Man in the Moon

The question was a simple one, but oh so difficult to answer.

“When are you your happiest?”

Having given happiness a lot of thought and always on a quest to find that sustainable joie de vivre, “I don’t know,” didn’t seem like the appropriate answer. So instead I stammered around until I finally had to admit, “I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know what the meaning of your life is? Find those moments you’re most at peace and bliss, then you’ll find your meaning.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked a Buddhist. I frowned. He laughed.

But hours later, I realized, I am most at peace and bliss outdoors. The moment—any moment—I step out of a building into fresh air, I feel instantly better about life. If the wind is blowing and the sun is shining, I feel downright joyful.

Each day since that conversation, I have noted and collected moments of peace and bliss as if they were seaglass on a beach, turning them over to marvel at their beauty before tucking them safely in my pocket to add to my treasure trove. There are probably 100 pieces of seaglass in there now. And probably a thousand rocks. And a few acorns too.

I’m completely happy when I’m collecting rocks, fossils, geodes, minerals, and seaglass. Of course, it helps that I’m outdoors.

I love sweeping my hundred-year-old hardwood floors. I don’t know exactly why, but I always end up humming and smiling without any effort while I move the horsehair bristles across the wood watching the dust and dirt and dog hair collect into a pile that is soon disposed of.

I love digging in the dirt, replanting plants too large for their pots or sowing seeds or trying to root pieces of my climbing rose that were snapped off carelessly while I tried to shape it.

I love walking my dogs by the river in my downtown while joggers, walkers, bicyclists and rollerbladers pass by. Whoever said Dayton is dead hasn’t been down on the river pathways. Not to mention the adventure of turtles, snakes and birds that make me “ooo” and “aahhh” while the dogs go bananas.

I love to travel. It might just be to a new park up the road with the dogs, or across the ocean to a place where I barely speak any of the language. Regardless, I feel more human somehow for being away from everything I know so well.

I love being in my home and in my city. Being where I know everything so well has it’s charms. Mainly that I know every nook and cranny as intimately as a lover. Every breath, every sneeze, every celebration, every sorrow is my own. I have shaped them both (home and hometown) as much as they have shaped me, and in that regards, we are soul-mates. I love that too.

I love looking at the moon and finding pictures in the stars. I know they already hold their own stories, but what about my stories. Are they up there too? Sometimes I think they are. The moon reminds me that time is passing, and what have I done with it? Often, I can only account for hours spent in front of an electrical device of some kind doing something mindless or dreaming of the food I’ll never cook, the yard I’ll never cultivate, the house I’ll never really want. Then I see the man condemned to carry his bundle of sticks for violating the day of rest. But sometimes, I can tell him of a duck and drake crossing the road and all the traffic coming to a complete standstill for more than five minutes to let them pass and the made up dialog my daughter and I imagined was going on with the plucky couple. Or a blue-grey heron poised on one foot atop a piece of driftwood floating down the river as if he were going down with the ship or urban surfing. Or picking up a handful of maple seeds from my deck and throwing them in the air solely to watch their firework helicopter action as they fell back to Earth. Then he seems pleased with me…and I with myself.

I love shooting archery. Quiet and still, more focused on my breathing than when I meditate and in more of a trance than when I pray. It’s just me, the arrow and the target in a game of tag. Only then do I still my mind and notice how brave and steady I might really be.

I love singing. More focused on my breathing than archery, I revel in the way my skin pimples as I hear the music swell and my eyes swell as I realize the depths of the meaning. People have loved this much, have been hurt this badly and still life goes one…beautifully, even.

I love cooking. It’s the ultimate magic, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not really a fan of spinach, but sautee it in some good extra virgin olive oil with black pepper and tossed in a couple eggs cracked open over a skillet with some butter and soon I have gold on my plate.

I love writing. There’s a story in everything, and everything holds a story. And while my mind is rarely clued in, my fingers and soul must be because they know how to make sense of and find beauty in…well, everything.

