the door in 10 or 15 minutes so I can get to work by 5am. Yesterday was the first day of Fast, and even though I allowed myself water, an apple, and a few raw almonds to try to stave off a burgeoning headache, by the time I got off work, I was in terrible pain, not only from a headache, but with aches all over my body. When Doug came home and saw my by-then incapacitated state, he said, “I thought you weren’t going to fast.” But I didn’t fast. I ate, albeit not much. I tell myself that the first day is the worst, as I “detox” from sugar and what might be viewed as an addiction to a constant state of being fed.

Then again, it could be that my body doesn’t really tolerate fasting anymore. It has never been a breeze for me. I thought my difficulty and incapacitation was fairly normal. But Doug’s end of the first day of Fast was very different from mine. He was happy, moreso than usual for the time of day. He even shot some baskets throughout the day and accomplished several big chores, in addition to working from home. After I came home from work, I could barely move.

So another day. I ask God that I can have some part in the blessing of the Fast, even though I may not be able to technically participate.

Tough stuff

Friday, February 27th, 2009

This entry deleted.

Back to writing

Saturday, February 21st, 2009

Today I’ve moved away from obsession with my changing anatomy (though not completely – are they getting smaller now?) and more toward other things.

This morning Doug and the kids and I went to Ballard to experience the neighborhood shops, and specifically the Nordic Heritage Museum. Not only does our family have some Scandinavian heritage to appreciate (mostly Norwegian and some Swedish), but Doug has been inspired by Nordic mythology and rosemaling in his recent works of art.

After the Ballard adventure, we went to the Seattle Baha’i Center, where an arts and crafts bazaar was being held in preparation for Ayyam-i-Ha. While there, Andrea and Johanna got in the act by making some impromptu craft pieces using paper, stickers, brightly-colored foam shapes and puff balls and setting them up on an empty table. Andrea actually made $5 from one of her pieces, but Johanna was not so lucky. It might have had something to do with her pricing, although she did offer a range of prices, so people could choose what to pay. Her most notable piece was a 2″ long, 1″ high triangular piece of paper colored with pink marker and decorated with a few pink puff balls: asking price “10$ – 30$”. When I explained to her that people probably wouldn’t be willing to pay that, she erased the zeros. But still no takers. (The procedes were suppose to go, at least in part, to the Baha’i Fund, but Johanna didn’t realize that.)

When we came home, we ate Scandinavian food (puchased on our trip), and then I went to work on writing – sort of. I actually signed up for a Writer’s Retreat in Federal Way in April and for a Children’s Book Writer’s Conference in Redmond in May. Both of these will provide opportunities for me to meet authors, agents, and editors, plus they will give me something to work towards. When I registered for the May conference, I paid $35 extra for the opportunity to have my manuscript (at least the first 5 pages) analyzed by an expert. Who the expert will be depends on the list I send them (my favorites of experts participating) and a first-come-first-serve basis. Whoever it turns out to be, I’m nervous. But I’m hopeful, too.

Now I’ve got to do a little garden planning before I get ready for bed so I can wake up early for another 9-hour session of Ruhi Book 5 Animator Training.

Busy busy days.

What’s on my chest?

Friday, February 20th, 2009

My breasts are bigger! I first discovered this maybe 5 or 6 days ago. I immediately showed my husband Doug, with a mostly-to-myself-question, “What’s going on?” His response was to say, with a tone of awe, “It’s an answer to prayer!” (He was kidding.)

Just to clarify, by bigger, I do not actually mean “big”. I’ve been a full-on A-cup for years, and a semi-saggy one at that, ever since the post-nursing deflation of temporarily expanded tissues. (I’ll try not to get too graphic here.) But NOW, for some reason, my breasts are a healthy B cup (woo hoo!), and firm and plump and lovely. Not that I’m asking for an audience other than Doug… or myself. Sometimes I find myself holding both my breasts, squeezing them, marveling at their new composition, and jiggling them a little for effect.

