I'm full

I'm full of all the political TV propoganda. I'm full of George Bush and John Roberts and Dick Cheney. I'm full of the senators that promise some change and end up letting go. I'm full of the fear mongers. I'm full of the cell phones and the internet. I'm full of the high fructose corn syrup in all the cheap food. I'm full of my job taking up all my time. I'm full of cars and gasoline. I'm full of the cost of dying. I'm full of the nursing homes "helping" the elderly. I'm full of the Israeli bias. I'm full of video games. I'm full of obsession. I'm full of denial. I'm full of jingoistic bigots worried about immigration. I'm full of people being killed in Iraq in the name of freedom. I'm full of TV evangelists spewing more lies, cloaked in Jesus Christ's promise. I'm full of the schools letting army recruters in because they are afraid to loose federal funding. I'm full of it all. I'm full of athletes that are so rich they could buy a small country. I'm full of families so poor they sell their children into slavery. I'm full of the false promises and the lies. I'm full of fast food decaying our culture. I'm full of the doctors and nurses inside established health care "systems." (Simon in his 5-yr-old way, once called it hell care -- I agree.) I'm full of the staus quo. I'm full of the rich not caring about anything else but getting richer. Maybe I'm full of s***, all I know is sadly, I'm full of everything but love.

thoughts while riding the bus

Now that my son has graduated high school I find myself hoping and praying that he will find his way in this confusing world. I long for him to become a responsible man, but not sell his soul to the powers that prey on the common man. All my life I have been struggling to become wealthy in one respect or another, and failed all attempts in everyway. All I've managed to do is put myself deeper in debt. For some reason success does not come easily to me, or I fail to recognize it when it does.

Oh well, there's really no controlling things. Everytime I get to a point where I think things are lining up to actually start back up out of the hole, there is a charge that pops up; I get a speeding ticket ($160), I break my tooth ($700 + ins.), The car breaks down ($678). Well there's no fooling the forces of the universe is there, when something is meant to be it happens. I want to find a way to choose something!

Yes, we get lots of choices in our lives, but the really big ones we have nothing to do with, do we? Who our parents are, where we are born, how wealthy we are, how many brothers and sisters we have, what we look like, our physical health. Much of this world is set. We are cast forth from these beginnings. We are a daisy if we are born a daisy, and we won't likely become a rose. All we can hope for is to be the best daisy we can be. But daisies get eaten by the horses, and trampled by the dogs. Daisies are picked and wilt away. But each year the daisies return for more. Just so they can wave in the wind and bask in the sunshine of a beautiful and warm June day.

I'm supposed to be happy being a daisy. But I'm not. I want to be more. I waste all my precious daisy time wanting to be something other than I am. But something in me keeps telling me that it just might be possible. It might be possible to break out of the daisy mold and be more of a rose, or a climbing vine... maybe one that produces good fruit. But then the other side comes in and says I shouldn't try to be something I'm not, I should be happy with who I am and live that to the fullest, because while I'm here on this earth, if I spend all my time trying to be something I'm not, I'm actually missing who I am this very moment.

This is all very confusing. It is also somewhat depressing.
So where is all the sunshine? And how will this help my son?

Tickets and ticks

I love Lake Superior. I haven’t been up there for a while, so when it came time to plan a camping trip, I thought it would be nice to take Simon and Art to one of the State Parks up there so they could see how beautiful it is.

We set out on the road about 2 hours late, but got up there in plenty of time to set up camp and settle in for the night. We stayed at Amnicon Falls State Park. The campsite was nice, but I found it hard to sleep because I could hear the sounds of the highway and the blaring horns of the diesel freight engines as they passed through and the banging as they were coupling and uncoupling through the night.

The next day we woke up and prepared for a day in the woods. We went for a long walk in the woods and along the river where the falls were. The falls were very beautiful. When we were done there, we stopped and gathered some kindling for the fire in the form of pinecones and needles. When we got back to camp it looked as though it might rain, so we covered the kindling and firewood and just as we got to the car it started pouring rain.

We went into Superior and visited K-mart, Goodwill, and the Salvation Army Store. We bought stuff. Then it was time to go back to the camp. It was still raining. By the time we got back to camp, the rain ended and the sun actually peeked through. I played guitar for a while and then Art played and we had fun. I tried to cook on the grill, but the fire was not cooperating. I barely got things going. We managed to eat a little and then everyone retired into the tent. We needed to get Simon to sleep. So we all slept. Art and I woke up and went out and looked at the stars for a while. They were very beautiful.

