Cubicles

Cubicles in offices seem to be like apartment buildings. Forgetting thin walls, people speak in high-volumes without thought that what is said inside these fragile, metal partitions navigate around the corners and into the main workplace. They forget their words get trapped inside the numerous other partitions that surround them – that these conversations are as clear outside the box as if someone is standing right next to you. Or do they forget? Perhaps they don’t care? Or is it lack of realization.

Last week, I felt particularly raked over by one, in my opinion, highly personal conversation. My work isn’t stimulating but it takes attention to detail. High-volume talkers can pull at my thoughts and take me away from my work. This conversation, so unbelievably loud, not only pulled but dragged me in, begging for attention. This person’s father had recently been diagnosed with a pulmonary disorder and he was talking to someone on the phone about his father’s care. The conversation wasn’t light-hearted - more heartbreaking because it could be life-threatening. And though my normal compassion would have reached out to this person, I couldn’t help wondering, “Why the hell are you having such a personal conversation in the middle of the workday in your cube? Why the hell can’t you take your cellphone and go into some distant part of the office so we don’t have to hear this?” Does his of lack of propriety note a lack of professionalism? Or is it appropriate to spill this information out into the work ether? As I wonder about this, I’m struck about the concept of containment and what we contain and what we share and with whom? What I’m asking of this person is to literally compartmentalize his conversations and not let the personal ones spill over the walls. …

Perhaps what bothers me is hearing the private lives of people I don’t know through means I didn’t choose. I hated apartment living because lives spilled over into my sphere - from cellphone calls passing by my door, loud lover quarrels to casual conversations shouted from one side of the building to the other. I didn’t want to know these conversations because I didn’t want to know their intimate life details. I wanted to hole up in my apartment, deal with my own thoughts, are not be encroached upon my others. Perhaps if I were raised in a large family where boundaries were trumped on a daily basis I wouldn’t have these strict thoughts. But I like my independence and independent thought and not getting swept up in what I find to be inappropriate displays of…. Oh, what shall I call it – humanness?

Perhaps it’s my over-saturated, caring nature that feels my boundaries are overstepped when I hear floating bits of personal information. There was a time in life where I dreamed of living in a cave, high above the world. My in-law apartment is sort-of cave like. I only have some conversation spill into my sphere from my landlords which is why I often turn the TV on.... Boxes, cubicles, even log cabins. Is it all for the sake of boundaries in our interconnected world?

Seeing Things in Sand

Letting things wash away....

I just watched a video of an artist who draws giant figures in the sand. He stands close to the waves, creating; knowing that his endeavors will wash away in a matter of hours. This doesn't deter him. His focus is on the moment, one line at a time. I saw the freedom in this approach. His canvas is ever-changing. Nothing permanent. It's all in the creation of the now. He knows he'll have to create something new the next day. Maybe that's what motivates him to continue.

His work reminded me of the idea of the Tibetan Sand Mandalas.

Take a look at this amazing man:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6ZqKmaN2qw

By Dickens' It's What Matters

One New Year’s I watched the Muppets Christmas Carole. It came to the point in the story where Scrooge stares terrifyingly at the grave asking the Spirit what it meant. I wondered why this came to be such a heightened crescendo of fear. To me, the most terrifying scene came before, in the murky tunnel, where thieves having taken his material possessions, laughed like craven witches. They had no care or compassion for this human being. All that mattered was what they could get for his items - and this, for me, was horrifyingly sad.

Scrooge’s name has become a synonym to being a miser. Yes, his heart had become hardened, but why? How did he become the man that we see when we first meet him in the story? We’re shown the pains of his past and the route he took to avoid seemingly future ones. When the Spirit brings him to the graveyard, to me, it's not the fear of death that haunts Scrooge, it's the fear of not having mattered. He's confronted with a life not truly lived, one where he'd holed himself up, barricading himself from all that matters, including not mattering to anyone. Perhaps this is my own fear.

I look at what truly matters in my life. Is it debts? Or is it times I've spent well with friends. I look at this story as a tale of living beyond fear because I don't want fear holding me back from experiencing what matters most to me in this world. What matters most in the world to me? It's what I discover and re-discover every day living here.

Trail Thoughts

Heavily in my thoughts, a ‘thunk!,’ caught my attention. Looking down, my foot broke a twig and brought my mind back to the trail. I was about ¾ of the way up to the overlook. “Curious,” I thought. I recalled my first trek up the trail, a few months ago. Every step held my full attention. Not knowing what laid beyond each bend, I looked around carefully, even fearfully. How far was it? Pant, pant pant. I didn’t know if I could I make it up the mountain.

Now, I drifted on the trail, lost in my thoughts until a sharp noise, a darting lizard or a snake laying on the trail forced me to refocus. The walk that daunted me so much in the beginning was now so familiar, I didn’t fret the distance. Having become so familiar, I rambled, without much thought of how much easier I could climb the trail. Until I heard the “crack!”

I appreciated how far I’d come in just a few months. Then back to my thoughts again…

Now again, thinking about my walk, I wonder about the things that 'throw us for a loop’. Do they happen to force us to pay attention to our surroundings if we are just ‘coasting along’? Do tightrope walkers do it for the thrill of feeling each heart-pounding second as they step into the high air? When we thrill seek, do we do so in order to remain present for just a few seconds? Maybe it’s just me - someone who is prone to coast in dreams and thoughts until some random noise reminds to pay attention to what is right in front of me. And also what I've left behind on the trail...

