Year's End

For most people, this is a time of remembrance - the year just past, perhaps even the life that has passed to now. New Year's Eve will bring the sentiment (Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? ...) and the weepy friends and couples out of the woodwork. New Year's Day we will look to the year ahead - we'll watch Bowl games and make resolutions to change our behavior from here on out (i.e. no more New Year's Eve pitchers of kindness to hang us over). It's a great holiday, and an important one, because we need those lines of demarcation in our timelines.

I hate it. For the last twenty years, New Year's Day has meant only two things to me: taxes and regrets.

It makes sense (in my world) that one follows the other like summer follows spring. I take care of all things money, and that means I've already bought my new calendars, transferred important dates and phone numbers, filled in my schedule as I know it, and (the money part) totalled the cash-only work from 2008. In addition, I've already begun to set up my files and sort receipts. (Don't say it - I tried, really tried to divvy it up, more than once, but organization is not not not my natural state, and I refuse to hurt my head six times a year instead of just one.) Thursday I will begin the day by heading to the car to replace my mileage log.

This year, I have the added joy of tallying assets and obligations, come up with a dollar number for this quest (so far), which won't be pretty - investments and housing values are looking up to what all of us thought would be the bottom of this well. Add in the facts that a) I have no idea what 2009 will bring to me in income, b) I don't drink anymore and c) I made the mistake of looking at plans for this year from last year, and I have all the ingredients for the most unfun holiday of all.

Enter regret.

2008 was about cleaning up and paring down, about laying the foundation for future successes, but it feels a lot like failure today. I didn't gut my house and achieve all the renovations I'd envisioned. I didn't unearth a Van Gogh or Morris chair, or win the lotto. I didn't even get us clear from debt or have a single real adventure.

I didn't ... I didn't ... I didn't ...

Now, I know that the difference between the successful and the Loser-with-a-capital-L is not always obvious from the middle of the learning curve. I know that life can either be an excuse or a lesson, but not both. I know that while I can't stop stocks from falling or people from screwing up (or screwing us), I can adjust my attitude and somehow make lemon chiffon pie out of the sour and the bitter. I know all this in my heart. But when I'm inside the moment (or inside memories of the moment) it feels like hell; I want to rend and tear, blame and howl, find a target and burst into tears until it flames to cinders - right now.

I didn't ... I didn't ... I didn't ...

I must make myself remember that time passes; with or without anyone's permission, it marches on toward its own horizon. 2008 becomes 2009, then 2010, 2011, 2012 ... faster and faster it runs, every year. Each of these brings its own sharp turns and potholes, storms and disappointments, and some of them will beat us to a bloody pulp. But I know that the only way to lose is if we fail to learn, or if we fail to ask for grace, for forgiveness, and for patience from those we love while we grow. I can't control how the Big Lug reacts to me or my snappishness or my secrecy or my bizarre (to him) behavior. All I can do is keep him in whatever loop I can (and stay as calm as I can) while I try to shift my perspective. All he can do is watch (sometimes helplessly, sometimes impatiently) as I do it ... and maybe give me some context. Which he frequently does.

I did ... didn't I?

So, lessons from the Big Lug - life happens. Real life, contrary to popular belief, is something that happens when you do pay attention. Taxes are as inevitable as time passing ... but regrets are another story. I didn't, didn't, didn't, it's true. But I did grow this year, change focus, expand boundaries, more than I would have believed possible. And despite all the problems in the world, the Big Lug and I are - right now - better positioned for success, on more levels than I can count, than we ever have been before. (It's no wonder I love him!)

Bobby Burns' "cup of kindness" was always meant to be shared. This year, I'll try to remember that it's about both the good ("We two have run about the slopes, and picked the daisies fine ...") and the bad ("But we've wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne ..."), and that maybe, just maybe, I should remember to drink that cup with myself, as well.

Here's to real life.

Treasures

Wishes made and granted, miracles conceived and born, gifts discovered, presented and received ... whether you believe the Story or not, these are the treasures this day brings.

May you find surprises around every corner, abundance inside every smile, and may you realize that - like George Bailey - your life has already made you the richest person in town.

To Life!

Miracles

Someone once told me that the way to find my true calling is to figure out what I "wanted to be when I grew up" at age four. At the time, I remembered fantasizing about being a firefighter, a thief, a major league pitcher, and a priest (no princesses or ballerinas for this daughter of the 60's) but there's only one way to find a four-year-old's dream career decades later - I had to ask Mama.

She grinned, as only a mother about to lob the embarrassment grenade can do. "Well, honey," she said in a strangled voice, "you, uh ... you wanted to be ... God."

Figures, I thought - oldest child, carried the world on her shoulders since her parents split for the first time right around that time, never felt in control of anything, least of all life. Of course I wanted to be all-powerful, all-seeing, and all-knowing. I didn't know then that I'd taken the responsibility by choice - I just knew I never wanted to need anyone, ever. It explained a lot about my life to that point, though - know-it-all Bunny, micromanaging Bunny, never-show-weakness-because-it's-humiliating Bunny, and (my personal favorite) heaven-forbid-I-ask-for-help-but-spend-every-waking-moment-sticking-my-big-nose-into-everyone-else's-business Bunny.

What a dope. I couldn't see the world because I was focused on myself, and my pride.

Yes, pride. Not the kind of pride you feel (momentarily) for catching the winning ball or getting an "A" on a paper - we're talking the extreme version, remember. Pride is hubris, hauteur, excessive ego. It's about thinking you're above (or even are) God. It's about believing that you are superior to others, that you never need anyone, that you're completely self-contained, self-reliant, and self-actualized.

I saved this Deadly for last not only because it's the one closest to my heart, but because in today's society it's the one that diguises itself best. Oh, we can spot a narcissist or a megalomaniac at fifty paces (most of the time, anyway) but pride is harder to see because we celebrate independence and self-confidence. I'm not saying we shouldn't do that. But the deadly pride has such a subtle, smudgey kind of boundary that when we cross it we hardly notice ... until it's too late.

It was almost too late for me once, eleven years ago. Although it's not my story to tell, I will say that I made choices for someone I loved, choices that were (I see now) as much designed to rework this person into my image of what should be as to protect and teach. In a flash of one of those ice-water-over-the-body moments, I knew with every molecule of my being that I had been playing God, with everyone around me, my whole life.

I wish I could say the changes this spurred occurred with the same speed. They didn't. For one thing, I didn't have the tools for humility (the only cure for pride). I thought that kicking myself, swapping my arrogance for guilt, was the same thing. It's not. No matter what I did, I still thought it was all about me, that I alone could reverse the tide of events that were (always) clearly out of my control.

Guess what? None of us has that kind of power, not even over those closest to us. Oh, our children or husbands or even parents might show signs of a shift, even an about-face, because they respect or fear or love (or want something from) us. But imposing my will onto theirs was ... well, weeks later, when I finally put myself into their shoes and thought about someone else doing that to me, the memory of a date gone bad surfaced, vividly. I wanted to die of shame for doing to them what that son of a ... what he had tried to do to me.

It was my first step into a world no longer bound by my own biases, my own myopic vision, my own limitations. I was free.

This is the season of miracles, of gifts given and received, and the best gift we can ever give is to remind ourselves that there is something more out there, something bigger than our puny little bodies, minds, and wills. Whether it's about practicing our faith, or simply having faith in others, we must remind ourselves continually that we are not alone, that we were not meant to be alone - we're part of a couple, a family, a community, a nation, a planet, a universe. We're not supposed to carry the world on our shoulders, but we should shoulder our part of it, if only for a moment. And the more our pride demands we try to change people to suit us instead of celebrating their uniqueness and diversity, the more we must fight - because when we lose to this Deadly we lose connections, and that means losing our humanity.

When I was four, I wanted to be God. I became a teacher, a student, a writer, a dreamer, a treasure hunter, a philosopher, a best friend, a caregiver, a daughter, a mother and a grandmother, a wife and a partner instead.

I'd say I got the better end of the deal.

Do Not Go Gentle

Several months ago I had a major meltdown over money. The papers suddenly proclaimed a crisis - shooting an air bubble into the already poisoned bloodstream of cash flow - and I blew. I ranted against the idiots in the media, the greed of bankers, the arrogance of Wall Street, and the laziness of the SEC to anyone who would listen. I seethed over the cascading markets, the plummeting home values, and the drop in revenue. I raged at God, myself, and the universe in general, mostly for giving me this quest at this particular moment in time. "What the hell are you thinking?" the raving went. "How can I ever hit the mark from here?"

