Naming the Place and the Dreams Attached

 

The past few days were a blurb of moving related activities and I hope to write about them for Saturday's post. In the meantime this post was written recently, after my last tour of my new digs...

I need to name this place, this place I’ve been calling my unit. If I were on the lake side of the building it would open up all kinds of cottage/beach/lake theme names that might sound pretentious as a sign labeling the door to my unit. But what the heck, lake and boating people can be like that. I mean people into other kinds of recreation don’t, say, name their golf clubs or their favorite running shoes but people who love the water do tend to name their dwelling place and water craft and from day one I’ve thought of this place as my artist’s cottage on a lake. A place where I am no longer a slave to the rhythms of home maintenance and I’d finally be able to be creative without feeling guilty because something else needs doing. I visualized myself painting, knitting, writing or quilting with a regularity that makes new rhythms in my weeks that are independent from whatever Mother Nature has going on outside my window panes. 

When someone here asks me what unit I bought on this campus I usually joke that I’m in the cheap seats which I am. There are far fewer units in my building with under 1,000 square feet than there are the larger places with lake views. And if I was not on the main floor the view from my side of the building wouldn’t be so bad. From the two floors above me you can look past the parking lot to the woods where our recreation building/library is located. I love those woods. There’s a couple trees along the walking path that I’ve never seen before and one day I’m taking my Michigan Tree book out to identify them. That walking path is no more than two shortish blocks long but I love it and the best part is I don’t have to rake the leaves that fall this time of the year or pay someone else to do it.

My Artist’s Retreat or My Writing Cave both have a nice ring but then people might expect to see some of my work. It will be months if not a year before I’m ready for prime time with painting, if I’m even able to get my skill levels back which is doubtful. I’ve never been great with mixing colors but I’m hoping that getting my cataracts removed will help with that. Sounds good in theory but its really closer to the old joke about the guy who asks the doctor if he'll be able to play the piano after his brain surgery and the doctor says "Yes" then the guy says, “Great! I never could before.” Back when I breathed, ate and dreamed art 24/7 I had better dexterity, too, for detailed work so I’m thinking I'll need to develop a whole new style and quit obsessing about being a portrait painter. I’ve decided to start with the basics---values, shapes, shading, lines and textures---like a beginner, and see what I can do with simple exercises before I try to metaphorically sky dive without taking the time to pack a parachute.

As for revealing that I think of myself as a would-be writer or that I spend so much time in front of my keyboard trying to hone the craft, I seriously doubt that will happen anything soon. The kind of stuff I write takes trust to show it to people in my off-line life. I don't show my underbelly to people I've just met, who might not understand my sense of humor or they turn out to be laced up tighter than a girl in a Gone With the Wind era corset. If you’ve been reading me for very long you’ll know my inner thoughts are not always chase, charitable and demure. But I also never looked for sinners around every corner like the Church Lady crowd did when I was growing up and who still occupy too much space in my head. It should be easy to figure out who is on the Church Lady List on this campus and I’d tell you my secret Litmus Test but then you’d think I’m as bias and judgemental as those I’ll claim are too pious to like me. 

Having a space for painting that has north-facing light is a biggie in the art world. When I first saw my big windows facing north I’m not going to lie, I felt a chill run through my body. I dreamed of a studio with northern light so much when I was young that it was almost like walking into an Old Master's painting. They all painted their studios at one point or another, even if it was just as background to a naked lady on a settee. There will be no naked ladies (or gentlemen) on my settee but seeing my north light on a sunny afternoon was almost orgasmic. Please note: I've taken a lot of nude figure drawing classes back in my heydays and orgasms just don't happen in nude figure drawing classes; it's very serious business with no lustful thoughts or conversations going on.

