Interim Report

Three months into my "not working anymore", it's time to take stock. Contrary to what many people have reported to experience, I do not miss working one bit as evidenced by a near 20 point drop in my blood pressure, luxuriating in bed until the ungodly hour of 8 AM, and a consistent three times a week workout during which I am running three miles, doing 90 sit-ups and lifting free weights to keep my aging shoulders as strong as possible.  We are focused on tricking out our sail boat for a live aboard life next year and I am diving into reading and writing in a more serious effort to develop a new skill set.  Working with computers, software and other IT related endeavors has been banished from my repertoire.

However, I am driving my husband bonkers because the pace at which I move still approaches "full throttle" while his continues to be "manana".  Think of us as the hare and the tortoise.  As Aesop's story goes, the snail ends up winning so I have adjustments to make.  He is doggedly persistent, never giving up even if it takes months, a valuable strength when trying to return a purchase after the posted return period has lapsed.  

On further observation, I witnessed that my husband is not always moving at a tortoise's pace; what keeps him from task completion is a thirst for information, because "you never know when the information might be useful", an asset for his consulting work because it keeps him up-to-date across many sources; however, from my "let's get things done on the home front perspective" the ease at which he switches from task to research is a "going down the rabbit hole experience" where one thing always leads to another.  This is frustrating because his response to inquiries is "I'm getting to it."   On top of that, it's my rabbit hole.  I'm the hare.

Climbing out of that rabbit hole, it's back to the interim report. Not having direct responsibilities is a refreshing experience; however, not being responsible, I am learning leads to problems of one's own making as when I found myself making my evening cocktail at 4 PM, early by anyone's clock.  My body was physically aching for it and my mind responded, "Well, OK.  I don't have anything to do, so why not?"  And, since it was early, I ended up having more before dinner was over. Then, I fell a second time, this time in our hotel room while visiting in NYC (the first time was a fall while reaching back to a shelf in our boat that resulted in a dislocated shoulder).  Not a bad fall, just a "lost my balance fall" as I reached into closet to hang up my coat.  It scared me, what is wrong with my balance? I didn't feel drunk even though I had polished off a goodly amount after dinner without realizing it.

It was time to get real with myself.  When I look at my genetic history it's clear to me I've got an issue that must be addressed.  My dad stopped drinking in his 50's because of excruciating headaches set off by alcohol and my mother died nine years ago of diabetes after 25 years of binge drinking. If liquor was in the house, she had to finish it off.  On the night of November 14, 2015 I decided to take action before anything else happens.

Since making that decision, I wake up every morning fresh and clear, having had an uninterrupted night's sleep. And, I enjoy doing things in the evening besides watching television.  Two great benefits have already accrued; we spend less money and I'm losing a few pounds without trying.  

Am I an alcoholic?  Most likely I am well on my way down that path.  I've seen what it looks in others close to me who came to the end of the road before an intervention forced them into recovery and I don't want to go there.  I know where to turn if I need additional support, but right now, I feel relieved and re-energized.  To be honest with one's self  has not been easy but it has been worthwhile.

The Writing Game

Attended an all day session yesterday: Write a novel in a month.  Sponsored by the Smithsonian Associates, their programs are a treat given to those of us who live in Washington DC and its surrounds. It's a good reason to stay here if you like culture, travel and interesting topics.  

Although the title of the session was somewhat misleading (the target is actually a rough draft, not a ready to publish novel), our instructor, Kathryn Johnson, an author and mentor to other writers, provided an articulate no-nonsense approach to fiction writing. 

She calmly mesmerized the sold out roomful of 80 some would be writers with an approach to tackling fiction that makes it all possible, assuming you have decent writing skills and the discipline to write when you don't want to.  There were many of us "gray hairs", but there were also younger folks, a most pleasant surprise. Many had not begun a novel, struggling with what to write about.  There was even a copyright lawyer who provided some sound advice at the end.

We reviewed writing concepts, like finding where to begin, targeting audience and genres; selecting and developing points of view, characters, and focus; creating and sustaining conflict; the critical importance of balance of action and dialogue over exposition; and creative ways to write and publish in the 21st century.  

Much of this I had learned in other classes, but I was duly inspired to spend two hours this sunny Sunday afternoon, typing away on my laptop at the dining room table, writing a scene for a suspense mystery (I'm not sure how many bodies, if any, are involved yet.)  For the first time, I was able to let go of reality, to begin to weave new cloth.  It was a relief to know I can do it.  Now, I just need to turn 1000 words into something like 80-85,000 words.  Simply, that mean lots and lots of work ahead for me.

