Guide for Hire

When a friend came to town from Santa Fe, I got to be a tourist in this state I've lived in on and off for almost forty years.  This time around Heloise and I explored Denver proper.  I am a member of Lighthouse Writers Workshop; this was a must!  There were a few classes going on, but we were still able to self-tour this stately mansion that houses all things literary.  A lending library that now has Heloise's book!  Volumes from all the visiting faculty for sale.  Room after room of comfy chairs to plop and write.  We lunched on the shady porch that faced east - the correct direction for afternoon coolness.

Lighthouse is just a few steps from Colfax Ave., the longest street in America.  The section that spans barely east of downtown has always been entertaining.  Colfax houses the Sie Film Center, Twist and Shout Records and the Tattered Cover all in one little bump-in from the road.  The Tattered Cover Bookstore is big and juicy for readers and writers.  Heloise and I were both impressed by the sheer amount of periodicals!

Instead of heading into Cherry Creek, where parking is tight and traffic is heavy, I brought Heloise over to Natural Grocers for her healthy snack stock-up.  I love this store.  When I lived on Third and Jackson in the early eighties I could walk to one of their original locations from our little bungalow. I had moved to Denver from New York and I had not experienced a store that sold hummus and bulk food and fresh herbs.  I was more accustomed to the A&P and Waldbaum's.   When my now-ex and I visited my parents in the lower Hudson Valley in that era, the guy working in produce at Waldbaum's shocked my Denver boyfriend! This green grocer had a Marlboro hanging out of his lips while stocking apples and cucumbers.  The ash precariously hung over the display. Finally it fell into the bin adding a little organic matter to the offerings!

We ended our day at a hipster coffee shop.  So many tattoos and man-buns.  Everyone on a device, looking down.  The most interesting gals were the two beauties in the Alice in Wonderland type chairs.  They were smiling and talking to each other, and we had a nice chat with them on our way out.  I would have liked a decaf iced tea, but none was available.  Maybe that is my age, but I can't energize at four in the afternoon.

I took Heloise back to her Airbnb - a very chic new build in the "Healthcare District".  I'm sure this block was home to regal Victorians just a short time ago.  Denver is BIG these days.  Density rules.  Parking is sparse.  Streets that are two-way can be tough to navigate with cars flanking the curbs.  In all fairness Heloise's block wasn't too crowded - but I know to look out for those infamous street sweeping warnings!

The next day we toured The Molly Brown House.  This was a real treat.  Our guide was knowledgeable and engaging.  The furnishings were to period.  And Ms. Brown - who never went by Molly was an interesting and respectable woman.  As with most tours we exited at the gift shop, located in the former carriage house.  For once I was happy for a shopping opportunity.  I found a great button to wear during the election season, a raffle item to give away when I facilitate a workshop for The Poetry Society of Colorado next year... but best of all I found a fabulous vintage themed gift for my daughter's birthday in October.  Score for a gal who struggles with picking presents and shopping aimlessly...

Next up was the Denver Art Museum for a drop in (and free!) writing workshop with Lighthouse.  Both Heloise and I enjoy ekphrastic prompts and we both got a good write.  I am happy to be a member of the museum, a small way for me to support the arts in my community.

So that is all the good of being a tour guide in the Queen City of the Plains.  The negative?  I won't dwell.  I'll just say that traffic is abysmal.  I live only 12 miles south of downtown Denver, but it is at least a half hour drive.  Wah, wah. Add construction and congestion into the mix and anything goes.  I know my way around, so I can make a turn and re-navigate myself with or without the aid of GPS.  However I was foiled a few times when I smartly turned just to see another road crew on my escape route!  Wah, wah.  Done.

Here's what I want you to know.  Denver has a lot to offer for visitors.  If you come, I'll be your tour guide.  I love showing people the quirky places that make the Mile High City unique and fun.  I am also really good at finding a spot where we can people watch, or absorb nature and write.

Time to Write,

Jane

Passport Please

My middle daughter was on a month long sojourn...  My home county located just a couple of dozen miles north of New York City, Israel on a Birthright trip, back to New York for a few frantic, frenetic days with her cousin and the Grand Finale - down the shore for some well deserved rest and relaxation.