Robin Williams did a fantasy movie about traveling through heaven then Dante’s hell to save his wife and bring her to heaven. What Dreams May Come had the most beautiful special effect of walking into a wet oil painting of a lake and becoming part of the actually painting when Robin's character died. It’s the way I want to go, using my imagination to transport me to another time and place. And that's a strong possibility if you believe---as I do---that our heaven and hell are whatever we believe them to be. God, I'd like to see that movie again but I'm almost afraid to. Have you ever felt that way about a movie that touches you deeply, that you 're worried a second viewing will break the magic you felt the first time?

How about Jean's Hobby Den or My Hobby Cottage? They're whimsical without giving anything away. Dreamer Inside might also work or The Daydreamer's Den. ©

Ageism, the Widow and Robin Williams

 

This week I got the second annual ‘shine and buff’ on my car as part of the “free” package the dealership gives you when you buy a new car. I say “free” but you gotta know the cost of that five year program is built into the initial cost of the vehicle. I tried to get them to take if off the car price, but they wouldn’t do it. So I dutifully got my annual shine and buff, otherwise I’d feel like I was throwing money away. The Malibu looked great when they got done…everywhere but on one wheel. I called it a hub cap but evidently cars don’t have hub caps anymore. It’s a whole tire mount and costs a royal fortune to replace. It was gouged deeply the entire way around the hub cap that isn’t a hub cap. On the way home I remembered hearing a terrible grinding metal sound when I went to a car wash recently, but as I was inspecting the car at the detail shop, I thought they had done the gouging. I was upset. They were upset. My word against theirs and I was out numbered. And in hindsight I was apparently on the worry side of the truth.

When I left the detail shop I drove straight to the dealership where they have a body shop. No matter how the wheel mount got damaged, there was no point in putting off getting a new hub cap that isn’t a hub cap. (Out of sight, out of mind.) And that’s where I discovered I can be prejudice against elderly people working in service departments. The guy was my age---maybe older---and working alone, trying to do ten things at one time, writing himself notes, having trouble file papers, typed with two fingers and to top it off, he sounded like Mr. Magoo. He was so slow and foggy acting I was afraid I'd have to do CPR at some point. I was there an entire hour but eventually he got a price on a new wheel mount---$495 new plus labor or $250 installed for a reconditioned model. I went for door number two and vowed not to go back to the same car wash where I think the damage occurred. You have to make a shape turn before getting your tires lined up in the track that takes you through the car wash and that’s not easy to do. The day I heard the grinding sounds my back tire was on top of the track before it dropped down in it.

The next day I found out I’m prejudice against people who seem to be too young to be doing certain jobs. I had my first ever appointment with an investment broker. I swear I have slips older than the kid who sat across from me in his expensive suit, in a building with polished marble floors and frosted glass walls. His teeth were so white and perfect I couldn’t quit looking at them. Saturday Night Live once did a skit where they used a black light in the dark and all that showed up were sets of teeth talking to one another and gloved hands gesturing. That’s what his teeth reminded me of. He’d obviously put a ton of money into dental work, probably a graduation gift for completing his degree. He told me he majored in the psychology of investors which I’m sure impresses young ladies during Happy Hour but happy hour for me is an afternoon nap.

Anyway, I went in there wanting to open up a brokerage account to dump the required disbursements that the government makes you take out of your 401K when you reach a certain age and he, of course, wanted me to roll over the entire 401K into a brokerage account instead. Makes sense on paper to do that and it's what most people do, he said, but I wasn’t going to take Mr. Bright Smile’s advice without doing my own research because once you roll over a 401K like that, you can’t undo it. At one point in his "pitch" he stood in front of a white board with his colored markers, drawing pie charts and graphs until my head was spinning but in the end we did it my way. My 401K is with the same investment company. I can still go to one website to see my old and new account and I am comfortable with that. At the end he said, they are so geared to try to simplify a client’s finances that he wasn’t listening to me. I wondered if his psychology of investors class forgot to cover old ladies who get bull-headed.