I love drinking. Hot tea, coffee, beer, wine, water. They all come with a story and their own purpose. Just like my collection of tea cups. You wouldn’t serve a weekday pot of Irish Breakfast in a dainty saucer-like china cup with Japanese rose blossoms on it any more than the Sunday morning lingering over a lavender green tea in a sturdy mug the size of a softball reading “Today, I’m the good witch.” Even so, I swear my statues of Buddha, the Virgin Mary, St. Anthony (patron saint of lost items…a therefore, an integral part of my family), and the chimney sweep nutcracker all seem smile brightly when I have a cup of any kind in my hands.

So what does that say about my meaning? Perhaps that I’m just a dreamer. I doubt I’m going to be able to provide for my daughters and dogs by being a dog walking rock collector, or a singing sweeper, or a traveling archer. Mostly what it tells me is that I don’t belong in a cube in an office of a corporation that makes things.

But then again, I knew that.

I wonder if that vineyard is still for sale…

One Paycheck Away

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve learned how to block out anything a vagrant or homeless person might say to me while walking downtown (or in the park or in a suburban parking lot). So it shocked me when I heard the man shuffling by shout at a car stopped at a red light, “One paycheck! You’re only one paycheck away from being homeless.”

It was his stillness as he stood there watching the car speed off that caught my attention though. He stood completely still watching the car retreat as if frozen in place. Perhaps he surprised himself with the outburst. Or perhaps he was reliving some memory. Or…I didn’t know what to think.

But just as I was about to resume my walk with my dogs, the man’s shoulders drooped and he began sobbing. Not in the uncomfortable public-display way, but in a soul-seering, heart-wrenching way that made me want to cry too. I wished I was brave enough to comfort him and tell him it would be okay.

But I didn’t know that it will be okay…for this man, or the one he yelled at, or any of us.

Being one paycheck away from disaster used to be my biggest fear. I spent sleepless nights worrying about how I would be able to provide for my daughters if “something” were to happen. I needed my paycheck desperately. I would do anything to have it. Including work upwards of 90 hours a week, sacrifice my sleep, my health and my relationship with my own daughters to get it.

That desperation made me a slave. A slave to money. A slave to my job.

I don’t remember what day it was, but I do remember there was one day when I found myself standing alone on a similar street corner just enjoying the sunshine while I panted for breath with yet another headache. I had stepped outside for 10 minutes nearly two hours from when most people would have already eaten lunch in hope that walking up the street for food that didn’t come out of a vending machine might give me enough strength to make it through the rest of the day, the rest of the week.

I remember feeling guilty for taking these 10 minutes out of my 90-hour work week when a woman walked by humming a song and swinging her bag in her hands. She stopped suddenly and picked up a penny. She must have noticed me watching her because she came over and said “heads up! My lucky day!” Then she resumed her humming and nearly skipped away.

I felt so completely angry and resentful of that woman’s carefree attitude at that moment I nearly screamed aloud. But why would I be upset with her? I didn’t know. I only knew at that moment I couldn’t go on living the way I was any longer. I couldn’t spend all my time buried under a growing mound of guilt, or fear of money, or feeling grabbed me by the throat and threatened with one last breath…constantly.

I’ve left the conventional American way of living since then. I quit my corporate job and went into business for myself. I’ve made a strict budget for myself focused on paying off debt. I’ve learned what my priorities are and established boundaries. And I’ve become a student of joie de vivre.

It’s out of these changes that I’ve come to realize how important liquids are in my life:
- Coffee for conversation
- Tea for civility
- Beer for community building
- Wine for pleasure
- Water for recreation
- All of them for mastery of time and connection to people

My life is very different now—but the fear and the threat aren’t gone. They’re farther removed, but still all around me. I’ve been keeping track since I saw the man shout out about “one paycheck away,” and every day I’ve heard someone acknowledge their slavery and resentment.

And when they do, I say the only thing I think makes a difference anymore…”let’s go grab a drink.”

Island Hopping

It was bound to happen with the schedule I’ve been keeping. But the speed at which it hit me was breathtaking. And so Friday found me down and out, foggy, shaky and wanting only to hug my mug close, breathe the steam and sip hot tea.

I’m not used to being down and out. So in fits and spurts, I swept my stairs, swept my hardwood floors, wiped my windows, brushed my dogs and various other household tasks. It didn’t take long for my body to remind me that I’m supposed to be listening to it…not my mind.

