two kitties/small city

Your wedding.

What were you thinking about, the day of your wedding? Did you think it was the happiest day of your life? Did it prove to be? Did you have doubts? Did you pretend not see the things you didn't like about your partner, but somehow knew would always be there?

Love, Loss, and What I Wore - Type of Thing.

  Prada bow belt. I have this. I bought it a few years ago imagining I'd wear it with a black shirt dress or a leopard cardigan. It sits in the drawer, next to the H belt; I never have worn either one. A red bow belt around the waist takes confidence.

 

I used to love clothes. More accurate, perhaps, to say that I used to *fall* in love with clothes. Not just the styles, the fabrics, and the textures (though, definitely all of that), but the idea of them. Where I might be going when I wore them or who I might be with.

I've gone broke for clothes more than once. Bonwit Teller collapsed in 1989, my freshman year of college. A local wholesaler bought the remaining inventory and so did I. The only purchase I remember (but there were many more) was a pair of lime green patent leather peep-toe pumps by Charles Jourdan.

I wore amazing suits on the trading floor. One of my favorite outfits was a single-breasted Lillie Rubin black and white houndstooth jacket and black pencil skirt. The red AIDS ribbon was de rigueur and if I was feeling flush with cash I popped the collar. I had a beautiful powder-blue silk suit printed with seashells and starfish that I wore once at Hotel Dupont in Wilmington and then was ruined by my dry cleaner.

The Asian currency crashes of the 90's were good financial years for us - James had placed heavy bets on those markets and his frequent travels East meant that I went with a time or two and shopped Takashimaya with my GBP and and USD. It's not often you see Dior marked 70 percent off. Divorced, I decamped with my Armani and my luxe-quality [knock-off] bright red Kelly bag to the Texas [inaugural] ball in Washington a few years later.

In Miami, I had a Donna Karan wrap blouse in black silk with red cherries. It hugged my generous curves and, for whatever reason, I wore it the day the office visited a soul food kitchen in the Overtown neighborhood. Ka-Kow! I made friends there.

Things changed after Miami. I wasn't well, I guess. But it was more complex than that. One night, before a dinner party, I put on an Italian sundress I'd found in town. I liked it. It was a soft, navy jersey with a deep v-neck and a loose, swinging skirt. The bodice was smocked with neon pink, orange, and green threads. I'd been feeling better and working out. I felt pretty in it. My Ex took one look at me in the dress and pressed his finger into the soft lump above my scar with a smile. I took the dress off and don't remember what I put on instead. I've kept the dress in my new closet. I turned to Faconnable and Eileen Fisher and though all of it still hangs in my closet, I rarely, if ever, want to put those clothes on in this new life.

I miss the easy confidence I had in my youth. If I thought of my body in the dressing room, then, it was more about how to hide my shape at work. I could wear most things even though I chose not to. I laugh when I think of how I wouldn't wear a bikini - even when I weighed 103 pounds. That I thought I was "fat" when I hit 120. Now, I keep my back to the mirror and I don't turn around until I'm fully clothed.

Most days, I wear boyfriend jeans, flats, and a t-shirt to my office. I soak myself in Guerlain and big diamonds to compensate, but it's not the same. I'm not the same.  Either I don't want to be, or I recognize that I'm unable to be. I'm not sure which one it is. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

When I moved here, I got rid of many of my clothes and shut the door on the rest of them.Now, I skim the top off of the laundry basket every morning instead of planning outfits from things on hangers. But lately, I've been thinking that I'm ready for heels and a pencil skirt. I'm not sure how to interpret that. My boyfriend tells me every day that he thinks I'm beautiful, but it's so easy not to believe in it - once you've had someone tell you, every day, that he thinks otherwise.

Japhan de Villiers

Fragment Memoire, by sculptor Japhan de Villiers.  You have to wonder, as I am, what's inside.