All of her travel got me to thinking about my own limited travel in the past decade or so.  I'd been invited to a couple of weddings in the past few years and declined attending because of my Rheumatoid Arthritis.  Being on a cramped plane, dragging a suitcase through security - well it all  seemed too daunting until I had my pain level under control.  I'd driven to California with one daughter and Phoenix with the other about five years back.  These trips were manageable because I could get out of the car to pop into a loo or stretch without being told by uniformed personnel I was endangering national security.

I have a passport but knew it's lifespan was approaching the expiration.  I know a lot of things, but I don't know if one needs to renew a passport before that date; if one has to start over if that date passes, how much passports cost now, what is the 'card' my sister has and raves about.  Details, details.  I went into my little strong box, the one where I keep the few important papers that are not in my storage locker for little items.  A/K/A my safe deposit box.  There is was - my passport.  Expiring on September Eleventh of 2018.  This year.  In about two months from the time I unearthed it.  Good timing!  I will go to the library, print any pertinent paperwork and send that puppy off to a governmental agency that will efficiently expedite my renewal.  (that is sarcasm for the uninitiated)

I remember I was futzing around the house, chatting on the phone with my friend Andrea who lives in Oregon.  I was putting old newspapers in the recycle bin, garbage in the can.  I was straightening up my endless stacks of paper products - books - newspapers -correspondence - dirty tissues.  I was determined to get off the phone, head to the gym, then to the library to return books and print off the forms.  It was a good day.  I was also on my way to my younger daughter's house to await the arrival of grandkid # 2.  So to say I was a bit distracted is probably true, but I'll never admit my laser focus was fuzzy!

I'm turning sixty the next time the calendar turns.  When that ball drops in Times Square, I'll begin my countdown to the next decade of my life.  That's 52 days to enjoy my last moments of being in my fifties.  2018 was my own little version of the so-called Golden Birthday.  When I turned 22 on the 22nd of February in the early 1980's I didn't even know such a celebration existed. I missed out on another Hallmark holiday, sigh.  In 2018 I was 59 years old, and I was born in 1959.  Ergo - my own rendition of the GB!  My brother who is math savvy probably knows a factoid or two about the probability of this, the formula that is beyond my comprehension, and would steal the magic of the moment.  So for me it is simple.  59/59!

But 60!  Lordy,Lordy that sound kind of big.  What should I do?  I could go to Shambala in Red Feather Lakes for a three night intro to Buddhism seminar.  I could go to Costa Rica on a Nia retreat.  I could pretty much not plan anything specific and see what presents itself to me.  No matter what, I knew one thing.  I might need my passport.  That little blue book that allows me to go abroad. The pint-size permission to travel to a port, get on a plane or boat.  What a minute - that's not true.  I am very allergic to boats.  I get seasick every time I venture onto one.  The idea of a river cruise through the Danube appeals to me except for the boat part.  Just like how much I like the fellowship of church, and wish they would just stop mentioning Jesus.

I return from my errands, ready to pack for a three week or so stay, get this passport thing in the mail, eat lunch.  I don't see the ageing navy visa on the counter where I left it.  No problem, I'll check my little strong box.  Not there either.  I know - it's in my underwear drawer because nothing says adventure like a pair of granny panties.  Nope.  I look and I look.  I look under a stack of books.  I check the space between couch and cushions.  I panic because I've taken out the trash and recycling and if you've seen that particular area of where I live you'd know I am not dumpster diving!

Breathe.  It'll show up.  Back in the early 80's I lost my wedding ring for about six months.  Then one day I saw it on my dresser, glistening around the atomizer of a perfume bottle, which also happened to be gold.  I know I can be spacey and I'm sure I know the difference between magazine inserts and my passport, so I am confident it is not in the trash, but where is it?

Let it go.  I have places to go and a daughter to see.  I'm now in the head space of "If my higher Power wants me to go on a trip it will appear."  Breathe - it will show up.  Somewhere.  Sometime. I decide to put it out of my mind and head out to see my kiddo.  Maybe a break from the full-on Law and Order-esque tossing of my apartment will be good.

