Thanksgiving, Three A.M.

May I declare, my friends, that it is totally disconcerting to have rats in one’s ceiling!? Imagine it. You’ve clomped regrettably downstairs after being awakened by your own teeth grinding at three in the morning. You and your aching jaw settle into the sofa in a house filled with a saintly sort of quiet and then it starts – the nightmarish sound of clawed rodent feet doing God knows what right over your head – break dancing? Seriously, people! This is an extremely active rat posse, scampering their ugly turd-shaped bodies from one end of the fifteen-foot ceiling to other. I picture them spinning on their greasy, furry backs, performing the windmill on their grotesque and plump tails, coffee grinding and all the rest... they’ve got it going on up there. I am almost envious of what seems to be a nonstop party in our ceiling. Yes, the rat hood has been at large for over a month now. Chad has attacked the problem with an impressive storehouse of ingenuity: sticky traps, holes drilled in the ceiling with rat poison, and good old fashioned slap traps smeared with peanut butter. But the rats are still with us...and other bum things -- like tonight when I was brushing my teeth before bed, a pipe under the bathroom sink sprung a leak, and suddenly I found myself wading in toothpaste water. And...the baby has the dreaded Croupe, so we had to call and cancel our Thanksgiving plans. Guess we'll be mashing our own potatoes this year.

All the same, I find myself down here on the sofa feeling rather thankful-ish. True, it’s officially Thanksgiving now, though the rest of the town doesn’t know it yet (it being still pitch black). And true: I am down here making the best of it all, nursing a glass of organic wine and nibbling (yes, like a rat) on a Sharffenberger Nibby bar (no, my friends, I am not cheating on The Lumpy Bumpy Bar – I appreciate the concern, but chocolate and I have an open relationship). What really gave me the thankful bug, though, was what I saw when I turned on the television to drown out the noises of the crazy legs posse. Truthfully, I was actually just getting ready to throw a mini pity party about being up at three with an aching head and all when I turned on the TV. Instead, I found myself captivated by a World War II documentary, called “The Colour of War.” Suddenly I found myself a witness to starvation, towns on fire, prison camps, and families torn asunder. The history channel really foiled my plans for a proper pity party! Tell me: how do you feel sorry for yourself over a rat in the ceiling and a case of insomnia when you see these emaciated, hollowed out, pale little Polish children dying in the streets; when you are listening to a narrator read letters German fathers have written from the war field to their children at Christmas time? I picture James, Charlie or Henry lying in a gutter like that, or having a father at war and suddenly, it’s all I need to feel grateful for the moment.

Here’s the thing: it’s not just history making me feel grateful; it’s that other versions of this documentary are taking place in the world, right now, as I crunch the divine cocoa nibs in my Nibby bar. There is war torn ugliness and the unimaginable suffering of children and adults alike right here on this very globe we all share. I feel both disturbed and grateful all at once: disturbed at the reality of a suffering so great I don’t know how to even imagine it; and grateful for safety: that the people I love are all snug in their beds right now, and I am here safe and sound in my woolly blankets on the sofa, awake or not, with nothing to fear but a pack of punk little rats.

So, it’s quite easy, really, to name all the good things in my life – the things that make me feel all thankful-ish inside. Beyond clean water, food, safety, shelter and love, which are not to be taken for granted, I leave you now with a stream-of-consciousness-four-in-the-morning-list of extra good things I am thankful for: chocolate (shocking, I know), the vegetable garden, the sound of my children giggling, Vicodin, my laundry-folding husband, Pandora radio plus music, in general, Wilson (my acupressurist), Point Reyes seashore, oysters on the half shell, Aleve, lime flavored sparkling water, Yosemite in the winter time, Chad's sense of humor, my college years, endorphins, the ability to walk, poetry, books, libraries, hiking trails, Eatwell Farm, Rachel Gomez’s parties, art projects, being alive, friends who laugh with me, wine, friends who cry with me, Anne Lamott, food, Charlie hugs, my kids’ friends, fall leaves, photography, coffee houses, writing, our house, Chabot Elementary School, Mochas, the joy of cooking, Holy Cross Community, the city of Berkeley, our Boy Scout Troop, Chad’s job, Julia Childs, hot lavender baths, photography, the granola-loving folk who keep me in business, and last but never least: the people who love me: my Chad, my boys, my parents, my big old extended family, my friends, and finally – YOU: the people who read my words and make me feel that they matter! AND NOW: I want to hear your thankful lists! Off the top of your head, go! Hit the comments button and share! And happy Thanksgiving!

Wintry Light and Wonder IV

Winter Light and Wonder IV, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Wintry Light and Wonder III

Winter Light Wnder III, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Wintery Light and Wonder II

Winter Light Wonder II , originally uploaded by shanalope.

Winter Light and Wonder I

Winter Light Wonder I, originally uploaded by shanalope.

Disco Mama

Okay, so despite the new, (and regrettably)

feather-able hair, I decided to go with this

awesome afro wig. I rocked the disco and

the disco rocked me.