Finally, I flopped back on the sofa and gave up, my head too heavy to lift any longer.

I tried to nap, but it was no use, only my body was tired. Not the rest of me. In fact, my spirit and my mind seemed as wide awake as ever. So I popped in a dvd and gave myself up to the television.

I was in Amsterdam. Such beautiful architecture and all the laughing crowds of people looked so carefree as they pedaled around green landscapes outside of town or walked arm-in-arm in town past the shocking sites before settling in for beer at a local bar talking about whether legalizing pleasures like sex and drugs helped a society cope better.

From there we caught a train to Germany where it was beer and pretzels and brats at a biergarten before we caught a boat and drifted lazily down the Rhine. From there we drove down the Romantic Road to a more remote and traditional German Village. Walking around the village square was a delight and evoked romantic thoughts of cobblers with elves and maidens spinning hay into gold. By night fall, I was thirsty and so I joined other tourists for a German wine tasting, complete with an education on German terminology, in which their final word was one of my own—”Prost!”

No time to rest until we caught the overnight train for Venice where we stayed only long enough to visit museums and art galleries before slipping over to the Italian riviera for some sunshine and pizza. I was still toasting myself a pretzel when this thought of pizza caught the fancy of my mind. My stomach quickly nixed the idea. A pretzel, yes. Pizza, no.

Another train to a small hamlet in Switzerland where I finally found the respite my illness-induced fatigue required.

When I awoke, we were in Paris. Wondering around the city of lights in my sickness-induced fog left me feeling oddly surreal, not to mention nauseous at the sight of heavy cream-based dishes, snails and cheese. Mental note to self–don’t travel to France when ill.

I was thankful when the next destination turned out to be Athens and the Greek isles. Bright whites and even more brilliant blues surrounded beaches and magnificent ruins all brightly lit by the sun, or even more soothingly, by the moon. Shaved lamb and kabobs grilled in the cobbled streets of the village marketplaces while olives and wine grapes grew almost wild all around. Crystal clear seas and black stone beaches, now white stone beaches, now just cliff-like rock dotted my vision as we hopped around on our way to Turkey.

In Istanbul I admired the beauty and culture of the mosques and souks, tasting more of the spices on the air in my imagination than I could probably have tasted in the cuisine with my dull tongue. I must have been feverish for I began imagining renovations to my own home that included blue tiles, gold leaf calligraphy and scalloped doorways and windows…of course the brilliant sunlight and rich colors would follow, right?

Before I could figure that redecorating math, we were off to Eastern Turkey where life was simple and connected to nature. Farming, herding, using cow pies for fire and insulation, crude living but innovative sustainability that earned my admiration if not my guilt for still being on my sofa. Thankfully my illness meant I was easily distracted so that when the tour guide showed us three separate ways to tie our headdresses, I left my guilt train of thought and sat up to search about for a scarf to practice with.

My legs felt like unsteady springs and my arms felt like out-of-control lead bastions while my head thump-thump-thumped loudly as it teetered about at the top of me, all of which seemed dangerously tipsy off my sofa.

The effort of the search tired me so much that as we headed up to Prague I found myself slipping back into sleep where even there, I was island hopping hoping for sunshine to sooth my aching body and perhaps even adventure to soothe my restless wanderlust and bring me back to home where I could finally find myself well and rested and ready to join the world once again.

Off Season

From the tour bus, we crept through the small town, across bridges and down narrow country roads watching for the view of this person’s vineyards, then that one’s, and hers, and his. The land, while starting to green, looked as sleepy as the blanketed sky above us. Even the windmills in the fields looked drowsy since they’re no longer needed to protect the vines from the frost. (Hopefully!)

Only the flittering flags in the driveways and on the doorways showed movement. And the lit signs of the vineyards let us know these sleepy places were awake. We flocked into their warmly lit interiors bringing with us the noise of our laughter and the curiosity of our tastebuds. Our hosts were gracious, joyful people, proud of their grapes, their land, their tasting rooms, their heritage. And I felt an instant affinity for every single one of them.

As we piled back on the bus for another stop, I couldn’t help noting that this wine tour was startling different from other wine tours I’ve been on.

