Two Jobs, Two Weeks

I used to pity people who worked two jobs. One job in the morning and another at night and/or the weekend. Now I'm one of those people. And I no longer pity them. I'm actually happy to have joined their ranks. Proving my theory that things often seem worse in the abstract than in fact.

Okay, I've only been at this for two weeks so I can't really compare with those that do it year after year. But so far I feel refreshed and invigorated and grateful. I love the feeling of solid work. So little time for luxurious frolic or idleness that the littlest taste of a night at the theater or dinner with friends feels like sheer joy.

I don't need to work two jobs. One is more than adequate to pay the bills. But when an inspired whim led me to the doorstep of Huru International, an NGO doing work in Kenya, I couldn't pass up the opportunity. My evenings were already committed at Circle in the Square so when Lorna said, "Can you start Monday?," replying in the affirmative meant I was signing on for 12 and 13 hour days. This was not what I had in mind when I left the law office with dreams of part-time dancing in my head.

To my utter surprise, I don't want it to stop. I'm loving the day job. It's intense and focused and demanding. All the things I love in a job. And I don't want to give up the theater. It's refreshing and relaxed and responsibility-lite. All the things I'm embracing about this phase of my mid-life choices. So when the announcement of the closing of The Miracle Worker hit the papers, I sighed and thought, "It's probably for the best. I could use a break." Then two days later I was offered regular work at La Cage Aux Folles and snapped up the opportunity.

"What's up with me?" I wondered, "What happened to my desire for a simple, responsibility-free life?"  But now I see. I don't mind the responsibility as long as I have some control over my time. Both jobs have been informed that I'll be out of town for three weeks in May. And it's fine. And when I announce that I'll be away for two weeks in July, that'll be fine, too. I have the freedom to pick and choose when I'm there, and when I'm not. If my projects are caught up at Huru and I'm not needed for a few weeks, I'll gladly sit it out. If there's no work at the theater, I'll still have money to eat. I'm not stressed. It's all manageable. I'm in control of my time.

I've finally found the life I'm looking for. Work within walking distance. Honest work for honest pay. No strings attached. No long-term commitments. A day at a time. What you see is what you get. Life as cliche.

Hemming

I just bought new pants. Unless I buy capri pants, hemming is required before I can actually wear new pants. This step makes me wonder if I'm too fat or too short. Probably both, I conclude. Nevertheless, unless I'm feeling flush and want to pay a seamstress, the desire (or need) to put them on requires I get out my thick plastic bag of miscellaneous sewing items, including all the extra buttons I dutifully save but never intend to replace. Black thread, needle and maybe a few pins are all I ever use.

I'm actually pretty good at a hem stitch. It's one of the few I know and the only one I employ. Once I'm settled in my comfy swivel chair, pants in hand and excess legging upturned, I give myself over to the zen-like methodical soothing of the slow stitching process. Measure out the thread. Ease the end through the needle eye. Knot the end. Penetrate the inseam and pull the needle through the edge of the factory-made hemline. Knot it up a bit more and proceed around the perimeter. As I slowly wind my way to the crease and then on to the next seam I marvel at my skill.

Each infrequent episode of hemming I ponder the origin of this skill. Was it my required sewing class in third-grade in Kingswood, New South Wales? Was it sixth grade Home Economics in Norman, Oklahoma? I know I didn't learn it from my mother or hers. Then I think about the only non-makeshift sewing box I ever owned. The memory takes me back to New South Wales. It was a required school item so mother bought me a standard issue floral, soft cloth covered thatched basket with one knob at the front that the looped latch slid over to secure all the precious pins, needles and multiple colored threads. I was so proud of it. At the time I'd never owned anything quite so pretty.

The sewing box was purchased shortly after our arrival in Australia and though mother had a pre-assigned teaching post in the suburbs we lived in a downtown Sydney hotel until an apartment was secured near her school. In the interim a daily commuter train took us near our new school. Within a week, I stepped off the train and neglected to pick up my sewing box on the way out. Off it went with the train. Never to be seen again. By me at least. I cried that day. And mother didn't buy me a new kit. I don't remember how I got by in sewing class. Those memories are tucked in the unaccessible creases of my brain. And maybe that's where my memory of learning to hem is. It's tangled up with a multitude of humiliating moments in a ball I don't have the patience or desire to untangle. As long as I can recall that hem stitch though, I've retained all I need from that knotty experience.