Have a nice day!

As I drove through the vineyards on my way over to my coffee shop destination, I couldn’t retain my snarky thoughts. At home, I stewed over the insincere misuse of “Have a Nice Day!” But seeing the patchwork of yellow and burgundy grapevine leaves sprawling before me, how could I retain such negativity? A falcon passed overhead – one of my favorite birds. Before my departure, I thought of one my encounters at the coffee shop. A new trainee, middle-aged, seeming out of her element wished me with rote insincerity, “Have a Nice Day!” I expected this from the more chain-like, ubiquitous Starbucks but not at my precious Peet’s Coffee where I usually was helped by funky hair-dyed, pierced Goths that were surprisingly chipper. I thought, I’d even prefer the usual Goth, downturn, “can’t be bothered to exert my energy on you” persona.

So chipper me entered the coffee shop, and I got served by the “can’t be bothered to exert energy on you,” Goth. I picked up my coffee and slunk away. I considered taking my earlier statement back. I didn’t want to helped by a downturn, “can’t be bothered to exert my energy on you” person. Setting up my computer at the table, I realized that I had forgotten to get an internet access code. I went back to counter, now singled-handedly ‘manned’ by one server, and waited behind a gaggle of seniors struggling to navigate the curious names of the coffee items. Fortunately, the former mis-user of, “Have a Nice Day,” who’d been stationed at the bean counter, came to my rescue seeing that I needed help. She guessed I forgot the code and I only had to do a short-hand to have her print one out. She didn’t offer me, “Have a Nice Day,” but a very sincere act of service. How I appreciated that!

How things change in a drive… In a thought…. In an instant… Or instance…

What brought all this “Have a Nice Day!,” frenzy on? I recently watched George Carlin's classic, "Have a nice day!" routine. It's hilarious and perfect for the moment when someone's "have a nice day..." can push you over the edge...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vmknnXoOJk&feature=related

I love you Charlie

As a life long fan of Charles M. Schultz & his beloved Peanuts characters,I had to visit the Charles M. Schultz museum located in Santa Rosa, CA. I finally got the chance last May. As I approached the museum, the Charlie Brown Christmas theme blared out from outside speakers. On the inside, cheery, enthusiastic workers in bright yellow shirts greeted every visitor. I asked the ticket seller what it was like to work there. "It's great that we get paid to be here," he replied. "No kidding!" I thought. And this response echoed on. “Best job ever”, the volunteer docent ticket replied to my inquiry. In her 70's, she told us she'd been a fan for years and was an honor for her to volunteer there.

In the video cove, I watched a short movie about the museum and Charles M. Schultz's life. The inspiration for the museum came from Charles M. Schultz’s wife and friend who wanted a place to house Schultz's work for everyone to experience. His wife even transferred his office so his fans could experience how her husband worked every day.

Thinking about his wife's affection for his work makes me teary-eyed. I have a certain sensitivity. I can feel the feelings around me. Once walking down the street, happily, I became overwhelmed with sadness. I turned my head, looked over, and saw a young woman sitting on a tree stand, crying.

Whether it’s a gift or a curse, I can tap into emotions. I think it makes me a stronger writer and possibly a better humanitarian. Because of this “sensitivity” I don’t venture to places lightly. A sport’s bar can be toxic to me. Not that I dislike sports, just the anger that can erupt around when a goal isn't scored. Such emotions hurt my inner being. As I passed by the exhibits I became overwhelmed with tears. But these were happy tears. I realized it was because there was so much love in the museum. Everyone who came to the museum, young & old shared this love and filled up the museums walls. And this filled up my inner being with happiness.

Upstairs were the relics of Schultz’s life: His early drawings; His World War II uniform; His first printed cartoons - all the things that made him the artist he was. In another room was where his wife moved his office. He had a giant desk, of course. Opposite that were glass-cased bookshelves filled with books upon books ranging from Dickens to Fitzgerald (I’m going by memory, I can’t remember them all). He had a bust of Beethoven, of course, and Mozart.

Ruminating on what he chose to surround himself by, I felt Schultz's cared deeply about the world and this influenced his work daily. I loved his cartoons as a kid. I didn't realize the irony in his work until I was an adult. Regardless, I felt the love. Perhaps he had the "sensitivity" too and channeled it into his work.

Everyone has their own reason to be drawn to his work. For me, it's his humanity and great spirit as an artist. And that's why I love Charlie. And I truly appreciate the rarity of place to have so much love in it that I became overwhelmed with joyful tears.

Morpho's Magic

The Morpho butterfly is one of the signature butterflies in Costa Rica. Beyond Central America, I'm not sure where else you'd find them, although I swear I small a tinier version of them in Sonoma this past spring. That might be wishful thinking...

Hard not to think magically when you look at this butterfly. With wings closed, their brown bodies blend into the background. When wings are open and they fly, you then see a completely different butterfly with their blue beating wings. I tried hard to capture their image in flight, yet somehow, I like this blurry version better. They remain magical that way.

I think of the lesson in the Morpho butterfly. When still, they're wallflowers, to blend into the background. There are times in life where that is a necessary function. But if no one ever sees you, they'll miss the beauty of who you truly are. Sometimes you do have to get off the ground and fly, to show the world what you really have.... This is what I'm trying to do in my life right now. I have the blue dye, wire, and tissue paper all ready....