Mulish & Co.

Making Time For Work, The Good Kind

Okra Blossom
 

 

I've imposed a work schedule upon myself. The best part of the schedule is the 25 minutes set aside for morning meditation. I didn't realize how much I needed that until last night when I enjoyed a much needed evening meditation. Sleep doesn't even quiet my mind the way sitting does. I incorporate anything that I'm worried about into my dreams, the most vivid being those just prior to waking up so the images, the dialogue can haunt me for hours. Of course, this is just the first day. I'm sure by Wednesday I will have a blog post titled, "What The Hell Was I Thinking?" but until then, this is where it's at.

One day last week, while driving to work, I had the grand realization that I'd been driving myself to the wrong job for fifteen years. I love the clinic that I'm at now but it's so left-brained that by the end of the day I'm in a muddle and exhausted. I have hardly anything left for myself. I feel depleted.

So my left brain did me a favor for indulging it all these many years. It's created a schedule for my right-brain that includes meditation, free writing, and painting and more writing. I'm liking it. I like it enough to do it again tomorrow and hopefully create a habit for myself. It's a morning thing right now. It starts the day off right. We've (my right brain and left brain) have also agreed not to call the clinic w-o-r-k anymore. We just call it by its proper name, like a friend. My real work, is what I do here, for myself at home. I want to love my work and I love the work that I've created for myself in the morning. I realize that I may stumble, miss a day but I intend to forgive myself and remind myself that it's ok. All I know right now is that it feels right.

 

In Memoriam: Maurice Sendak, 1928 - 2012

Oh, Maurice, are you where the wild things are now? Have you been embraced in the land of the unknown and unfamiliar and made king? May the monsters of the forest open their hearts for you, hold you close and keep you warm. Thank you for staying with us on this side, in this land for as long as you did. Rest, child. Rest.

The Wild Dance of The Nematodes

Last week I told you about my skepticism regarding the small jar of beneficial nematodes that I purchased. Nematodes are invisible to the naked eye, mind you, so I had my doubts. I hate being duped and I don't trust anything entirely unless I can see it. So, to that end, I put a snuff-sized pinch of the nematode medium into a small glass jar and packed it with ice on Friday. It rode shotgun with me to work where it was fixed to a slide and put under a microscope. When the vet focused the lens she announced, "You got your moneys worth. There's a bunch of them."

I peered in next and I will tell you, that slide had wiggling, writhing nematodes all over it! It reminded me of the Seinfeld episode where we all learn that Elaine cannot, for the life of her, dance. The little S's were making herky-jerky movements, whipping their tiny 'tode heads left and right.There were plenty of nematodes and I had only brought in a small pinch. My weekend was off to a great start.

In other gardening news, I planted the pumpkins this weekend. I sowed them directly into the soil and watered deeply.

I planted cotton and okra seeds last week and both of those have emerged from the soil. I think we've hit that sweet spring warm weather and everything, everybody wants to spend as much time outside as possible. There isn't much for me to do in the garden right now. I keep my basil and chive seedlings moist but everything else seems to be able to go for a day or two on its own without watering. My little garden is growing up.

Now what? What is a gardener to do during this lull? My shrubs are jarred, my garden is growing, my 'todes are thriving. What do I do now? The easy answer to myself is "Write Like The Devil!" But did I? No. I sat and sat and thought quite a lot about writing but nothing was wrought.

I've been reading "What They Carried" by Tim O'Brien and Michael just finished "Creativity" by Jonah Lehrer. I am so blown away by O'Brien's writing. It's the best writing I've read in a long while. Breathlessly poignant. Michael shares bits from his book and tells me that no amount of thinking is going to help me with writing. Creativity comes from a nearly dreamlike meditative state. I can believe that after reading O'Brien. I need some pot, he says. Or a better meditation practice. We laugh because neither is likely. I'm too herky-jerky like the nematodes. Completely unstructured, wild and undisciplined. It would do a lot for me to work on this but I am also the master procrastinator and I always think I'll have time later.

Waiting

Abundance And The Lengthening Days

There is no doubt that the season has changed from dark and fleeting winter days to brighter and longer spring days. La Bête has taken to calling out all morning long. She can keep it up well into the afternoon and I'm sure it has to do with looking for a mate. I'm crossing my fingers her cry falls on deaf guinea ears, she's about all the weird fowl we can handle at the moment. She did surprise us over the weekend with her first egg. I found it in the coop, half buried in rice hulls, standing straight up on end. There was no doubt whose egg it was.