The Electrician in Me

I put up a new light fixture in our dining area today. Benedicta is now doing the clean up as I played the electrician role and left the scene as soon as all the wires and screws were securely in place. The fixture I replaced provided nothing but a dim shadow of light for ten years and then went completely dead about three years ago. Yes, I said three years. We've been puttering around in the dark all that time. We actually bought the new fixture on a trip to IKEA in Red Hook 9 months ago. Let's just say I'm a reluctant fixer-upper.

Day after day after month after month I said, "I'm going to put that fixture up next week."But next week the mood didn't strike quite right or I worked too much or I was out of town. Until today. Before breakfast I said, "I'm going to put that fixture up today." And after fortifying myself with leftover chinese, Benedicta got the ladder out and I went to work.

I love the action of handyman's chores: the physicality of putting something together; the achievement of improving functionality; the rush of possible danger lurking in those exposed wires. It feels like real work, getting something tangibly done as opposed to pushing papers or cooking or cleaning which has to be redone day after day. With a home improvement project you immerse yourself in the task and emerge with a lasting accomplishment. I can slap myself on the back and say, "Look what I did." Bragging rights extend for the life of the project.

But I think those bragging rights are part of the hold up in getting to home improvement projects. It goes like this. 1) Bragging: Wow, that ceiling still looks pretty good, I don't think we'll have to repaint that for years. 2) Acknowledge need for new project: I really need to touch up the paint in the bathroom though. 3) Procrastination: I'll get to that after I install the new light fixture. 4) Avoidance: I can't install the light fixture this week because ... 5) Action: Install the light fixture. 6) Admire: Wow, look at all the light in this space, this is amazing. How handy I am! The bragging will continue because when it stops I'll have to move on to stage 2. And that will mean several years of contemplating that wall in the bathroom before I get back to stage 6. But when I'm in the middle of the action phase I will love how handy I feel. Too bad it's going to take years to get there. But until then, at least I'll have light.

The Simple Joys of Health

It's Friday and it's been snowing for two days straight. NYC schools are closed for the second time in a month (and only the fourth time in six years). Benedicta headed down to the Financial District an hour ago to work a 9-hour day at the Reading Room as the librarians from New Jersey and Long Island can't get their cars plowed out. And I'm relishing the smell of granola baking in the oven, the hum of snow blowers on 25th Street and the sight of icicles growing on the window frame.

Today is the first day this week my head doesn't feel like it's weighted down with soggy, salty newspaper stuffed inside and I'm not plastering vaseline on my outer nostrils to keep them from chafing when I blow my nose. I'm sitting upright while my peppermint tea brews. I've just made the bed with all the proper tucks and turns. The one task I've wanted to accomplish all week - that batch of granola in the oven - is nearly complete. Hallelujah!

As I've puttered this morning, attending to my tea and sitting down to write, I've enjoyed each task with the freshness that recovery brings. Remembering that with health, life swirls on with ease just as the snowflakes softly spin to a gentle landing. With health, free from the the push-back of unwilling and unable limbs, simple acts like washing the dishes and taking a shower are no longer overwhelming. On this day of recovery, they are done with joy. The joy of finding life livable, of tackling the mundane without effort, of feeling good.

Thanks to the snow I'm keeping it in low-gear today. I'm not jumping back to my to-do list and running over to Lord & Taylor to look for black pants on the clearance rack. I'm not easing back into normalcy by slipping on my snow boots and trudging over to Chelsea Cinemas to catch a matinee. I'm not going over to UPS to make photocopies of my tax return. I'm staying put. I'm sitting in my favorite chair watching snowflakes swirl. I'm simply enjoying the simple joy of every flake.

I'm Committed! To Fruit and Veggies

I've wanted to join our neighborhood CSA (community supported agriculture) since the day I learned about it six years ago. The thought of reaping the harvest of fresh vegetables trucked in from a farm upstate every week tickled me in several of my favorite pleasure zones: eating, cooking, low-maintenance shopping and supporting sustainable farming. Every year the obstacle of time and scheduling prevented me from signing up.

Since I quit my day job last September I've frequently checked the Chelsea CSA website to look into actually committing this year. Always the same story - the only option available was signing up for the waiting list. I didn't want to be on a waiting list. I wanted to join. So I let it go assuming I'd be navigating the "conventional," "organic," and "local" produce in the narrow Whole Foods aisles for another year. Until yesterday. Checked the website and to my delight, on-line registration was available for new members.