I am putting aside the rewrite of my first attempt, a somewhat disguised story about six months sailing to and in the Bahamas in my early 40s), written 10 years ago.  That adventure could become the foundation of a good fiction, but I now know my "fiction skills" are not up to snuff as yet. Translating reality to fiction is really, really difficult when it's one's personal story and most of one's writing up to now has been non-fiction books and articles.   My first job is to prove to myself I can write page turning fiction with competence and confidence.  

Here's the plan to keep me writing until I "get it".

• Write 1.5-2 hours per day, six days per week no matter where I am
• Write the rough draft quickly as possible, ignoring that major revisions will probably be needed by the end.
• Write as if I am watching a movie in my head.
• Don't be afraid to write about things you wouldn't tell your grandchildren.
• Don't get bogged down in research.  It's easier than writing.  
• Keep reading other people's books, especially the genres you are working in.

For those of you out there who are professional story tellers already, I have great admiration for you and hope I can join your clan eventually. 

An unexpected walk

Clear blue sky, brilliant sunlight, leaf color at its height, and 70 degree weather cannot be properly experienced by sitting on a balcony eight flights above pulsing traffic, so John and I took to the streets for a good dose of urban hiking.  From our place in Arlington, we took the blue line metro to the Capital Hill Eastern Market stop.  For those not familiar with DC, the Capital Hill district is the heart of DC situated above and behind the Capitol, Supreme Court, and Congressional Library buildings.  Streets with sidewalks, cracked with roots of large trees, crisscross a maze of blocks filled with renovated and not so renovated connected and standalone houses, reflecting more that 150 years of architecture, along with small shops, eateries and businesses. 

On the weekend, vendor tents and  stalls surround the market building that holds a core set of meat, fish, sweets and specialty shops, a structure rebuilt to its original red brick Victorian design after being ravaged by fire some years ago.  The weekend vendors offer fresh flowers, local (and not so local) farm grown vegetables, hand crafted jewelry, collectible, junk and antique furniture and home goods, assorted artwork, African masks, rugs, and brick-o-brac of all kinds. It is a shopping experience that should not be missed.

As we emerged from the metro stop and headed north on 7th street to the market, an invasion of "gentrification" construction sidelined and shocked us.  The block where the African masks, rugs, and collectible furniture and home goods spread out was now an excavated hole cutting deep into the ground, cranes looming overhead like vultures looking for prey, protected by chain link fence, and posted with signs describing "coming" improvements to Eastern Market.  Is nothing sacred?

During the week, Eastern Market operates at a leisurely pace with only the shops inside the market building open, so instead of spending several hours shopping and window shopping, we were able to quicly buy a package of dried figs and a bag of fresh beans for dinner, then finished off afgogatos from the espresso/gelato shop before we turned the corner onto Independence Avenue, heading out for the long walk down the Hill.

Instead  of keeping to the street, we walked the gardens, a magical experience in the heart of the city.  Although on a smaller scale, it was, as if, we were back in London's Regent or Hyde Park gardens or in Paris' Luxembourg or Tuillieres gardens.  We were away from the traffic with few tourists and only a scatter of staffers scurrying from one federal building to another with smart phones in their ears.  

As we made our way down the hill, leaving the Capitol Hill neighborhood behind, we came upon the south side grounds of the Library of Congress and Capitol Hill that provide winding paths, planted with trees and shrubs from around the world.  Cars can't get onto the grounds, but people can.  

Next came the outdoor National Botanical Gardens.  Opposite the main "hot house" building, across Independence Avenue, is a small garden containing the Bartholdi Fountain, surrounded by almost a wild garden.  Next to the "hot house" is a formal rose garden, complete with a mailbox full of annotated instructions on the raising and caring of eight different categories of roses.  Despite the closeness to the busy traffic on Independence Avenue, in both gardens, we sat on shaded benches, in a cocoon of quietness, filled with the fresh smells of fall flowers.  It transported us to those other worlds of Paris and London, I mentioned earlier.  

We had no inkling they were there as we  exited the rose garden, but we walked into a herd a tweens and teens being rounded up and guided by energetic, but harried adults in red shirts with whistles who could have used some lassos to keep the kiddos moving down the sidewalk in some semblance of order, determined to reach the Air and Space Museum. 

