An Empty Wallet

I've had a nothing day, exhausted kind of, but not, just in limbo. Feeling oddly drained. In deep meditation it came that it's because I'm broke, that money is a form of energy and that's why I'm listlessly floating through today. My daughter is away, thankfully. I'm out of dog food & coffee cream & fruit & vegetables, though there's canned dog food my mother gave me, and I've powdered milk that I can use, and multigrain bread and cheese and butter and eggs and sausages and mushrooms and onion and lamb souvlaki in the freezer, as well as rice and oats and raisons if I need more. The cheque from tutoring I did last month for an agency didn't arrive last Friday as it was meant to and that was to be my grocery money this week, and when I emailed Monday I was told the family I tutor for hadn't paid their bill. But this company takes half of what I make, they charge $40./hr, give me $20., and have made hundreds off me this year. You'd think they'd have some reserve to pay their tutors on time! Yes, I paid off over three grand in debts last week, and not a cent left over, but then I was getting a tutoring cheque... Friday there'll be more tax refund deposited, and I'm working next week, but sheesh. Where'd my energy go? Why does it always go when my wallet is empty? Even though I know it's just a temporary state, and really I'm fine, there's good food, I even have a little Merlot to sip later. The dog's happier with the canned stuff anyhow- she thinks it's a treat. And surely I can do without coffee cream for a day. But that's not what I'm learning here. Why can't I just not be affected by an empty wallet? I want to achieve a state of being where I completely trust that what is needed will come so I won't care when this happens and it won't affect my energy levels in any way.

As to why I don't have steady employment, that's somewhat of a mystery. My record with I don't know how many employment agencies is exemplary, if I am to believe the feedback I receive. Yet I don't get full time jobs. Or even permanent part-time ones. At this point, I think my employment situation is a result of my art. My newest tactic is not to look for work that will take me away from it so much as work to support it, and me and my kids, of course.

Believe it or not, this is a brand new way of thinking for me.

And I am resisting the little voice that says, oh call the bank, have a small overdraft put on your account for weeks like these...

Ah, defiance against 'the system' helps, I'm perking up, and also the chorizo and mushrooms are ready, maybe wrapped in a toasted multigrain crust with some chopped onion and mayonnaise and a little mustard...

Ecdysis

Ecdysis ("the shedding of an outer integument or layer of skin, as by insects, crustaceans, and snakes; molting"), a poem, technorati tag poem (mostly composed of lines edited out of the original version of the poem & spoofing technorati, just a little), and painting of mine published by qarrtsiluni in their short short current issue (100 words or less). Go check it out; submit a piece yourself if you haven't yet and feel so inclined.

Hope you're enjoying the bounty of the Summer!

If the direct link didn't work, copy & paste the url: http://ahappening.typepad.com/qarrtsiluni/2006/07/ecdysis.html

And the painting is actually an older one (perhaps *molting* is a theme in my life :grins:); the photograph taken of it with a prism's light shining on goes back a ways too. The photograph, which is the one I wanted, literally a needle in a hatstack of 200 boxes that we moved, fell out of a stack of papers in a box I was looking through on the weekend into my hand. I was able to submit it because my newly refound refurbished scanner worked (the second time, at first it just crackled and groaned)!

If you wish to, can I ask that you comment there? And I will respond to your comments, so do check back.

Rewoven Space

The attractiveness of non attachment. But when your attachments re-attach themselves, the philosophy needs revising. Shedding encumbrances sounds ideal, easy. Most of the rest of us have to fit things in; we're here to stay, and our collections come with us. No aphasic amnesia for the amassment of a lifetime. Back on the Wheel of Samsara, burdened with unopened boxes in spaces too small to encompass the return. My entire library crammed into a bedroom without the bookcases that wouldn't fit down the stairs. Accessible through a list of contents; but inaccessible. The abode that was found, that fit, the one for unencumbered living, too small for what fills it now. A burgeoning life, cast aside, that returns to take up where it left off. The hexagram of the return displaying its full force of bounty. A thesis to be finished, heirlooms of words, the library from which I referenced, homeschooled, taught, gifts to the future. Space must be rewoven for this amplitude, its largesse.