After one week with my kid, we come back to my apartment to water plants and get a few things.  Without telling her I am really on the hunt for my passport we have a quick go-through of my living quarters and leave.  The whole time I am scanning, but no luck.  Damn!  Where is that thing.

The next few weeks are a whirlwind of birthing and babies and sleep deprivation and laundry and diapers.  I don't have time to dwell on my foolishness.  My passport lived for ten years in that box.  Happy and ready to serve me if needed.  I take it out one day to look at it and make some plans and it runs away.  Surely if I'm meant to go on a journey it will appear.

Yesterday I had the necessary documents to submit a rebate to the drug company that makes my RA medicine.  With insurance this one-per-month shot costs $570.00.  Thanks to the manufacturer's co-pay assistance program I am refunded almost all of that money.  While tearing up my room the day before yesterday I found the rebate form.  As if on cue to drive me crazy, it too has disappeared.  First look?  Yes, my underwear drawer.  Followed by a stack of mail, a look under some books on my dresser, under my computer.  Nada!

I am now worried I am experiencing deep memory loss.  Monday night I couldn't find the Hamsa earrings my daughter had just gifted me two days before.  Surely if she can provide them safe passage from Israel I can be entrusted not to lose them in 1100 square feet.  Those I did find; on my makeshift desk, under some random sheets of paper nonsense.  But now I'll be out five hundred bucks plus the ability to backpack through Europe with a handsome Swede...  oh wait a minute.  That's never going to happen.

The last item I need to grab before the gym is a pair of socks.  If I can't keep my mind healthy, I might as well give my body some loving.  Plus it will provide a mental break from my onset of dementia.  My mother used to call me Dizzy Lizzy.  Perhaps I have been in denial my entire life about my logical self.  Was I always a space cadet?  Maybe, though I no longer run around like a headless chicken.  I have learned that life has a way of taking care of itself - with or without my help.

Yes, you can guess the ending to this tale.  I opened up my sock drawer and there it was.  Not hidden under a pile of argyles, but peeking out from a few pairs of ankle length work out footwear.  Yes, I grabbed that blue book and kissed it and then I threw it on the dresser and proclaimed "Fucking Passport!!"

I rejoiced.  So much so that the teen at Walgreen's had to tell me to stop smirking while snapping my photo for my new passport.  So much so that I spelled the name of my town incorrectly on the form and had to print off a new one at the biblioteque.  Maybe I am getting a message about this, but I will not be stopped.  The photo is stapled.  The check is written.  The form is complete.  Without any thought of my mental abilities or other- worldly messages, I have every intention of dropping that little blue book in a big blue collection box today.  And hope for the best.

Time to Write,

Jane

PS - where is that rebate form?

Blockhead

I love arriving early to yoga class.  It allows me time to unroll my mat; noiselessly.  I am not a mat slapper.  I come to yoga class gently and endeavor to behave accordingly.  I quietly don my studio wraps*, find two blocks, put a strap close to my space.  I strategically place my water bottle so it is close enough to grab but hopefully not knock over.  I like to take my blanket, the Mexican serape my daughter, Andrea, bought me when she visited Phoenix, and fold it over a block.  Then I can sit a bit higher and allow my stiff hips to soften toward the earth.  With a cleansing breath, I close my eyes, place my hands in Gyana Mudra and begin to settle.

A few years ago a man starting coming to a Monday morning practice I attend.  He was a little older than me, and I sensed we could play Jewish Geography.  He introduced himself as Kenny.  I remember this because I grew up with a Kenny.  A Kenny whose mother could stretch his name into four or five syllables when calling him in for supper.  Keeeennnnyyy!  It is a good name that serves little boys, and I thought it odd a grown man would still answer to his childhood nickname.  So Kenny it was, until one day - months later - this guy told me his name is Ken.

Now I pride myself on having the ability to remember people by name.  When I was an event planner it served me well.  I could recall the name of just about anybody I'd previously met and when I saw them again, in a different context, I'd impress the hell out of them by calling them by name. So when Kenny told me he was Ken my first thought was this.  He's fucking with me.  Why is he fucking with me?  If he told me his name was Ken I'd never have gone through the mental gymnastics of thinking about my childhood friend.

