Trying To Solve Things With Other Things

I washed the cord on the Kitchen-Aid mixer. 

I seriously went there.  I used a little knife to clean around the handles on the fridge and the stove.  I got on the floor and pried the gunk out around the baseboards in the kitchen. I did all the laundry.  I hyper-focused on cleaning for one whole day, and it was surprisingly satisfying.

I also have been contemplating yet another career.  

(Did anybody else notice that every sentence thus far has started with "I"? I'm annoying myself.  DAMN! I did it again! Ack!)

This has been a challenging several months, because I'm (apparently) trying to work through some (apparently) deeply-hidden opinions of myself by changing myself/what I do and seeing how I felt at each step.  The time I felt like I prioritized myself most (and valued myself) was when I was a student.  I always had a good reason to stop everything and focus on my own self and my education and development. It was glorious and satisfying. The feeling of deep, sustained focus was one that I value above many, many others. 

Perhaps that is what I need. A place and time to need to focus.

Teaching no longer requires that of me most of the time.  It's gotten too easy, too repetitive, too "Drop your jaw. Deep air. It's a C#!" I can't sink into that blissful space in my head where I find my center and I am poised there, weightless. Playing hasn't done that lately, because I have been distracted by the terrible condition of my flute (which, fabulously, is being taken care of at FluteWorld as I type this). When I am distracted, I have to think. Like, with the words part of my brain.  I think too much with that part already.

Who knew that FOCUS was (probably) what I have been looking for?

Why I Don't Take More Showers

I used to be the "can't live without a shower each and every morning" kind of girl.  Now, I'm lucky if it's every other day.  (Except in the summer time when it's all hot and I sweat.  Then I take lots of showers. Don't hate.)  There's a good reason.

The house can be SILENT -- husband w/headphones on, doing work, kids in rooms reading or whatnot, dogs sleeping.  I think, "This is it.  The moment when I can hop in for my 4-minute shower and get in and out and clean and then get on with my day."

Then. I hear "Mama?" and the door opens.  Then I hear the flapping of little boy feet on the bathroom tile.  Then I hear dog toenails clacking. Then pretty soon, I hear my daughter asking, "What's going on? Why are you in the bathroom, Simon?" Then I start telling everybody to please leave me alone for the 3.7 seconds it takes me to rinse my hair.
Then HUSBAND senses a disturbance in the Force, and comes to see what's up.  And now, in our tiny bathroom, we have two elementary school kids, two confused dogs, and my husband.  And now I can't even get OUT of the shower because there's no damned room.

Finally, I shoo them all out with the threat that I'm actually going to just get out of the shower wet and naked, and if they want that seared into their brains, that's their own problem.  They finally leave.

And I reach for it, only to find they have somehow, for some mysterious reason, taken the towel.

*End Scene*

Yes or No?

It has come to my attention that a teacher at my kids' school refuses to allow the kids to say "No" in her classroom.

 How do I know this?  Tonight's dinner is an excellent example.

Me:  Would you like some more mashed potatoes?
Kid1: Probably not.
Me:  What?  Yes or no.  More potatoes?
Kid1:  Not really.
Me:  The only two possible answers here are "Yes, please," or "No, thank you."  You know that.  More potatoes?
Kid1:  I ... well ... I don't...ummmm. No.  No more potatoes.
Me:  "... please..."
Kid1: No more potatoes, please.
Me:  Why was that so hard?
Other Kid:  Kid1's teacher doesn't allow "no" in the classroom.  I think it's to cut down the negativity in the class.
Me:  "......(mentally) whuck? ..."   Um.  I'm sorry about saying this, but no.  NO.  You need to have the courage to stand up for your answer, be it yes or no.  And if a teacher or anyone else can not cope with hearing a "no" answer, they shouldn't ask yes/no questions.  That's the risk you must accept when you ask a person a yes/no question.  The person might actually say "no."
Other Kid:  May I have some more potatoes?

Me:  No.

Learning is a Mystery

I really wanted to entitle this entry "I Don't Believe In Learning," but thought that would make everyone hot under the collar.

And it's not true.  But ... it's kind of true.  I teach.  Four days a week, minimum, I do it.  Recently, I have been despairing that no matter what I do, no matter what they do, nobody can ever get better. 

BUT.  They do.  I do.  I mean, I'm better now that I was a year ago.  And so are they. 

But you NEVER see it happening!  I can practice double tonguing until the cows come home, but I don't get better. But then, two weeks later, I'm better.  And I can work with sight reading with my students week after week after depressing week, and they never learn anything.  But then, a month later, they do it better. 

How is this possible?  It's like... I have no idea, actually.  Sometimes I wonder if it's just time passing.  That time itself makes it happen. 

