Sketching a Twisty Path on the Globe

Just got back from exercise class.  My lungs loosened up and made me cough a bit.  My stomach muscles feel a little tight, and come to think of it my jaw does too.  It must have been the part when we pretended to be balloons deflating and phlllbbbbbbed our way to the floor.  Or was it the bit when we lay on our backs and pretended to be karate caterpillars all in a line?  Maybe, that was a strenuous one.  Even for a group of adults. 

Several weeks ago I was walking home alone after having dinner with friends, baklava in hand, when samba drums drew me toward a building I’d never inspected before.  It was lit up and people mingled inside among colorful paintings.  Others flooded in the front doors implying the start of a new show soon.  “What’s the show?” I asked a man waiting outside.  “Don’t know.  My daughter bought the tickets. I think it has ukuleles.”  Enough to lure me through the doorway.  “What’s the show?” I ask the woman behind me in line.  “Well, I think it’s a comedy group from Europe.”  OK definitely can’t leave the line now.  By the time I reach the ticket counter it has officially become two folk bands.  True to my informers though, the first did have several ukuleles and had us all chuckling with their stories from a folk festival in Ukistan.  During the break the lady next to me (who snorts loudly when she laughs) says, “You have a great laugh!  You should come to Laughing Yoga!” 

It’s been three weeks of anticipation and in the meantime I collected a couple curious friends.  We arrived in the parking lot and a poster informed us we were actually 30 minutes late.  Determined to laugh (even if succinctly), we followed the multiple signs with arrows:  “Laughter Club this way” and ended out at a glass door through which we could see a group of serious-looking people in a circle.  Despite our tardiness, they invited us in and then laughed at us when we told them our names. 

The “exercises” we did were something like preschool.  Or slumber parties.  Or the goofy kid in class who always got in trouble for it. Except we were ALL the goofy kids:  pretending to shove cream into our mouths, wagging our behinds to “Tsitsy Tsa,” making farting noises.  No.  Really.  And, it worked, I laughed until my face was red and I had to take off my scarf for air.  Maybe it partly worked because your mind really can’t believe that they are doing this, wait, that you are doing this.  It’s an odd collection of people that may never stand in the same room together otherwise.  Some chanting thanks for their colorful lips, others for their firm butt, elbows, knees, blood.  But at the end, we all held hands for our final affirmations: “We are the happiest people in the world.  We are the healthiest people in the world.” 

I doubt I’ll convince anyone else to return with me.  I’m not totally sure I’ll convince myself.  BUT, I am completely sold on the experience of allowing yourself to be blown off track. To let a drumbeat or an old lady give you a suggestion.  If you’re lucky, you just might find ukuleles and belly laughter there.   

Thanks for the nudge Mama!  Stories not shared are soon forgotten in this ADD brain….

“It CAN’T be Mardi Gras!  It’s not Lent!”  That was my mom’s response when I told her about the Mardi Gras Start of Winter Party.  “We should be Mexicans because it goes with the Mardi Gras theme!” said my friend (obviously not American).  “What do beads have to do with Mardi Gras?”  when I suggested buying some in advance.  I guess I never really should have thought that there would be anything traditional about this Mardi Gras.  After all, it IS June, and it IS held in a small ski town.  In New Zealand.  Erase your images of jazz bands, floats, and dacquiris.  

When you go into the common room at the Erua Backpackers, there’s a pretty ugly old wardrobe against one wall.  Seems just like bad decorating….until it opens and someone stumbles out in a crouch.  And then another goes in and doesn’t return.  When you open it, you indeed see Asland….and around the corner a giant TV screen and a floor filled with limp bodies.  Kind of how this weekend felt. Stumbling out of Hamilton and into a land just as strange as (or more than) Narnia.