We escaped the stampede by heading directly onto the Mall, which everyone knows is more of a park than a garden.  Although a portion of the Mall grounds is being rebuilt, we were surprised at the quietness, people sitting on benches facing the mall, people running and bicycling the wide red cinder paths, people watching children ride the carousel, or people patiently buying a bottle of water or snack at the formal refreshment stands along the Mall.  We heard many languages, but the tone was always soft, no one was scurrying or hurrying or yelling.  

One of our favorite gardens is at the Hirshhorn, filled with many fine sculptures of Moore, Rodin, David Smith and others acquired by the Hirshhorn family and later the museum itself.  Of the traditional pieces, my personal favorite is "The Burgers of Calais" by Auguste Rodin. The main garden, where we were, is below ground level, isolating us from the business of the street and Mall aboce.  We wished to linger longer by the reflecting pool, but with the day fading, there was a favorite garden we wanted to see before heading home.

But before we reached that garden, we discovered a hidden garden, the Mary Livingston Ripley Garden, sandwiched between the Hirshhorn and the Smithsonian Arts & Sciences building.  Keeping in line with the Victorian architecture of the original Smithsonian buildings, this garden, built in 1988, is the most beautiful of the day's walk.  It was stuffed with fragrant flowering plants, spurting a rich, royal purple color into the garden.  Again, we were overtaken with quietness, calmness and soothing beauty.  Those few who had discovered it with us, spoke is quiet tones. One young couple after having another tourist take their picture, ducked around a corner in the garden to embrace.

As the sun began to drop to the tree tops, scattering sunlight in all directions, we entered the last garden, the Enid A. Haupt Garden, framed by the Smithsonian Castle, the Arts & Sciences building, and the Sackler Art Museum.  Completed in 1987, it's actually three distinct gardens, the Moongate Garden next to the Sackler (Chinese style), the Victorian parterre (English style) and the Fountain Garden (Moorish style).  Like all the other gardens we visited, every plant was identified allowing those of us who are not botanists, insight into the nature and origin of the plants with every space appropriately trimmed.  For example, the Victorian parterre spaces were outlined with burnished, bent branches of caste iron creating a scalloped edge.  What a delight!

We headed home as the sun set, walking to the L'Enfant Plaza metro stop.  The brutish nature of the federal buildings surrounding the gardens slapped us back into reality.  What a disaster has been done to the Washington DC landscape when these beastly mammoths were designed in the mid-1950's under the federal Redevelopment Land Act, memorials to a cold war mentality.   By the mid-1970's, when the buildings opened, nothing was more indicative of a culture that lost had its empathy and sanity to pure, inhumane power, culminating in a war that cost our country over 68,000 men and women and damaged so many that survived.  

Is there hope that all of this may change?  Some - some of gardens were built in the 1980's and there is a master plan to redevelop these buildings, but can only happen if Congress agrees that this infrastructure be destroyed and replaced.



  

What do your shoes say about you?

As the morning sun rose over the horizon, strips of sunlight broke through my window blinds, hitting my closed eyes, barely visible, near buried in the pillows that wrapped around my head.  Instead of jumping into the shower as I did when I worked, I stayed in bed, stretching my muscles, my skin gently rubbing against the soft white sheets and down comforter as I reached over switching from the southwest chant music that had been drifting out of my iPod radio all night to the NPR morning news.  This little act of listening while in bed is a jewel, cherished and guarded.  One could say, if one was to be blunt and gritty that this listening time was better than sex, but I would never say that.   

So this morning, after reporting the latest political and criminal activity, NPR began broadcasting, "If the Shoe Fits: The Rise of the Stylish Comfort Shoe."  Instead of falling into a half sleep, where the radio voices become elements of dream, I perked up and listened intently.  The story's proposition was that women's shoes more than any other article of dress reflect their personalities.  The challenge, the story continues, is that at middle age, most of women can no longer tolerate heels, but refuse to wear the "comfortable"  shoes of their mother's generation.  Really?  Can people look at my shoes and see my personality?  Should I be troubled?

Since I was 21, I wore in heels, despite the fact that I was on my feet most of the time.  If I was walking through an airport, standing in front of clients facilitating their meetings, teaching a class, or walking down the street, I had a pair of heels on well into my 60's.  Like Ginger Rogers, I acquired the skill to move smoothly backwards, sideways and forward without tripping or falling over myself; however, after 30 years, two operations on my right foot, one on my left, serious arch supports, and ankle tendons so shortened that it was difficult to walk in flats, I knew the time was coming when I had to give them up for I was starting to shop for wedgies instead of 2 or 3 inch heels.  It is amazing the pain I put up with to "look good".  I guess my personality was all about style; making me feel like a grownup, adding two inches to my height, someone to be listened to.  If we were talking about men, we'd call it "swagger," that presence that grabs attention when you walk into a room.