And I know I know I know that's not true.  How is it that I can hold both thoughts in my head simultaneously?  I get some kid coming in, worried because she has a concert on SATURDAY and she needs to learn this one solo in that piece NOW!  And I mentally shake my head. 

My brain whispers, "Dude.  There's no way.  It doesn't work like that.  If you don't know it now, nothing will get it learned by Saturday.  For.Get. It."  Yet I work with the student.  They figure out rhythms.  Fingerings.  Slurs and breaths.  Dynamics.  And then on Saturday night, I get a text "HEY K8! IT WAS AMAZING! YAAAAY!"
(They like all-caps.)

I guess they did learn something.  But  I didn't see it happen. 

Nobody Told Me What Stupid Looked Like

I've been weeding.  Weeding is SO not something I do.  Mostly because I really don't have a good grasp on what are weeds and what are not.  I mean, some of them are obvious.  Clover, dandelions, and those stupid fake strawberry things.  I also know a few others, but only after carefully cultivating and watering them for an entire damned summer only to find that the tall stringy-leaved plants were NEVER gonna bloom into anything.  At all. 

Oooh!  LOOK!  FLOWERRRRZZZZZ!

Several (many, many) years ago, I dated a fellow who I shall call :"Pat." He had one of those nice, androgynous names. 

Not this Pat, but close.

(Not really, but I'm harboring a grudge. Apparently.)

One of his grandparents had been a president or owner or something of a now-defunct railroad company, and had (by my standards) a lot of money.  I heard a LOT about his "lots of money" but in a "we don't talk about how MUCH money our family has" kind of way.  Anyway, his grandfather wrote and (I imagine, self-) published a book called (I'm going to change the plant, since I don't want his rich-but-we-don't-talk-about-it family to sue me) "Nobody Told Me What Tomatoes Looked Like."  This darling little tome was the story of his life, from rags to riches-that-we-don't-ever-ever-discuss.  But the source of the title was something about which this man was very proud.

In a nutshell, his first job was weeding someone's garden.  They told him to go to the tomato patch and pull all of the weeds.  Well, go he did, and pull he did.  Thing is, he weeded out all of the tomato seedlings. All. Of. Them.

His response, when they were telling him why he got fired, was, "But, nobody told me what tomatoes looked like!"

I'll bet that's a WEED, right, Cletus?

He, somehow, used this as a way to describe how he rose from poverty to unspoken-of (frequently unspoken-of) wealth.

Now, at the time, I laughed along with all the rest, but it rankled.  I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it was a little family in-joke, and I was glad to be in on it.

Now?  Ugh.  I know why it bugs.  It's galling when someone uses their own ignorance as something of which they are proud.  WHY didn't he think to ask what the tomato sprouts looked like?  Why didn't he ASK? Didn't it occur to him that if there were eleventy-thousand of the same exact little plants in the plot, that maybe just maybe they might be the tomatoes?

The implication was that since he was not TOLD -- specifically told -- that he could not be held responsible.

This makes me think of all the people in college (yes, in COLLEGE) who pepper the professor with "Will this be on the test?" You know, if you're there to learn or do a job, that IS the test.  Life is the test.  Willful ignorance is not something about which one should be proud. It is something to never do, unless you're trying to convince your parents that you DO believe in Santa.  I'll give you that one.

My little son tries to pull this on me sometimes.  "But, Mama, you didn't TELL me to put on pants!"
I remind him that our heads all contain the remarkable thing called BRAINS, and that one should first try to use one's own brain.  Not mine, not your sister's.  Yours. 

The (Sometimes Unwanted) Gift Of Siblings

No, Steven, I'm not talking about you. 
This is an approximation of the speech I gave not 20 minutes ago out on  my deck, to my children.

When I had my first child, I was delighted.  I was a MAMA!  Then, a few years later, I was getting ready for my second.  I was so happy that I'd be able to give a fantastic gift to my oldest:  a sibling.

Siblings -- not too far apart in age -- can be the best friend you need when you're growing up.  Nobody else will have grown up with the same parents, the same dogs, the same house with the funny noises at night.  Nobody on the planet except your sibling.  Nobody on the face of this big old planet will know you and love you quite like the person who saw you go through puberty, or learn to swim, or go to the hospital when the grill fell over and pierced your thigh.

And right now, it's a gift that's being wasted.  You are wasting it.  I spent an hour weeding the garden. The chorus of "you can't make me" and "you're lying!" and "don't touch me!" was in the background nearly the entire time.  Then, when I came in to wash the kitchen floor, I asked that you work together to gather the weeds and toss them in the compost.  I was met with stomping and whining and mewling and then? You started on each other.  Tattling.  Irritating.  Pestering.