The Backpackers isn’t exactly a 4-star ski resort.  The co-ed bathroom/showers don’t have a place for your clothes.  Or a mirror.  The multiple buildings and multiple hallways twist around in a 70’s-colored maze streaked with corrugated metal.  A bucket on a string keeps the sliding door closed and a faulty lock keeps your bunk room open.  BUT….there’s a great fire that’s magically alive every time you walk into the room, several guitars that you can hear plucked from couches and behind doorways, and, best of all, a crowd of quite colorful young Kiwis (the only other group either poor enough or late enough to be stuck with this mangy accommodation).

The good thing about this backpackers though is its accessibility to the town and to the slopes.  A fairly short drive through jungly green finds you boarding down glittering white under sparkling blue.  The snow wasn’t powder and the runs were hardly deserted, but there’s still the exhilaration of snowboarding in June.

With bright purple knees and a supply of energy drinks pitched out by advert vans lining the road, we prepared for our big night.  The Event.  With dedication to the theme of our costumes, we donned sombreros, ponchos (aka blankets put under the knife), maracas, and toasted with tequila and Corona.  We greeted our Kiwi buddies with “Hola!” and left them with a cheery “Adios!”  Then, along with a slew of intoxicated young mates, we boarded the shuttle to take us into town.  It began well enough until a guy at the front attempted to cheer the crowd by breaking open a neon glow stick and shaking its glittery goo onto costumed laps.  Suddenly, in slow motion, a comet approaches, enlarges, and lands in my eye.  Despite my initial panic that I had just lost my eyesight in the stupidest way ever, I was only cursed with a fierce burn for the rest of the ride and rested with my eyeball floating on top of a capful of water.

When we arrive at the little town of Ohakune, there is already a giant queue for buying tickets.  “Nah, we don’t need to get them in advance” I remember saying a few weeks ago.  That’s OK, people-watching has seldom been as entertaining:  pink and fluffy men from head to toe, “the old washed out” and the “new improved” Santas, Bananas in Pajamas, disturbingly-blue Smurfs, cows, sheep, and the tallest Coneheads I’ve ever seen (and saw from a kilometer away).  Mardi Gras floats hold nothing over this.  🙂  Sadly though, after over an hour of costume-gawking we are informed that, actually, the tickets are all gone.  We can’t go in.  Sigh.  Procrastination failed this time.

It wasn’t until we later returned to the Backpackers that we saw the lengths that others went to just to get in.  One guy arrived home with a bandage around his head, long-johns, and wooly socks.  His story told (with a blush and hangover) was that as they were jumping the fence into the festivities, he miscalculated the creek (dunk) and then smacked into a tree (thwack).  Made me feel pretty good about our consolation night of pool and dancing.

Overall,  I have to say that this weekend served well as cultural immersion, laughter therapy, and a glimpse into another world.  As I woke up in our little bunkroom-for-4 on Sunday, I realized that there was someone actually sleeping in the previously-empty bunk below me.  As an unidentified guy sheepishly crept out and gave the room a bewildered glance, I thought:  “Don’t worry kid, it’s just the stumble into Narnia.”

I won an auction for a coffee table on Trade Me.  When I went to pick it up I discovered it was actually less than half the size I envisioned from its zoomed-in photo.  While there though, the nice couple selling it asked if I needed anything else, like any of that dusty crap in their garage.  A desk lamp, sure.  And I notice a table, white with painted black letters all over it.  It looks artistic, like something only a creative person would sit at.  They attempt to show me how it has wings to expand the sides, but the wings crash down, unsupported.  “Fifteen dollars” for the broken table they decide, and into the rental van it goes with some grunting and heaving.

I guess it wasn’t until it was parked in my living room (too fat to make it into the back room where I’d intended) that I really started reading what was painted on it:

“The sky was filled with glowing babies each unique but oh! did they shine”

“We come to a time when we feel like it is just a gag.”

“Some people like to go out dancing and some dream of romantic cheese and frills often white in colour”

“We live for the beauty and godness of rock n’ roll knowing someday it will be thus which saves us.”

