Finishing My Dreams

I think I dream every night. I believe everyone dreams, and if that’s true, well, certainly I’m included. I don’t always remember my dreams, though. On days when I wake up to an alarm, the jangling noise rousing me sends any other thoughts and images from my mind. When I wake up naturally, I often have a pretty good sense, in those first moments, of what was going through my mind while I slept. Unless it was intense, though, the memory generally fades quickly.

Sometimes my dreams are nightmarish and troubling, and I try to quickly shake off the sensation they leave me with. Other times they are joyful, or comforting. Then, I do my best to hold on to the feelings. Sometimes I write my dreams down, to try to later decipher deeper meaning from them. Mostly, though, what I remember of my nighttime thoughts is not anything that warrants consideration: just jumbled, random, and usually unfinished scenarios.

This morning, my first day off after what seemed – to my semi-retired self – like a long work week, I was determined to sleep as long as I wanted. No alarm, but also no immediate plans or projects to urge me out of bed. Just rest. I got up twice for “nature calls” through the night, once for me and once for my little dog. Both times I was able to get right back to sleep. Sandwiched between two dogs on my narrow bed, I was warm and comfortable.

I was vaguely aware of the morning’s arrival, but I didn’t wake up. Having already gotten more good rest than I’m accustomed to, though, I was sleeping very lightly. I was dreaming, but more conscious than usual of the pursuit going on in my mind. In fact, in my half-asleep state, I was deliberately navigating the action to a reasonable finish. When I finally woke up, I shook my head and thought how strange it was to control my dreams.

It reminded me of the complicated storylines I plotted out when playing make-believe as a child! I couldn’t, now, recount a single thing that took place in that dream. I know it was nothing of great importance. Just a simple collection of people and places all interacting in my brain and, thanks to my control of the activity, all behaving in a perfectly reasonable fashion. I was out of bed and brewing coffee by eight AM. With the entire day still ahead of me, I was well-rested and content. It was a very satisfying way to spend the morning!

Must We Talk About It?

I’ve had a few people reach out to find out how things went with my mainland medical appointment. The one I mentioned in my last post, titled “Limbo.” People that read my blog wondered if I’d ever made it across; I kind of left them hanging. Others, who didn’t read my post, but knew, because I’d had to take the day off work, that I had a scheduled appointment, wondered what the particulars were. We have a Medical Center here on Beaver Island. Why was I having to go to the mainland to see a doctor?

First of all, I never made it across that day, and had to reschedule the appointment. Since the appointment was for 10:30, in Petoskey, a half-hour drive from the airport, I had a very narrow window of opportunity. The doctor’s office could not get me in at a later time that day. So, when my nine o’clock flight was delayed, I could take a later flight only if it could get me to the other side by ten o’clock. I already knew that was not going to happen before I even hit “publish.” But, I’d already likened my experience to Limbo, so I just let it stand, as written.

That wasn’t fair. According to the teachings of my Catholic elementary school, Limbo – a place somewhere between heaven and hell, but a more positive environment than Purgatory – can go on for infinity. My own experience of waiting lasted less than an hour. I published my blog, rescheduled my appointment, and got on with my day. I didn’t think any more about it…until the questions started rolling in.

Similarly, when I asked for the day off work and cancelled my art class for that evening, the only explanation I gave was “a medical appointment on the mainland.” I wasn’t trying to hide anything. It didn’t occur to me that folks might wonder, and speculate, and worry. Until I started receiving an unusually large number of calls and messages, saying, “hope everything turned out okay,” Because, evidently, I’m a little dense, I responded only by telling them that I’d had to reschedule because I couldn’t get off the island in time.

I fielded a call this morning with questions about upcoming art classes, but again bringing up my trip to the mainland. Then, and I stress that it was brought up ever-so-kindly and, I’m sure, with the very best of intentions, the person told me that I had quite a big belly. Was I aware of it, and did I make doctor’s aware? Finally, it dawned on me that people were concerned, and wanted more information. Without the facts, theories were being tossed around. Which, unfortunately, brought my belly fat into the conversation.