I am here to tell you that enough is enough. I had the two of you not only so I could have children, but so you two could be friends.  So you would know what I knew growing up:  that there's someone out there on your side all the time.  Ok -- not ALL the time, but mostly.  Someone who you can roll your eyes at when mom and dad do something irrational (to your pubescent minds).  Someone who -- eventually -- can tell you whether or not the guy you're dating is a jerk.  Or if maybe the mustache isn't the best idea.

So, go.  Go work it out. Together. Look long and hard at yourself before you blame the other.  I'm not going to be around either of you until I can be around BOTH of you. 

Boneyfied: It's Getting to BE Too MucH

Don't know why I did it, but yesterday I read some article about the kid Trayvon in Florida.  That's a sad, sad story.

But that's not what's getting to me.  (I mean, yes.  That is very upsetting to me... But ....)
It's the comments.  Oh boy.

Did none of these adults (I presume they're adults) have a decent English teacher in 4th grade?  Where did they learn to write?  I don't even mean misspellings.  That can happen to the smartest of individuals.  But the CAPITALIZATION?  Why do people Randomly capitaLize things?  It's like they learned their capitalization and punctuation in Germany or something (They capitalize all proper nouns.).

Also, even though I said that misspellings are not a capital offense, just MAKING UP spellings is really not cool.  FASHESD.  ("Obama is a Fashesd.")  WALLAH.("I was getting ready to go, opened the door, and WALLAH, he was already standing there!").

My personal favorite yesterday was "boneyfied."  Try to figure it out in context:
"Shes a boneyfied model." At first, I thought they were accusing her of being anorexic.  Then, after a moment it came to me.  Bona fide.  

I really do get that there are words that challenge people.  OK.  They're, their, there.  I know.  Yuck.  But really.  Boneyfied?  Eccentera?  (As in, "I think he's a jerk, a butthead, eccentera.")

I think I'll try one of my own.
The dog was phanteng because he was hot.

I give up.

Not Seeing the Forest for the Trees

This Christmas, my husband and kids and I flew out to visit with his family in Maine.  He grew up out there, in the middle of the state, amongst the trees and the moose and the rocks.

I, on  the other hand, grew up in the 'burbs of Chicago, amongst the strip malls, the museums, and the restaurants.  I could see the buildings of downtown from the 3rd floor windows of my high school.

When we visit my folks there in the 'burbs, he is amazed that I rarely want to go downtown.  And when we visit his family in Maine, I'm frustrated that he doesn't seem to want to go walking in the woods or exploring the streams and mountains.

Why is that?  Well, I spent my childhood going (with my parents) downtown.  I remember the problems with parking, the traffic, the wind, the expense.  However, I do remember the fun, the excitement.  I remember going to concerts and museums and boat shows.  It was fun and crazy.  But I don't know how my parents did it.  Dragging anywhere from one to four of us around?  Paying for all us?  Not losing us in McCormick place?  Wow.

My husband grew up spending his days out in the woods. He chopped wood and used a BB gun.  He knew people who hunted game each year, who fished, who worked at the tannery.  He saw bears and moose roaming around.

Have we both been so burned-out by our own backgrounds that we can no longer enjoy them?  I don't know.  I so badly want to tramp through the Maine forests and play in the streams.  I want to see the moose!  I want to pile up rocks and build lean-tos.

My husband wants to be in the busy city and go to the jazz clubs.  He wants to go downtown on the fourth of July or New Year's Eve.

Anybody else out there with this problem?

I hope that we each get our heart's desires.

My House, It Screams

Last night, I was in a frenzy.  This happens sometimes to me.

Several years ago, I actually was ready to call the gas company because I kept getting dizzy in the kitchen.  Until I realized I didn't have a gas range.  I was spinning -- literally spinning -- in circles in my kitchen.  Putting dishes away.  Cleaning the counters, cooking, checking on kids.  Spinning.  Over and over again.

Yesterday, I was doing basically the same thing, but all through my house.  I cleaned the garage.  I straightened the living room.  The bathroom.  The kitchen.  The hallway.

Why do I do this?

Because my house screams.

When there's too much audio stimulation, I feel jangled.  I can practically physically feel it.  For a person who makes her living by playing and teaching music, this is a bit of an inconvenience.  There are some kinds of music I just can't handle because of the intense jangling.  Metal.  Percussion on a large scale.  Some kinds of jazz.  It's like being attacked by sound.

I have realized that I can hear (with my mental, emotional ear) visual clutter.  There are reasons that my bedroom is done in white on white, with maybe touches of sea-green.  I need silence sometimes.  It's really very much like turning down the volume on a radio.