AND, my personal favorite:

“Fantasy is an illuminous place filled with clip-on earrings.”

What I first assessed as the creative work of a poet I’ve now determined was the 4am project of a mind-altered manic-depressive.  This isn’t poetry, it’s…a drug trip dripping down table legs.  Just a little disappointed, I turned the table so that “kill the bastards” faced the back wall and bought some spray paint a couple weeks later.

Well, 8 months later and the spray paint still sits on a shelf unused.  I’ve made friends with the table.  On its cork top, I’ve fashioned hideous pottery projects, beaded the same necklace 5 times, and industriously glued plastic beads and feathers to a masquerade ball mask.  Right now, one of the ugliest of the pottery projects sits on top, pink fuzzy flowers dieing inside.  The platter next to it holds my collection of beach loot to cover the large crack, and a little wooden moldable person (who was supposed to model for a yet-unillustrated children’s book) dances in between.  This is my corner.  The corner of artistic-endeavors-that-fall-short.  The place where ideas were illuminous but results were tacky as clip-on earrings.

It’s a good reminder though.  Between yoga and books and the people I’ve met, I start to believe that my understanding of people and world is expanding, that I’m learning something significant.  I sketch in pencil or tap on keys and think it means something.  Well, the person who painted “Others dream of reality; wild boars with fried tomatoes alike” must have thought that too.  Helps me realize that my thoughts and I, we’re an ongoing project.  A venture filled with cracked pots and tedious redos.  But despite that, the project is worth continuing indefinitely.

Side note:  The table has been such a conversation piece, that a friend and I are writing a song about it.  I imagine minor chords.  Although “tad sad fad rad rad cat, cat in the hat hat” might make a bouncy chorus.  🙂

Sheep.  It’s probably the first thing that people think of when they picture New Zealand.  Who hasn’t heard:  “New Zealand:  country of 4 million people and 40 million sheep!”  Even though it’s somewhat their claim to fame, I’ve found that most Kiwis are a bit embarrassed by sheep.  In fact, I’d even say that (gasp) they don’t even like them!  When a fellow American asked if I wanted to go to the Running of the Sheep, there was no hesitation.  Sheep-shearing, sheep-mustering–could there be a more classically Kiwi event?  (not to mention the goofy photo opportunities)   But, Kiwi’s mostly replied:  “Sheep are boring.”  “Sheep are dumb.”  If they only knew how mischievous they’d be this year….

The news report from online goes like this:

07:55pm | Te Kuiti’s “running of the sheep” held

Apr 4, 2009

One could have mistaken Te Kuiti for Pamplona for the annual “running of the sheep.”  About 1500 Romney Ewes were let loose down the south Waikato town’s main street. While the event didn’t quite have the drama of Spain’s “running of the bulls” there was nothing to go “baaa humbug” about.  With thousands of ewes and a party atmosphere, Te Kuiti was the place to be.  “It’s a good opportunity for the townspeople and outsiders to see a big mob of sheep,” says Fagan.

Altogether, 14,077 sheep ran the gauntlet at Te Kuiti.

Source: ONE News

Well, this may have been written by a reporter, but I’m certain that the reporter wasn’t in Te Kuiti.  In fact,  probably this article was written the night before. Because, if it had really been written after the event, it would have been titled: 

“The Year the Sheep Rebelled.”

We all lined up along the street—sheep costumes, kids, locals, and tourists alike–united in the anticipation of seeing thousands of sheep on the move.    “I see them!”  I finally shouted.  Far down the street beigy fluff filled the street from one side to the other.  We watched for them to get closer.  Waited.  “I think they’re farther away now.  Wait, now I can’t see them at all!”  Time passed.  No sheep.  Eventually a hum of a 4-wheeler and a small group of about 30 sheep are ushered frantically down the road.  Waiting.   Where are the rest of the sheep?  Again, a cluster of fluff, this time though I can see the chaos:  sheep jumping out the side, turning around in circles, huddling together, none wanting to lead the pack through the channel of sheep-voyeurs. A voice eventually apologizes on the loudspeaker, something like “sorry, but they’ve gotten away.”