Of course, such a situation causes one to ask “Why is this happening?” Three possibilities come to my mind:

1. I’m pregnant. This seems very unlikely, since Doug had a vasectomy 10 years ago, and I am 40, an age when fertility is supposed to be going down. Even if Doug’s little guys somehow managed to escape the decade-old minor surgery designed to contain them, wouldn’t the chances of them actually fertilizing an egg be pretty darn low? But I have to admit that my current enhancement reminds me strongly of pregnancy-bosom. I went to the website “WrongDiagnosis.com” to look up “swollen breasts”, but wasn’t able to find much of value to me except for the humorous question, “Do you have pregnancy?” So how about…

2. Menopause. 40 seems a little early to be going through “the change”, but it is a gradual process, I hear. And menopause, like pregnancy, plays havoc with a woman’s hormones. And those hormones are responsible for certain things, like breasts & stuff. Not to be too scientific or anything. And to be even less scientific…

3. Age. My mother-in-law told me once that when a woman gets older, her breasts get bigger. She didn’t specifically connect it to menopause. And she didn’t attribute it to weight gain (I’m pretty much the same weight I always am). It’s just the way it is. So there. Maybe it’s karma to make up for years of being little.

Of course the option that has the biggest implications and potential worry-factor is #1. And, my increase in cup size occured around the time I would have ovulated. Just an interesting but unrelated coincidence? Yoig. I hope so. But I won’t know for sure about option number one until about a week from now. I’ll keep folks posted.

Journal entry from yesterday

Wednesday, February 18th, 2009

[Upon realizing how long it’s been since I’ve blogged.]

Oh no! Have my blogification goals gone the way of every other new years resolution out there?
My friend (sister from a different mother) began the year adhering to the South Beach Diet. And today I encouraged her to share a leftover piece of delicious red velvet Valentine’s Day cake with me. From vegetables and protein every 2 hours to rich layers of chocolate decadence for breakfast in less than two months. Is that where my blogging is?
“Resolve”, of course, by definition, shouldn’t be something that fades away in a month or two. That would be “temporary resolve” at best.
I am still resolved to keep blogging and to write write write and progress in my writing. But that resolve gets diluted once in awhile. I need to metaphorically boil myself so my resolve becomes more concentrated once again.

[And then I took a nap.]

An open letter to my cold virus

Wednesday, February 4th, 2009

Dear virus that is causing my cold,

I wonder if you know who you are dealing with? I feel you brewing in my sinuses and throat, dripping downward into the back of my mouth, trying to multiply, invade, take over. And I wonder, oh tiny creature, if you think of me as just a group of cells that you can attack, invade, take over one by one. Of course by now you’ve met with the cells of my immune system and have met destruction because of them. But do you know that these cells are part of me as well? Do you know that I have many types of cells ready to combat your kind, and vast networks and systems of cells that work together so well that they coordinate a giant human body?

Maybe you have some inkling of my organismic existence and would find pride in taking me down. But I am an organism complicated beyond your fathoming. Do you think that by killing a few tiny cells or taking over their function that you have any chance of taking down the whole person that I am? You, no-nucleus wonder that you are, have no idea that every cell in my being is connected by code – we, despite all our differences, are all the same. Heart, sinus, ear canal or nerve ending, hair root, toe skin, lung or spleen – all of the cells of these amazingly different organs all have the code of one connecting body. My body is like a religion that accepts and welcomes all races and cultures, knowing that the diversity is what makes this being possible. The religion of the inner code that connects all my cells together – that is what you are fighting. Destroy one part, and all other parts will come to the rescue. They can’t help it. Whether far away or near, whether directly or not, all of my energy goes to making the whole well.

And if you or one of your buddies manage to take me down, pull me back to earth so that my coordinated elements disintegrate and fade – even if this happens, do you think you will have won? You will die when I die. Without me, you have no life.

And even if one of your clones or a mutation thereof manages to live on in another human being, do you think you will ever win? Do you think someday you will manage to kill all of us? Without us, you have no life. And besides that, there are billions of us. Billions like me, with a connected code of human life that makes us a collective organism. When one dies, the rest rush in to find out how to help.

Despite the futility of your endeavor, little virus, I do not begrudge your existence. You are a creature of God, and I suppose you must have a role. You cannot switch sides and become a being that you are not. Your presence makes me stronger in my own immunity mechanisms and makes us humans stronger in compassion. The stronger you get, the stronger I get. Even if I die from your influence and disintegrate back to the earth so that my elements may be redistributed, the “we” that I belong to becomes stronger. What connected me together moves through empathy to connect the “we” together that much more.