The next morning we went out and it looked like it was going to rain again. I was a little frustrated by the weather. So I said to Art that we might leave and go to a different camp over in Bayfield. It was very windy. I decided to make a fire according to an idea I had gotten while I was observing the extinguishing effects of the fire pit the night before. I figured that I’d need to build kind of an oven type fire. That is where you build a miniature log cabin in the fire pit. I used 10 logs. Then I stuffed the middle with needles and pinecones and with the help of a little lighter fluid got the thing going. Boy did that baby burn nice. It was a perfect oven. The only problem was that we were out of things to cook on the fire. I hadn’t planned for this trip very well as far as supplies go.

I decided we could go after the fire went out. That was around 12:30. So we packed up and left. We decided to have lunch at a little place called the Rustic Roost. It was really good. We splurged a bit on lunch, with both Art and I having the Walleye. After that we were off to Bayfield.

As I hit the road, Art and I talked about how good the lunch was and how clean the bathrooms were. As I coasted down the hill a few miles along the way, I saw a State Trooper’s Squad tucked behind a little knoll off to the left side of the road. I hadn’t been paying attention to my speed so I quick looked at my speedometer as I put my foot on the break. Oh my Gosh! I was going 70 mph. I was sure I would be stopped, and sure enough the trooper pulled out behind me and began to use his radio. He was checking my registration. He turned on his rollers. I pulled over and waited.

The trooper was nice enough. He informed me I was speeding. I knew this. I babbled about how I never speed intentionally and I always use my cruise control to safeguard against doing such a thing. I was so upset and scared. I worried about the expense of the speeding ticket, and I worried about my insurance rates going up. He went back to his vehicle with my driver’s license. As I waited for him to come back I began to cry and told Art how sorry I was.

When the trooper came back he had a bunch of papers in his hand. In a few seconds I would find out how much this was going to cost me. I felt a little mad about it and felt it was kind of unjust because I had tried to be so conscientious about my speed and then it seemed the moment I let down my guard all hell breaks loose. He told me that my vehicle registration had expired in April and I hadn’t renewed it. That was news to me. I thought to myself, “Oh god, here it comes…” Then he said; “I’m just going to give you a warning on this.” “Thank you, sir.” I said. Then he said; “Here’s the expensive part. I’m going to give you a ticket for going 70mph in a 55mph zone. I’m not going to double it for being in a construction zone. Technically it is a construction zone, but because there are no workers out here I decided to waive that addition to the fine.” “Thank you, sir.” I said again, with tiny little halelujiahs under my breath. “But the fine is $160.80 for the speeding…” and he went on with all the technicalities. I just wanted to go home.

Eventually it was time to pull out onto the road and go along our way. That nice lunch was turning summer salts in my stomach now and I was inconsolable. Fortunately, Simon slept through the whole incident, and Art remained silent. When we got to Bayfield, I just wanted to get a soda and use the restroom. I was still shaky and just wanted to go home. I showed Art the town and Simon just wanted to go on the ferry ride. Well, I had just spent all the extra money for a ferry ride in the form of ticket. So I had to say: “No.” Simon cried. But we eventually got back on the road south.

We stopped for a few minutes on the lakeshore and played in the sand with Simon. We took off our shoes and waded in the cold Lake Superior surf. We found driftwood in all kinds of interesting shapes. There was one of the stump of a tree with the roots fanning out like an octopus! There was another I scavanged to take home with us, it looked like a fox. It was very calming. I was starting to relax.

As we descended the upper peninsula and passed the outpost for the rangers of the National Forest I longed to take Simon and Art to see the beautiful campsite where I had a spiritual awakening. Art agreed and we went down there and decided to camp there that night. I was so happy. It was just as I remembered it. There was a tiny little beach and Simon just wanted to play in the warm surf. So I pulled the car in and we set up the tent and began to change into our swimming suits. Art was waiting and when Simon and I came back from putting our suits on, Art noticed a bug stuck to his leg. It was a tick! Yuck! The wind was blowing so hard at both sites; I think the ticks were just flying around in the air. It was inevitable there would be some tick action that day.

The problem with this tick was that it was embedded in his leg already. He couldn’t pull it out. I couldn’t pull it out. I thought that maybe using a match would get the ugly thing out of his leg, so I proceeded to light a match and blow it out and then stick the hot match head right onto the tick. It didn’t work the first time so I tried it again. Art said that that hurt a lot and I could see he was burning, and it wasn’t really helping to get the tick out, so I didn’t do that anymore. I just grabbed the tick and pulled. Its body broke off of its head. I had the body in my hand, and the head was still on his leg. Then I pulled on that dang head until it came out. I was so relieved. I thought that it was a deer tick so I took a piece of paper and folded the 2 pieces into the paper to keep to show to the doctor.