Debt-free and Dancing

A small celebration today. Not on the move, which I'll try to write about perhaps this weekend. But on being debt-free.

A goal since 2000 that I wished on, worked towards, danced at weekly Sweat Your Prayers™ with pain and wish for deliverance, was to be debt-free.

When I married my net worth was half a million; when I left the marriage 12 years later, I was a quarter of a million dollars in debt, largely due to my husband's spending habits (sports car, high speed boat, buying a cottage that had to have the most expensive finishing, paying off his visa year after year, itself largely composed of repair bills for the car and boat, and so on, I'm not saying it wasn't a fun ride but someone had to pay the toll). It was all rolled into a mortgage on my house, which he walked away from, not offering one cent on paying off that debt, a house I had originally owned outright. So I rented the basement, gave up my study/bedroom on the top floor and rented that, slept in my daughter's room, and continued on for 6 years, until I couldn't any more. My monthly payments were astronomical in comparison to my income. I sold my house, making almost no profit. With the money I bought computer equipment for my kids and I mostly, and financed a move to Vancouver and paid one year's rent on a house there.

After that year was up I had problems finding full time work, which I've blogged about, so accrued some debts, but tiny ones in comparison to where I'd been.

I'm happy to say that as of today I am free of debt to any institutions I owed money to. There are some debts to individuals and to family still, but the larger stuff is gone.

It's taken an extreme amount of effort to get to this point, now nine years after my marriage ended. But I've done it. I am proud of myself!

No, no money left over to go out and celebrate being debt-free to any institutions or companies. That's not the point. I'm doing an inner dance, and singing through today. The personal debts, the way I've been helped out, I now know will also get paid back. This is possible, today is living proof that it is. I gave up my credit card in the late 80s; my husband didn't. But then I gave him up. And slowly on almost no income I've managed to get back to a balance of 0, and now see that it's possible to again build equity. Maybe not all the way back to where I was before marrying, but somewhere.



Postscript: Cripes, yes I was debt-free after selling my beloved house, my home, but I was still basing my life on projections in the future - a year of writing, then a full-time job. It didn't materialize. I feel quite stabilized now in that I'm living in meagre surroundings but I can afford this. In the here and now. I'm not living 'on projections' (which I also did all through the married years). Is this called facing reality?

Whatever it is, it feels pretty darn good.

Postscript2: Do I regret marrying him? Look at my two children, just look at them. Well, this is the public internet and you can't. But if you could, you'd know that's not a relevant question.

No regrets. Only why was it at nearly the end of the marriage when I found out his family has a history of doing this to wives? His grandfather blew through his grandmother's fortune, philandering on her, even bringing his lovers into the house when she was there, and left her penniless, something his father grew up with with a lot of anger (he died just after we were married and was ill for some time before that, so I didn't hear the stories). And who knows of the generations before that. There was precedence. None of his wealthy family seemed to think what happened to me meant anything; I guess it was old hat to them. Now that's where I should have been more cognizant. I would have if it had been a history of violence towards women or children, obviously, but a history of financial abuse of wives? You'd hardly have thought it possible, given the patristic economic structure of past centuries... surely there's a story here of generations of a family.

What's happening...

Well, I had a post up momentarily, but took it down and submitted it to qarrtsiluni, where it may even show up if the editors decide to take a chance on it, or me.

Then I walked on this pressingly humid day down a long city block to buy fruit and vegetables in preparation for my children, who arrive in an hour by train. Having found all the nectarines I've purchased in the past few years to be crunchy like apples, I picked only one. After filling my cart with produce and paying, I began the trek up the street but stopped and took out the dark almost brownish red nectarine, rubbed it on my blue-hued sarong, thought never mind if it isn't washed, and bit into it.

