A Three Story Life-The Wayback Machine

The Wayback Machine was a device used by Mr. Peabody and his boy Sherman to visit history. Peabody's Improbable History cartoons were a feature of the Rocky and Bullwinkle show, a genius Jay Ward enterprise. Peabody, here, Mr. Peabody said to start, and we would then happily journey back in time. In our house, The Wayback Machine begins with that's like... or I remember. If Dad says I remember, there will be a tenuous connection to what we are talking about in real time. If it's that's like, the anecdote will have little or nothing to do with now. Many conversations include these two episodic references. I think older people talk this way because long-term memory is most readily accessible. Humans like to have self-relatedness. We all like to talk about ourselves. But the non sequitur recurrence makes it head spinning to keep up during a crisis that needs attention. In the midst of household problem solving, it's downright hard. It confuses me, it confuses people from outside our house who are participating in what's being discussed. Maybe it's common to try to explain what we did 45 years ago that may or may not have led us to where we are now. But information revealed in this way doesn't clarify anything for the listeners-it makes getting through a sticky wicket that much gummier. Today I said a dozen times, let's focus on the here and now. We moved into the 80s fairly quickly, but never did get out of that troublesome decade altogether. Do we all do that? Dad tells anecdotes to me as though I was not there when the story unfolded. This behavior is particularly perplexing because in every other way his cognitive function is fine. He just won't switch The Wayback Machine off, especially if we're confronting a situation that requires present tense attention and a rapid solution. I think those of us who are stuck in the past tend to stay stuck. Everything is a reflection, living is not done in the present. Problem solving is solving problems in the past. Alternative outcomes get reviewed repeatedly in private, until the past is a wheel in a cage. There must be some brain function that allows a successful conclusion from the past to stand in for what's going on now. I'm over analyzing this. I need more present and accounted for behavior in dealing with situations, because our lives right now contain serial situations. All I know truly is it is not possible to count your blessings when the wheel of self-analytics is going full speed, and I have great sympathy for my father. It has to be exhausting not to have blessings in the now to count.

Welcome to Earth, Lawson James

Friday morning I was roaming Taurus horoscopes. My great nephew would be a Taurus and I know nothing about The Bull, and was curious about the son beloved Bianca was going to deliver soon. While I was reading, I felt as though someone was leading me, coaxing. My niece had told her doctor that she did not want labor induced - she said her son should choose his one special day. It was an elegant, mature, fantastic statement, and I admired her, more than I do already. So I began to believe that Lawson would choose his day. His mother gave him the power. I chose to honor both the giver and receiver, and believed in Lawson as his own human being, and felt strongly that Friday was the day he would arrive in the world. I went upstairs and told Dad what I'd found. That Taurus is a determined, contented, solidly good human being overall. And Scorpio is the best parent for a Taurus child: they both like cuddling, hugging and touching. Bianca loved to be held when she was a baby. (Later I would tell my sister that was why Bianca was born 2 months early - she needed to be a Scorpio parent to a Taurus son.) May babies are contented and charmed. Taurus doesn't like to be pushed. Dad said he dreamed that Lawson was born on Friday. That was more confirmation, so I called my sister, the about-to-be grandmother. Couldn't reach her, but know that's not unusual. I knew, though, so I went to the ultimate source of all information - Facebook. And there it was - left for the hospital. Called my other sister because I don't have texting, and I know Carol texts, and forgets I don't. Susan called then after receiving a text message - he's here. I saddled up. First thing - I needed to find The Story of Ferdinand to bring to the new reading dynamic duo - the newest, minutes old - a Taurus. Found the hardcover at a Barnes & Noble near the hospital (the first book I've bought at a Barnes & Noble, so that's new, too.) Bianca has all the books I ever gave her, in pristine condition. I love that. But I also know I bought two of many, because I wanted the baby and toddler to be able to chew, maim, stand on, and throw books, too. Just so long as the child touched the book. Now Bianca will share her books with her son. And I have new books to get for Lawson James. I wandered through the children's book section, looking for familiar cloth, bath, chewable books, but found nothing. The familiar early books, Bianca already has. I touched favorites, remembering. All of Eric Carle. Good Night, Moon. I did not find Jan Pienkowski, but I know Bianca has many of his books. Chicka Chicka Boom Boom I can hardly wait to read to Lawson. And Owl Babies, although I can do Percy's part by heart - I want my mommy! I did happily discover On the Night You Were Born by Nancy Tillman, and it's a beauty. So I wrote on the flyleaf of Ferdinand to both Bianca and her son, and wrote on the flyleaf of Nancy Tillman's book to Lawson himself.  And as Carl, the Henry Ford West Bloomfield volunteer was escorting me to the labor and delivery floor, and I was giddy with all this wonder, I said to Carl, he's 3 hours old, so he can read, yes? And Carl smiled and said, soon enough. On this glorious and singular day of Lawson's birth, my sister and I sat on the couch in the birthing suite (how cool is that?) and Carol asked, so, what is Friday's child? And I said, loving and giving.

