Household Blog

When I was fifteen I was passionate about folk music and angry at the world. I was angry at social injustices and centuries-old guilt that had nothing to do with me but still haunted my bleeding heart. I was angry about the damage done to the environment, about which I felt powerless to do anything. I was angry about feeling hurt and weak and guilty and impotent in the face of so much…bullshit. And it probably goes without saying, but fairly often I was angry at my parents.

A favorite teacher at my high school kindly described all this rage as “teenage angst.” Angst! What a perfect word! The “ahhhhhh!” sound, open-throated out only to be choked off by an awkward gaggle of consonants tangled up trying to get through the door at the same time, all knees and elbows. Yep, angst. That about sums it up.

Today, I was reminded today of this angsty period, fortunately with more of a sense of humor than I had at the time. I had dated a boy, the first boy I ever dated in fact, and oh, if I’d known the warning signs then – this boy was a die-hard Republican, conservative to his bones, a fundamentalist hellfire sorta guy, and besides being my polar opposite in every way except age, he loved to get me riled. (I’ve observed this as a recurring pattern over the years. I now recognize it – the people who like to poke at you and laugh when you get mad. I double dog dare you to laugh at me now! *grin*) Knowing how I worshipped at the funky patchwork shrine of Bob Dylan and all his folksy retinue, my boyfriend relished playing that Cracker song that goes, “What the world needs now is another folk singer like I need a hole in the head.” And then that red rage would rise, my cheeks would burn, my eyes would flash, and he’d laugh his scrawny boy butt off.

What was I thinking? This question, by the way, has also been a recurring theme as years go by.

So I was reminded of that today. My mom lent me a book recently. I think my mom and I sometimes speak to each other in books. It’s like a subtle code: “I want you to understand me. Read this. This rings true. Please understand.” Each book shared and opened, more than just a book opens. So my beautiful, patient mother lent me Traveling Mercies by Annie Lamott, and I have been thoroughly enjoying it. It’s a very humorous, wry, and heart-full collection of stories and memoirs from a hilarious, tough ol’ softy kind of dame, dancing around issues of faith and spirituality. I’m not Christian myself, but I am deeply spiritual, and I think my mom knew that I would “get it.” And I do. And I love it, and I love that she shared it with me, and I love what it says about her. It’s passed the great reading test—even when reading it in public, I still get misty-eyed at moments or laugh out loud.

So about two-thirds of the way through the book, this poem by Nanao Sakaki appears:

In the morning
After taking cold shower
—–what a mistake—–
I look at the mirror.

There, a funny guy,
Grey hair, white beard, wrinkled skin,
—–what a pity—–
Poor, dirty, old man!
He is not me, absolutely not!
Land of life
Fishing in the ocean
Sleeping in the desert with stars
Building a shelter in mountains
Farming the ancient way
Singing with coyotes
Singing against nuclear war—
I’ll never be tired of life.
Now I’m seventeen years old,
Very charming young man.

I sit down quietly in lotus position,
Meditating, meditating for nothing.
Suddenly a voice comes to me:

“To stay young,
To save the world,
Break the mirror.”

This was a “woah” moment. I’ve been studying herbalism for over a year now, which led me to permaculture and to ayurveda, which led me back to yoga and meditation, all of which led me to a much deeper understanding and compassion to my own pains and patterns, joys and strengths, and the humility of seeing the road to wisdom disappearing into the distance ahead.

Now I’m laughing at myself for getting so ridiculously riled about that Cracker song lyric. I actually find myself in agreement: “If you want to save the world, shut yer mouth!”

The poem’s last phrase, “To stay young, / To save the world, / Break the mirror!” That’s the commandment. Don’t live in negatives—don’t spout invectives, don’t let rage be your food, don’t let your present life and work waste away for want of nourishment while your soul is mourning things on the other side of the earth: BE PRESENT. Here and now, live in affirmation. Rather than talk about injustice, practice justice. Do something. Live: build create nourish strengthen grow teach learn inspire breathe and be.

A while back, another great teacher told me to make wise choices, because I might be the only bible some people ever read. I still believe in the spirit of that advice. Every choice we make in our worlds matters. Every dollar we spend is a vote. Every bit of love we put into the world, every song we sing, every rift we mend, everything that we learn and teach and learn again—it continues outward, weaving in, passing the thread hand to hand, rippling out until our one tiny moment has touched people in places and times that we will never know ourselves. Our present, our presence, every minute act—positive or negative—has great power. It colors the threads we spin. It stains the fingers of every other person who touches these threads, blending with their own colors, passing on and on and on, under and over and under again.