Then one day, I came up with the answer - by continuing to do the best I can.

It took me weeks to come up with that, weeks of sleeplessness, of binge eating, and - yes - of hair loss. That day, the day I realized I wasn't off the hook just because it was now harder, I felt curiously liberated. I was able to plant my feet firmly on the ground, even feel hope. In fact, I realized this treasure hunt might be even more important than ever because of the timing - I thought maybe, just maybe, I could not only find the means for the Big Lug's retirement, but help others find a glimmer (or more) of light in these darker times.

Maybe it was because of my own arrogance (quite substantial), or maybe because the lava, once erupted, always turns into fertile soil - I don't know why everything changed in that moment, but it did, and I swore I would never doubt again.

I'm astonishingly grateful I didn't do anything worse than vent my fury with talking, walking, and work. Looking back, I'm kind of surprised - it hasn't always happened that way, even lately. It wasn't that long ago when I ... well, let's just say "duck and cover" used to have a whole new meaning, and not all of the people I love are good at dodging. I've done some truly horrible things in a temper, things I regret even decades later. The memories helped keep me in check, for certain, but my new understanding of how things work did more.

This Deadly is a habit, just like biting your nails, having that drink when you come home, or brushing your teeth at night. Oh, not the emotion - it falls upon even the meekest of souls - but the act of it. Fury - true, boiling, Vesuvius-like rage - is a way of life for only a small percentage of people, and we feel good about ourselves because we don't count ourselves among those chosen few. But holding onto even the smallest grain of resentment or outrage makes us do stupid things, to property, to people, and to ourselves (depression is anger turned inward, remember). We have self-control, and we have brains.

I've learned that if we look at irritation or outrage as an early warning system, a directional device rather than a destination, then we could use the energy instead of be ruled by it. Don't ignore it or suppress it - after all, we should be angry about some things, like injustice, corruption, and bigotry - but stop scattering it around like grain for the chickens, and focus on fixing what we are able. By fighting, specifically, that which makes us crazy, we hold the night at bay.

And don't stop with a single act of correction - dole it out, ride it, as long as you can. Money was my issue, and still is, so ... today I will buy what I can, invest where I am able, get money to people instead of to moguls (or despite them) ... whenever possible I will vote the true bastards out of office or boards, but I will force myself not to punish all because of the idiocy or evil of the few ... and, always, I will remember that I am not a superhero but a person. No single person caused this, and no single person can cure it, not quickly, anyway. But a single person has to power to find the beauty in a moment, the treasure in the rubbish, the candle in the darkness, as long as she doesn't allow bitterness and outrage to blind her - or blind others to her vision.

So go ahead, rage, rage against the dying of the light, but don't allow your dreams to be blown out ... by blowing up.

Three-Toed Goof-off

Ten days to Christmas. I've done nothing - no tree, no cookies, no shopping - for the holiday. I need to sweep the kitchen, too. Dust. Clean the commodes. And it's after noon already. I'll do it, I know. But in a minute.

No, I'm not sick. I'm not even that tired. I'm just lazy.

Today, I remind myself, only today. I'm dawdling. Rewarding myself with a little time off. I'm a workaholic, remember? This is not my default state.

Uh-huh. Is that what we really think? We who, as a species, will usually choose the sofa, a bowl of popcorn, and the mindless input of television over ... well, just about anything else? We have no real survival issues any more - no hunting of food, no hiding from predators, no mating imperative - but maybe because we're so "evolved" our instincts tell us we have nothing real to do. "Good times," they trill, "safe times." That triggers the impulse to store up against dangerous days ahead. Except there aren't any. And the more leisure time we have, the more we crave, and - suddenly - we find ourselves spiraling into a place of procrastination, obesity, and decay with a blank space in our brains where how-we-got-here should be. But we think just because we're not lazy everywhere, we're not lazy anywhere.

Sad thing is, it's mostly habit, and habit comes from environment as well as temperment. When Head Trip was a baby, and I was pregnant with Acid Trip, the Big Lug and I were on our way to the new duty station when we stopped in our home town. We were slated to spend two nights with my father, who had moved into a small house with the family dog after the divorce with my mom. I walked in with both arms and belly full of baby, and looked around - open area with kitchen and living room all together, gray carpet, not much for the baby to hurt herself with. Good. Needed a vacuuming (dogs shed), but I could do that. Dad left to work, and I took out the ancient canister vac.

Wait, you interrupt your preaching and philosophizing to tattle on Dad? How is this relevant to the current discussion? You just want to flaunt how far you've come, you -

Anyway, it didn't work. Not a hair moved. I tripped the latch on the vac, and - poomph! - the thing popped like a confetti balloon, spraying fur and dust everywhere. I couldn't find a new bag, so I cleared it by hand (gross!) and started again. It worked. The gray hair left the gray carpet and revealed ... cerulean blue beneath it. Seriously, in wide, nozzle-sized swaths. Blue.

Get off your high horse - it was actually kind of funny, and so him. It's not as if I didn't always know he wasn't the cleanest knot on the tree, especially after they split - remember the mummified frog in the spider web behind the toilet that weekend home from college? I hardly aspired to that. Besides, it was just post-divorce blues, right?

Oh, sure, there were reasons; there always are. Stress, thwarted lust or envy (I curled into a ball for awhile after that bookcase), a lull in the storm between what-a-week and crap-look-what's-ahead (lately), even too much sugar in our diets. This particular Deadly has so many causes ... and we have so many excuses for it ... that unless it's out of control or overly inconvenient, we don't seem to care. In fact, by sloth's very nature we almost can't care. We let inertia take over, and it's not until we're hooked up to an EKG watching our heart bob and weave its way toward a flatline that we start to pay attention.

Stop being such a drama queen. It takes a lot of energy to balance my emotions during this crazy time of life, and it has to be my priority or I might end up with divorce, too (or a prison sentence). I have a list of "must dos" as long as my arm, all the time, so something has to go - I jettison the things I don't like to do first. Okay, maybe for too many days once in awhile ... weeks ... but it's so easy to rationalize leaving the work, I ... no, I'm not lazy, seriously - I just need a reason to do the task, that's all.

So find one - duty, routine, money, or because it's the right thing to do - and then get up and do the work. This Deadly isn't just a sin, it's one that can kill us. And not just our bodies or our crumbling homes - this one kills our souls. All we need is get up and move.

Ugh. Fine. Then what?

Then you'll move more because you'll want to move more. We can get into good habits, too, you know. Eating sugar makes us want to eat more sugar, but eating vegetables makes us crave vegies. Wearing a size 24 is easy (so stretchy) but sliding into a 14 (seriously) has made me want to keep wearing a 14 ... or even a 12. And I'm thinking I could get totally hooked on a clutter-free home or a growing pile of manuscript pages. Yes, we need breaks, but it's about balance, and the easiest way to get it is just to start, then take another step, and another. The more results I see, the more gratification (good kind) I get, the more I want. Our minds, and our bodies, are strange like that.

I've noticed, and I do get it - all we want to inherit from Dad is the moralizing bit, right? Which means I hate you and ... sigh ... I guess we have a house to clean, huh?

Yep. And, uh, apparently not just the one with four walls.

Surrender, Dorothy

Two weeks ago, I went into my Wednesday thrift shop, a bit late this time. I was, of course, thinking about the jewelry - I knew there was something here for me today. Wrapped in my own little lust-ball, I tunnel-visioned my way to the showcases and found ... nothing at all for me, and very little even new. I was so convinced of a prize, I took my time and studied anything that was remotely intriguing. Disappointed, I went to the main floor, belatedly remembering I needed end tables, too.

And there it was. A bookcase, tall and double-doored, Mission style, absolutely stunning. I sprinted to my new love with bated breath. Smooth wood, not a blemish on it - brand new! Even better, the tag said $229 (and 25% off)! It was perfect! And it had waited just for ...

Someone else. The lower half of the ticket was gone. And the new owner was hovering nearby.

He saw my interest (how could he not?) and leaned in. "Look at the back," he said with a smile. I knew what I would find but I did it anyway and listened as my heart thumped to the floor. Stickley.