And last but not least, I am heartbroken over Robin Williams' death. It’s so hard to accept that someone who brought so much joy to so many people couldn’t find a way to keep some of that joy for himself. Over the years he was open about his struggles with depression and with drug and alcohol abuse, which all goes to prove that money and fame can’t save a person from mental illness or the demons that come with addiction. From all accounts, he was a caring individual in his personal life, a good friend, and a genuinely nice and compassion human being. His work with Relief Comic, the Christopher & Dana Reeve Foundation, the Live Strong Foundation, and St. Jude Children's Research Hospital is proof of the latter. The many testimonials on TV and social media the past few days are proof of the former.

I have loved Robin since his Mork and Mindy days, so did my husband. Five of Robin’s movies are in my top twenty all-time favorite films: The Dead Poet Society, Good Morning Vietnam, What Dreams May Come, The Bird Cage, and Good Will Hunting. He shared his enormous talent with the world and he will always be remembered for being a gifted comedian and talented actor. I hope he finds the kind of heaven his character in Dreams May Come found. (See it the video below. It's my favorite after-death scene from any movie.) ©

P.S. I was the recipient of a random act of kindness this week. A woman in the car in front of me at Starbucks paid for my drink. When I got up to the window they handed me the paid receipt and said she does it quite often when she comes through. It sure put a smile on my face!

The Big, Fat Phony Widow

A few days ago I went to the opening of an art exhibit that was attended by roughly 500 members of the sculpture park where the exhibit was held. I went alone but I didn’t stay alone. I got there early so I could eat dinner at the park, beating the rush hour traffic across town. Nine dollars and change for a bowl of potato bacon soup and a cup of coffee! I was glad the event itself was free and that I didn’t order the salmon. One of these days I’m going to have to start reading the prices on menu boards so I don’t die from sticker shock.

After dinner I wandered around the tropical conservatory before finding a seat near the door to the auditorium where we’d meet the artist and see a film about his indoor exhibit pieces and his outdoor instillation of saplings that will be manipulated as they grow. That’s where another woman found and latched on to me. She was a talkative woman, about my age whose husband didn’t like going to events like this. She sat next to me during the film, went through the dessert line with me and struck by my side while I wandered around the exhibition rooms. She even tagged along when I went to the bathroom and that’s where I decided that I’m a big, fat phony and that’s why I have so much trouble making friends.

The woman was sweet and I know it would have been easy to arrange a lunch or artsy-fartsy outing with her. She asked how to spell my name and she wrote it down and if I had done the same, we would have reached level one in the game of Ferreting Out New Friends. But she had just finished a fifteen minute monologue on how much I would love volunteering at the local cancer support unit where I’d be able to take art classes right along with the patients and that’s when I went to my fake person place. I listened, nodded my head a few times and made some small-talk remarks when what I really wanted to do was screw up my face the way babies do just before they’re about to spit mashed peas all over the place. The whole idea of volunteering at a cancer support unit freaks me out. Why can’t I say what I feel when I’m face to face with people? Why couldn’t I say, “Making plaster hand prints and watercolor drawings with bald headed people who carry barf bags is---well---selfless and probably very rewarding, but I did seventeen years in caregiver circles and I wore out my Mary Poppins persona." Thanks, but no thanks. Don’t sign me up. This girl just wants to have fun! Instead, I backed off from her friendship overtures because being a big, fat phony wears me out and makes my tongue bloody from all that biting.

The next morning I had my second art class with the professor who played two hours of Christian music during my first class. Thankfully, he had a different station on the radio this time but he showed me a large painting he’s working on of Jesus holding two tiny babies in the palms of his hands which led to an interesting but walk-softly discussion about heaven and the book, The Brief History of The Dead. The professor and his wife have gone through two miscarriages---the last one a year ago---and they’ve been searching the scriptures, looking for an answer on whether or not miscarried babies end up in heaven. Thus he was working through his feelings with the painting. How much easier it is to be a Humanist or Agnostic and be free to believe---much like the premise of the movie, What Dream May Come---that as long as those of us on earth still remember a deceased loved one that person is in a place that matches his or her personal vision of heaven. In the above mentioned book, those remembered dead people all live in a special town that disappears after a pandemic here on earth.