I expected another the following day. Midday the urge hit her, there was no mistaking that desperate, anxious hunt for a good nesting place. She paced up and down our fence line, eventually hopping it and trudging through the neighbors yard as well. As far as I know she didn't put an egg down over there. The following day, I found her second egg in the coop on again, sitting in a dirt nest that she'd dug into the rice hulls.

She must have passed the fever onto Rose who is threatening to go broody on us. All she wants to do is sit in the box and keep all the eggs toasty warm. Eventually I take them from her, leaving her confounded. She's forced to start all over again the next day. This has been going on for nearly a week now.

I love having the fresh eggs and with 7 hens and now the guinea we have plently. I only ever wanted the hens for the eggs but once we had them and with the arrival of the Delawares (who were fairly ill-tempered in the beginning) I started thinking about using the birds for meat. I was looking at knives and reading about how to humanely off them. I wanted to get out from under the heavy feeling that passes through me each time I purchase chicken at the grocery store.

I talked about this with my neighbor over wine a few nights ago. Would it somehow be better, as a consumer, to use my own chickens rather than factory raised? Is it less of an offense because mine run around catching bugs at their leisure? I suppose it would be. The offense, in my mind, is in the treatment, the raising of the animal from beginning to end. My neighbors point of view was that it is unquestionably better in many ways. The meat would be better quality, the birds healthier and it would lessen one's karmic debt, even if just a little.

I have no qualms about eating meat. I remember a little clutch of girls years ago in highschool explaining why they wouldn't eat meat, I mean, other than the fact that so many were  in the grips of eating disorders. They would openly gag their lunches out into trash bins in the lunch area. The thought was that if they couldn't/wouldn't kill an animal themselves then it was just wrong, wrong, wrong to eat one. Maybe so. Everyone has their own measure of right and wrong. I always thought to myself that Hell yes, I'd chase down just about any animal and eat it if I had to. As much as I think I'd like to raise all of my own food, I'm not hell bent on the endeavor just yet. Is it a mark against me? I hope not.

I am starting with vegetables and gaining confidence as well as taking pleasure and satisfaction from my efforts. That may be the extent of food production for me. I'm good with that. For the time being, the birds are safe with me. I imagine, when it comes down to it, they always will be.

Dirty Weekend

Every time I find what I think is the absolutely biggest grub, I turn over a spadeful of soil and find an even bigger one. It's always shocking to find a grub, large or small. They look like mummy fingers complete with a blood red fingernail at the tip or the curled finger of Death himself. Neither of which I want my vegetable roots clinging to.

There are products that claim to eradicate grubs but so far I have not gone down that path. I've tried my best to avoid applying any sort of toxic chemical to my garden beds. I've used BT for leaf chewing caterpillars, Nolo Bait for the ever hungry grasshoppers and insecticidal soap for insects that I suspect may have plans for violence against greenery. I have a huge population of decollate snails and that's been about the extent of my pest control. I lose my fair share of plants, but still, I garden on.

Early last week, Michael told me that his co-worker had offered to pick up a truckload of soil for us from Natural Gardener. It was like an early birthday present. I was giddy about it all week and then Friday came and I could feel a rawness starting in my throat. By the time I came home from work I felt like I'd been kicked in the chest, every inhale pinched and my throat was sore. Saturday was dedicated to recovery so I'd be ready for the excursion out to the soil yard. It was a little strange, even for me. I don't remember wanting anything as bad as I wanted that soil in a very long time.

I sabotaged this desire by making myself feel less. For whatever freak reason, the thought that there are women out there that want manicures, jewelry, clothing, shoes came to mind. Why on earth is it that Michael would feed my desire for dirt? Does he not know these other women exist? Does he really prefer dirt under the fingernails rather than Cherry Red glazed nails? I have to trust that he knows there are options. We are what we are and I love him for wanting what we have. But still, I do this, I let these thoughts seep in only to have to stanch the flow.

When Sunday came and we arrived at the nursery all of this doubt fell away. It was busy with customers. They walked slowly past herbs, past flowers and vegetables, picking up pots, smelling leaves. There are a lot of us. Gardeners. Some manicured, some not, but mostly not. These are my people. I can talk grubs to these people and they will understand my distress, they will offer support, or hope or both.

I made my way to the pest control section and asked an employee about BT. I could see she was no stranger to the stuff. She could have pointed it out in her sleep. She seemed to know a lot about garden pests. It must have been her forte. She knew just what to apply and when. I imagined her studying in the evenings with flashcards, one after the other illustrated with a different menacing looking bug.