I felt it then, the icy inferno that burst from my toes to my scalp - envy. Oh, it was new Stickley, reproduction not antique, but in that moment I wanted to slap his grin off his face. I wanted to find a sledgehammer and destroy it - if I couldn't have it then no one could. I wanted to cry.

"I hope my wife loves it," he said hesitantly, concerned. "I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't."

"There's a lock," I said stupidly.

"It's beautiful inside," he said, pulling out the key.

"Can you believe it?" said another patron as the guy unlocked the doors. "He got there one second before I did." My green-eyed monster recognized his with a grimace that passed as a smile. "I've never been here before. Now that I know what I can find, I'll be here every other day."

"See the finish?" the new owner asked, running his hand over the shelves. "Do you think she'll like it?"

I echoed the movement and almost groaned at the silky, yet somehow rustic, feel of the woodgrain beneath my fingers. "If she doesn't," I said harshly, "call me first. Wait, I have a card somewhere ..."

"I spent more than I really ..." he murmured, not listening. "She's not going to ..." he blinked. "Yeah, I could always put it on eBay, or Craigslist, right? If she doesn't? Right?"

My heart skipped a beat, and I looked at him again with narrowed eyes. His smile - not a smirk, not a gloat. He was worried. How much of the price was holiday money, grocery money, rent money?

The drumming in my ears became louder, faster. I could get it for ... not the song it was originally (25% off remember!) but still ...

I briefly closed my eyes and sighed. "If you do - well, I've never seen a piece of Stickley, new or used, go for less than $600, and that was a tiny, tiny side table at an estate sale." I saw the other guy glare, make shushing movements. I wiped sweat from my lip, made myself breathe. "This piece is new but ... I don't even know where I'd start it. Stickley doesn't put prices on the web site, it's that high-end. Someone around here sells it, though, obviously. Find out what they're charging."

The worried husband's brow lightened a bit. "Really?"

"Yeah," I said reluctantly. "This was a steal." I forced the words out. "Congratulations. It's an amazing piece."

I swept away before I could do something stupid, like fall on the floor and hammer my heels until someone gave me one just like it.

Several days later, I finally let it go, thanks mostly to that last thought. Funny thing about envy - you want what someone else has, to the point of pain, sometimes, but you never want to work to get it. Lust, gluttony, and greed are all high-energy Deadlies - we'll work our butts off to possess the object of our want/need. Envy is passive, a magnified wish or a escalated yearning (that can turn into lust). Yet envy binds us into our own hell just as effectively, from the inside. The more we envy, the less we're satisfied by our current weight, possessions, job, or level of prestige. And the more we envy, the more we begin to rage at the unfairness of it all instead of work toward a better level.

I don't believe in fate (no choice in it), but I do believe in destiny. And, duh, I can't progress toward my shining future if I focus on someone else's, even for a moment. Usually, when I first feel the burning tickle of envy's sicky web, I snap to attention, count my blessings, then do it again, if needed. And once more in really bad cases - I've fallen over my own feet in my journeys too many times because of inattention not to. This time was harder than it has been in years, maybe because an easier path makes us take so many things for granted we get selfish. I don't know. But I forced myself to say the words ... out loud and endlessly and from the heart ... and eventually I came back, content, to the place I love - right where I am, in every way.

FYI, I did call my local dealer. That bookcase is currently on sale for $3,399 ... unless it was numbered, but those "went like hotcakes" (for much, much more). And I swear I remember a number.

Oh, God ... "There's no place like home, there's no place like home." Click, click, click. "There's no place ..."

Hey, if he can do it, I can, too, right? On my own path. Besides, my future is so very cool ...

The Dragon Within

Accumulating wealth is important in this day and age. We can't depend on pensions or governments or even spouses - how many times have we cringed at stories of widows and retirees forced by economic necessity to eat cat food or (worse) live at the mercy of opportunistic sadists in cut-rate retirement homes? Building a nest egg big enough to sustain us - and have enough cash in reserve for unexpected expenses and dreams - is one part survival, one part indulgence, and one part "eeooooo, gross", but, ultimately, it's really just simple common sense.

Some of us get a little out of whack, though. We grasp. We hoard. We backstab. We ignore responsibility and opt for power instead - not power over ourselves, of course, but over our pasts, our circumstances, and the people around us. When that happens, when the motive goes from duty and comfort to domination and malice, we've moved to a darker place - greed.

Here's a simple test - whether it's stocks, art, books, collectibles, or the truffle oil stockpiled in the pantry, ask yourself, "can I part with it?" If the answer is "yes," then do so, with at least one item, right now. Put it on eBay, donate it, send it to a friend, use it tonight for dinner, I don't care. But physically pick it up and at least move it to another place, one not carefully designated "my stuff." Did you hesitate? Can't do it at all? Then your answer wasn't really "yes," was it?

I was there last summer. The extravaganza was amazingly hard. My avarice tends toward accumulation for its own sake, maybe because I moved so many times in my life, or that we ping-ponged between lack and plenty for so long, I don't know. But I definitely have trouble getting rid of things, especially expensive (or seemingly expensive) items. I've been known to buy really good wine, cheese, or olives, then let them turn into compost because I'm saving it for a special occasion that never comes (because nothing's good enough). I crammed rooms to overflowing out of gluttony, but I couldn't sell it because somehow, in the holding I became a better provider or a better person than my parents were. I had things, I had resources, I had riches.

I had nothing.

I didn't know it then, and no wonder. Greed has been and is still rampaging through our world like a hungry dragon, but it's cloaked in socially acceptable clothes. It's not just about the few who screwed us, no matter what the media says; while there were certainly some major offenders in the current crisis, we were (are) all guilty little lizards. At least, I know it now.

That yard sale was an eye-opener for me, on many levels. First of all, I didn't pull everything I'd planned to sell - I just couldn't - and since the eBay market is more in the toilet than the stocks are, I'm still dealing with the remnants of that hesitation. Secondly, for what I did sell I made pennies on the dollar compared to what I spent (on things I didn't necessarily want in the first place, remember). Yes, a few items sold well, but mostly I gave things away. Thirdly - and this is important - I take more pleasure from the open space (and the knowledge that someone else is benefitting from my items) than I ever did from the things themselves. Yes, I still tend to back up like a clogged drain up sometimes (I need to go through my jewelry and my books again) but by focusing on quality instead of quantity I've made the process itself as important as the goal - I celebrate the hunt as much as the treasure, I buy for others almost as often as I buy for myself or my home, and you know I have a blast doing it.

We could have that same party every day, in every aspect of our lives, but we don't - and we should. Money, things, food, knowledge ... holding on to our personal dragon egg creates Hoover-sized dams in our streams of potential. Cash invested continues to increase (overall), but if you never spend it, if it does nothing but decorate your portfolio and give you gloating rights, then you will shrink. Your degree or certification is nice, but resting on those laurels isn't very productive - what have you done lately? Oh, and that bike, the one rusting away in the basement - you're not growing when you hold it hostage to your vanity and fear, especially since there's tons of kids out there who remember what it means to be a kid and feel the wind in their hair.

Hope and joy expand us, while avarice constricts. Greed hands us larger bottom lines and bigger inventories but makes us smaller people. We're meant to be channels for good - and for goods - not reservoirs. How can the daily treasures come to us if we have no room for them? Streams of potential must flow or they dry up, as they are doing now, and we all choke.

Start a recirculation revolution. Take up the flag and shout the battle cry - "What goes around comes around!" I'll open the canals with a shovel if I have to - the cure for this Deadly is generosity.

It's also the vaccine against it for the future.

More, More, More

A few years ago, I watched an episode of Mission Organization with a smile, as I usually did - who among us can resist that feeling of superiority when the door is opened or the basement entered and we see yet another smart, educated couple whose ocean of clutter makes ours look like a puddle? Isn't that the purpose of these shows? But five minutes in, my smugness faded, then vanished altogether. A cold chill swept me, and I wasn't sure why. All that had happened was the usual - the reveal.

Well, maybe not so usual. In general, the camera sweeps a kid-mess or inheritance mess or move-mess that the poor souls can't seem to deal with. This was an empty-nest woman who opened her spare room to the cameras to show ... bags. Full bags. Bags on and under the bed. Bags spilling from the closet. Bags stacked on bags. Bags bursting with stuff, with tags still on it ... from as long as two years before. It should have been funny, or at least made me feel good. But I felt ... no, it couldn't be ...