We are so powerful. Wield with care.

I’ve been a self-described pacifist for a while now. I think of being a pacifist as sort of like being a member of Alcoholics Anonymous:  being a pacifist means that you admit that there is a problem—a  prevalence of physical and emotional violence in our relationships with people, with animals, with the earth—that you are no longer going to be a part of that problem, and that practicing nonviolence is a never-ending struggle.

My, my, the lessons we learn from our critters. I’m eating my humble pie, and here’s why.

A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine asked me to go check in on his dogs—for the purposes of this story, we’ll call his dogs Audrey and Piggy. He had recently started a new job and it was keeping him late, and naturally he was concerned that the change in schedule might be hard on them. Our dogs had met a couple times previously, and despite his statement that Audrey had aggression issues in the past, Audrey had seemed to do fine with my girl Rowan. So when my friend asked me to check in, neither of us thought there would be any problem with my going over there with Rowan, in fact we both thought it would be nice—they could get in a little play, romp a bit while I checked their food and water.

So Ro and I show up at my pal’s house, let ourselves in, puppies sniff each other like puppies do, and I let all three of them out back to relieve themselves. After a few minutes, I let them back in, and just as I turn around to fill up the water bowl, it starts. I have no clue what set it off, but both Audrey and Piggy were on top of my girl, one on either side of her, and within moments she was on her back, struggling to defend herself. Without thinking I jumped right in and was able to get Piggy back out the back door. But Audrey wouldn’t let go.

Time slowed down like it does in a crisis, and I found myself split somehow. Part of me was shrieking and pleading for Audrey to let go of Rowan. The other part of me was methodically searching through options, trying different strategies:

First, dominance—big voice, strong posture, command. No beans.

Second, trying to pry Audrey’s jaws off of Rowan. No good, plus a few cuts, and I’m lucky I didn’t get worse.

Third, a cutting board to try to stun the big dog, which did nothing but make it worse. At this point I’m pretty clear that I may actually be watching my dog die.

Lastly, my rational part saw a large chopping knife on the kitchen counter. While trying to keep my hands on Rowan to keep her body from being broken, I contemplated how best to kill her attacker. And then it happened. Ro had been screaming the whole time, but now she locked eyes with me, and she howled. At me. In one moment, all of my love and desperation just choked me. I love my girl. There aren’t even words. And she loves me. And I’ve never had children, but I imagine it’s a bit like that. To have someone that depends on you for care and protection, crying out to you for help, and to feel completely incapable, impotent, helpless. And at the same time, they remind you so thoroughly of who you are, who they need you to be.

And I could not kill that dog.

So I reached into my metaphorical toolkit and I asked for a tool. If I were a dog, I thought, what would I do to get Audrey to stop? And even as I reached for it, the tool was placed in my hand, without any doubt. I released both animals, got down on my belly, made soft sounds saying Audrey’s name—I made myself submissive. I don’t know if it was out of sheer shock or if Audrey really recognized my gesture, but regardless, he released my girl. Within seconds I had him out the back door.

Rowan and I were at the animal hospital till just past 2 a.m.

Ro is doing fine now. Stitches and staples are out now and she is mending well, in body and spirit. She’s still a little jumpy, understandably, but it’s getting better every day.

Me, I’m still digesting. I’ve been scared in my life, but I’ve never been as scared as I was that night. I’m still having dreams about it—there are many lessons here. But here’s what I’ve got so far.

1. Complacency is a bitch. Rowan has been a constant source of love and companionship for eight years, and she depends on me. I got sloppy, reckless, and I put her in a situation that could have gotten her killed—the warning signs were there. It won’t happen again, that’s for damn sure.
2. When the shit hits the fan, it’s a real test of what you believe. Being nonviolent is a lot easier when violence isn’t pounding on your door. I never thought it would be so hard to stay my own hand.
3. You can only find and use the tools that you’re willing to ask for. Now, I’m not recommending that if anyone gets into a dog fight they should go submissive. In my case, it worked, miraculously, but if I was looking objectively at the scenario I’d have to say it’s probably a really bad idea, harebrained, and reckless. But in the moment I was certain it would work. I asked for the tool, and I got it. Our rational, cynical minds can often forget the strength of intuition, instinct, clarity. Faith.
4. And lastly, Rowan is unequivocally the bestest pup ever. Period. No contest.

I’m a very grateful girl.