After that we walked over to the beach, a little freaked out by the whole incident, but determined to have a good time with Simon. I decided as long as we were all in our suits we should look for more ticks on each other. Sure enough there was one on Simon’s back, the same size as the one on Art. This took a little tug to remove, but wasn’t as hard as the one on Art’s leg. I found another one on Art that came off easy, and he found one on me that came off easy. Then we felt good and played for a while in the water. Before we came out I thought I saw something on Simon. It was another tick. But this one was caramel color and very small. I tugged and it came off of him relatively easy. I was sure this last tick was a deer tick, the ones that carry Lyme disease.

Then I saw all of these small little blood spots on his scalp. This freaked me out. I said to Art; “Let’s just go home, I won’t be able to sleep knowing Simon might have Lyme disease, and if we go now, maybe we can get him in a shower before things get too bad.” Art agreed and we packed up the tent and started for home.

The trip home was uneventful and we arrived at around 1am. I took Simon in the bath and scrubbed him from head to toe, inspecting for bugs. I didn’t find any. I was so happy. I put him to bed and the exhausted little fellow was sleeping in five minutes. Then I took a shower and settled into my nice soft, tick free bed.

It felt good to be home. It felt good to feel good. And the day of tickets and ticks was over. Thank goodness!

pumping and coasting

I live on a hill. So when I decided to try to start riding my bike again there was no way I could get around having to pump really hard to get up the hill. Sure, when I start out I get to coast really fast down the hill. Then I ride around for a while and eventually it is time to come back home. It's time to ride my bike up that nasty hill.

When I complain about this to my friends they say; "Why don't you just get off the bike and walk it up the hill?" And my answer is; “it’s not that simple!” To me, getting off the bike and walking it up the hill means that the hill has won. It means I'm not strong enough to take on that hill. It means I'm a wimp, a failure.

That brings out the larger issue of my self-esteem. Surely a secure individual wouldn’t find a problem with getting off the bike and walking it up the hill. Only a person with issues around self-worth and competence would find this hard to do. Someone with a problem admitting weakness would worry about being caught walking their bike up the hill.

What is it I’m afraid of? Being weaker than someone? Do I really believe I am stronger than everyone? Do I really think I would ever be the strongest? Am I afraid of losing to the hill? So what is this inferiority complex that sends me into this self-destructive behavior? When did it start? From what does it originate? Is it just part of me?

It is so funny to think of how much insanity guides us through each day. Our own little foibles send us into decisions that have little to do with reality and a lot to do with our whole pathetic self-construct. Still, even though I know all this, I am repulsed by the thought of walking that darn bike up the hill!

So now, I’ve injured my knee. And because I’ve injured my knee, I may not be able to ride my bike for a while at all. Is that self-sabotage or what? I am faced with a hill that is larger than the one my house sits upon. I am looking up the cliff of my self-doubt and fears of being inferior. That most definitely is a hill I should get off and walk up.

Sketchbooks

I’ve been sketching since I was a little girl. It always got me lots of attention. “Look! She can draw!” The kids at school would say when we were in art class, followed by; “I can’t even draw stick men!”

That was a great feeling. I used my “artist” card to get me friends, money, and attention. I got awards. I thought I was really something great. I had visions of becoming the next Van Gogh. I proceeded to live my life the way the biographies of all the famous artists told me they lived -- confused, and tortured with self-importance.

It took a few years, but I came to realize that the artists I had idolized were romanticized in those books. I didn’t need to be sick to be a great artist I just needed to practice art. So I stopped trying to be great and just tried to draw. I bought sketchbooks and drew cover to cover. Sometimes the art was good, sometimes terrible, sometimes magically and surprisingly inspired. They were diaries of a sort. I collected scraps from the dust left behind by everyday life in the pages of these little sketchbooks.

My father drew for a living -- exploded views of machine parts, floor plans for houses, an occasional cartoon. I looked up to him. I wanted to be just like him. His mother was an artist. We had some of her work in the house -- an oil painting of the field by her farm and sketches of horses and the farm hands. The idea of inheriting something from my ancestors was so exciting, I felt like I was part of a something big, lovely, and ancient.

Now my father is gone. He died 5 years ago. But I still warmly remember him sharing little intimacies about art with me. He’d show me how to use a drafting pencil, how to keep things neat, and helped me find subjects to draw. There were also times he helped me with the messes I made making art, like the time I spilled India ink on the basement carpet. I ran up to get him to help me remove it before my mom found out. He was concerned and said he didn’t know how to get it out; “…that stuff is just like paint!” And just as those words came out of his mouth I saw the light bulb go off in his head and he ran and got the turpentine and cleaned the ink up for me. My mother was never the wiser. Now that’s a great dad -- a kindred spirit!