I bolted to our spare room and opened the door to - noooooooo! - furniture and boxes and piles of things, bought not in department stores but in yard sales and flea markets and thrift shops, much still wrapped in newspaper dated during the Clinton administration. A single glance showed me at least seven things I didn't remember buying, much less remember what I'd bought them for. I was scared to death to touch anything, and not just because the room was packed so tightly I couldn't even get to the far end without risking serious Twister-like damage to various muscle groups. What would I find?

I clenched my teeth, lowered my head, and charged past my fear. For three days my anti-chaos campaign reigned. From the door (latest finds) to the back wall, I went back in time, sorting with the show's criteria - the "keep" (much milk glass and kitchen ware) I either used or organized in labelled boxes, the "donate" and "toss" I ... duh. I then put in a bed with a headboard (bought the previous spring for $10), covered it with a pretty spread (a steal eight months back at $1) and have kept it mostly clear (or occupied by the grandkids) ever since. Of course my office is now boxes and piles and ...

Why do I do this? Simple. I'm a glutton.

From food to shopping to work to money to just about anything, I'm the queen of overdoing. Nearly every moment of every day, I have to fight the urge for more, more, more. This isn't lust, because lust is focused. And it's not greed, because there's no reward past the event. That woman didn't even remember buying most things in that room - and neither did I. It's as if the first drink, the first bite, the first item in the cart, the first "sure I'll take that in-home student" is a fog bank that we roll in to cloak the memory of the resulting bacchanalia.

That's what gluttony is, really - not a single incident or long-term, one-track obsession, but a series of benders. We always have remorse (or defiance), and we usually vow to never do whatever we did again. And then, when find ourselves over the top again (because we always do), we despise our weakness - which just continues the pattern, because we honestly don't know how to stop.

But that's the key - it's not about stopping. Lust is cured by abstinence. Gluttony is not.

Balance and temperance is the best and only effective weapon to battle this Deadly. Easier said than done, I know - really, I do know. From horrific debt to dangerous obesity to type-A working style, I've overdone it all. "I'll have just one," I'd say, and suddenly it's two, then five, then fifteen. Whether it's hours, Godiva chocolates, glasses of wine, pairs of stockings, it doesn't matter - and the worst part is, we can't reverse time and we can't fix whatever we binged on. Most of us don't remember anything past the first sip or penny or swipe of the dustrag anyway, because shame blocks it. And, unlike lust, it's because we can walk away from a gorgeous man or a BMW dealer but not from the practical needs (eating, spending, working) that we cannot seem to find the middle ground.

To complicate matters, it's also (for some) a matter of body chemistry. Unfortunately, the problems of the legitimate few make it easy for the rest of us to affix excuses. You don't want to hear this, but I can tell you from experience that any physical issues I had were caused by my original behavior, not the other way around.

One day, when my health and my bank account were both screaming in warning, I fought back by looking, really looking, at my way of life. And I realized that I was slamming down gallons of Pepsi not to create or to build, but to fill a void - an aching empty place in my heart that I still don't quite understand. One day I might figure it out, maybe even satisfy it. But until that time I will continue to successfully (mostly) fight the urge to stock an antique store or swallow an entire chicken by keeping a few things in mind: first, whatever that black hole is, I can't fill it with anything physical; second, it's easier to resist the siren call when I've kept a level blood sugar and I've had enough sleep (and, yes, going without sleep on purpose is a form of gluttony); third, if gluttony is about filling up, why not find a different gas station?

Let's face it, a whole lotta crap is still crap, while a single amazing thing will last forever, even if it's just in memory. I tossed the greasy chips and salty boxed food and invested in really good olive oil and pasta and fresh tomatoes instead. There are dozens of books and TV chefs who can show anyone how to cook quickly, within every sort of budget, and still beat the hell out of anything I can buy ready-made - food that could actually help keep me alive instead of kill me.

Also, I'm educating myself about everything, especially since I frequent thrift stores (where you can't return things). I drool over the catalogues and the sale flyers, but I go to the library or look online to make sure I'm not being manipulated, that the deals are real. Did you know most "sales" occur on marked up items? Remember the gold chain I was hyperventilating about a couple of weeks ago? Yesterday I found the same weight and length of chain at a discount department store on "sale" for 60% off (plus an extra 10% for their "two-day blowout" hurry hurry hurry) that was only $10 less than the one I bought for full price at a full-service jeweler's - at nowhere near the quality of mine (even the $2 chain I found at Goodwill a few months back beat it).

Most of all, I treat it all as a game, and as a consequence I've found that restraint has far more rewards than gluttony - it's more fun. For one thing, there's no shame, and no guilt - who can have fun with those two party poopers in the room, right? For another, I have more energy, more joy, and far more space in my house. So I indulge once in awhile, yes, even occasionally get out of control - but I reach daily for the best, the astonishing, the treasure. And so should you.

Especially this time of year.

In moderation, of course.

Fixation

Black Friday deserved its name this year, for all the wrong reasons - a man was trampled to death by a rapacious crowd inside a Long Island Walmart. When employees asked shoppers to clear the store because of the tragedy, the bargain-hunters ignored the request and kept filling their carts, many protesting that they'd been standing in line since Thursday morning.

"What is wrong with those people?" we asked in horror.

I don't know. I honestly cannot imagine what was going through everyone's mind - not just the people who shoved into the store with so much force they bent the steel doorjam with the weight of their assault, but those who refused to leave afterward. I cannot conceive what would drive someone to disregard so much of what is right and wrong.

Many newscasters spoke of desperation. Others of greed. Still others commented that we deserve the ills we are facing if we are this corrupt of ethics and morals.

Yes, yes, the usual, mostly unhelpful, crap - report, speculate, and judge. My question is, how do we combat it?

Fear drives us to do terrible things, and right now is a terrifying time for many, especially when money is concerned. But I think fear is only part of the equation. We are all afraid at one time or another, but most of us don't act on it (as a rule). Once the alarm is raised elsewhere, anywhere, though, it's tougher to resist - panic is contagious, and it doesn't have to be the same fear to infect everything around it. Fear does not choose specifics; it is generic and blind, a trigger that moves us into action or inaction.

Saying "have courage," or "resist it," is all well and good, even works much of the time, but ... I don't know about you, but I have to find the monster in the closet first, or I can't fight it.

Several thousand years ago, some very wise men gave us both labels and tools for specific fear-beasts - the Seven Deadly Sins. These are (in no particular order) envy, greed, lust, rage, pride, gluttony, and sloth. All are offspring of anxiety and nightmares. And all can be successfully fought.

The one newscaster had the right idea - greed seems the obvious culprit, after all, since shopping and money go together. But three of those seven - greed, lust, and gluttony - are practically interchageable in the dictionary. Yet they are not the same (the sages listed them separately, right?). Indeed, there are subtle but important differences, found in the antonyms: the opposite of greed is generosity, the the opposite of gluttony is moderation, and opposite of lust is indifference or renouncing. These people had trouble walking away, not because they were focused on overdoing but because their one-track minds wouldn't let anything else in. This points to lust.

No, lust is not just about sex. Lust is an intense craving, one so strong you know you'll never be happy until you get the object of your desire. A person, a drink, a laptop, even a life-circumstance can all be the center of this obsession. Lust is what happens when "want" or even "need" gets ramped up by fear. I experienced it last week to a slight degree, when my need for a perfect Thanksgiving resulted in forgetting this blog (and even some of my family). In Long Island, it translated to "I want an iPod for Johnny, but I don't have enough money to buy one except today, and if I don't get it I am -" fill in the rest (a horrible mother/father, broke and everyone will know it, enjoying this last holiday no matter the consequences). Desperation drove the train straight over an innocent human being and caused a temporary (I hope) block of all sympathy and empathy.

What's the cure for lust? Abdication, leaving completely, a 180-degree turn. I did this a few months ago, when my lust for jewelry became overwhelming - I fasted until I lost the compulsion, until I was buying for the right reasons. Yes, greed played a part (more on this later), as did gluttony (ditto), but my mind and emotions were completely focused. I woke up with it on my mind, I ate with it - I was buying anything that sparkled or shined because I wanted it, because it was the secret to beauty (with this new body), because would never be happy until I possessed adornment to match every mood and outfit. Oh, I used this quest as an excuse, but collectibles, even jewelry, are (at best) tricky investments. I know that now and I knew that then, but I was hooked. It was a drug. An addiction. And that's lust.