Everywhere you go, people might be walking and talking like they’ve got it all together, but underneath half of them are struggling to make sense of a personal tragedy. Been there, done that, and wish I could have helped the professor but I don’t do scripture. I thought about faking it by throwing out a passage from Psalm’s about casting your cares to the Lord and He will sustain you---but I’d spent enough time, this week, being a big, fat phony. I wasn’t going to do it while paying someone for their time to teach me how to draw in Prismacolor. Instead, I gave him a little Nancy Berns' wisdom about learning how to carry our grief and joy side by side and not pretend we can get "over it" when no one ever really gets over it. The freshest of a loss, yes, we get over that and in time we adjust our lives to let the joy back in again but the loss itself is forever a part of our persona---at least according to the Gospel of Nancy Berns, Sociologist Extraordinaire.

After class I swung by the cemetery to visit Don for Memorial Day where an older couple was having a heated little argument over how to decorate a grave. I wanted to shout: "What does it matter? These people are all dead and you two still have time left to enjoy your lives! And whatever you do, the sexton will remove it in 10 days anyway. Didn't you read the rules at the gate?" But I didn't say all that because sometimes being a big, fat phony keeps you from sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong.  ©

Another Letter to my Deceased Husband - Rest in Peace

Tomorrow is the six months anniversary of your passing, Don. I hope you are resting in peace. Rest in peace. People say that all the time but what exactly does that epitaph mean? You know me, I wasn’t exactly sure so I googled it. Apparently it’s meant as a prayer that the deceased person---that would be you---will find peace in the next life, free from the struggles of living in this world. Well, we’re running into a problem here, aren’t we Don, since we’re not Christians and don’t believe in the resurrection, final judgment and heaven which makes it a little hard to think of death as a jubilant rest in paradise with angels floating on the clouds. It’s an interesting visual to imagine, though---what paradise would be like. My dad believed in the traditional, Pearly Gates and gold lined streets kind of paradise but if I believed in an after-life paradise it would be different for each and every one of us, like in Robin Williams' movie, What Dreams May Come. (I need to rent that movie sometime. It’s been 14 years since I’ve seen it and every so often the storyline runs through my head and it still intrigues me.) My paradise might be like the heaven Robin's character experienced of walking around inside of a freshly done oil painting. What fun he had slipping and sliding. Your idea of paradise would probably look like one of the covers on the magazine Garage---neon signs and guy-bling every where and shiny, old cars with a group of guys sitting in the corner drinking coffee.

Rest in peace. Minutes after you passed away you had the most peaceful look on your face. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that look. It gave me comfort then and it gives me comfort now. Maybe it seemed so special because earlier that day you looked confused and scared, like a little boy who needed his mother to hold him and rock him in her arms. But you were hooked up with so many wires and tubes that I couldn’t get close enough to do more than hold your hand. I still wonder if you knew you were dying. None of us talked about the gravity of your situation in front of you and without your hearing aids in there was no way you could have overheard any of the doctors or nurses as they came in and out of your room. Maybe you could read our faces. Maybe your body was telling you it was ready to give up the fight. Or the activity in the room was giving off clues. Remember when my dad was within an hour of dying? The Hospice nurses would come in every few minutes to check his toes, and then they'd say, "It's almost time." It reminded me of opening an oven door to see if the cake inside was finished baking yet. I can't remember if anyone did that to you on the day you died. Probably not. I'd remember the surreal absurdity of that. Questions without answers.

Rest in peace. I know it isn’t the common meaning of the phrase but I prefer to believe it means that our soul or spirit can be at peace because the people we leave behind think of us with love. We sow the seeds of our future heaven or hell by the way we live our lives i.e. if we’re cursed after we die and no one has a good thing to say about us, then we’ll be  in hell. But if people loved us and we’ve left good memories behind then we’re in heaven for as long as we're remembered. In other words it’s the people we leave behind who create our heaven or hell in their minds by the imprint we left on their lives. No Pearly Gates, no gold streets to walk unless our loved ones envision us there. That's where Dad is in my imagination, where he wanted to be. None of us can know what comes after we die, of course, but I do know that by my definition, you’re in an American Picker kind of heaven, Don. You’re in that tricked out garage and you are resting in peace, laughing and telling stories with a cup of Starbucks in your hand.