A Three Story Life - Fishbowl

I like privacy. It's been a designed part of my life, by arrangement and preference since I was 16. Fortune favored me by allowing the circumstances to keep my life quiet and personal. It hasn't been quiet or personal since living the three-story life. My stuff is out in the public domain, so much so, that, before I have my coat off from whatever undertaking, I'm asked about outcome. It's a small thing; a thing I'm a little ashamed of having trouble adjusting to, but taken in a bundle, every day, every step out the door and walk back in, it's impacting my body, my mood, my well-being. Today it's my glasses. I have a pair several months old that have been an expensive hassle. I don't remember wanting a coating (and I'm not even sure now if it's glare or scratch) but the damn stuff warps in heat. The lenses have been replaced three times already, striated at the hands of the people adjusting them who plunged them into the heated beads that allow bending the frame, thus warping my lenses. I've got striations in the left lens now, without knowing what heat did it. I don't use hot water, I don't dry my hair with my glasses on; mysterious appearance. I went to the eyeglass place to ask for a solution. Blah, blah, blah, I have no interest in talking about it because it's the usual damned if you do/don't of business transactions these days, but since I told Dad where I was going, before the door was shut, he wanted to know how much of a fight it was. I don't know why he wants to know this stuff. Is he interested in how my life is? Maybe. Does he enjoy my confrontation scenarios? Maybe. He's learned just enough about my reluctance to share everything to know how to ask a question to which I cannot reply only fine. So, he's learned that. Why can't I learn to just let it all go? I moved into the basement when I was 16 to get away from all the questions my little sisters peppered me with, and now I am already in the basement. Reminds me of the old performance review snippets being email forwarded years ago. "This employee has reached performance rock bottom, and is starting to dig."

Garden 2012 The Launch

The garden plot on Saturday, April 21. South Lyon residents can sign for a section for free, the city tills for free and I'm loving South Lyon even more. I picked Number 9. It's a sacred geometry number, one of my favorite numbers of lore from my banking days, and it's a li'l piece of a Beatles tune. It is in the worst of all possible locations for watering, equidistant farthest away from the water spigots; but closest to the woods in case of an urgent biological need. SL workers mowed and tilled both rows of sites on April 1, so there was a fine skin of grass, easily removed with a twist of a hand shovel. From the 1st to 21st, I visited the place, overwhelmed by the 30 feet x 60 feet size of it. 1800 square! Oy! I've offered the back half to friends who might grow some lettuce here, a tomato or two there. Harry, who is 92, said he's in for advice and support. I ordered Dad some heirloom Bonny Best and Beefsteak tomato seeds, and they are germinating in compostable cups from the Tuscan Cafe. On Saturday I sent Dad to the store for string and potting soil, I walked to the garden and met them there. Dad stayed in the car, Scott sat in a plastic chair enjoying the breeze. I planted two rows of onion sets, and two rows of sugar snap peas. The work felt wonderful, but I'm hurting a little still today. I want to get the golden beets in, the two varieties of heirloom spinach, and at least one of the Detroit Red heirloom beet varieties still this week. Friends offered stakes and chicken wire, when the time comes to protect the nascent plants. I am excited, nervous, and overjoyed about this first foray into the realm of growing good food.

Brigg's Mansion Stone Hedge For Sale

Stone Hedge, the home automotive magnate Walter O. Briggs built in 1915 for his family is for sale at the bargain price of $450,000. Architects Chittenden and Kotting designed the pale fieldstone manor at 700 W. Boston Boulevard. 9,638 square feet, 11 bedrooms, 9 fireplaces, 7 bathrooms, copper gutters, a cold fur closet, a liquor safe, stained glass windows, Pewabic tile. Carved into the library mantel are famous Detroit Tigers and famous opponents - Hank Greenberg, Babe Ruth, Charlie Gehringer, Lou Gehrig. Mr. Briggs owned the team from 1920 to his death in 1952. Tiger Stadium was originally Briggs Stadium, home to both the Detroit Tigers and Detroit Lions, but despite being on the National Register of Historic Places, it was completely demolished in 2009. Neighbors in the Boston Edison neighborhood included Charles Fisher (next door on Boston Boulevard) and Henry Ford's family was around the block. Mark Hickey has some beautiful pictures of houses on the two streets. I've loved this part of Detroit for decades. My mother lived in a house there that was a home for working single women. My father courted her from the parlor - no men allowed anywhere else in the building. I wanted to buy a house on Boston back when the two streets were terribly neglected and unloved; boarded windows, fire-licked roofs, bedraggled gardens, only a few homes maintained. Since 1980, people have bought homes, repaired and planted, and the house I wanted to buy is now lovely and occupied. I hope someone who will love Stone Hedge buys it, lives happily in it, and doesn't change too much of the gorgeous history.