Whenever I saw Kenny or Ken after that I'd use his preferred name, but there was always an uneasy niggling in me about his authenticity and motives.  I honor my intuition and decided that being cordial was in order, but maybe not too chatty.  I subsequently overheard him complimenting the instructor on how she looked in certain poses, and observed other behavior that I didn't care for.  But hey!  Yoga is judgement free, so I kept my negative thoughts to a minimum  - more in context to my own boundaries - for my safety and sanity.  And so it was.

Until yesterday.  As usual I arrived to yoga early.  I unrolled my mat and set myself up for a few peaceful moments before movement.  I needed a bit of destressing and was grateful to settle in this space at this time. I'm sitting very quietly, eyes closed.  My mind had been racing about babies and daughters and bank accounts and politics and traffic and finding a new place to live...  and somehow this just being in the studio allowed all of that to fall away.  I was focused on my breath.

My reverie was rattled when a felt a bump on my right hip.  I opened my eyes and turned my head enough to see Ken about a mat and a half away from mine smiling.  Kenny had thrown a yoga block directly at me, and landed this brick of spongy foam at my right thigh.  I turned to this man/boy and said "That wasn't nice" to which he replied "It was a love tap" .

When I was a little girl my mom used to excuse my classmates, the schoolboys, behavior by telling me things like a boy teases me because he likes me.  Or he wasn't really pushing me, it was a love tap.   Fortunately these myths hold no sway with me anymore.  When my husband constantly berated me, it wasn't because he loved me.  It was because he was verbally abusive and one day I decided I'd had enough.  So the term love tap rankled me.  Lucky for me I was in yoga, so in the most Zen way possible I simply turned my gaze back to the front of the room and decided ignoring Ken would be the most mature response.

"Can you throw the block back to me?"  Seriously?  I'm not really into tossing yoga equipment around the room.  Plus I don't want to engage or acknowledge the infantile interaction I am being goaded into.  I reply "If you want your block, you can come and get it"  I return to my easy pose and then it begins.  A monkey is running around in my mind.  Why did this happen?  Is Ken going to confront me after yoga and ask why I wouldn't toss his block back?  My gut tells me he won't apologize.  Is it white male privilege in action?  Does Mr. Kenny think he can say and do whatever he wants and brush it up to playful language?  Shit!  I am in yoga.  I was minding my own business and now I am all spun up.  A few deep breaths with my eyes closed brings me back to a semblance of sanity.

I can hear people snapping their mats close to me and setting up for their practices.  I can hear female voices around me and I know when I open my eyes at Gwen's cue there will be others in my vicinity.  "Can one of you girls hand me that block"  Ken is chattering again about that damn block.  In unison I hear two women reply "That's her block.  It's on her mat"  Kenny chortles "No, it's my block I threw it at her".  Am I invisible?  I am being spoken about as if I can't hear the conversation.  This is surreal.  All I did was come to class early, set up my space and sit quietly.  Now I am the center of discussion regarding foam appurtenances.  

"Why would you throw a block at her?"  asks one of my fellow female yogis.  No reply.  Kenny the discus champion is finally silenced - just when I am anxious to hear his reasoning. The wheel is my head resumes spinning.  Yes, Kenny - WHY?  And do you three people realize I am sitting within inches of all of you.  And yes, my eyes are closed and a bemused smile wants to erupt, but my ears are still quite functional and I am hearing every word uttered...

Somehow I manage to have a good, if not mentally quiet practice.  Gwen is a challenging teacher who always recites a sage quote to inspire.  She repeats it twice at the beginning and again a time or two during the practice.  The day's quote is surprisingly credited to Bruce Lee:

This is my mantra for the practice.  I am not a stiff tree, a mighty oak or stately elm.  I am willowy, soft.  Flexible.  Able to withstand the wind or a bloviate.  A Chinook or a schoolboy parading in a man's physique.    Like the bamboo I am strongest at my base, my root chakra.  This won't shake me or shape my day.  My limbs are airy and my head is light.  I will withstand the challenges like a tree.  With grace and gratitude.