The Concert Ticket by Olga Grushin

As Sergei walked away, he listened to other tubas booming in the celebration parade a city stretch away -- ghostly sounds in a ghostly city, carried off on the cold November wind like dead leaves, crumpled newspapers, torn cobwebs -- while somewhere above them, somewhere else, the celestial music continued to play, undimmed, untouched, still out of his hearing yet drawing closer perhaps...Freed from his habitual brass weight, he found himself straightening, forcing his shoulders apart, filling with a lighter heart-beat. He thought he should feel at least a twinge of sorrow for his companion of so many years, for someone he had kissed scores upon scores of times, but he felt nothing -- or rather, he realized as he encountered his bedroom that night and saw the emptiness in the corner where the tuba had rested its weary coils for two decades, he felt an odd sense of relief, as if his life had become simpler, clearer, stripped of at least one lie.He told Anna he planned to keep it at the theater from now on. They needed the space.

from The Concert Ticket, an amazing novel by Olga Grushin

Weighing in.

 

I went for a short run on the treadmill yesterday, then talked myself into getting on the scale. It took some time. I asked myself all kinds of questions. Should I wait until morning? I ate pizza last night, I'm probably retaining a lot of water from the salt. If I haven't weighed in five months, what's the point of weighing in now? I could wait another month, starve myself and work out really hard.

On the other side, I thought - well, maybe it would be motivating. Because gym motivation has been really lacking lately. Maybe knowing is better than not knowing. The chances are good I haven't gained it back. Not all of it, anyway. Maybe I've even lost some more without trying. I got on the scale.

I've gained three pounds since November. Not lost. Maybe not bad considering all the travel and upset and sickness I've had since then. Fistfuls of Cadbury mini-eggs at my sister's house while we threw my Mom in "The Hole" (memory ward) as my sister so unfortunately named it. (Why do names like that insist on sticking?) Working two jobs is too much time at the computer. Trying to lighten up on the workouts because it seems I get sick a lot.

I showered and then talked myself through it while I Guerlain-ed up and styled my hair - for no obvious reason at 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. I wasn't going out last night or anything. I can lose three pounds no problem. NO PROBLEM. I'll cut out the nuts. I'll go back to kale. I've been skipping flax, I admit it.

And then I went back to my office and ate the Snickers bar I'd hidden in my desk drawer the day before.

Crabby.

I woke up crabby, I'm not sure why. The only thing I'm sure about is that the morning coffee was too weak and the crab has lasted most of the day. I tried to project it onto other things (finances) and other people (our cats' vet; our wh*re neighbors who haven't taken their trash to the curb for the past four weeks) with mixed degrees of success.

I stormed out of the house to head for Starbucks, then the office, insisting that I needed to be alone today - not even a text message! I shrilled. I need to work! I need to earn money! I cut someone off on the turn into the coffee drive-thru and thought about paying for her latte, just like I've read about in those "Chicken Soup for the A-hole's Soul" books, but I decided to just be an A-hole instead and let her pay for her own latte.

Somewhere on the way back from Starbucks, I decided to "angry shop" as a coping mechanism vs. going to the office. I went to TJ Maxx to buy the odd combination of maple syrup (which they always seem to have, and I am out of but they didn't have this time) and some running shorts.

I've been flip-flopping around on the shorts issue - I don't have any - but am loathe to try them on. I realized that part of the glory of the total lack of shopping in NW Montana protected me from many a dressing room mirror. I mail ordered, tried things on in the comfort of my own home and only when I was showered, blown dry, and in the mood. I guess I can still do that, but it's an awful hassle to ship them back if you could have left them in the store in the first place.

J says, "Why do you have to look at them? Just put them on and if they fit, buy them and wear them running. It doesn't matter what they look like." It must be so much easier to be a man.