Money is tight everywhere. Around here, we've made a pact not to buy for anyone over the age of ten. The Big Lug and I will bend that a bit, of course, but it won't be nearly amount we spend every other year. For one thing, I have already shifted much of it to other places. For another, giving a gift frequently makes people feel beholden to return it in similar fashion - and most people can't afford to do so, though they will try. So, around here, I'll be baking cookies, making fudge, recycling nice pieces from thrift shops, maybe even leaving things anonymously (hide a $20 bill in a coat pocket while someone is visiting!). And I will continue to confront (and beat back) my own fears.

I've already gone too many rounds with the Seven Deadlies not to.

Differences

I am an oldest child. The Big Lug is a youngest. I am a planner (multi-branched, usually) and an achiever. He'd rather eat, have fun, or snuggle. I make lists. He flies by the seat of his pants. I like (but don't always impose) order. He flings whatever, wherever, and forgets about it.

Needless to say, it took us decades to learn how to live together in harmony. We each, of course, have taken on a bit of the other's philosophy - I don't immediately straighten every picture and he remembers about half the time to pick up his socks - but mostly we solved our problems when we bought a house big enough to give us each our space to either keep or neglect as time and personality demands.

His realm is the basement. I don't go farther than the storage side (just beside the bottom of the stairs) and then only long enough to grab staples out of the pantry (just inside the door). The washer and dryer are down there, and when I threatened to clean the room with bleach if he didn't at least vacuum, he took over the laundry detail. I even bought my own tools to keep upstairs because he becomes absolutely maniacal if I don't return what I borrow in the exact same place on his pile. Trust me, I do not go down there unless I have to.

Unfortunately, no one else wants to, either. So when people come over, we all congregate in the upper floors, my territory. This means I usually feel compelled to do massive cleaning, especially before the holidays.

This year, my inner child (who's apparently about three years old) is pitching a fit. "I don't wannaaaaa!"

These past few months have been about clearing away past mistakes, in finances and in the home. I've paid off several accounts, consolidated and substantially reduced others, and increased investment. I've had a giant yard sale and given away tons of things to charity, including furniture, but only those things I didn't need for function. And I have found that since I tend toward Traditional, Transitional, and Mission design, instead of the current - well, if style were a dog, mine would be a mutt - I have priced myself out of the market for more cohesive replacement furniture. I thought I could accept all that.

Until Saturday. I found a dresser - a 62"-wide, wave-front, 13-drawer beauty of a bureau, at my local Salvation Army. It was love at first sight. But since I was actually looking for a sideboard, and this was usable but bigger than I wanted (it would cover the heating vent), and a bit above my budget (I'd prefer free), I tore my gaze from the smooth grain of the drawer fronts (it flowed perfectly from one to the other) and the beautiful inlay down either side of the face, and I walked away to search the jewelry. Nothing there. I went back. No one had pulled the tag. No one was even paying my baby the least bit of attention.

I checked every dovetail, every brass, every square inch, inside and out. Maybe I could come back Wednesday, the discount day, I thought. But I knew if I came back and it was gone I would regret it horribly, so this oldest-child, anal-retentive list-maker impulsively grabbed the ticket, tore off the bottom half, and blew the budget all to flinders.

Two hours later, hyperventilating but resolved, I went back with the Big Lug's truck to pick it up. There was a man running his hand over the back, muttering something about original finishes and yellow pine, and then a swear word when he saw the "sold" tag. "Someone got a steal," he said to me with a shake of his head. "Thank you," I said to him, and then again only quieter.

When I got home, my son and husband unloaded and slid it into place. It looks amazing. I think it's the first really nice piece I've ever owned. But it's the reason I'm having a fit about cleaning the house - it's so exactly, perfectly right I want to toss every other stick of furniture and start over, building the entire living room (or even the whole top floor) around it.

But I can't - hence the frustration. Many years ago, I would have stripped the house (including my heinous, outdated kitchen) and damned the consequences. But the Big Lug has rubbed off on me more than I'd ever dreamed. What I once interpreted as lack of direction, of goals, is really ambition banked and waiting for the perfect moment to flare up into flame. Where I once saw irresponsibility I now see someone who keeps me (and him) as the priority, someone who doesn't waste time and energy on dusting and re-dusting when there's serious kissing to be done. In fact, for my husband, I (and not my plans or my demands) always come first - and so does he, for me. I must be patient.

The home I really want will happen - in my budget (mostly), and only when it's time. My kids will forgive me if I don't clean perfectly (they might not even notice since it's pretty hard to tell when a scruffy mutt like mine has even had a bath). No, all I really need to do is the best I can do, then fill in the rest with love.

That, thanks to my Big Lug, is easy.

A Diamond Day

It happened a bit over a week ago. Wednesday morning dawned colder than usual - at least, I think it did. I overslept. Since it was so late, I didn't think I'd be able to get to my usual haunt (25% discount day at my favorite thrift store), at least not without sacrificing my writing time and my walk, but I decided to play it more by ear than by plan (you read that post).

Anyway, as it happened, I not only finished my morning pages but managed to drag the Big Lug on the walk, too. The clock told me I was cutting it close to the 9:30 store opening time, yet when we reached the corner that made it either a "short" or "long" walk I knew the long version was the way to go - he's been a couch potato lately, and I wanted to do maximum damage to whatever artery block might have settled in with him. When he mentioned my time limit (to wriggle out?) I shrugged and said, "if something is there for me, it will wait until I get there to find it." And I meant it.

So when I finally reached the store just after 10 and saw the mob of other jewelry hunters, I really wasn't expecting too much. Hopeful, but not presuming, I called out a greeting to the clerk (as I always do - she's a gem), scanned the display case, found a few possibilities, then waited patiently until she had a free moment (she handles the cases and the register for the entire housewares section).

She greeted me with a smile, a sigh, and a roll of her eyes toward the other end of the counter. I nodded my commiseration - I'd watched her try to make her two arms into seven too many times not to. I pointed out my three items (in little zip-close bags) to be pulled, then let her jump back into the fray.

All three were not what I thought they'd be - one was brass not gold, the second was paste not stone. I almost didn't opent the third bag, thinking the place was even more picked over than I'd thought it would be - especially since it appeared to be just a silver chain curled up in the corner of the bag, and a $4.99 price tag usually means nice, plain, but nothing spectacular attached to it. I didn't even know why I'd pointed to it in the first place, honestly, since I have sterling chains galore. Yet when I took a second look, I was glad I did - it had a pendant strung on it, a small but pretty one. I shook it into my hand.

Not just pretty, but beautiful, isn't it? The chain felt smooth on my fingers, not harsh like steel (but not the fluid feel of gold). I checked the tag near the clasp, saw (fuzzy with my poor eyes) "925" (sterling), nodded, then studied the pendant. Appeared to be silver, too, with a colorless stone that was probably CZ (because silver usually is). A well-made piece, crisp lines, but I couldn't read more than the last "5" with my naked eye. Good enough. I loved it, I bought it (for $3.74 - 25% off day, remember?), then finished my seemingly endless errands.

Once I got home and unloaded the car, I pulled out my loupe. The tag on the chain said "925" all right, no surprises there. Double-check the pendant. Adjust distance. "5" definitely, but another "5"? I blinked and looked again. Not 925 after all - there, in razor-sharp relief was "585."

Not silver. White gold.

Ding, ding, ding!

A litany of muttered "thank You, thank You, thank You's" left my lips. Later, I met my student, made dinner, read before bed, all with a smile on my face. I was curious about the stone, of course, but when I hit it with the UV flashlight the next day it appeared to almost reflect the purple light (a bit blue, but mostly not), so while I thought it might be a diamond (as I reported last Thursday) I wasn't holding my breath. I did, however, decide to price some white gold chains in the big (fairly high-end) jewelry store near my office the next time I had a tutorial there, maybe even splurge and make a real necklace.

Tuesday, I finally made it out. I found the perfect chain - perfect length, perfect glitter factor (some were outshining the pendant), perfect for the size of the piece. Not the perfect price, however. I gulped at the tag. I hadn't bothered to shop anywhere online so it was a major case of sticker shock - $119 for a $3.74 pendant seemed ridiculous. I don't know what prompted me to ask - a thirst for knowledge or a desparate need to stall (she'd showed me a lot of chains) - but I popped out with "how can I figure out if this is a diamond or not?"