Grubs? They were nothing to her. She told me that the behemoth grubs that I've been finding are a good sign, they are an indication of healthy soil. She was so reassuring and delivered the news with an unabashed confidence and smiling all the while that I think I may have blushed a little. All I could hear was, "It just means you have very good soil. Healthy soil!" Her claim pinged and ponged in my brain. She was The Good Witch and her words echoed over and over, "Very healthy soil. You have very healthy soil." It was like going to the dentist and having him proclaim that you have perfect teeth, top and bottom (not that that's ever happened to me but I can imagine the heady feeling that would follow such a declaration).

The rest of the day was even dreamier. We were third in line for the front-loader to fill the truck. The operator was a master. He'd scoop up a massive bucket of soil, dump it in the truck bed, gracefully wheel around to pick up another load, dump and tamp the load down like he was patting a loaf of bread dough. When it was our turn he switched out his scoop for an even larger one. We were all impressed by how quickly he changed buckets out and a little nervous whether all the soil would fit. "This is better than the carwash!" I squealed. "It's like the opposite of the carwash" Michael answered. One scoop. Whirl around. Two scoops and pat, pat, pat. Masterful. The man could have served tea to the Queen with that thing.

It's nearly a week later. The beds are filled, seeds are planted. I've run out of adrenalin. My energy is gone. I am the perfect host for a bug of some kind and my exhausted little body has been found. Whatever I was warding off over the weekend hunted me down and kicked my garden loving ass. It's okay. It was totally worth it.

What took minutes to load, took an hour to unload.

This Is Your Pilot Speaking

I woke up at 5:30 as Michael was leaving for his one morning shift of the week. I woke up just in time to say goodbye, listen to the sound of his bike and hear the front door open and shut, and finally, the key in the tumbler. I considered getting up right then, out of solidarity. The thought quickly passed. It seemed like a ridiculous idea. Where's the sense in that?

When I woke the second time, I was engulfed in the memory of the day I woke after my last day of high school. I remembered the slow realization that I was completely unencumbered. Free. There was no more school, no job, nowhere that I had to be. It was luxury for a short while. Sheer luxury. But soon enough I felt that  I was adrift with no anchor.

It took a lifetime to strike the right balance for myself. I've always felt that the time that I use for myself, to do with what I will, is a true treasure. You can't put a price on it. I worked and went to school until I couldn't do both anymore. Then I worked full-time for years, up until about 6 years or 7 years ago. I shaved back my hours until I had just a hair under 30/wk. It's all I can handle. It's all I'm willing to give. The painful part is that I know my bank account and creditors would love for me to work more.

I can hear all the criticism of family in my head, everything from disbelief, to sarcasm. "You can't do that. You need to work full-time!" or "That must be nice." In fact, it was my brother who threw out the, "I wish I could live like that" remark a few years back. But he doesn't know. He couldn't go without. The man is addicted to toys. To the money. To people. My weakness is time. I distance myself from family so I don't have to explain myself to them.

It takes a lifetime to learn about yourself. How can we build relationships on so slippery a slope? It's no wonder partnerships fall apart. People change. Constantly. Of course people declare, "He (or she) is not the person I married ten years ago!"  Things change and even though everyone knows this in the core of their being it is still unsettling. People always want to know the secret to a successful marriage, or at least I've been asked a few times. It's not just humor, or being similar or being different (opposites attract, don't you know). It's not just being faithful or making romantic overtures. I think what it comes down to is finding that friend that accepts the elastic nature of the self and who is taken with you enough that they want to see who you will be in 5 years, in 10 or 20 or 50 years. Of course Michael isn't the person I married years ago. He's invested time in himself. He's even better now.

I don't know if I am. I still need time to learn who I am and what I am capable of. I don't wake up completely adrift anymore. I plot my chart constantly, making changes to the course as needed. I do know that Michael is a good co-pilot. Or maybe he's the pilot and I'm the co-pilot. It doesn't matter. We're both going in the same direction (that's important in a marriage too, you should both be traveling in the same general direction).

I should have saved this post for our anniversary, in August, when we will have been married for 15 years. But it's better today, as a gesture for my lacking any sense of solidarity this morning.

He Said, She Said

After picking two large bowlfuls of spinach and barely making a dent, I stood up exasperated, arms akimbo and asked, "What am I going to do will all of this spinach? It won't stop growing and it's getting huge!"

He replied, "You could make shoes" a pause, "Or wear them as spats. Spinach spats."

Without further ado, I introduce to you the Spinach Spat...