And maybe I shouldn't get that bent about it. But I don't know how much I weigh, anymore. The last time I got on the scale - maybe November, when I went to the hospital - I was down about 15 pounds since starting the vegan thing. I convinced myself not to get on the scale for awhile afterward, saying that I'd do it once a month, on the 15th or so, and not more often than that. But I haven't done it. I have purchased smaller pants, and smaller bras, and smaller underwear. I've noticed that even my eyeglasses are a little loose, but I don't want to weigh in. Instead I find myself worrying that I've regained weight, even two pounds, or that I've regained it all.

I tried on the XL running shorts and they were too big, so I just grabbed two pairs of L's and threw them in the cart to try on at home. I tried them on in front of J and he said they looked fine. So I can run in them without getting so hot, I guess. I was feeling bad that the shirt I bought was a size Large, until I realized that even when I was very thin, I usually wore a Large on top, but no matter, I can still get depressed about it, right? It's amazing how quickly the insecurity button resets itself. You would think I'd be happier to be smaller (I *guess* I am), but now I'm just afraid I'm not small enough. I ran 3 miles yesterday and felt bad about it because it was slow, versus feeling good that I was able to do it at all.

I bought the shorts, five pounds of TJ Maxx coffee, a summer top for $15, a whole bunch of mini-tins I might use for hand-poured candles but will probably just rust in the art studio. I went next door to Target and bought a little microwave for the office that I guess I'm going to stay in this year. I've worked out I like a  hot lunch, so this way, I'll have a hot lunch. I looked at those K-cup coffee makers for the office. So much waste for a cup of coffee - you throw away a little plastic thing four times a day? Really? But, on the other hand, so convenient - you don't have to touch anything wet. But I passed them by, knowing I can nuke hot water in my microwave.

Then I spoke to A. (just now), and she cheered me up with her sympathetic ear. Yes, she agrees that people should charge a fair price and do quality work so you'll come back again and again. Versus overcharging until you lose the customer for good. And that you should never get your hair done by a friend. Or become friends with your hairdresser, because then it will go all wrong. About how her eye doctor overcharges and never seems really appreciative of the work. Because we both work hourly and most hours aren't billable, so while I may sit at a desk for 8 or ten hours at a time, maybe only one of those hours I get paid for. And so giving someone ten hours of my billable time means that I've spent 100 hours at my desk.  And so it is deeply unsatisfying to overpay for average work. Together, we agreed never to do business with friends because they are hard to "fire" whether it's hair, or eyes, or veterinary care. And they never appreciate it to the level of difficulty it is for us to provide them with the work. 

And now I feel better.

Your Weekly Kiki.

Agnes Richter: Agnes's Jacket

Agnes Richter was a seamstress before she was committed to an Austrian mental institution. She spent her days embroidering secret messages into the linen of her uniform. The coping mechanisms of the insane is the topic of a new book by Gail Hornstein, PhD, called Agnes's Jacket.

in honour of the fact that life is short: Danielle LaPorte

in honour of the fact that life short

 

wear your white shirts. get them pressed.
use your good dishes — everyday.
shave on weekends.

do not wait for special occasions.
do not tuck your best away in the drawers, in the back of the closet, in your heart.
don’t wait for holidays or invitations.

declare that your today is the special occasion.

call instead of emailing. (it feels so good to connect.)
go for coffee.

quit.

renounce your glory days. you’ve told all of those stories more than twice.
focus forward.

wear perfume for yourself. toss your only-wear-around-the-house clothes and let your good clothes graduate to around-the-house status.
intend to feel good all of the time.

write your book.

launch.

make great sex a priority. (this alone will make you more creative and free. on your death bed, you will think about all the great sex you had this lifetime.)

burn your to-do list.

write poetry. One a day.

make a point to be as encouraging as possible, as much as possible, to everyone possible.

don’t look back.

if you feel like you’re always failing, consider that this is part of being an artist. let it be a divine inclination. keep going.

enter.

leave.

eat real food.

often refuse to be in the presence of people who make you feel repressed, anxious, or pull your frequency down.

do not entertain haters.

send light to the haters.

give it away. you probably don’t need it and someone else does.

turn off the tv.

let it be easy.

burn candles. during the day.

fall in love. with yourself. with the person you’re with. with the persons in your orbit.
because no one is perfect, but you can let the love be perfect for the both of you.
because everyone — everyone — is a doorway to God.
because you can get there from here.

because life is short.