Honeyed. Drippingly honied. Juicy and rich, the colour of the setting sun, massaging my tongue with ecstasies, covering my nose, cheeks, chin with a delicate layer of nectarine syrup that I wiped on my hands, and both arms, until I was a sticky, scented fruit flower for bees. Eating such a ripe and succulent nectarine was practically pornographic, well imbibing such a treat in public seemed like that. It was flagrantly sensuous and delicious.

When you thought you were going to have a nearly flavourless, crunchy thing, a rich medley of juices burst into your hot mouth. And then you just wanted to drop your cart and go back to the little Chinese grocer's and buy the whole bushel... you went on to the supermarket instead and bought milk and yogurt and bottled water for the move tomorrow. But you had your moment.

Tomorrow my two brothers and son and daughter and I are moving our household goods from an outer suburban storage unit to one nearby. In 35C humidity! Somehow 60 boxes of books and solid teak shelves to hold them have to come down into my subaltern abode, the basement apartment where my daughter and I currently live, and I know it's impossible and it has to be done. But, oh, how good it'll be to have access to my books again!

I'll be back in a few days...

*hugs xo

In the Studio We Paint Ourselves

I am at the door and they see me. Frightened I run up the white stairs, winding around. They are moving as a group in dark clothes across the tarmac, stark as knives in the glare of light. Their pleated black coats, heavy. My daughter flies up the stairs, "It's okay, they're here to visit, not to hurt you." Distrustful, I descend the stairs.

The foyer which is where I live has become a studio but is still a garage. Its gilded mirrors and high ceilings and brocaded ceiling and graceful wainscoting and trim seem as Renaissance as their Shakespearean coats. My paintings hang everywhere.

Where am I? This is no place that I've ever seen before. The hardwood floors gleam, light pours baroquely in through leaded glass windows. The mantle over the fireplace is magnificent white marble with Corinthian columns on either side. I can breathe in this elegant place.

A friend who emerges from the group waves her arm and shows me my space and shows me that I need not fear and leaves. I want to hover in her vision of me for it is not my own.

Another woman in black leather with blonde hair is standing astride a motorcycle at the opened garage door, so perfect for a studio, to have a door that unfolds on rollers and slides up, and I would like her to stay, to visit, to talk, but she roars off.

I wake to heavy fertile rain falling outside the window.

The Deeper Meditation

During the years I've been a single mother mostly full-time I've found that in the Summer, when I get a bit of a respite, I am always surprised at how I virtually collapse. I had things planned for this time alone. Then I realize that 'being up,' holding an emotional space steady, as well as earning money from different sources, and all the shopping, cleaning, feeding, structuring of a life all year takes its toll, and everything that was put off comes around. I worked one day this week. Last night, after spending 5 hours reformatting a Win98 laptop with a noxious virus that kept replicating as fast as I could delete enough space to run the utilities disc, I gave up on my planned projects and of trying to keep normal hours and am letting myself fall into whatever feels most natural. If that's going to bed at 2am and getting up at 5:30am and then sleeping from 11am to 12pm, okay. I eat very simply when I'm hungry (lots of fresh fruit and vegetables); go for long walks with Keesha, my dog, through the St. Clair ravine (yesterday I saw perhaps 3 people in there, one sun bather reading, two jogging women); read, and rest, and rest. I don't ruminate. I don't think. I just feel all the places where it hurts, all the things that bewilder me, and let heal. I have to be through this by Sunday...

The Deeper Meditation

I want
to lie here

and do
nothing
but heal.

I trace
the world
mnemonically,
move
through the scenes
of my life
like a sleepwalker.

Bandaging
rubbing cream
into old scars
massaging
peeling the layers
behind which I hide.

The rain
falls softly
as I lie prone.

Breathing deeply
the humid
healing air.