She held out her hand. "Would you like me to check it for you?" she asked. "It will only take a moment." They have a diamond tester (high-end store, remember?), and all she had to do is touch it, making sure the sensitive tip of the probe rested squarely on stone not metal - no small feat since it's so small. But she did it. I watched. It was cool, free, and fascinating. And then the silly box sang the verdict.

Diamond!

The room wobbled and my head buzzed - I actually thought I might faint for a moment. Not because I love diamonds so much - I much prefer rubies, emeralds, and any other non-potential-conflict stone - but because ... well, c'mon, four dollars!

So I bought the chain. I know, I could get it cheaper, but cheaper isn't always better, especially when I can't see the quality, right there, on my neck. Plus, not only did this (I'm sure) work-for-commission employee basically hand me my first amazing treasure find, she offered to clean the piece (free) before I left.

I went home in a daze. The Big Lug grinned from ear-to-ear when I told him, and high-fived me (he supports my "hobby" - if he only knew). I re-looked at my gem books, too. Duh - diamonds, real diamonds, can fluoresce just about any color (I remembered that) but when they turn blue under longwave they are not synthetic. Now that it was clean, I saw pure blue under UV and not the blue-purple I had seen when it was, apparently, dirty. I measured the stone in the pendant, too, and I think it's 1/5 carat, set in about 1 gram of white gold (since it has the purity marking but not any other hallmark - that's British law). Not much money in raw materials, but, based on what I see, this is probably a very good stone, and defintely a well-crafted setting. Trust me, I have more than $4 here.

Out of curiosity, I also went back to the 14K gold earrings I bought a couple of weeks ago, scrubbed and rinsed them and hit them with the UV. Though the stones are tiny (1/3 to 1/2 carat total weight, I'd guess), and they're not as sparkly as this one (not professionally cleaned), they all glow blue as well.

I have diamonds out the wazoo.

It was a very good day.

... thank You, thank You, thank You ...

Searching for Inspiration

So, I've been staring at the blank screen, in my head and in reality, since about 5:30 this morning. I read the paper (business, world, and style). I watched TV (mostly the home and garden variety). And, though the daylight is almost gone, I took my daily walk.

I'm stumped. I typed in five different titles, six first sentences. None of them sparked so much as an extra thump in my chest. What the heck do I write about when there's nothing to write about?

Oh, I know the economy is chugging away on its path to the deepest part of the mine, and the media (and many political appointees) continue to spout words like "dire," "apocalyptic," and "calamitous" with an appalling lack of emotion (and, perhaps, of definition). I know that Transition looms fat and (happy/sad) on the horizon, as does the month-plus season(s) that in some families deepens the warm connections and in others serves to accentuate group dysfunctionality and individual gluttony and greed. I know that winter is coming, fast and gray, from all directions at once. All that is old news, inevitable, charted and mapped. Where's the creativity, the enthusiasm, the change point?

It's coming; it's just not here today, not yet anyway. Today seems to be about seeing the darker side (mostly), yet still - on purpose - putting one foot in front of the other. I don't know why I'm seeing more pre-dawn blackness than brightness - the Big Lug and I both got paid on Friday, I found a pretty ring and a great watch on Saturday, and I didn't work horrible hours - but there's no flash of light today, no genius, no great revelation. I'm waiting patiently, however, because I know it will eventually come. I've learned to trust that fact.

In the meantime I have to be honest with you and myself, and stop trying to perk up a day that's cloudy, windy, and really, really cold. Sometimes we must simply accept the day or week or year for what it is (a silent, gathering-of-strength time), light a fire in the hearth (symbolic, don't you think?), stick a roast in the oven, and put the milk on the stove for a mug of the sweetest, hottest cocoa on the planet.

Hey, it's Monday - a girl's gotta take it where she can find it, right?

Accountability

Being your own boss sounds great in theory, but it's something of a pain, at least when business outside the house slows down. See, as long as I have appointments, students to meet or classes to teach, I thrive - my day molds itself around my chosen schedule, one which has another person or persons involved (which creates a disappointment factor and so immediately makes me accountable). When my calendar has only three days a week with anything written on it, that's when I start to get in trouble.

At first, it's great - usually I need the rest after the Busy Bunny routine, especially when three times out of four I get sick (or, as the Big Lug says, I "allow myself to be sick") almost immediately afterward. So, although I had a few quiet, relaxing times after my schedule ramped up in mid-July, I still slammed into the big wall of empty on the first of November with an allergic reaction that brought on a ten-day bout of bronchitis. Despite this, even the Big Lug was surprised when I voluntarily rested, and he played caretaker far longer than he normally would have because (I think) he was worried that I might be sicker than I told him.

His attitude would be funny except I know that I'm a terrible patient, and a worse self-starter, so after the initial day (sick or not) of movie-watching and popcorn-eating I'm usually running like a maniac from cooking to shopping to distractions of any sort so that I won't have to do anything (especially things I hate, like housework or going to the doctor's). Unfortunately, this almost always means big bucks, spent mostly on things I don't need or don't use - the stack of unopened boxes in the basement stood silent testament to my sordid past of comfort buying until I returned, sold, and gave most of it away during the extravaganza.

So because of my quest, this time - for the first time, really - I couldn't buy things that weren't catch up (empty pantry and freezer), stock up (while I have the money), or need in the next month (clothing, tablecloths for Thanksgiving), so the "resting" went on longer than I'd intended and even ran perilously close to depression. All because I lacked one essential element. Structure.

Not a plan, I want to emphasize that. Plans are easy, and (for me) toxic. Hell, I can come up with a thousand plans, all equally unrealistic because no matter how orderly anyone makes it, life has a habit of getting in the way. And since outline turns to policy and then to dogma at a moment's notice - but life doesn't - thwarted planning is the loony factor in my past.

A structure is as different from a plan as a willow is from an oak. For me, this means a system of checks and balances, of goals and completions, of rewards and consequences - fluid and ever-evolvoing, loose not locked-in - and though this never shows up as an item in my datebook, the pencilled-in names that are there move me to do more during a day, if for no other reason then being able to accomplish so much in a such a short span sets a good example for (and maybe motivates) the teenagers I teach.

I'm ashamed to admit it, but with only empty space on my calendar, I have only empty space in my day. With no anchor, no goal to shoot for (no one to impress?) I am adrift. Yes, I have this crusade, but it's a secret and (honestly) not all-encompassing enough to give me the daily feel of satisfaction I require - I don't just need someone to be accountable to, I need something to be accountable for on practically a moment-by-moment basis, and I've begun to realize that even I can't look for money 24-7.

Wisdom is about understanding your limitations, right? About emphasizing your strengths, yes? So I did what any rational nutcase would do - I made a list, a Bunny-style, generic-yet-specific, heavily-suggested-but-not-rigid roll call of reasons to get up and get moving every day of my life.

In no particular order, and out of love not fear, every day I will:

Do at least one good thing ... for my finances ... for my home ... for my family ... for myself ... and for others.

Already today I've covered self (a long walk, despite the cold), others (picked up trash along the route), and finances (entered the receipts into the checkbook and clipped coupons). I put a hold on a book for the Big Lug on our library's web page, and I'm about to start the turkey chili (all for my family). I don't know what to do about the home yet, but I'll think of something before the day is over, even if it's running a scrub brush around the toilet (hideous but over quickly).

The beauty of this is that I can spend as much or as little time as I'm able on each item, so when I'm busy (making money) I can multitask (dust furniture while calling my mom to tell her I love her) or do just five minutes (plucking my eyebrows), and - directly or obliquely - it will probably impact my goal here anyway (going thrift shopping for me yesterday, I found a 14K and possible diamond pendant for $3.74). No matter how it ends, though, I know how it begins - I will and I must do something in each area, every day. Period. Not open for discussion.

But always open for real life.

Short and Sweet

I worked 11 hours yesterday and slept only 5, so I have a limited attention span right now. But that's okay, because not much is happening on the home front.

Saturday's hunting was slim - it rained, which limited me to thrift shops and online auctions. The former was shortened by the Electric Kid, who had an accident in the car (no real issue, I was tired from my week-long illness and recovery anyway), and the former was kind of lackluster.