You give me a headache, sap my energy, make it unpleasant to breath because of the pain in the back of my nose/throat. But I glory in the way I was built – a whole that is part of a whole that is part of a whole – body to humanity to souls here and beyond. I cannot be stopped, because I am more than myself. And you are not. You need a larger life to suck from in order to be alive. But I am alive whether alive or not. You are less than yourself, and I am more. If I die, I still live on – humanity is my legacy.

But I won’t die. Not from you. In a few days I will recover and be working as well as before you invaded – even better. Because you are small, and I am big.

So do the work you do, the only work you know or could ever know. I’m sorry you will never know me.

Best wishes,

Sydney

Word Fertilizer

The blah de blog of Sydney Hanson Mandt, author, person, etc.

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About the name “Word Fertilizer”

For years now, I have wanted to use the name “Word Fertilizer” for my personal web site and blog. I like it for many reasons.

One is for the repeating “erd” sound. Would that be assonance or consonance, or a combination of the two?

Also, the “erd” sound is spelled two different ways : “ord” and “ert”. This phenomenon reminds me of my Dad, who loved to play around with creative spelling, and often signed letters to me “Robber Tell Hand Sun”, or something similar. (It looks like a Native American name, but it’s just a fun way to write “Robert L. Hanson”. I guess “Dad” just didn’t have enough spelling options for him.)

And then there are the concepts behind the name. Words are wonderful ways to express concepts, and some of my favorite things to play with. And fertilizer, though sometimes stinky, is wonderful stuff to grow other stuff in. And I would love for the words that I string together to help other things grow, like thoughts, stories, interesting characters and the concepts they help demonstrate. Plus, labelling my blog/website with the word “fertilizer” can help keep me humble when I become a best-selling author, reminding me that sometimes the things I write can still be (if you’ll pardon the expression) “full of crap”.

Isn’t “word fertilizer” a lovely phrase? I can’t believe someone didn’t snatch up the URL before I did!

25 random things about me:

Friday, January 30th, 2009

This was suggested as an exercise on an online Baha’i Writer’s Group I am part of (or more accurately, that I lurk on). I decided to give it a go:

25 random things about me:
1. Sometimes as I write, I still edit myself to the point of inhibition or even standstill, but I’m getting better at letting myself write something, anything, and letting the first draft be crappy.
2. I’m 40 years old.
3. I have gray hairs sneaking into my curly locks. I suspect they will be harder to see once summer sunshine bleaches me more blond. But my eventual “going gray” looks to be inevitable.
4. I have a lot of wrinkles in my face.
5. I am not obsessed with my age!
6. I love my children, who are amazingly and wonderfully different from each other, but who get along very well (and love each other, too).
7. I am a writer. I wish I had known that about myself earlier, but better late than never. And who knows – maybe it’s better this way. Either way, it’s what it is.
8. My older daughter is a teenager. I hope she will be a strong and confident one.
9. My younger daughter has a talent for developing stories. I hope I can guide her to use her talents well.
10. I’ve become tired of Seattle weather and long for a warmer, sunnier climate.
11. I’ve never been to Hawai’i.
12. I’ve never been to Disneyland.
13. I would rather go to the slums of Mumbai and have meaningful interactions with the people there than go to either Hawai’i or Disneyland. At least that’s what I tell myself.
14. For awhile in my 20’s, I carried all of my possessions with me in a duffel bag, and I could sleep on a hard, uncarpeted floor in my sleeping bag. Almost two decades later, I require a mattress, a special pillow for my neck, a pillow for under my legs, sometimes a special pillow for my lower back (if I’m not sleeping on my usual memory foam mattress). Also, my skin moisturizers, hair products and vitamins and pills would take up a lot of duffel bag room. I’ve become distressingly high maintenance.
15. I am not obsessed with my age!
16. I am a good sleeper. When I’m tired, I can almost always turn off my mind and get myself to sleep – any time, night or day. Maybe it’s more a sign of relatively easy life circumstances rather than skill. Or maybe I’m perpetually tired.
17. I have the best sister in the world.
18. And I have a Mexican sister, too. Not a biological sister, but in spirit. We cook together at the Kenney Retirement home. She was born in June, like my biological sister, and I was born in January, like her biological sister.
19. I have a little brother, born from different parents than my own, and I think he’s wonderful. I’m so happy that he’s married now.
20. I have a tendency to want all of my single adult friends/acquaintances to be married, but I have no idea how to exert influence in that direction.
21. I have an uncanny ability to make a room messy. Despite all previous intentions toward the opposite.
22. I always thought of myself as blond, until I married into a family where “blond” means “practically white-haired”. Persians and Mexicans still think I’m blond, though.
23. I wonder how much I will accomplish in my life. Now that I’ve achieved some sort of clarity of purpose (write something, dammit!), my body’s energy is slowing down. I worry that I’ve wasted my younger, more energetic years in dispersed focus and low self-esteem. Will I get everything done that I’m supposed to before I die?
24. I am not obsessed with my age!
25. I love being alive. For the most part, it’s pretty great.