I was raised to be polite and, because any conversation is a little difficult for me, I tend to just plod on. I explained that it was an appointment to see an eye doctor. No major illness. And yes, thank you, I know about my belly fat, and yes, I have brought it up to medical professionals. We ended the conversation in good humor. Then, as I thought about the likely conjecture leading up to that phone call, I fell apart.

Let me make clear, I am very aware of my belly fat. Also my mottled complexion, thinning hair, and wrinkles. I choose cosmetics, hair-styles and clothing to do my best to disguise these and a myriad of other flaws. And, because I cannot just hide away at home, I tell myself that I’m pretty successful at it. I guess not. So, I’m going to pull myself together and figure out how to continue leaving the house when I have to, with all of my defects on full display. Understand, though, that if it’s up to me, I’d like to go back to pretending that no one else notices all of my imperfections. I’d really rather not talk about it!

Limbo

I have an appointment this morning, in Petoskey, to see an eye doctor. Any off-island appointment takes quite a bit of planning. This one was no exception.

My vision has been going downhill for quite some time. I’ve seen an optometrist, who ruled out macular degeneration and glaucoma, and told me that, though I have the beginnings of cataracts, they are not yet at the point of requiring surgery. Though they were happy to sell me a new pair of glasses, my prescription has barely changed. I insisted that I cannot see as well as I should. I need a magnifying glass to read anything smaller than a billboard, and even then struggle to make out specific numbers and letters. At that point, the optometrist suggested that I see an ophthamologist, and I scheduled the appointment.

I’ve been waiting several months for this visit, as the doctor has been recovering from hip-replacement surgery. Her office doesn’t keep hours on my normal days off, so I had to take the day off work. I scheduled a flight, called my cousin to make sure I could use his mainland car, and called the woman who stores that vehicle, to arrange to have it at the airport when I arrived.

Though I always wake up early, worry about not getting up in time would keep me from good sleep, so I set the alarm clock. Even then, my morning was a bit of a rush. I got in the shower after only one cup of coffee, dried my hair and dressed quickly. The dogs, sensing that something unusual was going on, were constantly underfoot, in the way, and begging for attention.

Even at our small airport, and even without luggage, they ask that we arrive a half hour before the flight. I was ready on time, and prepared to go out the door when the telephone rang. The airport. Flights are on hold. This time of year, when the air temperature and the water temperature vary greatly, and there’s no ice cover on the big lake, fog is often the result. Sometimes that’s on our island, sometimes on the mainland. Sometimes both. Sometimes the fog burns off as the sun comes up; sometimes not.

I explained that my appointment was in Petoskey – a half-hour away once the plane lands – and my appointment not until 10:30. So, if conditions improved quickly, I’d still go. If that happened, they’d call. Meanwhile, I called the doctor’s office to explain the situation. Did they have any appointments later in the day? No. If I can’t make it at 10:30, we’ll have to reschedule for another day. Then, I spoke to the woman that takes care of our mainland vehicle; she’ll wait to hear from me.

And now I sit. Waiting. In my clean and pressed clothes. I don’t want to start anything because if the airport calls, I’ll be running out the door. I can’t do anything that might compromise my outfit, hair or makeup. The studio, of course, is out of the question; at the very least, it’s too far from the phone. No cleaning, no yard work, no starting a pot of soup. Not that I would be doing any of these things this early on any other morning, but it feels like depravation today. I can’t even get too close to the dogs, for fear of the fur it will leave on my clothes. This is Limbo!

Progress!

I’ve spent the better part of theI last three days in my studio, and I’m happy to report that I am finally seeing some progress. It’s not finished yet, but it is to a point where I can move freely through the space, access my materials, and find room to work. All of those things would have been impossible three weeks ago.