Actually, that part surprised me. I get that donations are down - with the markets bouncing like a chihuahua on a caffeine high, no one wants to give anything away - but I expected more to show up on eBay and Yahoo. I don't know, maybe it's normal. Maybe it's a sign of things to come. Maybe people will pass on their nicer things as gifts this year.

Maybe I could figure it out if I had a brain. But I don't. I can't even focus here for long.

I thought about taking pictures today, posting my finds for the last ... what is it, three months? (I'm a bit out of date.) But the Big Lug took today off. He's taking care of me. So much so that I'm having trouble dodging him as I write this post. That's not actually a complaint since his version of caretaking is rubbing my fevered brow (and the neck and shoulders that carry all my stress). He can't cook, he doesn't pick up after himself, but the man kneads muscles like a gourmet baker does bread. He's worth his weight in platinum.

In fact, I need to head back. I threw him off the scent by playing Text Twist and Googling chest freezers (our basement 'fridge blowed up) but he'll be in here any minute to check on me - to bully me into lying down for awhile or make me eat a peanut butter sandwich. Big silly tyrant of a man.

I love it.

Transitioning

This is hard - this bloody household money thing. I calculated utilities, gas, allowance, food, even charitable giving, I know I did! I forgot nothing but it's not working. It shouldn't be this difficult to transfer the dailies over to the Big Lug's salary, dang it! But our "incidental" spending is way more than I'd thought it would be; I'm losing my mind trying to track it and get the man to slow down at the same time. Geez, Louise, how much can two people spend?

Wait. Take a breath. Slow down. Don't freak. The goal is to have this plan up and running by the end of the year, not by the end of the day. It takes time to change the course of a river, even one that's shifted from white-water thrills to lazy and steady by now. Nothing worthwhile happens all at once.

Right?

Transitions are hard for most people, but they are the worst for an impatient, do-it-all-yesterday gal like me. I have to remind myself that this is the least of the changes around me. Autumn and spring are nature's transitions, times of flux between the abundant, full life and the stark, temporary death of the land - we even turn our clocks back and forth during these months. Plus, the first Tuesday in November is about changing the guard - this year that means new President, new Congress, new hopes, and new concerns. Add in the heaving money markets and the roller coaster high-low of gasoline and household basics, and I'm surprised we haven't all lost our minds.

I'm jumpy, that's all. It's as if there's a thunderstorm or a surprise party coming but I can't see it - I don't know what's going to happen next. But do I ever? If I truly believe life is an adventure then I have to accept the unknown because it's not an adventure without the unknown. Take a step, any step. Good, bad, or boring, if I want to live and not simply exist the only thing I can do wrong is to plant my size 9 1/2's and not budge at all. I know this.

Transitions are nothing more than moving forward slower - could be a pause once in awhile to catch my breath and enjoy the wonders around me, could be allowing someone else drive for awhile and help me get from one amazing place to another. Either way, I have to trust I'll end up where I'm supposed to be, and that the destination will be even better for the journey.

All of it. Even the frustrating parts.

Giving Thanks

For the love of my life. For my wonderful children and grandchildren. For the roof over my head. For the food on the shelves. For the clean water I drink. For the air that I breathe.

I don't write often enough about a ritual I perform, a part of this quest that is thought trivial, even worthless, by most - the act of gratitude.

Last week was good. I reached goal and entered the maintenance phase of my Weight Watchers journey on Tuesday. The Big Lug and I went on an overnight to celebrate - not far, but far enough. We stopped by an antique mall we'd found on a previous hunting expedition, for what, I didn't quite know - a reward for hitting the mark, but what?

I saw a couple of nice (not leap-from-the-page awesome) pieces of milk glass, but it was (of course) the jewelry that caught my eye. A ring, specifically. I'd thought I wanted a pretty amethyst, but I tried on anything I could find. After dozens of random pieces, amethysts and sapphires and rubies and all, I couldn't get this one ring out of my mind - 14K gold, vintage swirl pattern, antique-cut emerald with three tiny diamonds on each side, it was perfect on my hand. And though I don't know much about stones (yet), I do know this one is flawed - enough to keep the price low ($112 down from $140) but not enough to turn me off. I bought it. As is my habit, I thanked the Source of All Things Good for this amazing blessing, not just because it was (I believe) a bargain but because it was waiting just for me. And I meant it.

Unlike most people, I do not save this rite for a single day of the year (Thanksgiving) but do it every day, for what I have, for whatever catches my fancy, for whatever has enriched my life at any given moment - the basics of life, the people I love and who love me, my cat's funny chin, the 14K gold and diamond (?) "door knocker" earrings I found on Wednesday for $1.60 at a thrift store, the vision for this quest, the amazing bean soup I made yesterday - all get an immediate "thank You." Sometimes, during especially trying periods, I must on purpose find five things before I sleep, even if it takes work, but most days I don't have to reduce my gratitude to a scheduled, rote prayer. Indeed, most days my cup is full to overflowing.

I believe that bounty is because I say "thank You." In the years when I thought it was all about me, about my needs and my skills and my talents and my work, I had no one to thank but plenty to condemn - during those years, credit was mine but fault was always someone else's, you know the routine.

One day the absurdity of that equation rose up to meet me, wham!, right in the face, the way my roads tend to do. Now I know better. And I do not blame (or at least I catch myself before it goes too far). And I always try to say "thank You."

Now my life is bigger than I ever thought it could be, full to bursting with purpose and love and security and serenity, as anyone's life can be. Trouble is, most people look for changes before they show gratitude. They believe something amazing or out of the ordinary must happen for which to give thanks before they can do so. Not so. Changes - good changes - cannot occur in a stew of anger and selfishness and fear. I had to find that out the hard way (as usual). You don't.

Shift perspective, today. Get outside of your own skin. Try this - look around; find five things for which to be grateful, and then say it. No, seriously, don't wait until some stupid national holiday tells you to do it - say "thank You," aloud, at your computer, right now.

Now close your eyes, say it again slowly, and mean it.

Now look around again.

Yeah, you saw it, too.

Amazing, isn't it?

Cocooning

It's coming, I can feel it - change is in the air.

With the ACT last weekend, my schedule is opening up. I have enough business (and savings, if necessary) to pay the bills, especially since there's not as much bespoken each month as there used to be. I am meeting my own personal deadlines here on this page, as well as hitting other benchmarks - I reached my weight goal on Tuesday after eighteen months of work, and I'm well into the yard sale/thrift shop weekly groove. I've even (finally) attended my first mineral club meeting (fluorescent minerals, very cool!), tried my first belly dancing DVD (muscles I didn't even know I still hurt), and am nearly finished clearing our finances up.

It's time to add something new to the mix. But what?

My strongest option is to put a book proposal together. I've been kicking a fantasy series around for nearly twenty-five years. Whether I choose the longer, edgier, adult version or the more streamlined, cleaner, young adult version, I could write three chapters of the first book and the "bible" for the series. It would mean spending a few months shopping it around while I finish the novel, and - possibly - failing to sell it or even to get a nibble. That kind of "wasted" effort strangled my enthusiasm for writing before - I'm a double-duty, impatient Bunny - but maybe I'm ready to give it another shot (just not in the foot).

My second strongest is to go after a "regular" job. This economic climate, combined with my quest, has made me yearn for a source of benefits for myself. An employer-matched 401K would be nice, as would subsidized life insurance. Sick leave. Vacation pay. Even medical insurance at some point. Like many people, I have none of these in my job, but the Big Lug has always made sure we had them so I've never really felt the pinch. If he retires earlier than scheduled, however, we will either lose or pay more for most of that which I take for granted ... unless I bring them home. A quick survey of solid jobs tells me that I have options. Not high-paying (at first) options, but things that will quickly pan out to a more acceptable level.

Whatever I decide, nothing major will shift until after the first of the year, maybe as late as Spring - proposal-and-or-resume writing takes time. With the holidays just around the corner (and Left Field coming in with his partner) I can only do the best I can do, which probably means to take a single step somewhere, see what feels like True North and what is just a Deep Ditch, then go on from there. So far, I've been pulling myself together - streamlining life and money, dabbling at various fantasy jobs to get out of the box a little - but this is putting myself out there for real. It's a much scarier proposition, but it's one that's been coming on for years - a wildly colorful, Bunny-tatooed butterfly waiting to break out.

Let's see how she does this winter.

A Halloween Tale

Saturday was a strange day, a dark and rainy day. My first tutorial wasn't until 9:30 am, and there was this rummage sale ...