The Blahs

Some days, everything just feels all wrong – doesn’t it? Nothing goes well. Nothing seems right. You wake up with an agonizing crick in your neck, and can’t turn your head to the left without howling. You schlep around in your slippers all heavy-like. And emptying the dishwasher, you break a glass (probably because you were moving all robotic-like, trying to keep your neck straight) – then you cut yourself cleaning it up. Minor cut, but still! After breakfast, you discover a zillion hole-punches in the carpet – infuriatingly tiny circles everywhere you look and you keep gathering them up and they just keep showing up – because they’re white and the carpet’s white, too.

On these days, folding laundry makes you weepy; but putting it away has you outright sobbing. And so does accidentally shrinking your nicest shirt – the kind of shirt you save for Bunco Night. And you can’t pack a lunch to save your life; it’s all muddy up there in your brain. And the new light in the bathroom makes you look all orange and blotchy, (just what you need on a morning like this) and like you have a bizarre skin disease – and well, you do: a totally uncalled for case of adult acne. How unfair is adult acne!? I mean, seriously?! Like acne didn’t torture us enough in our delicate teen years? Apparently, the initial attack in your youth wasn’t satisfying enough for the bloodthirsty hormones; no, they have to launch a surprise attack in your mid-thirties, when your hair is turning gray and wiry by the second, and you have those saggy, hot dog boobs (your reward for nursing three babies); and let’s not forget the stretch-marked, jelly tummy (your other reward). And…you seem to be growing a beard, to boot.

Then there’s the hair. Oh Good Lord! Can nobody look at my hair today? Please?! Not only does it seem to be falling out, (people are always picking it off of my sweaters and such) but I can’t style it to save my life. So this morning, I got out the orange sewing scissors and chopped away at it, in a pathetic attempt to make it look like the sassy J.Crew model in my catalog (you do impulsive stuff like this when you’ve been taken captive by hormones). And now it appears I’ve given myself feathers…you know, as in Charlie’s Angels? What really gets my goat is I tried so hard for feathered hair like this in the sixth grade and could never achieve it. And now, here it is, totally unsolicited! All I can say for that is: thank the kind Lord I was invited to a Disco party this weekend.

Have I mentioned the mood? Oh Sweet Mary, Mother of God – the mood! The mood is all blah blah blah, and poor-me-like. My friend, Beth, calls this condition “the blahs.” I definitely have the blahs. Really – you’d think there’s been a death or at least a robbery or a broken washing machine or something over here. Nope. Just a cruel mood launching a cockamamie campaign in my brain – against everything sane, stable and true – kind of like The Glenn Beck Program (sorry, Dad). And the wingnut little hormones driving the campaign like to whisper lies in my ear – lies like I have no friends; like I have been forgotten; and like my lunch-packing skills have permanently abandoned me – as have, apparently, my laundry skills. Lies like I make a terrible housekeeper (which is only a teensy bit true). When Chad hears me reciting the lies list, he likes to say: “Wait, you forgot: you’re a horrible mother and you have six chins.” (He knows the list all too well). “Thanks, Honey,” I say, and I sincerely mean it, because Chad’s witty act of finishing my list actually serves to expose the classic absurdity of the mood for what it is: nothing more than a one-sided, irrational rant, like a radio personality with insanely low accuracy ratings, trying to brainwash me, and recruit me to the crazy side. And Lord help me, but sometimes it works; sometimes the blahs win.

Don’t you hate it when you have a case of the blahs and someone you know, who’s all rainbows and sunshine and waterfalls, someone who seems to always have her ducks (and moods) in a row says stupid stuff like, “Aw, cheer up! Life is good,” or “It’s okay, it’s not so bad,” (to which I want to say, “Oh but it is…you see, my children have no lunch) or my least favorite, “Gotta look for that silver lining!” Please! These determined moods have no sliver lining! The blahs is not the time for carpe diem, my friends! (And if you read my last post, you know I really do believe in seizing the day…. just not this one). No, the blahs are the blahs….they’re like a big, loathsome, greedy, insatiable entity all of their own, say like – Java the Hut. When I get the blahs, I like to invite them in a bit, the way a yogi does with distracting thoughts during meditation. People who meditate (let’s just call them what they are – saints) say that when unwelcome thoughts interrupt their pursuit of mindfulness, that if they let the thought come, and acknowledge it, rather than fight of off, it will leave on its own. Coming at these moods like a Samurai warrior has never really served me, anyway. And swung at them I have – with the sword of self-determination. But it never works: I seem to get sliced into smaller bits of myself that I can’t piece back together again.