Springtime stovetop

Thursday, January 29th, 2009

I’ve been working on a new novel. I’ve had seeds of this novel idea in my brain for probably over a year, but it must have become spring in my brain, because the ideas have been sprouting and growing all over the place for the last couple of days. I’ve been getting to know the characters, I have a solid title in mind, scenes have been unfolding and coming into focus, and conflicts, romances, and other relationships are developing. It’s very exciting! One weird thing is that alcoholism, single motherhood, and divorce are some of the situations these characters go through – all things I’ve had very little experience with, and none of it direct. But I know these people. They are loosely based on people I admire, love, and am just plain curious about, and I look forward to seeing how they deal with their challenges.

I guess I’m finally detaching from my “first novel”, aimed at a young adult audience. I’ll keep looking for an agent for it, and I’ll be meeting soon with a writer to help me edit and improve it, but besides that, it has officially moved to the back burner. Which means this new novel is on the front burner. Which means I’m mixing my metaphors. Is my brain a garden moving out of winter, or a kitchen appliance? Hmmm….

Monday

Monday, January 26th, 2009

The things I want to write about at the moment have nothing to do with Monday, other than that’s what day it is. I am thinking about who I am and who I used to think it would be cool to be. I still think it would be cool to be someone who can put an outfit together and look great. But I am a person who does that only on occasion. Mostly I just wear clothes. I’d also like to be able to “do” my hair and feel confident that it looks nice. But I spritz, spray, curl or straighten, and still – it’s just hair. One thing that HAS changed about me is how I feel about my lack of fashion sense or ability to manipulate my coif. It doesn’t bother me so much. I like me. I can go out having forgotten to put on makeup and not freak out when I remember. I can laugh at myself if I look funny and find adverse reactions to said funny-looking-ness interesting rather than defeating.

So, it’s time for me to drink after-dinner tea with my husband and then go to an art acknowledgement ceremony thingy (Reflections Program) for Andrea. Not much time for neurosis discussion right now.

Hoping you are well, dear reader. (Probably me, my sister and husband, at this point.)

Molar

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

I like the word “molar”. It makes me think of those tiny blind creatures that live under lawns and pop out little dirt holes once in awhile. I’ve had a molar week. I’ve been underground, hidden – not through depression isolation, but through focus below rather than above, where most people would see me. I’ve been busy with family and Baha’i stuff, and also very home-oriented – the place is unusually clean. I hope I will be better able to move forward with my writing now that I don’t have to wonder where important things are all the time. There’s a baseline clean that I hope will help me concentrate.

And then there’s the reason I thought of “molar” in the first place – I have an appointment to assess my wisdom teeth, whose days in my mouth are numbered. I’ve had chronic issues with jaw pain, swollen lymph nodes, swollen gums. So not only is the clutter in my house being cleared, but so is the clutter in my mouth. With newfound clarity, I hope great things will emerge, both from my house and my mouth. (Okay, that was a strange attempt at profundity.)

Utterance

Friday, January 16th, 2009

This morning after dropping off Johanna at school, I drove to Eagle Landing Park, one of my favorite places to go when I’m feeling out of sorts. Or when I need exercise. Or when I’m happy. I just like that place. It’s basically a forest with a trail that leads down to the Puget Sound. It’s a great place to be alone yet surrounded by living creatures such as trees, bushes, mystery sneaky animals that make rustling noises in the brush, or birds, practicing their songs for spring.