I saw the ad the night before, and though it started at 9:00 am I figured I could spend 15 minutes inside and take 15 minutes to get to that first student, no problem. The lure of the hunt throbbed in the air - especially since this one was actually billed as a "Treasure Sale." When I entered the church that fateful morning, a quick glance at the tables told me the label wasn't vanity or exaggeration - porcelain vases and dishes, silver and silver plate, crystal and craquelure, and lots of art met my hungry gaze. I snagged an elaborate Victorian brass desktop set with double inkwell (beautifully done, though no liners) for $10, and a couple of pretty but practical household things before I spotted the jewelry. Well, actually, I spotted a ring of women, leaning like willows in the wind, and assumed there was a table full of either shoes or sparkly things. Since I could plainly see the footwear in the opposite direction, I headed to the crowd.

I towered over the circle of heads and shoulders. Oddly, the display seemed pretty sparse for that dense a cluster of hunters, but I thought that perhaps donations were down - the usual grab-fest was more shuffle than snag, as if they were ... waiting. Strange, yes, but who questions luck? I shrugged and began to reach gently in and over, toward whatever caught my eye. A pair of silver dolphin earrings (tarnished so cheap and unclaimed) went into my hand, then a ring, both of which I would look at in a moment as soon as I'd picked up anything else of interest. A shoebox lid across the table held a pair of CZ earrings, so I leaned in, twigged it with two fingers - and gasped as a woman snatched it back and took a swipe at my fingers, as if to slap them, then went back to work all without a word or even a glance in my direction. My astonishment (and fury) deepend as I realized that the container was not part of the display at all but had been and was being methodically filled to overflowing by that ... that harpy.

She was about 5-foot-nothing, twenty-ish, with long, black hair and brown eyes, my exact opposite in every way, the opposite of all of my friends. Yet something about her was ... familiar. It wasn't the build or the clothes or the moves that caught my eye, but ... what? Yes, the expression! The hawklike intensity and rapaciousness! I knew it from somewhere!

No, it couldn't be ... not that, anything but that!

The impulse to yank the earrings from her grasping claw drained out so fast it left a dizzying vacuum. I couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't do more than blindly snag that pair of earrings when she - after a contemptuous glance - tossed them back into the center of the table. Surely it was a trick of light! For a moment it was ... me!

I clutched my finds and backed away in horror, mouth at half-mast, unable to shift my gaze as this blood-chilling Mini-Me finished her gluttonous raid, tossed a few pitiful crumbs to the hovering ladies, and paid the attendant. So transfixed was I by the train wreck of my imagination that I couldn't even overhear her total or get a glimpse of what I'd missed out on by not getting there early.

That's not me, I told myself as I pumped the cash lady for information. Never in a million years would I be that ruthless for something as silly as a pile of whatever it was (no one could tell me for sure, the witch was too fast). And I'm not that obsessed, not any more. I even walked away with just the three jewelry items before going to pick out a print for the Big Lug - one I did not pluck from beneath the hand of another woman who, though she was hardly there before me, hurried past my reaching arm to get there first. And, yes, I thought good "put it down" thoughts right at her, but I stood patiently the entire ten seconds before she set it back on the chair. Okay, so I had it before it touched wood, but I wasn't rude - I smiled and even said "not at all" when she apologized for her obviously abrupt behavior.

I released the fear that had frozen my veins. Not me. Not me. We're all kind of crazy this time of year, and with the economy the way it was now ... yes, she probably wasn't a harpy at all - she's just as strapped as the rest of us, and trying to find gifts for her friends and family for the holidays. Or maybe she's just another hunter, one without my scruples or my restraint - I'd run into dealers before, even ruder than she was. And two of the three pieces I'd bought were fine sterling items - the ring turned out to be a Mary Engelbreit original, which I'm wearing even now. I know that if I were meant to have the other jewelry, I'd have gotten to them in time.

But it was weird, that instant of recognition, wasn't it? In another universe it would be one of those moments that parents warned about, the Twilight-Zone cautionary kind meant to scare little kiddies into eating their oatmeal and keeping to the narrow path. I have nothing to worry about. It wasn't real; it was simply an illusion, the Halloween spirits at play.

What else could it be?

Making It Look Easy

One of the things I hear a lot in my classes is "you make it look so easy!" Well, duh - test-taking is not just something I've researched and practiced for well over a decade, it's something I was good at to begin with, something I love to do, even for fun (twisted but true).

Oddly, I hear the same comments about my cooking, my weight loss, and even my marriage, too. That's weird to me, because not only did it take a lot of struggles and failures along the way, it takes the strength of Hercules - on a moment-by-moment basis - to make it run at all, much less smoothly. Easy? Not in a million years. But looking easy? That's a different story.

Every time I open a magazine or turn on the TV, I am bombarded with images of perfect bodies, perfect homes, perfect dishes, and perfect lives. Always have been. From Leave It to Beaver to Cosmo, there's nothing but happy, delicious, satiated, and wise people - easy. The stupid thing is, even though my father has been in politics and advertising my entire life, I believed everything I heard and saw. Rock-hard abs and buns, filet mignon in cracked pepper sauce on a bed of new potatoes, vacations in Madeira and the Riveria, husbands who worshipped me and (better) cleaned the house and were wizards with repairs (and other things): all these (and more) could be mine in only 5 minutes a day. I believed it. Until I tried it. And when couldn't make it happen that way, when it turned out to be illusion, I was furious - at myself for falling for that line of crap, at "them" for feeding me that line of crap, and at everyone else for failing to live up to that line of crap.

Wow, was I an idiot, or what? And yet this happens more often that any of us wish to admit. We expect our finances to magically grant us the life we deserve (and they do - just not the life we think we deserve). We assume that just because we could eat doughnuts and ice cream every day of our lives that we will always be able to eat doughnuts and ice cream every day of our lives (until we bark at the cleaners for "shrinking our clothes"). And we know our spouses can't possibly be that sloppy or selfish or careless or clueless, but when they are we use them for target practice - mostly for being themselves (and not psychic). We don't even try to see the airbrushed photography or the heart of the person or the behind-the-scenes tricks at work, we just go for the jugular or we cut them off at the knees or we walk away from whatever has disappointed us (which alleviates the frustration but solves nothing). It's as if we're all living in Never Never Land, where anything we can see - the easier and more self-indulgent, the better - becomes real.

I don't know when, exactly, I stopped clapping for Tinkerbell, but I know it was the day I became an idealist.

You heard me - an idealist. You'd think that's what I was in those bad old days, right? Nope. I was what happens to people who buy into the hype, who believe in fantasy not potential, and then try to force everything around them inside the lines of their desires. Idealists are not by definition "realists," but we don't usually have unrealistic expectations. We tend to be firmly grounded in what is possible - we dream of the flawless but we don't count on it, especially in the early days. And we don't throw tantrums (often) when our vision doesn't match the fact (this time); we forgive, we refocus, we do our best to see what could be in what is, and we move forward again. The silly thing is, though we might take only baby steps for years, we usually get much closer to our bliss than most people, because we take as much pleasure from the journey as we will from the outcome.

Someone once told me a cynic is a disenchanted idealist. Bull. Been there, done that, got the aneurysm. Trust me, a cynic is a thwarted control freak, someone who wants the world to bend over, grab itself, and form-fit to her image of what it should be - in other words, someone who's too lazy to work on something that doesn't dance to her tune.

I was all that once upon a time, and both my marriage and my life sucked - I believed it was going to be so, and so it was. When I started believing that anything is possible, the world became my oyster. My husband was suddenly more loving, more attentive, more helpful. My body became a trusted friend instead of an antagonist. My home was more comfortable and warm, my bank account fatter and slower to deplete - heck, even my cooking improved.

"Right," you say, "all that really happened." Yep, it did - over a period of time, with many tiny steps and a few startling leaps, it really did happen.

So how did I do it? Well, first, I stopped reading so many magazines, watching so many TV shows, and listening to the multitude out to sell me their own personal perfect. Then I stopped trying to reshape everyone and everything like some mad potter throwing clay into my own image of it. And then I changed just one thing, the only thing I really ever could change. Me.

Some day I hope that someone, somewhere will tell me, "retirement, huh? You make it look so easy." Because now I have proof, here, that it's not.

But the dreaming - the ideal - is. And it's infinitely possible.