Over the years I have lost my desire to become a famous and great artist. I have broadened my scope in the world and realized there are so many gifted artists out there, and more being born everyday, many, many, many more times talented than I. Competing with the world for something like that became pointless. I no longer desired that type of recognition. But I still wanted to draw.

Other things changed about art as I got older too. The definition of an artist changed. When I was young, I thought an artist was someone who could draw images that resembled a subject being viewed by the artist, but as time went on and I learned more and more about art, an artist became someone who interprets reality and creates things that come from that experience, or well, just performing something. It was very confusing. So I gave up my dreams, because my art had little or no creativity. But I kept drawing in my little sketchbooks. Now I have so many, and I’m afraid to throw them away. I try to keep them in tact. But like me, the covers are fraying a bit and some of the pencil is fading away.

Eventually, I went to school for commercial art and now I work as a graphic designer. It is sort of a cast away position for a person like me. I’m still someone who can draw, but doesn't get art. I got a BFA from UW-Madison in 1999 when I was 41, but I can't get into graduate school -- I think because I don't get art. I don't understand the academic nature of it, and I obvoiusly don't come by it naturally.

I go through periods where I sketch everyday, and months where I don’t sketch at all. But it's always there -- the drawing, the image making, and the love affair with line. The compulsion and desire to mock the images I see in the world at large, to capture them in the net of my sketchbook, like so many odd and exotic butterflies scooped up in the web of memory and romance, never goes away. I pin each precious glimpse inside the velvet pages of my sketchbooks. A physical impression of time spent here on earth. Each winged page is evidence of being, with no judgment or confusion. They are tickets back in time; I can pop them open and be transported into times of love, anger, happiness, or confusion.

What a great gift my ancestors have blessed me with -- a synergy between the eye and the hand. Too bad I muddled it up for a while with unrealistic expectations. My attitude made it almost impossible for me to do art at all. I see this gift now in simpler terms. I see it as a vehicle, a passage, a door. And now the door is wide open. The breeze can blow in whatever images it likes. The sun is shining and the butterflies are floating in, out, and all around, beyond the constraints of time and space and most liberating of all, beyond the constraints of my own debilitating pathos.

to suffer love

The loss of a loved one is an immense burden to bear. My nephew died of a drug over dose a few years back. It hurts like it was yesterday. It doesn’t seem any more real to me now than it did when it first happened. My grief hasn’t diminished, but the way I express that grief has. Now instead of railing and twisting on the floor, I sit at my computer and compose a poem, or put a post on my blog. That must be Grace.

I loved my nephew so much, that I feel a certain betrayal in his dying. I am angry that he was so incredibly stupid as to put himself in so much danger. I suffer his loss, through my deep love for him. As I’ve grown older I’ve become more aware of the delicate thread our lives truly hang upon, torn as easily as a tiny spider’s web by a careless passerby.

Love on the other hand is strong as steel. At first it flows and glows like molten lava, but as it cools it hardens and holds fast. If you experience love, it is impossible not to understand Grace. Because in order to love, it seems we need heapin’ helpins' of Grace. Otherwise, I think love might kill us.

Doesn’t that sound weird? Love? That great, wonderful, soft, warm, fuzzy feeling we can’t get enough of? Well think about it for a second. Love really isn’t that much fun. If we never loved, we’d never know loss. Oh and how loss hurts. And isn’t loss only weathered through Grace? How would we ever climb out of the abyss of loss if it wasn’t for Grace?

Grace is like the epidural of loss. You still feel something, but the impact is greatly diminished and there is at least an appreciation -- if not a vague understanding -- of the mystery of it all.

And speaking of epidurals, having children is the most masochistic thing one could possibly do in terms of love. Just looking at them sometimes breaks your heart. They are so splendid and divine while they quietly sleep -- in a smelly diaper.

So it may sound strange to say one suffers love, but how else does one know love until they suffer for it? Until the majesty of grace lays to rest the grief and despair felt when one loses a beloved to death, or the world and time.

Even just a fight with one you love brings grief and pain. It feels like a loss. It feels like something’s been severed. We try to love so perfectly. We try to love so selflessly. We try to love so preciously. But when we truly love, we lose a lot. It is required. We lose our selves. We triumph and then we bleed. And then we need Grace.

Grace is a pillar to lean against, a mother’s lap in which to lay your drowsy head. Isn’t that love? And don’t we suffer it sublimely?