“Gotten away”?  Bwaahaaahaa.  What great images THAT brings.  Can you imagine a gang of rebellious sheep, conspiring in their pens for the great Muster Breakaway!  And, when the moment comes—BAAAAAnzai and they are gone.  Scampering across the highway, maybe through the rickety fair rides, hopping into backs of unsuspecting trucks.  Seeking adventure.  Seeking freedom from their stifling stereotypes.  Tired of the strangling neck-holds while being stripped of their wool and dignity.  Sheep looking for a new horizon.

I like this new image of sheep.  I also think that if the reporters would have been more accurate, some Kiwis may have been proud knowing that their dumb mascots have more spunk than first suspected.

As we pulled out of town for the 1 ½ hour trip to Mount Maunganui on the East coast, my friend fired questions from her Needs and Wants Program, courtesy of her new life coach.  However, soon our other needs and wants kicked in—coffee, lighter conversation, directions—and the quiz went uncompleted until just a few minutes ago.  Now, having finished the tedious number-crunching to get pretty unsurprising results, I realize that this weekend was truly perfectly aligned with what I need and what I want.

Adventure/Seeking the Unknown—most of my friends know that even if they are usually excellent at directions, just being in my presence makes tossed salad of their skills.  My friend and I spent plenty of time searching…for Papamoa Beach where her friend lives, for the climbing rocks on “The Mount.”  But, as is usually the case, the search is part of the adventure.  While we circled The Mount, bags weighted with ropes and gear, we had an absolutely spectacular view of the ocean, of beaches and boats, of flax and toi toi plants, of birds and snorkelers.  And, after a steep goat-track scramble and someone who knew how to answer:  “Are there rocks we can climb around here?” we found our spot.

Discovery and learning—the names of plants, where those rocks to climb really are.  Discovering that a group of 3 women can be completely self-sufficient (no thanks to me) to set routes and ropes for an afternoon of climbing.  Discovering that the reason everyone who passes us has an American accent is that giant cruise ship napping in the harbor that expelled them.  Realizing that it doesn’t take much to feel completely satisfied, completely at peace.  That there’s never a loss of things to willingly research and study. Like the perfect shell found on the beach.

Beauty and Pleasure—silliness of cartwheels on the beach, sliding down banisters, birthday theme party planning, hot pools after exercise, orange cointreau sipped with chocolate cake, eaten at various stages of frozen.  A man and his son laze on elbows in the sand while seagulls enclose them in a little intimate ring.  Sheep comfortably graze on The Mount, overlooking cranes building highrises, cruiseships, and cafes.  There really is never a lack of things to be amazed or amused by.

Communication—conversations with my mama, plans for my parents’ trip to New Zealand, catch-up with a friend, emails to bridge 10,000 miles.  I’m willing to travel and live far away, but only knowing that technology can make it seem less so.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!!

Lucky stars above you,
Sunshine on your way,
Many friends to love you,
Joy in work and play-
Laughter to outweigh each care,

In your heart a song-
And gladness waiting everywhere
All your whole life long!
Irish Blessing

Lacking time and postage to send out wee little Valentine’s cards, I’ll make this a giant one.  Truthfully, Valentine’s Day isn’t something I give too much thought or energy to.  I’m a much bigger fan of the little spontaneous, creative shows of love that shrug at calendars.  But, after an extremely rare weekend “out on the town” with opportunities to observe the mating rituals of Kiwis, I felt inspired today to think more about LUHV.  [I can’t say “love” without hearing my sister mimic the Southern belles who pronounce it with 3 syllables.]