Time to Write,

Jane

*Studio Wraps

Like Riding a Bicycle

Two days shy of one month since I last posted a blog.  I've got a couple of half written drivel in drafts, and have managed to write a few pages worth in a prompt book I bought on Colfax, but the end of July has been a dry spell for me.

Not that my mind hasn't been churning.  Sarcasm abounds in the confines of my own head.  Smart retorts and clever beginnings are in there somewhere.  Just not enough time to sit and cohesively string them together into a legible piece.  (though that doesn't seem to stop 45, does it?)  What is it that has kept me from my morning pages, my weekly or so blog and full throttled attempts at poetry?

Well, a baby of course! The week or so before I went to stay with my daughter and help her prepare for the birth of her daughter, I was a busy gal.  Last minute toiletries - for mom and bebe!  Making sure there is enough food and coffee in the house (me!) for our return from the hospital.  A mother daughter (that's me and Natalina) bonding craft at a local pottery place the day before she was admitted.

Then the long process of labor and the short work of pushing and then voila!  A new human being has joined the earth.  What happens next is a blur.  Mom and J'ma both bleary-eyed and functioning about two levels above zombie.  Taking turns holding this little package of pink so we can try to catch some shut-eye.  Trying very hard to instill the age-old adage of sleep when baby sleeps.  Or at least rest.  Or at least try.  Or at least don't be vacuuming (not me) or doing laundry (yes, me).

My daughter is a single mom, and though I want to run roughshod on the process, I am holding back.  Natalina is a natural at nursing - she also has good motherly instincts.  It is the little things that come with time, like going backwards off the curb with the stroller, that I can impart.  My daughter doesn't need me to teach her to be a mom.  I've had my turn at that.  Deciding bedtimes, instilling consequences, picking pre-schools, choosing when to return to work.  I remember listening to my mom and making up my own mind about the nuances of mothering.  In that respectful remembrance, I am choosing to take a back seat.  At least I am trying and if my daughter looks at me and says enough - then enough.

I don't want to be the baby's caregiver.  I am finally at a point in my life where I like all my free time.  Time for the gym, time for Al Anon meetings.  Time to write!  And finish a piece.  And time to think and think and think.  What some might call nothingness, but what I know for me is a rejuvenation of my spirit and idea box.

Even if I wanted a new full-time job, my health and happiness would undoubtedly suffer.  Rheumatoid Arthritis is very energy sapping.  I can't foresee me in the long run being able to run after a toddler and exercise and write and not be dead by the end of the day.

I came home for a couple of nights to refresh myself.  Go to the 'Y' where everybody knows my name.  It is where I find community and commitment.  I also indulged in a pedicure, because why not?  And I needed one.  A little pampering goes a long way to making me feel better.  And I do feel better after a night in my own bed, OK - air mattress - but MY air mattress!

Another bonus to leaving one daughter yesterday was the pleasure of picking up my other daughter at Denver International Airport.  I hadn't seen this beautiful quarter centurion for almost a month!  Way too long for this mamma.  Her whirlwind adventure of bopping around the county of my youth, then off to Israel with Birthright, then back to NYC and the grand finale of rest and relaxation down the shore was regaled to me in the car and over dinner.  The stories and photos were great and I also reaffirmed my dislike for Mexican food, but that is another blog for another day.

Right now, I am yawning over my keyboard.  I know my younger daughter is probably tired too, having had her first night alone with baby.  My other daughter seems pretty refreshed, but also proclaimed the joys of sleeping in one's own bed!  Tomorrow I return to my newest grandbaby for just a night or two.  Next week is mine.  Mine to return to my spiritual practice.  To write a gaggle of words and sentences and paragraphs and maybe even a stanza or two.  To try to slide into a Pilate Reformer class, or dance Nia with my tribe of beautiful women.  To attend the Poetry Society of Colorado meeting and see if I won a contest!  There's always hope, right?

I confess to you my reader, and to myself; I am happy to have tapped these words out.  I am happy to proofread them and press publish.  Is it my greatest body of work?  No.  But I am back on the bike and the breeze is in my face and I feel wonderful.

Time to Write,

Jane