A few facts:

• Pick ups are every Tuesday between 4 and 7. Check. Between the two of us we should be able to get over there each week. (Did I mention the pick-up location is a block away? One block closer than Whole Foods and I'm guessing about 75% cheaper.)
• Members must volunteer for 6 hours each year. Check. This can be shared too. I'm sure we can manage to dole out veggies one Tuesday afternoon this summer.
• Vegetable harvest begins mid-June. Check. We're returning from a three-week vacation in Maine on May 27th. As far as I can tell, we won't miss a single delivery!
• $520 buys 24 weeks of vegetables (enough for 2-3 people). And an extra $250 buys 20 weeks of fruit. Check. $770 has been paid in advance. A preemptive strike on the summer/fall grocery bills.

I'm looking forward to this grand adventure of getting a mystery box of veggies and fruit every week and figuring out how to transform them into delicious meals. My eating and cooking passions have four months to salivate before the goods arrive. And I'm thinking of blogging the adventure so my writing passion won't get jealous.

Haiti's Orphans

In my 20's I dreamed of adopting a little black baby. I already had a darling white baby fresh from my very own womb. She was perfect in every way and I had no compulsion to make another one. Why do that when the bright black eyes popping out of coffee brown faces on the front of Save the Children brochures radiated such joy, love and hope. I wanted to have and hold a baby that was already real, not to gestate one. This desire was a non-starting argument with my husband at the time and once I became a single-parent, a single child was plenty. So life moved me on and that ancient desire remained a dry seed in my overflowing clay pot of unfulfilled imaginings.

Today I watched Anderson Cooper report on the hundreds of thousands of pre- and post-earthquake orphans in Haiti and realized any dirt I might have to plant my lingering seed of hope to hold one of these precious children is infertile - barren even. These children, as aid organizers attest, belong in Haiti. Perhaps they don't have parents, but they do have hope and the aching soil of Haiti is their home. Sometimes parents are overrated.

They do need shelter,food, love and a decent shot at an education in ways to replant and replenish their homeland. These orphans are Haiti's hope. Haiti's future. I believe a greater lift to the orphans of Haiti is to fund provision for their collective well-being than to pluck them one-by-one from their calamity and settle them in suburban homes saturated in the culture of consumerism. Let them grow together, proud of their triumph amidst the ruin, and prepare them to transform the rubble into riches.

Imagine how many orphans could thrive in Haiti on the money spent to raise one upper-middle-class American kid. Imagine! Is not this a higher model? When we reinforce that the lucky ones get sent to America, even though well-meaning, we chip away at an orphan's pride of place and create the illusion that happiness is somewhere other than within the heart. Let's celebrate the joy of growing up surrounded by other children and cultivate programs that encourage loving places of permanence rather than waiting rooms. Too idealistic? Maybe. But those are seeds I may be able to actually plant and water. Seeds of hope sprouting in sparkling brown eyes.

Orphan's Home

I wept at the end of Part 1 of Horton Foote's Orphans' Home Cycle on Saturday. The streaming tears from my front row seat heralded the bowing cast with more poignance than my feeble claps. I unwittingly surrendered to the dramatic moment and lacked the strength to stand.

The Orphan's Home Cycle is comprised of nine full-length plays written over decades recently whittled to a nine-hour series exploring the early life of Horace Robedeaux. The death of Horace's alcoholic father at age 12 and the absence of his mother due to his step-father's refusal to allow Horace in their home shapes his character and informs every aspect of his journey to and through adulthood. Part 1 concludes when Horace is a young adult visiting his mother in Houston for the first time and culminates in his realization that he is entirely alone in the world and will have no one to help him forge his way.

Refusal. Rejection. No childhood home. Orphaned with living parents. I know these. I've navigated the estuaries of self-reliance and parental disassociation. I've felt the burden of needing shelter from mothers and fathers whose own fragility and cowardice and instability banish children to the arms of strangers.

But I did not weep for me. I am blessed with an inner fortitude and will to survive. I have the skill to bind up wounds so they leave no trace when they heal. My outburst registered the pain of the children unprepared and unable to weather the frosty climate of homes with step-parents eager to bar the door and the complicity of parents who ship their children off with neither a key nor return postage.

Horace found his way. And so did I. But many don't. They find solace in drugs, alcohol, emotional barrenness. And unfortunately, they too have children. And become step-parents of other people's children. And the cycle continues. More parented orphans in need of home.