Both nights this weekend I watched bold women pinch asses on the dance floor (tourism should pay me for that comment too), smelled the clouds of perfume and cologne, and listened to my companions reminisce about love no longer and the search for love that lingers.  I did realize though that as a 35 year old who’s currently in relationship resuscitation, what’s in my head is only written in pencil, waiting with an eraser for more experience.   So, as I sat groggy and immobile today, I had fun browsing through quotes from those who apparently had enough experience or confidence to write in ink.   Some made me think of my parents.  Others of friends.   Relationship mistakes.  Relationship highlights.  The W questions of life.  A few are down below.

So, kisses blown and virtual chocolate shared, happy Valentine’s Day today but may love be a permanent pest.

CARTER HEYWARD:
We are not automatic lovers of self, others, world, or God. Love does not just happen. We are not love machines, puppets on the strings of a deity called “love.” Love is a choice — not simply, or necessarily, a rational choice, but rather a willingness to be present to others without pretense or guile. Love is a conversion to humanity — a willingness to participate with others in the healing of a broken world and broken lives. Love is the choice to experience life as a member of the human family, a partner in the dance of life, rather than as an alien in the world or as a deity above the world, aloof and apart from human flesh.

DENIS WAITLEY
Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace and gratitude.

ELIE WIESEL
The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.

HH THE DALAI LAMA
When we feel love and kindness towards others, it not only makes others feel loved and cared for, but it helps us also to develop inner happiness and peace. And there are ways in which we can consciously work to develop feelings of love and kindness…. What is important is that we each make a sincere effort to take our responsibility for each other and for the natural environment we live in seriously.

WOODY ALLEN
To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then is to suffer. But suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness. I hope you’re getting this down.

RUMI
Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.

WILLIAM SLOANE COFFIN, JR.  
Love measures our stature: the more we love, the bigger we are. There is no smaller package in all the world than that of a man all wrapped up in himself.

KATHARINE HEPBURN
Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.

I’d written a blog that said I wasn’t going to blog anymore.  My life is too normal, too put-out-the-trash everyday.  But, during the delay between write to release, I realized that it doesn’t have to do with having extraordinary tales.  It simply has to do with laziness.  I like feeling connected with the people I love on the other hemisphere.  For right now, that means being a cyber geek, even though I’d truthfully much prefer sitting over a mocha, a microbrew, a chocolate dessert to tell stories and get my greedy fix of theirs.  At least I know that if you are sick of Cindy Twisting and Typing Ceaselessly Around the Globe, you can click the X.  : )  I’m also secretly hoping that a tourist company will eventually give me money for plugging their attractions.  And then let me do more for free.  : ) 

Two days ago I hit one of the biggest tourist spots in New Zealand: the Waitomo Caves. Missed on my previous trips, a co-worker suggested it for our holiday weekend and gave me the job of reviewing the tour options.  As a poor listener who really couldn’t take another cave trip with droning facts about how many years of drip drip are behind the stalag-a-titey-miteys, I advocated for “The Black Abyss.” This is an “adventure tour” with a lot of impressive gear requirements–neoprene, webbing, little clicky gadgets, mental defense against phobias, and, of course, a chubby black innertube.  After a quick abseiling (aka rappelling) lesson while we sweated in wetsuits in a paddock, we lowered ourselves 37 metres through a narrow neck into the Ruakuri Cave.    A zoomy little zipline in the dark, and we were at the start of our path, a hill of innertubes waiting.  Wetsuits thick, but water colder, as we sat with our legs swinging over the water, I thought I might be crazy to do this and concede to blue lips for 3 hours.  But, true to Kiwi style, we were served hot coffee, tea, and biscuits on our perch and eventually gained gumption for leaping into the eel-inhabited water. 

What followed I will forever remember as one of the strangest, most entrancing traverses of my life.  Flapping slowly on our tubes, we floated under high, low, narrow, and wide cave walls dotted with thousands and thousands of little lights.  Glow worms.  Little magical maggots who cast out fine threads to catch their food then shit out a bright shine to attract attention.  Getting that graphic information didn’t spoil a bit how absolutely hypnotic it was to see them clustered around the cave in abstract constellations. 