Yes, this one is organized whereas most of the ones I’ve taken have been more spontaneous with the wind in our hair and no itinerary. True, this one was with the very people who planted these grapes, cultivate them, care for them, press them and watch over them as carefully as a parent with a newborn. Most of my other tours were with friends free from daily responsibilities and no one to watch over but ourselves. Also, this tour was largely educational, whereas my other tours were vacations.

But mostly, this is the first tour I’ve taken in the off season.

I’ve never seen the place so quiet, so still, so rested. I quickly developed a crush on this landscape, this view. And I sighed loudly so that I wondered if I should stop tasting.

The next day, a new friend of mine and I snuck out to a coffee shop about 20 minutes up the road for some additional conversation. From the open window of my car I alternately stared curiously at the town and adoringly at the shore line. The air smelled sweetly of sun-kissed grass and warm earth. I absolutely couldn’t help the huge smile on my face. What a difference from my serious demeanor the rest of the time. I shook my curls to give them extra freedom in the breeze.

Lake Erie was green as the grass, and I wondered if it was because it’s a shallow great lake, because it’s early in the season or because there are storms coming. Still, the sound was what I hoped for so I listened closely.

The buildings we drove by were as silent and sleepy as the vineyards were yesterday. Cottages, inns, putt-putt golf courses, kitchy water parks, ice cream stands, and an old-fashioned boardwalk-carnival complex. I’ve seen this place before and hated it. Dirty, noisy, boisterous, demanding, and flashy. Not what I enjoy at all.

But here, in this off season, they were modest, natural, and absolutely charming. Suddenly, I longed to pull over and explore these quiet places while they remained so still. Instead of dirty and worn down, the cottages looked weathered and cozy–no need for pretense or excuses. Like a woman after she takes off her makeup and you suddenly notice she’s prettier than you ever knew.

The putt-put golf courses actually make me want to stroll among the statues of lions and gnomes, or Eiffel towers and Golden Gate Bridges. Even the seagull statues look welcoming. I wish I could trace my fingers along their pealing paint and feel their cold silence, to admire their durability and their desire to please.

But it’s the boardwalk complex that beckons me most. Is Scooby Doo in there somewhere shivering for fear of a bubble-gum ghost? Are there carved initials inside carved hearts on the beams somewhere? Or perhaps they’re on a bench looking out over this Great Lake? It’s probably under that bench that the bubble-gum ghost waits to jump out unexpectedly.

Will there be explosions of color in the hoop toss booth, or the duck pond stall? Will the floating ducks be piled up there too? Will the building smell like the lake? Or musty from the water and mildew of the winter? Or will it smell faintly of cotton candy and elephant ears? Will the boards creak and groan underfoot as I explore quietly?

I would never find out these things during high season.

Unfortunately, I would never find out today either. I was truly more interested in spending another hour or so exploring the background and interests of my newest friend. And where better to get to know someone than at a coffee shop.

She and her husband and two sons make some of the best wine I’ve tasted over the last few days. In fact, I quickly fell in love with their Cab Franc, but it took only one sniff to cheat on the Cab Franc with their Agawam. But they’re unlabeled. They have no official winery. Only a personal one. They only have glimmers of wine making in their future. It isn’t their season yet either.

Later, back at the Lodge and conference center, I watch the storm roll in over Lake Eric and shiver with joyful delight at the thought of the noises and shadows that would tickle my imagination if I were to spend the storm in the boardwalk.

I admit, Oh Gentle Penguin, I’m not that brave really. But I suddenly wish I was.

Unfortunately, for now I’ll just have to settle for listening to vineyard owners talk about the weather as if it were a lover with whom they were having a tumultuous affair, while I watch the clouds roll in and the waves rush frantically about, and scoot my exposed toes closer to the fire pit while I snuggle up to my glass of Laurello Sangiovese Cosmo.

This is the life I long for. Now I know—it’s called “off season.”

Language of Wine

I’m at the National Wine Marketing meeting presently and a couple thoughts have already blown my mind…so much so I haven’t been able to concentrate on the Point of Sale (POS) session (which is probably okay since I don’t have anything to sell…just yet).