P.S. I still miss you, Don. ©
 

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Interring the Ashes at the Grave

I woke up before the robins this morning with a dream still hanging around in the corners of my mind. I was searching in vain for Don’s phone number because I knew he’d overslept and wouldn’t be able to wake up without my help. My deceased parents were also in the dream and not at all concerned that I couldn’t find the number I was looking for. “Leave him alone,” my mom said, “He’ll be fine.”

It’s not unusual for me to wake up with a fragile dream hanging just out of my reach and sometimes I try to will myself back to sleep so I can finish the work my subconscious mind was doing in the night. But this morning I couldn’t drift back to sleep because I remembered this is the day Don’s ashes get interred at the gravesite---at least most of them. Some I’m taking to Lake Michigan this summer. I’m having trouble fighting the compulsion to divide his remains even more so I can leave some of his ashes at the farm where Don grew up and also take some ashes out during a bad snowstorm and let them go in the wind. (Don loved snowstorms and the plowing that took place after.) I’d also like to put some of his ashes in our backyard, at the house we built together. It’s a place he was immensely proud to live in and the first thing almost every morning that he lived here he’d sing, “Beautiful, beautiful!” to the walls. I can think of a dozen places I’d like to leave part of his ashes and burying them with a headstone is not one of them. 

But he wanted to be interned in this cemetery, in the town where he went to school, and where he once spent the summer mowing the grass as a punishment from the local judge. (Kids today are still messing with the city sign but few are as creative as Don and his friends who managed to change some letters around and create a swear word.) Don picked out the gravesite based on the fact that his life-long friends owned the site next to ours. That tickled his sense of humor on one hand, but on the other hand there was something deeply sentimental about his choice. Don was more sentimental than a lot of people would have guessed. 

At the cemetery the sexton asked me if I wanted to be at the foot or head of the gravesite because Don’s ashes would be placed at the opposite end and it struck me that these three guys---two sextons and the funeral director---would probably judge our entire marriage dynamics by the answer I gave. I went back and forth trying to figure out a logical choice and finally I decided dead is dead and what difference could it possibly make what I picked or what these strangers thought. They call it widow’s brain when you can’t make decisions and this decision made me feel like a driveling idiot. I did, however, decide quickly that I wanted a rock that the sexton unearthed while digging the hole for the box of ashes. Don and I never took a vacation that we didn’t haul a few rocks back home. 

I had the dog in the car and after the ashes were in their final resting place I took Levi down the near-by nature trail and I picked a spot by the river to sit down and reflect on the finality of getting buried in the ground. It was cold and windy with the smell of rain pushing in with the dark clouds over head. No other people were in sight but the sounds of nature were all around me---the trees rubbing against one another, a pair of broad-winged hawks soaring above, the current of the river making its way south---and surprisingly Levi sat quietly watching a chipmunk balling up a dried oak leaf to carry home. If it had been a bird, he would have barked. 

I don’t really believe that our dreams are anything more than our own thoughts, memories, fears, and imagination all twisted together and processed in the unmapped parts of our brain. I used to wish our dreams are windows into a parallel universe where we’d all go at night to live. I still believe that great movies like What Dreams May Come (about the hereafter) are born in a person’s nighttime dreams. But today the only thought I had about dreams is this: if there is even the slightest chance that some dreams are spiritual signs from the other side then my mother’s words when I woke up this morning are the greatest comfort I could have asked for at a time like this, that “Don will be fine” where ever he’s at in the great unknown. 

Note: The photo above is the rock from Don's gravesite. It measures nearly five inches across and if anyone knows what kind it is will you leave me a note? The photo below shows some of the rocks we've brought home over the years.