Godspotting

Too much attention paid to anything can make you balmy, and I wander in and out of the too much realm quite often. I love following research trails. Sometimes I get some insight. Mostly I get a headache. With no map, and little understanding, I'm trying to focus on my spiritual adventure, with the intention of gathering peace around and within me. Not sure this can be abetted by research, and I am not convinced any of us have the answers to a deep connection with divine higher power. I am not sure we are supposed to have the answer. If I were an omnipotent god, and wanted awe, and collective bliss for my people, I sure wouldn't put the operating manual on google docs. We journeyers talked last evening over green tea about creative bliss, finding the oneness sweetspot within, and manifesting our desires. I said being in a state of bliss is just what it is: there is nothing else. Can we connect bliss with manifesting? I honestly forgot how manifesting works. Attracting abundance. I lost that part, like a name I cannot remember. I had that eerie feeling of having to explain something urgently, and not being able to find the words. Achieving desires is destination, and what I'm understanding a little is that the journey is what we need to enjoy. Be. Now. Gratitude. Be in the now with gratitude. While we were conversing, I lost my ability to connect the dots between brain, heart, spirit. Is there a convergence someplace? Is it necessary to find it? Or is my inability to describe what I was understanding the very nature of connection with God? Acceptance is enough. Maybe that is the core of faith. The abundance of books about connecting with spirit speaks to how hard it is to explain. I read Dr. Lee Lipsenthal's book enjoy every sandwich this week. He had an extraordinary end of life experience, which he credits to his medical background, his professional path, in combination with his spiritual state. He meditated, he could put his consciousness in connection with all. He was at peace with his mortality as a spiritual and human being. He wrote of the God spot. When Janice mentioned the bliss void last night, I thought of that place in the parietal cortex, and I did a perfunctory internet search this morning. There are a couple scholarly articles about brain tumors and self-transcendance, and many sites debunking the whole notion that connectivity to God can exist in a brain spot. In My Stroke of Insight, Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor describes a stroke that washed out her motor skills, while heightening her sense of spiritual well-being. She moved out of left brain and into right brain. This morning I flipped an Osho Zen Tarot card for the day. It was Turning In. Turning inwards is not turning at all. If you try to turn in, you are seeking and that leads to frustration. Oy. Did the brain invent God? Or did God invent the brain? I don't know and neither does any other human we know. We all do our best to balance the experience, and perhaps that is the key to the kingdom. As Teilhard de Chardin said, we are not humans having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience.

Quiet by Susan Cain

Whew. I can wholeheartedly admit to being an INFJ and I feel good about that. Thanks to Susan Cain and her new book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, I finally feel fine about being an introvert. Her book reveals the research regarding nature:nurture (you're born that way Intropal), temperament is not necessarily personality, that American corporations' celebration and promotional love of Harvard Business School extraverted clones is not necessarily the best choice for American businesses. Witness the run-up to 2008, during which the Harvard MBA non-risk averse/ reward seeking/ dopamine-addled CEOs brought the global economy to a crashing halt. Witness also that the government bodies supervising these extravert extreme money sportsters were populated with more of the same. My brother David sent a link to a TED Talk given by Susan Cain, and I was impressed that, although her voice shook a little, she stood there and gave us all this great information. I put a hold on her book immediately. Thanks, bro! I wrote back to David that I remembered 10th grade, the first card marking in Mr. Manos' Social Science class, what should have been a slamdunk A for me. He gave me a C. I gathered all my data, made an appointment and quaking with fear, outlined my reasons why I thought I deserved an A. He listened. He reminded me that at the beginning of the year he said class participation would be 50% of our grade. I squeaked that my participation level was the best I could pull off. He didn't budge. I didn't budge. I told him I'd take it up with my counselor. Manos changed my grade to a B-. In the business world much later, I sat during a performance review while my boss held her pencil over the "Team Player" evaluation box. "Opportunity for improvement?" she queried, pretty damn sure she'd get acquiescence. I thought about it a minute or two. I was tired; tired of forced participation over many decades, and tired of extra work to change what was essentially my core temperament. I shook my head. No. I am not a team player. I will never be a team player. I do not do well in work pods, on team building activities, or in groups of more than 2. She checked the box anyway. I took it along to my next boss, explained my position and he erased it and checked satisfactory. Introverts like quiet, minimal stimulation, privacy and the opportunity to wield their business and creative magic away from the klieg lights, and off the stage loved by extraverts. Introverts need to be given a little room. With a door. And a lock.