So…when the blahs come knocking, I let them in, because I know eventually they will pass on. I crack open the door and give them a head nod, as if to say, Go on, take a seat, I’ll get the music. I like to play them sappy, drippy, dark night of the soul kind of music – like Bruce Springsteen (Ghost of Tom Joad in particular) or Damien Rice or Dido. I like to drink extra tea and read T.S. Eliot. I like to light smelly candles and climb under woolly blankies. Or, if it’s a really bad case of the blahs, I like to up my carbon footprint by buckling up the baby and heading twelve minutes across town to the drive through Caffino, for a very special double Mocha, handed mercifully to me, directly through my car window. It’s a small miracle, really, that a woman (especially one with a monkey of a nineteen month old) can obtain a Mocha in this manner. Or, there’s my other favorite trick: stopping into Trader Joe’s for a Lumpy Bumpy bar. Wait: don’t tell me you haven’t heard about Lumpy Bumpies! Seriously? Well, just imagine a glorified Snickers bar, (only smaller, unfortunately) packed in its own pretty, bright orange box, sold for way too much money a pop. And take it from Ms. Blahs here, Lumpy Bumpies do satisfy.

Sometimes, though, in these moods, I go for the free antidotes: I slump down on the couch next to Chad and say, with as much gravity as I can muster, Poor, Poor Shanny, and I shake my head back and forth all slow and dramatic like. Chad laughs hysterically when I do this – and wraps me up in his arms, and calls me his Shanalope. He strokes my knee, and other things. I think this is my favorite of the antidotes – my sane, rational, amusing husband, who grounds me and soothes me like an NPR segment.

I will say it’s nice and cloudy today.* I like it when these kinds of days are overcast because, otherwise, the sun feels positively taunting and rude on a day like this; it feels like, “Ha, ha! The universe is bright and happy and you – what’s wrong with you – why you all pouty?” Okay, so I found a little silver lining. Big deal.

*For the record, I started this piece on Tuesday, which was perfectly overcast.

Web Design

Flower Power

Feast of All Souls

Today, on the Feast of All Souls, I light candles

for each of our dead relatives and prop their photographs against the towering votives. Their faces look back at me: Nonna Maria, with braids pinned to the top of her head, holding a fat hen at each hip; sweet, skinny Granny Anderson, all poised in a pink, silky blouse with her lips pressed purposefully together; my dear and precious Grams, in her royal blue button earrings and that gorgeous head of white, fluffy curls. As I study the dead, I give particular attention to thoughts of my own mortality. That we have only one life, of undesignated length, is really not that morbid a thing to consider; it’s just true. It’s not that I ponder on how I will die, or even when; but rather I am compelled to give great consideration to the way I'm living now. I ask the question: am I living the kind of life I will be happy to look back on later? Suppose there really are (as a dear friend of mine once suggested) videotapes of our lives, archived for our viewing pleasure in the afterlife. Will I be reclined in one of God's armchairs, watching my life roll across the screen with a feeling of satisfaction? Will I be screaming things at myself on the screen, the way you yell at an actor when they’re about to do something really stupid? Will there be spans of my life that I will wish I could go back and redo? Scenes I’ll want to rewind? Or fast forward? Which ones will they be? Which choices and habits will I be kicking myself over? Which opportunities will I be sorry I did not take? Will I be left with the feeling that I made a contribution of lasting value?

It’s not completely fair, of course, to ask such questions, with hindsight often being 20/20. And I get that we are often doing the best we can with the knowledge we have. I also know, that no matter how hard we try – no matter how many hours of yoga we do, how many times a day we pray, how many vegetables we consume, how many nature hikes we take or roses we smell, no matter how many kisses we give – that there will be some tapes we'll want to turn off, and some we'll enjoy watching. Because life is like that; it's a mixed bag. And we human beings are mixed bags, too. Nonetheless, I am inspired to add to my bag any prized wisdom, any valuable lesson, any fruitful experience, any sage advice or any good habit, that will ensure a more meaningful, a more purpose-filled, a more thoroughly good and useful life.

Some believe we are reincarnated – that once we die, we can come back to earth again -- as say, a cat. And how sweet that would be: the chance to be a mostly napping, sometimes nibbling, often rolling onto one’s back in the hot sun, only to sleep some more, kind of creature. Sign me up! But I am not inclined to believe that way. While I am always willing to be surprised and resurface with a set of whiskers, for now I am going to assume that I get this one, blessed, limited-time offer to live for real.

I also know some folks who are super focused on the afterlife, like it’s where all the real living takes place. My grandma has always referred to the glory days in Heaven -- like we’re all gonna be square dancing and eating ice cream floats, and ice skating across streets of gold. And maybe we are. I don’t know. Nobody knows. But the eternity of later, the unknown eternity of later, for me, is not enough to void out the significance of the present moment. I don’t know what happens after. I only know what is happening now.

I watch with wonder the flickering flame of each candle poised in a line across the buffet, the wicks dancing for only their allotted time, and not a moment longer. They do not know how long they will be burning or when they will be extinguished. I don’t know if my life will be cut short, like the life of my friend's dad, who tragically died of a brain tumor last week;* or if it will linger sweetly on and on, like my great grandmother who lived to be 104. Therefore, not knowing, I must proceed with my life -- with every living, flowing, breathing, beating, pounding, pumping ounce of me. In the words of Mary Oliver: Tell me, what will you do with your one wild and precious life?**

*This piece was written in memory of Dick Gabel, who just recently died of a brain tumor

**This quote comes from my favorite Mary Oliver poem, The Summer Day