I don’t really think I “snapped out of it” for the rest of the trip—even while staggering down the “Passageway of Drunkenness,” or climbing up the waterfalls to the cave’s exit.  I have so many mental “happy places” where I can dispatch my mind whenever needed that I could divide into different categories:  “so peaceful almost pulseless,” “stifle a snicker silly” “no place like home,” and beauty scenes of every brand and breed.  This memory definitely qualifies as a “happy place”–my bum poking into cold water while my eyes find dragons and ladies in tutus drawn in the lights.  It’s an image that may help me fall asleep faster, tune out long checkout lines, or maybe see pretty patterns in the stacks of charts on my desk.  OK, I’ll have to work on the last one.    

It is written on the arched sky; it looks out from every star. It is the poetry of Nature; it is that which uplifts the spirit within us.”  John Ruskin

Photos posted.

Whew, 2009!   I can count nearly as many reasons and people why this change should be celebrated.  Funny.  New Year’s is still just part of the roll tide of tick tocks, but somehow it seems that time briefly pauses, sucks in a deep breath, and then breathes out  magic dust.  Now, NOW, we have permission, ability and everything else needed to create new lives or new us (if so desired).  I guess we could do that with the end of each month.  Each day?  After finishing this last well-traveled Christmas cookie?  : )

I thoroughly enjoyed the simplicity of my holidays.  In St. Louis I listened to Elvis on repeat with my nephews (new enthusiasts), enacted “adventures” of LEGO Indiana Jones (including struggles with dishwashers and squirrels), and spoiled my taste buds silly.  In Minnesota I played Balderdash with kiwi slang, snuggled under fleece blankets, and enjoyed the truest winter in my summer break—sledding, hockey, and making snow-flamingos (angels are overdone, aren’t they?).   

I realized that I’ve spent most New Year’s out of the country:  dinner from a hotel mini bar when restaurants were closed in Spain, foam wars in Mexico, Bollywood tunes in India, ocean-jumping in Belize, and last year’s beach walk and champagne in New Zealand.  But, this year I sat in the comfy chair in my parents’ house, eating the world’s best popcorn (mama’s secret), watching New Yorkers cheer and kiss every hour on the hour, and listening to little booms and pops in our suburban neighborhood.  Thanks to the longevity of friendship and unsolvable discussions, I also got to celebrate the flip again 3 hours later, Alaska time via phone lines.  [Meanwhile in New Zealand, everyone had long been sleeping and eating off their hang-overs.]  Really, there’s absolutely nothing more I could have wanted. 

I guess there are plenty of reasons to be both excited and nervous entering this new year. New president, new world disasters; tipsy finances, promising tax returns. Everything I read lately seems to be speaking in unison: Don’t let yesterday (or tomorrow) use up too much of today. Enjoy what you have right now. Perfect. I think I will guiltlessly finish the rest of these Christmas cookies and send thanks to all the people that made my holidays so exactly what I needed. From my little corner of the Southern Hemisphere I send my own booms and pops:  HAPPY NEW YEAR!  May the magic dust reveal what you already know: 

“Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.  We are the change that we seek.”              BARACK OBAMA, speech, Feb. 5, 2008

It was about 80 degrees in Hamilton and my coworkers were wearing their little strappy tops and sassy shoes for the Christmas party.  I ran to snap quick photos of the OT Department’s “Kiwi Christmas” decorations that included Santa on a boogie board and a beach camp set up with vegemite sandwiches and perusing pukeko birds.  Then, I boarded a plane at 8:15pm; at 8:45pm I arrived in St. Louis, incredibly groggy after a “30 minute” flight that lasted longer than 2008. 