--Danielle LaPorte

 

Go in Peace. And think about everyone -- everyone -- being a doorway to God. 

The Noticing.

When I woke, the next morning, I had my oatmeal in silence then took a walk with my coffee around the convent grounds. Just to see the sights. I wasn't far from home - just outside Baltimore and about an hour-and-a-half from our house. But there's something about being on a hilltop, in the woods, that makes you feel like you're a million miles from anywhere. I stumbled upon the Peace Garden.

Years ago, on another five-day silent retreat, I had a dream about a gate just like this one. In the dream, the gate sat in the water behind my childhood home. I woke up with peace I had not known before in my life (I was about 23.)  Interestingly enough, I didn't think much about that dream when I was in this peace garden. I was too busy noticing the things that people had left behind.

And that's where the noticing really kicked in. As I sat on a rock, things started to take shape before my eyes. 

I couldn't find a blank book, so I brought this journal -- half finished from 2006 -- with plenty of room for more. In it I read, "There are no more good days. We are down to good hours, and bad hours." And yet, I would not leave for five more years. And those would be the years that I got a lot closer to the grandkids - which I wouldn't trade for anything. I'd give all the hours I have left for them, if they needed them.  

There were all kinds of memorials here. 

Who comes to light these candles?

I sat on a rock in the peace garden, listening to birds singing into Spring, and watching the bamboo trees stretch in the breeze. As surely as I am sitting here, it changed my life. Suddenly, I saw everything. I was really there. And it was ok for me to just be there. That was the peace I found in the garden. 

The noticing that started with the waterfall the day before seemed to be the first, and most important, thing. Thinking back, I am actually quite proud of the fact that I made that connection to my old life so quickly - and kick the stone down the stream. I am a ruminator, after all. 

I had meetings, but I carried the noticing and the permission to just be t/here back inside with me. It shaped the rest of my time on the retreat.

Starting with lunch. For the rest of the weekend, I let myself eat whatever I wanted. After six years of living with someone who commented on everything I put into my mouth, I wanted to just taste food. Even if it meant meat or cheese. I have been enjoying veganism, but sometimes (when it's a lot of work to cook/shop/make everything) I wind up starving myself or making unhealthy choices because there is "nothing" I can have. Which isn't all that different than what I was doing before veganism. There just isn't any meat in my bad choices. It's a way of "taking care of myself" by not taking care of myself. 

And the interesting thing is, I still chose not to eat meat or cheese, the difference was I gave myself the option and felt free to decide.For lunch they had lovely roasted vegetable wrap sandwiches and homemade potato chips with garden salad. Loved it. The convent had a soda fountain and I indulged liberally in root beer.  

And the homemade peach cobbler and thought of my dead father. (I once spent an entire afternoon peeling fresh peaches and making a peach cobbler and woke up to find my Dad had eaten the entire thing in the night. Now I understand it, but at 14? I was pretty peeved.) I bought myself a Milky Way from the vending machine and didn't allow myself to feel guilty. It was still a battle to give myself permission to enjoy the food. But I did it. 

I sat and appreciated that someone had prepared such wonderful food for me and all I had to do was show up. I didn't even have to wash dishes or say thank you. I thought of a visit that my friend D. made to Montana at a time when I was really worn out and I sat there like a rag doll while she prepared food in my kitchen.  The only difference was maybe she didn't know how worn out I was, and maybe she didn't really want to make the wraps that much. (Thanks, D. )

A moment then and now when you feel like a pebble balanced just on the very edge. You could be brushed off. You could fall off. You could remain there, in a state of tension possibly forever. You just won't know until you know.  And, until then, there are good hours and bad hours spent just trying to maintain your balance.