The main thought preoccupying my mind at the moment is this: is language a deterrent to wine drinking, or at least enjoying wine drinking? After giving it considerable thought over the past hour since I heard it mentioned, I think it is.

I have to admit, I don’t know the difference between “earthy” and “woodsy” and so I never use either adjective…along with hundreds of others that I wouldn’t be able to distinguish. Would you?

If someone said to you, oh average wine drinker, “that wine is full bodied,” what does that mean to you? Is that what it means to me? Or the bartender pouring your wind?

What about if someone asked you if you wanted a sweet, dry wine? Does that mean it’s white? Or can it be red? And regardless, can I eat it with a steak, or does it have to be with poultry and fish?

How about if I talked to you about the Parkerization of wine. Or terroir? Would you be able to give me your opinion on whether that was good? Or bad? Or even know what it is, either one?

Does all this make you want to drink more wine? Or would you grab a beer instead?

However, what if I said “I like wine so smooth it’s like sucking on dark chocolate.” Or “When I grab a white wine, I want it to make my mouth feel like it’s tingly–from the first taste–like when I eat grapefruit without sugar sprinkled on it.” Not knocking my unrefined tastes, would this tell you more about me as a wine drinker? Or make you want to split a bottle with me?

Don’t get me wrong, I do know quite a bit about wine, but the language hasn’t served me well. Because I like to drink with you, Oh Gentle Reader, and friends. It leaves so much unknown. And I want to know what you like to drink.

(I’ll be at the National Wine Marketing meeting for the next few days. You can follow me on twitter #mmews to see what else I learn that excites and surprises me.)

The organists

Mr. Geiger is legend in my family. On both sides of my family. He’s how my parents first met, as children…singing in the Inland Children’s Chorus during childhood. He was also organist at my dad’s family’s church.

Uncle George is my mom’s brother who once saved me from drowning and from drowning my cousin during childhood. He was the organist at Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Corbin, KY.

Both men worked with industrialized businesses. And both men were musicians.

Can you imagine in this day and age, a business—a manufacturing division of General Motors no less—creating the most wondrous inventions in the world (steering wheels for cars, ice cube trays, pop can tops, …), but also funding the musical education of children in Dayton, OH? But they did, and Mr. Geiger was assigned to lead the children in the second era of the choir.

He taught my parents how to transition to harmony, to read music, to enunciate, to breathe deeply and to follow along and join in with everyone else.

Why?

“…because we believe that children throughout the world have the right to sing and raise their voice in happiness as expressed by song … 1st. The main purpose of the choir is to give Inland employeees’ children an opportunity to become acquainted with and to appreciate good music. 2nd. Choral or group singing, with the proper discipline and control, we believe is one of the best methods of teaching children to recognize the rights of others and to see by accomplishment the results that can be secured by cooperation when individuals work as a group to achieve a planned result. … We believe an appreciation of good music will be worthwhile throughout their lives.” So says the founder of the choir.

I flip through old pictures and memorabilia while I listen to songs. The Inland stuff is littered with aunts and uncles, my mom and my dad, friends of the family and names that might as well be tattoos from my childhood memory. The music is also familiar. To me, anyway. My daughters may know Red Red Robin and the Evening Prayer, handed down from generation to generation through vocal memory, but they don’t yet know Ah La Nanita Nana or 32 Feet or It’s a Big Wide Wonderful World.

I listen and listen to these songs I know so well from family events and holidays, and I flip through photos of family from years past so much so that I wonder, then, when my phone rings if it is indeed a calling.

Uncle George has died. Uncle George taught me to identify the smell of skunk, to hold my musical notes and to stop them when he waved his hand, to wait for the intro and to temper my vocals to blend.

Death is such a strange thing. My uncle George lives four hours away, but yet suddenly it feels like all the music around me has stopped. I’m afraid to listen for the sadness of remembering him, and knowing that never again will we b accompanied on piano to “There dwells far, far in north land…”

Uncle George has been instrumental (literally) in teaching me many of these songs; he resided over my childhood music much like a nun resided over my education. And yet it seems strange to be so sore.