Around New Zealand, Santa surfed on lightpoles and a storefront window even boasted him being pulled in a tractor by a team of 8 magical flying sheep.  Co-workers talked about their plans:  Dressed in swim togs, sunnies and jandals, toting the chilly bin to the beach for a barbie.  I really tried to believe that New Zealand could host Christmas just as well as St. Louis.  I even joined our department’s “Christmas Decoration Committee” just to get in the spirit.  As it turned out, it was the most stressful committee I’ve been a part of and in exasperation I spent 3 days making giant-gingerbread-with-special-needs (cast, wheelchair, and a bite out of the ass).  Really though I think my holiday memories were more convincing than calendars and I decided:  Christmas just can’t exist if you’re wearing flip flops. 

That’s OK, because me and my suntan arrived in St. Louis last week in a shuddering 17 degrees.  We pulled up to our house decorated with white lights and little wooden candle scenes in the windows and I knew that “Christmas has now begun.”  And it had and it has and it is.  Cookies and drawing cartoons, soccer and scavenger hunts, wine and more wine, beading and big breakfasts– this is truly the life, and truly Christmas as I dream about it. 

Hope all of you are also rolling in those simple things that make the holidays stand apart from the rest of the year.  Let stress fall like sugar down the gullet, and people-time replace paperwork-time.  Cheers to you all!  

P.S.  Since I can’t seem to figure out how to get rid of the vast white above this entry, let’s just call it “special effects”–a blizzard to set the scene.  ; ) 

I dreamt that the assignment was to make a log seat out of a stump.  Not like a lounge chair or rocker, just a sitting stump.  I had apparently searched hard and found this really big, really heavy stump that had beautiful markings and colors on it.  I dragged it to the “meeting place” and was eyeballing it, imagining carving out a butt-shaped seat, trying to figure out how to make a backrest that wouldn’t have a hard edge on it.   Then I looked around.  Other people were sauntering in, effortlessly swinging paper bags.  When I looked inside one of the identical bags I saw something alarming:  a “log chair kit.”  Log chair kit?!?  Suddenly I looked at my gorgeous hunk of weighty wood and felt kind of silly. 

I spent the next day musing interpretation.  Hmmm, does this mean that I make things too complicated?  Have a bit of baggage that I’m too attached to?  Stubbornly opposed to “the norm?”    

Nah. I think it’s just about pottery class.

I signed up for pottery class when I decided that rowing intensively, daily, would get in the way of “pursuing other activities.”  Suddenly I needed to find an activity (other than sitting on the couch spooning Nutella out of the jar) and pottery class fit my creative need.  Hamilton’s not so big; I wasn’t worried about hopping on my bike to get me there and back. 

At least not at first.

The first class was great.  We made ugly “oil burners,” bought a heaving hunk of clay to transform into kindergarden art, and talked about all the Christmas presents we would burden loved ones with.  All was exciting and fun until I discovered something unexpected:  everything we make, everything we need, everything we’re working on…it all goes home at the end of the day.  What did this mean for me?  It meant trying to balance a crate on one hip, board balanced on top with a new damp pot, backpack painfully cutting tracks in my shoulders from the clay, trying to stop without crashing at intersections, awkwardly walking my bike across bridges.  The first day it took me 9 minutes to bike to class.  And 25 minutes to bike home.  By the third class, the return trip took me about 35 minutes with 3 near-death weaves into traffic and 3 nearly broken pots.  I arrived home shaken, sweating, as if I was carrying a baby bundled in that newspaper and dusty dishcloths that I almost spilled onto the road. 

Last night the added element of rain pushed me to find an alternative.  The bus.  This time, it took 20 minutes to get to class.  And 55 minutes to get home.  [Hopefully though I’ll find it unusual for the bus driver to stop, climb out, and smoke a cigarette.]  The glorious result:  I get to keep my “log” (even if “beautiful” isn’t a word to describe any of my knobby creations) AND the bus seat IS certainly more butt-conforming and back-supporting than my bike!  🙂  

      “Don’t pray for lighter burdens, but for stronger backs.”