My studio is a small, unfinished room, and I’ve always treated it like a work space. To me, that means that works-in-progress can be left out, so that it’s easy to get back to them when I get a chance. So, my drafting table is generally cluttered with paint pots and collage materials; chairs are often in use as temporary easels; and any horizontal surfaces are fair game for anything I don’t want to put away. That “normal” state of disarray was far from the condition of that room lately!

It started, I think, with an organizing project in the other small upstairs room. I used my studio for over-flow items that I hadn’t decided what to do with. Then, several boxes of frames, on back-order since before my art show, finally arrived. Because I had no immediate use for them, I just shoved the unopened boxes into the studio. Teaching art classes at the Community Center, I would often pull papers and other supplies out of bins and drawers in my studio; when it came time to return them that night, tired, I often just stacked them wherever there was space. The result of all this was that it was almost impossible to even get into that room, let-alone actually use it as a space for art making!

This year, getting my studio clean and usable was at the top of my list of plans and intentions. I was determined! Still. it was an overwhelming undertaking. I didn’t know where to start. When a small room is filled to over-flowing, there is no space to shuffle things around to make a plan. I continued to show up for the task, but saw more frustration than progress. In between work, dog-walking, and other necessary pursuits I’ve been struggling with that upstairs room for two months!

The turning point came when I started the new flower bed outside my kitchen door. I needed large pieces of corrugated cardboard to mark the spot, and keep the grass and weeds from growing there. So, I sorted through a couple makeshift portfolios, consolidated the contents, and snagged the cardboard. Then, I unboxed the frames for more. Then, of course, I spent every spare moment for the next two weeks working outside, moving rocks to border the bed.

That might’ve been the end of all forward motion in the studio, except that the weather changed. The temperature dropped; the winds picked up; we even got some snow! Which makes any inside job much more desirable. So, it was back upstairs for me.

I started by shuffling things around in the storage space under the eaves on the south wall to make more room. That allowed me to add all of the frames to that area, along with the lithography stone, several intaglio plates, and scores of mat board and plexiglass that were already stored there.

Then, one by one, I went through the totes that take up the north wall, sorting and organizing the contents. I discarded anything that was no longer usable: glue that had stiffened; paints hardened in the tubes; and brushes encrusted with dried paint. As shameful as all that waste seemed, I withheld judgment. “Just do better from now on,” I told myself, and plodded on.

In clearing the drafting table and sweeping the floor, I filled a large trash bag. I shredded a mound of old drawings and prints, cleared two bookcases and carried them out to the shed, and put a chair in front of the window, for Stella to sit in when she joins me in the studio. I sanded the top of the drafting table, more to smooth out the lumps than to improve its appearance. Then, since I now have a studio space that I can work in, I actually spent time making art!

Technology…Ugh!

Late last night, or I guess, technically, it was very early this morning, I circled around my house and set all of the clocks one hour forward, in compliance with Daylight Saving Time. I have two little alarm clocks, one on the trunk beside my bed, the other on a ledge in the bathroom; they are perfectly straightforward, just the turn of a dial. The wall clock in the kitchen is easy, too, but I make a point of setting it about five minutes fast, to fool myself, and keep me on time for obligations. The clock on the stove gets set to that time, too. I’m pretty gullible, but also easily confused. Better that both kitchen clocks match. That was it, a job well done. Technology has advanced to the point that clocks on computers, cell phones and other devices set themselves. I appreciate that!

I have trouble when it comes to computer systems. I learn very slowly, and it does not come easy for me. When people understand computers well, and find them simple, they often give that knowledge out in such a flurry, I cannot grasp it. No matter how much I say, “Please explain it as if were four years old,” I hear, “Well you just do…” and what follows is this gibberish, that nonsense, this thing I’ve never heard of before, that devise that I have no idea what the hell it is, those push buttons that I can’t find, and on and on, at practically the speed of light. I’d had my first computer a month before I could use it, having been “briefed” by my daughter in a manner like that. Finally, my friend Susi came over. She is my age, and understood where I was at. “Go to Start,” she began. I wrote that down. “Then select this.” I wrote that down. At the end of the day, I had a page of very simple, understandable directions that I could use as my guide to turn on my computer, and to go to my Email account.