I come from a big family. 18 aunts, 16 uncles, and more than 100 first cousins–many of whom are in attendance to honor my uncle George. At moments it feels like a joke…”what do a nurse, a hair dresser and an opera singer have in common?” They’re my cousins. We embrace, we cry, we laugh, we pray, we laugh some more…and then we sing. More songs from my childhood. More songs I know because once upon a time I heard them sung to me, around me, for me by this same family. In harmony, and in grace. I know them as well as I know my Grimms Fairy Tales (that’s pretty gosh darn well!). I know them as well as I know my family history.

So when they placed a single red rose on my uncle George’s organ and promised it would remain silent this weekend that I saw the full truth of the Inland choir director’s words…”appreciation of good music will be worthwhile throughout our lives.” It did for my uncle George. And Mr. Geiger. And my family.

I didn’t sing in Inland, but it has filled my life with song. I wonder, as I reflect on my time yet to come, perhaps it has already made all the difference in the world. And perhaps it’s time I share this Big Wide Wonderful World with my children so they too can sing and raise their voices in happiness as expressed by song. They have a lot to learn.

Cloud Cover

Do you ever wonder about the clouds? Tonight on my way home, I swear I saw a beer stein foaming over all bubbly on the edge. Perhaps it had just been a long day and I was thirsty?

But then, a little ways up the road, I swear there was a cloud the spitting image of a champagne glass with bubbly in it. Think about that. Picture it. That’s an unusual cloud. Perhaps I just wanted to celebrate a little victory I experienced today?

Still, I disbelieved. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes and refocused on the road. But it wasn’t long before a car in front of me began to look like an Arabic coffee cup, you know, the kind that’s all short and squat and just slightly rounded on the edges with steam rising high above it as if it were a mystic’s fortune froth.

No…it had to just be the changing temperature and the humidity on the roadway.

I think the gods were less than amused with my dismissals for that’s when I saw the clouds converging. They were brown and dark gray in the distance with an oddly blue glowing set up front. I longed to pull off the highway and dig around behind me for my camera, but I was already an hour late getting home and my daughters were ringing me constantly to remind me that they needed attention…and to tell me my camera was at home. Rats!

That’s when it happened, of course. Those blue clouds bunched right up and spelled out the letters “C” “U” “P”.

I’m not kidding.

CUP.

Right there, plain as the nose on my face, the clouds were spelling out a message for me. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent my afternoon meditation praying for a sign. Or perhaps I should have used the bathroom before I left the Cincinnati office more than 50 miles away from my home. Or perhaps I should have brought a lemon tea home with me. Regardless, it was a sign. There was no denying the certainty of the spelling, or the handwriting.

I guess when you’re driving isn’t the time to ask the universe about bringing hope and joy to more people—people who are tired of their careers, people who feel trapped in families with demanding spouses or children, people who are lost, people who just need the sick-cycle-carousel to slow down, and people who wonder why they must wake up tomorrow to repeat this seemingly-neverending madness.

I stared at the clouds the entire way home hoping I could turn them into a vase, or faces or some other optical illusion to no luck. All I could see was “C” “U” “P”.

It reminded me of my most loyal prayer. “Dear God, please bless the tea growers and all those involved in their growing, cultivating and bringing it to me.” I’ve prayed that prayer every day for most of my life. On the first sip of the first mug in the first light of day. Every day. It also reminded me of my most fervent prayer now. “Please let me gather with friends over tea, coffee, wine or beer in an unhurried discussion of life, love and the discovery of happiness so that I might learn how to master time, rather than have him always master me.”

Did I mention I was late getting home then? And people weren’t happy about it.

I went in the house looking for my camera only to find myself distracted by a beautiful patch of grass aside of my house split evenly between untainted glistening snow and bright green, newly grown grass. I took a picture of that instead as the sun set behind my house and when I turned for the clouds, the letters were gone.

Maybe that’s just what happens to people who like to drink. Or rather those who know that drinking is a natural sign of joie de vivre, or relationship, or socialization (not talking facebook and twitter here, but real-life, can-smell-the-brew-in-your-mug-and-hear-your-sighs-of-pure-enjoyment conversation).

Still, it was just as well. I had to go to the bathroom.