If you know me, you know I’m a fan of music and dance and all things FABulous. Well, there’s a lovely new short that I just had to share with you all - a funny and highly capitalist interpretation of Proposition 8. Trust me on this one: Prop 8: The Musical

After years of intense research on the subject, I have developed the Theory of Observable Coordination. In said theory, I posit that the amount of physical coordination (or lack thereof) possessed by an individual (we’ll call our individual Sam) at any given moment is directly proportional to the number and degree of importance of the people present. For instance, on a scale of 1 to 10:

• Sam’s dog who loves him no matter what = 1
• Sam’s cat who feigns apathy but mocks him inwardly = 2
• Random dude going through Sam’s trash can = 3
• Sam’s smartass younger brother = 5 (due to ongoing heckle-ability)
• Sam’s hipper social acquaintances = 6
• Sam’s boss (a real battle axe, that one) = 9
• The person that Sam’s been crushing on for months and tonight could be the night = 10

You get the idea. If x=percent chance of Sam committing a humiliating act of klutziness; y=number of people present in the immediate vicinity; and z=the average of y’s assigned numerical importance (subjective of course to Sam’s personal means of ranking import), then:

x = y(z) / 100

To illustrate, if Sam is hanging out at home with his critters and decides to do some yoga (he’s sensitive like that), y = 2 (# of pets present), z = 1.5 (average of their degrees of importance), so in this instance Sam has only a 3% chance of humiliation. Of course we may need to build in an allowance for different sorts of activities, I mean, he is doing yoga, and that should somewhat raise Sam’s chance of humiliation. Well, we’ll get back to that…

Now if Sam walks into a room at a party and sees that 6 angry exes are having a tete-a-tete regarding Sam’s flawed character and other myriad inherent shortcomings, then y=6, z=10, and he has a 60% chance of utter humiliation while beating his retreat. Of course, it goes without saying that if your x > 100%, you’re pretty much screwed. Sorry guys.

Questions? Comments? Additions? Funny stories?

Yep. Mean people suck. This week at the Purple House, I almost fell prey to an online scam. We have all heard horror stories and have received e-mails about internet security, identity theft, and avoiding e-mail viruses, etc., but I have never ever myself actually been personally touched any of those incidents. But dear friends, my scam cherry has officially been popped.

In light of increasingly tight budgetary situation (I’m sure many of you can relate) I decided to advertise for a roommate to live with me in the Purple House, alleviating my monetary stresses. I placed ads in several local publications, as well as the Richmond branch of CraigsList. So far, I’ve gotten one bite, a bite better left unbit. An alleged female in South Dakota by the name Lucy Okuyade (just Google that, for fun) contacted me saying she wanted to move to the area, that she was a social worker, of German birth, plenty of personal information, and would be willing to pay a deposit in advance of moving here. We exchanged a couple e-mails, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

Perhaps I was just nervous because I couldn’t check her out in person, face-to-face, perhaps it was because I couldn’t get through on the phone number she provided for her uncle in England as a reference, but I began to dig. I started by mapping the two addresses she’d given me for her current address and her uncle’s England address. Neither looked to be residential, and the one in England was a hospital. Then, on a lark, I decided to Google her name. Instantly I got several results with her name, CraigsList, and “scam” all featured prominently.

Turns out, I cut it pretty close. “She” (probably an 80-year-old Chinese woman or child pirate or a sentient computer named HAL or something) has stolen thousands of dollars from others in the same scam, wiring enough money to the victim to cover security deposit, the full first month’s rent, plus money for the movers, then asks (not sure why) that the victim in turn pay a portion to that for the movers. Of course, the victim cashes the check, wires the money to the movers, and finds out in a week that the check was invalid and they are responsible for the funds. The movers, in turn, have made off with their money.

So, yeah, fun. I’ve been on the phone with the police and the Atty General’s office this morning. All I can say is - yay for intuition. Other than that, here are a couple things I’ve learned:

• Never give personal information over the internet, or as little as possible, until you have verification of the other person’s identity.
• Always ask for references, and always follow up on them.
• Google is your friend. Look up people’s names, addresses, etc. Although it’s sort of creepy, I was very grateful for the GoogleMaps street-level view - allowed me to actually view the scammer’s alleged address.
• If someone wires you money, always be sure it is for the exact amount due and wait for it to clear before moving ahead with your plans. If it’s bogus, you won’t be out money, just pride. Never forward on a portion for them, regardless of their sob story excuse.
• A lot of people, myself included, are inclined feel guilty about being suspicious. Always be suspicious, always ask questions, always protect yourself as much as possible.

I’m sure there’s more, so feel free to comment additional tips below. In the meantime, I am still looking for a roommate. Know anyone?