When I got to the park, I was feeling particularly unfocussed, tired, and sad/guilty about not working on my novel this week, so I sat in the car thinking about that until I remembered that I had a book of Baha’i writings in the glove compartment. I got out the book, Tablets of Baha’u’llah, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and opened to a random page. There I read the following:

“O My Name! Utterance must needs possess penetrating power. For if bereft of this quality it would fail to exert influence. And this penetrating influence dependeth on the spirit being pure and the heart stainless. Likewise it needeth moderation, without which the hearer would be unable to bear it, rather he would manifest opposition from the very outset. And moderation will be obtained by blending utterance with the tokens of divine wisdom which are recorded in the sacred Books and Tablets. Thus when the essence of one’s utterance is endowed with these two requisites it will prove highly effective and will be the prime factor in transforming the souls of men.”

I took this quote as a timely gift. Perhaps I would have felt that way about any of the words I might have turned to in that book. But this quote felt especially applicable to me. “Utterance” in the form of writing is my goal, the gift I have been given and have been trying to perfect. So here I received an explanation of what I want in my writing, what is needed to get it, and what it accomplishes. In summary:

What utterance (which I apply to writing) must have: penetrating power so that it may exert influence

Prerequisites to utterance having penetrating power: 1. a pure spirit and a stainless heart, 2. moderation (blending utterance with wisdom from the sacred writings)

What utterance will be when endowed with these two requisites: 1. highly effective, 2. the prime factor in transforming the souls of men.

This brought tears to my eyes and a thank you to my lips. That is exactly what I want to accomplish with my writing – the transformation of souls. That has the potential to sound megalomaniacal, but I mean it in the most vague of ways and with the utmost certainty that I am inadequate to the task. And yet, what other reason is there to write? Of course it would be nice to be paid for my efforts. But what’s the point if it doesn’t sing to somebody’s soul of something transformative: love or knowledge or some sort of needed example? I’m not saying that I could ever become (or even want to become) the center point of a revolution. I don’t have that in me. (And from the Baha’i point of view, that’s already underway.) But I want to BE the revolution, to express ME so certainly and strongly, yet gently, lovingly, and with moderation, that people change a little for the better. That’s all I could hope for, really. The best and most lasting change happens a little bit at a time, and that’s what I want to be an agent of: tiny bits of inspiration toward personal choices that change a person for the better.

And that leads to a sentence a few paragraphs down from the one quoted above: “Whoso quickeneth a soul hath verily quickened all mankind.”

I have a lot of work to do. But it’s a little easier to do when I know why I’m doing it.

What to blog?

Sunday, January 11th, 2009

I’m trying to figure out what I will write about in my blog entries. There’s the cliche advice: “Write what you know.” But there’s also a more updated version I read somewhere: “Write what you’d like to know more about.”

Some of the things I am familiar with but would like to know more about are: the Baha’i Faith, writing, Jungian therapy, depression – well, those are the biggies right now.

I just found out recently that I have amazingly low iron levels. So what I thought was the same old seasonal affective disorder making me take extra naps may have been more related to iron levels than to serotonin levels. No wonder I thought I felt pretty happy for being depressed.

I would write more now, but the pull to go lie down on the couch is becoming overwhelming. And if I give in to that urge, then I’m bound to fall asleep. If I fall asleep, I usually stay asleep for about a REM cycle (an hour and a half). And that would greatly interfere with my family duties: grocery shopping, dish-doing, clothes-washing, temperature-taking (Johanna is home sick), picking up Andrea from school and taking her to her play performance. And then there’s this young-adult novel I’ve written and need to get out into the world. It’s the main focus of my therapy right now – getting off my writerly butt so I can do the work to get my book published.

About therapy – I wonder how people will react to the fact that I see a therapist. I’ve had many different reactions, most of them non-verbal or some form of surprised “…oh…” People seem to think therapy is some sort of negative mark on one’s character – or maybe they just think they are supposed to think that. The reactions, verbal or non, usually indicate that being in therapy is a source of shame. But I love therapy! I have an excellent therapist, and I value his insight and enjoy his company. I’m tired of acting like this therapeutic relationship is a secret. Like any relationship, I don’t share all the details of it with others, but I won’t hide the fact that it’s there. It’s a good thing!

I am reminded of a friend of mine who used to go to a massage therapist every Friday. After a long, tense week of desk work and dealing with people, she would start the weekend by working out all that tension and starting fresh. That’s sort of how I look at therapy. I don’t go every week, but when I do go, I enjoy it and feel postitively adjusted afterwords.