For a long time, that’s all that I did with the computer. I’d turn it on, go to my Email account, and wait for something to come in. Sometimes I’d call my daughters and encourage them to send me something. “I’m just sitting here waiting for mail,” I’d say. I’d write long, rambling responses, just as if I were writing a traditional letter, and formatted exactly the same way, too. I’ve gotten more accustomed to Email and text messaging over the years, but I still tend to be wordy. It’s a little discouraging to write a lengthy diatribe about one thing or another, only to receive a single letter, “k” – short, I guess for “okay” – in response.

I learned what I know about blogging from reading a book on the subject. I knew that that starting my own site was out of the question, so I looked into the three blogging platforms that were recommended, settled on WordPress, and never changed. I very haltingly became familiar with Facebook and, though it definitely has its flaws, I stick with it because I understand it. I joined LinkedIn, and I have an InstaGram account, but I usually just ignore both of them, as more trouble than they’re worth.

In this day and age, not being computer savvy looks a lot like stupidity. That’s simply because the technology comes so easily to those that grew up with computers, or who have spent much more time than I have learning the systems. I am not a stupid person. I am, however, extremely limited in my knowledge when it comes to modern technology. Like my land line telephone, which is there for my own convenience, not to make me a slave to whomever chooses to call at whatever inconvenient time, I believe computers are there to make lives easier. I use the technology daily in the ways that do that. And that’s enough. If it’s not as easy, and as thoughtless, as resetting my clocks, I have no patience for it!

Spring??

This is not yet spring. I know that. I’ve been fooled by mild weather, snow melt and sunshine many times before. I know there were at least a dozen times when Aunt Katie raised her eyebrows at my premature springtime labors and warned, “It’s way too early, Cindy!” I know first-hand of at least five or six times when we got a blizzard here on April Fool’s Day! So, I am not fooled; this is not spring.

Still, for two days in a row, I’ve been able to spend time outside without my winter coat. The sun has shone brightly here on Beaver Island, and – other than a few stubborn patches along the edges of fields and woods – the snow is almost gone. I have windows open to let in the fresh air. Right now, there’s a smell of ozone in the air, and it feels like we might have a thunderstorm coming.

I’ve gotten wiser about not being tricked by “false spring,” but I’m smart enough to not let these precious nice days go to waste. So. all progress in the studio has been put on hold. I have put off making soup. Housework can wait. There are things I can do outside!

It’s too early to work the ground. The ground is still too icy for digging post holes. It’s not time, yet, for pruning trees and shrubs. Planting is, of course, out of the question. Still. I can move forward on many springtime plans. In order to move the garden spot, I have to get rid of a twenty-four foot by four foot flower bed, bordered by rocks and filled with hundreds of daylilies. So, for eight hours yesterday, and another six hours today, I’ve been moving rocks!

This unseasonably warm weather makes anything that will keep me outside a pleasant activity. I started by laying down several layers of cardboard, to block out the space where my new flower bed will be. That will prevent the grass from growing in that spot. It also gives me specific boundaries, so I could take measurements, making sure I have walkways all around. It also helps me to picture how the new bed will fit into the existing landscape.

Then I started moving rocks. They are not so large that I can’t pick them up, but big and heavy enough that most have to be moved one at a time. First, I used them just to keep the cardboard in place. Then, when I’d gotten enough of them to be selective, I started creating the border. More rocks, then more time on hands and knees fitting them together.

It’s not the easiest job. It involves lots of bending, lifting, hauling, and crawling around on the damp ground. It would not be my favorite way to occupy my time…except right now. On days like these, when spring is in the air, and I know in my heart that it won’t last, I can’t think of a more pleasant way to spend my days!