The reality is that I no longer need "swagger" as I no longer need to grab anyone's attention. Within two weeks of retiring, I attacked my closet.  It was easy to rid myself of all the business clothes, delivering eight huge bags of suits, shirts, jackets, scarves, handbags, and accessories to charity.  However, with my heeled shoes and boots, it was not so easy.  I wanted to cling to them, each pair reminding me of some event or time in my life.  I couldn't part with the sequin stitched black stiletto heels I wore to a "Long Island" wedding two years ago. Maybe, I thought, I might need them again, sometime in the future for some unknown swanky event.  As I picked up the pair of kinky heeled ankle boots with chains, bought in New York City three winters ago, I felt the thrill of happening discovered the small shoe salon across from an Italian grocery, while lost in the Village one cold, rainy afternoon with my husband.  I remember I giggled when I tried them on, my husband smiling, lusting after my perky strut across down the store's aisle.  I just had to have them since they were "pretty comfortable" and looked perfect with skinny jeans.  

Now, in the end, I'm down to two pair of sensible heels, in case I should ever have to be business dressed again; however, so far, they are just gathering dust.  What I do wear are flats (I'm teaching my ankle tendons to stretch to their original length).  I bought red scalloped soft loafers, black with bows, beige with rhinestones, tan with gold buckles and more.  My personality is a new style; it's more of cute comfort that surprises and delights as I can still wear my skinny jeans with them. I am unwilling to wear my mother's shoes,  At least for now.

Politcal Circus Scene - A break from Sailing

Being a loyal Democrat, I watch with growing wonder the on-going struggle by Republicans for a presidential candidate.  The Republican line-up, as you well know, is an assortment outsiders against the insiders, insiders being those with any smattering of governing experience, both insiders and outsiders vying for the attention of primary voters.  The traditional nationalistic right wing, tea party and evangelical social conservatives, voter groups that seem to overlap one day and not the next, keep me reading the political analyses and opinion pages as if they were serialized soap opera.  It's better than fiction. You can't make this stuff up.

Looking at the outsiders, the possibility or impossibility of Trump's nomination tops the pundit writing list. Compared to Ben Carson (evangelical neurosurgeon who among other bizarro ideas equates the Affordable Care Act, providing health insurance to 16 million people, with slavery) and  Carly Fiorina (incompetent and fired HP CEO, loosing California governorship candidate and admitted non-voter, who decided she has the credentials to be an American president), Trump appears to be the most acceptable of the unacceptable outsiders.  Why not?  He's rich and famous with his own reality show. Like the Italians, we too can have a media tycoon run our country.  Silvio Berlusconi  came to power as Italy's prime minister after founding his own political party.  Only a conviction of tax fraud in 2013 took him out of power.  Would another bankruptcy do the same for a Trump president?

From what I read, Trump finds his support strongest among non-college educated, white, working class men.  Angry and frustrated over their inevitable decline of power (not that they ever had any actual power except through democratically leaning unions) caused by "big government" who put in place policies and programs to improve everyone's lives, these guys soak up the barrage of impolitic race, women and Hispanic bating statements of Mr. Trump.  I think they like him because he is or continually acts like a prideful bully.

However, if you look behind the curtain and push away the smoke screen, we'll find someone who believes in abolishing the big PACs and political non-profits (even more secretive),  replacing the ACA with a single payer medical system (how socialist of him), and maintaining the safety net of social security, medicaid and medicare.  I've even heard statements about raising taxes by removing tax breaks like the carried forward interest loop hole using by hedge funds and the like.  Trump and Sanders appear to have much in common when it comes to domestic policy. As to foreign policy, Mr. Trump has yet to move beyond his anti-immigration proclamations to build a wall on our southern border and ship 11 million people back to their original countries.  Will he attempt to moderate his approach to attract other audiences?  Personally, I believe, in the end, the Republicans will choose a non-Bush insider to run against the Democrats, probably Marco Rubio.  He's handsome, young, a minority, well-spoken, knows his policy, was Speaker of the Florida House and since 2011 a U.S. Senator.  But who knows?  I bet my Republican friends are shaking their heads just like I am.