Another comparison would be going to a doctor. Most people, at least in our culture, are not ashamed to tell someone they are going to the doctor to get checked out for physical symptoms they are having. Daily life is beset with germs, and folks understand that sometimes it helps to have some intervention to help bring balance back to the body’s system, to heal up from the negative physical influences of stress, etc.. So why is there such a stigma about the mental “germs” that get to us and the need to get cleansed of those?

Well, I better go tackle the day. Have a good one!

My daughter is a teenager! (Almost)

Wednesday, January 7th, 2009

Tomorrow night at 11:57pm marks the anniversary of the birth of my older daughter and her official transition into being what our culture calls a “teenager”. It doesn’t automatically change who she is, of course, but it’s interesting to think of her as slowly moving out of the child zone and into the realm of maturity. It’s definitely a process, and one she’s been going through for awhile, but also one she’s been hesitant to embrace. When I mentioned her upcoming change of “title” a few weeks ago, she said, with a desparate look and actual tears in her eyes, “I don’t want to be a teenager!” I hope I haven’t inadvertantly shown some prejudice against teenagers or something. Because I like teenagers! As a whole, I think they are very interesting people. But I didn’t especially like being one myself, so maybe that’s what she’s picked up on. Darn her exceptional observation skills!

So Doug has been trying to introduce Andrea to some kick-ass, confident, female teenage role models to help guide her. Tonight it was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Also, he has printed out a list of facts for Andrea to study every day. Now, on her desk, there is a piece of paper that reads, “3 Facts: 1. I am Good. 2. The World is Good. 3. My Future is Bright.” He got these facts from a book called The Happiness Hypothesis. I love my silly, wonderful husband. And my daughter, too. I hope her teenage years are more happy and fulfilling than mine were.

Animation

Sunday, January 4th, 2009

I’m awake earlier than my body wants me to be. But in half an hour or so I will be on my way to the Seattle Baha’i Center to participate in a “youth animator” training. For those who aren’t familiar with Ruhi Books, it’s a class/workshop that guides children who are in the 11 to 14-year-old range in learning about the Baha’i Faith and participating in thought-provoking, Baha’i-related activities. I’ve participated in Ruhi classes for younger children, but I’m curious as to what exactly this training will entail, since the “pre-youth” age is one in which independent thinking is becoming stronger. We have some kids in this age group (including my almost-13-year-old daughter) who could use some focus for their energy. So bring it on! I’ll sacrifice a little bit of sleep for that!

Blogocracy

Saturday, January 3rd, 2009

My husband and I just watched Idiocracy, a movie with Luke Wilson and Maya Rudolph. Now it’s past midnight, just barely into the third day of the new year (when does it stop being “new”?), and my husband asks me if I’m going to blog. I say no. He says why not and that I need to practice. So not only is it late and I’m tired and slightly technophobic about this whole blogging business, but I’ve just watched a movie about extremely dumb people. And I feel dumb. My sister and I have discussed how we both we absorb movie characters. My first memory of doing this was after watching Pretty Woman at the just-off-campus theater in Bozeman Montana and discovering as my sis and I walked back to our apartment that we both felt like Julia Roberts’ character. It was like experiencing life through a Julia Roberts filter, walking with a little more attitude, laughing with more of a hair toss, thinking about things in a Julia-ish way. Maybe it’s a sign that I would be easy to brainwash. But right now, my “feeling dumb” experience probably stems more from needing sleep.

Question: How did the Idiocracy folks get permission to write in Starbucks as a place to receive male pleasure (with an “extra foamy” option)? (And isn’t there already a TV show called “OW! My balls!”?)

I feel compelled to end this entry with “Love, Sydney.” Which reminds me of a character in Idiocracy – a tall, heavy man, who officially greets every single person entering the gigantic Costco store where he works with the monotone phrase, “Welcome to Costco. I love you.”

Welcome to my blog. I love you. G’night.

Happy New Blog!

Thursday, January 1st, 2009

It’s New Year’s Day, it’s my birthday, and it’s new blog day for me! Thank goodness I have a techno-husband who can teach me how to navigate this website/blog stuff. I’m still on the steep part of the learning curve, so I’ll be moving into this slowly, but I’m here! A baby member of the blog-o-sphere! Woo hoo!