So, when I look into the back yard, I hear the hose yelling, "HEY! I'm still HERE!  You need to put me awaaaay!"
In the bathroom?  "I'm an empty toilet paper tube!  I'm collecting germs and hair behind the toilet!"
The living room chatters. "Candy Wrapper!  Right here!  HAHAHA!" "Dog fur!  Aaalll around the edges of the rooom!" "NEWSPAPERS! NEWSPAPERS! NEWSPAPERS!" "Hey.  we're a stash of dirty socks.  bet you can't find us!'

Hallway.  "Towel! Right here! Maybe getting moldy!' "ONE shoe.  I don't know where my twin is. Sorry. NOT!" "Dirrrrt smeared on the wall!  Think of the germs!"

Get the idea?

Now, think of what it's like when you're holding a tiny baby.  One who is constantly, incessantly crying.  Screaming.  You pace.  You pat.  You cajole, sing, plead.  If you thought it would help, you'd stand with the baby in the shower.  You'd sit on the dryer.  You'd sing "Copacabana" in Swedish.  You'll do ANYTHING to get this baby to chill out and be quiet and happy and smiling.  Or better, sleeping.

You'd spin in circles, doingdoingdoing anything at all.

I want to get my house to stop crying, to stop screaming.  So I cajole.  I scold.  I yell and pat and futz and snuggle and thwack and dust and vacuum and wash and scrub and brush.

And still it yells at me.  There's never a moment of absolute serenity.  It murmurs.  It whines and whimpers. It coughs, clears its throat.  It shifts, twitches, grunts.

So yesterday, after an afternoon of flailing and whatnot, I decided to go to bed.  I ascended my stairs, ignoring the whispers of the clothes on the floor, the dust in the corners, and got into my white-on-white bed.  I looked at my white-on-white textured walls.  I glanced at my sea-blue drapes.  I sighed and enjoyed the quiet.

Two Evil Sisters

I was just reading an amazing post by Caro at
http://helpmeorillkickyou.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/i-remember-me/

It caused me to begin to ramble in a comment there, and I got a grip on myself, and said I'd continue here.

Here is part of my comment:

• I’ll try to pull it together for a moment. I HATE HATE Selective Ignorance (let’s call it SI). Also Deliberate Naivety, her prim, passive-aggressive stepsister. HATES them. So very many wrongs are committed by them. 

 

In Caro's case, she's referring to eating meat.  The fact that up until now, she has ignored what happens (the inhumane treatment of animals, the slaughter, and so on) so that she can eat meat.

Now, I'm no vegetarian.  (But after seeing the picture of the most adorable piglet EVER on her blog, it makes me wish I had the necessary gumption).  But.

I DO HATE Selective Ignorance and Deliberate Naivety.

So many people put on the cheap blonde wigs of S.I. and D.N. and do terrible, stupid, unkind, thoughtless things.  "What?  Nobody TOLD me that I was supposed to put oil in the car!" "How was I supposed to know that by drinking the entire last 1/4 of a gallon of milk, nobody else would get any?"
"No, I had no IDEA that my next-door neighbor needed help raking her lawn.  She's only 98! Perfectly healthy!"
"Well, I'm sure someone is working to solve that pesky climate change issue.  If it is real."

Selective ignorance occurs on large and small scales, from "don't know how to load the dishwasher" to "Genital mutilation? It's a myth, and if it exists, it's cultural!"

Deliberate Naivety is more subtle.  I see it a lot in women of a certain age who act like they are completely incapable of handling any thought or decision-making outside the scope of their own home.  "Oh, politics?  Too complicated for me.  I just vote like my husband does."  Or, "I only read books from the 'Christian Fiction' section.  I don't want to risk running into (whispering) sex scenes."

A lot of children and young adults exhibit this too.  In combination with S.I., you will see evidence of this when a high schooler is asked a question, say, in History class, and they claim to never have heard of something.  However, that very thing was covered in English class and in Science.  But they don't seem to realize that it's ok to integrate their knowledge.

What can we do?

I tend to challenge these kids directly.  "Really?  Are you quite sure you don't know?  I'll bet you can figure it out. Think again!"
The adults I tend to dismiss.  If a person is choosing to close their mental eyes, to stick their head under the sand of stupid, there's not much I can think of to say.  If I encourage them to think harder, to make their own decisions, it often comes off as me challenging their beliefs.  If I act skeptical that they really don't know something, it is condescending and rude. 

Honestly, I tend to just smile, raise my eyebrows, pick up my drink and head for the next person over.

I don't mean to be superior.  I don't want to be.  But I just don't know how to rise above, here.