I Like It, Love It, Yes I Do

I, a married woman, spent last weekend in Phoenix, in the company of three men.  We had been planning this little get-away for about a month, and it finally came together.  The excitement had been building, and after a long dusty drive through the desert, we arrived, ready to get down to business.

Previous liaisons had occurred hurriedly in a crowded room in L.A. for which we paid by the hour, but now we were in the comfort of someone's home, with nothing but space and time stretching out before us.

Despite having done this since my teen-age years, I still get the anticipatory jitters, and I brought along some fine tequila.  Several shots later, and small talk over, we started what we came there to do.  There was no turning back, no guilt, no shame.

It didn't matter to us if the neighbors heard us; the louder the better.  We gave each other performance feedback, and sometimes had to do it a couple of times to get it right.  Soon we were sweaty and smiling, and had to take a break, because none of us are as young as we used to be.  In fact, one of us had to stop and take a nap, while the rest went outside, unplugged from our devices, and carried on some more.

Sex and drugs?  No.  Rock and roll?  Oh hell yes.

I know,  it's only rock and roll but god I love it.

I just joined this standing group a few months ago, and I can't tell you how much fun it is.  I have been singing in the car and at home forever, but not in a band since graduate school.  The synergy of playing together is an absolute joy.

I do feel the tiniest bit conflicted about pursuing this.  It is at its core absolutely selfish and hedonistic.  With my writing pursuit, I can tell myself that while it is a personal passion, it is also because I hope that ultimately others are touched in some beneficial way by reading it.  With the band, it is just because we can, because it is fun, because it feels good.  No one else usually hears it, and it does take time away from other important people and pursuits, so I do appreciate the forbearance of my family more than I can say.

But singing makes my spirit sing, and that can't ever be a bad thing.  I believe we are better people, and act more loving and tolerant as a result, when we allow ourselves the full measure of what gives us joy, and exercise our talents.  Mine is a quite minor and limited talent (and my son would probably argue,  no talent at all, having had to suffer through countless nights of Rock Band).   Nevertheless, I guess  it's kind of like that hackneyed sentiment: sing like no one is listening, and dance as if no one is watching.  How good or bad I am is not the point.  It is me, being me.

If I want to play rock star, why the hell not?

A Poem for Turning 55

Well, I have not been on my little blog site since September, so thought it was time to post something I have been working on over the past week.  Still a work in progress.  I originally was going to title it What My Hot Flashes Teach Me,  then changed it to Morning Mirror, now it is just untitled for the moment.

Domain without dominion,                                                

this body as I age.                                                           

I startle at my reflection,                                                

in recognition of                                                           

a “me-ness” that abides within that cage                       

no longer new.                                                           

What a breath-stopping moment

as I become aware

that memories now stretch  longer than

the road which lies ahead. 

Exhaling, holding my own gaze, I stare:

no longer young.    

Yet passions long neglected

need nothing but a choice.

Ancient desire and nascent fire,

inchoate, they arise,

seek form, and now demand to have a voice,

no longer mute.

Sight will dim and sinew thin

as bars of cage must rust.

But in this moment, in this breath

is all.  Enough.  Today

I write the poem of pulse, before the dust.

No longer lost.

A Tribute to My Dad

My dad would have been 86 today.  He died four years ago.  I came across the eulogy I wrote a couple of days ago, and thought I would post it here in his honor.

Eulogy for My Dad

Paul E. Hamilton  9/18/26 – 9/4/08

Services  9/9/08

Thank you all for being here to remember and honor my father.

I want to start by acknowledging some family members who weren’t specifically mentioned in the obituary.  Family is not just blood ties – it is relationships forged by marriage and friendship as well.  With that in mind, I want to acknowledge Archie Parris, my dad’s brother-in-law through his deceased sister, Betty Lou, and my aunt and uncle Betty and Buddy Pace, my mom’s sister and her husband.  I especially want to thank you, Aunt Betty and Uncle Buddy, for being there for my dad before and after my mom died, for all your help and love.

My father was a great man.  His was not the noisy kind of greatness marked by power, popularity or prestige, but the quiet kind of greatness composed of conscientiousness, kindness and compassion.  It was who he was, and how he lived his life.

My earliest memories of my dad are of him in military uniform, khakis or dress blues, standing tall, solid and strong.  He was, and is, my hero.  He always took the time to listen, he was always there when I needed him.  He taught me so many things – how to drive a car, how to put a worm on a hook, how to make oatmeal and southern green beans, how to sing “You Are My Sunshine,” how to hold my tongue and have patience, and how to believe in myself and my abilities.

He showed me the best model possible of what a man, a husband, a father should be, and for that I am eternally grateful.  I chose a husband with many of the same wonderful qualities, and try to instill in his grandson the same.

Those of you who knew Paul from childhood and adolescence know parts of him that I know only from stories told.  I know he loved his family, hunting, his hound dogs.  I have heard a few tales about youthful escapades, and stills in the hills, and working hard at the mills.

His years in the military defined and described so much of who Dad was.  He was so smart and organized, so thorough and conscientious, and these qualities allowed him to succeed and win numerous accolades and promotions.  He loved his assignment working with the color guard attached to Air Force One under Eisenhower, and using his cryptography skills during the Cold War.  Dad was extremely punctual too (a quality I sadly lack, although he would be pleased I was uncharacteristically on time today).  He was so punctual in fact that I remember he and I arrived about 45 minutes early for a party out of town, but happily our host didn’t mind.

Dad was a hard worker, with the kind of work ethic that defines most men of his generation.  When he retired from the Air Force during the recession of the 70’s, I know now that it was a hard time for him, but he never complained.  In fact, he took the opportunity to return to school and pursue one of his talents and passions, horticulture, obtaining an associate’s degree.  Dad was amazing with plants; we had a vegetable garden in our back yard that bore fruit for us and the whole neighborhood. 

In the meantime, he and Mom formed their very successful partnership as antique dealers.  Mom did the schmoozing and wheeling and dealing; Dad characteristically was the quieter behind-the-scenes partner, refinishing furniture, organizing and planning.  They had so much fun together in the business, and I’m happy they had that time together before my Mom got sick.

Dad was also exceptionally devout in his faith, through the years donating his time and money to the Church and related charitable causes.  He was equally devoted as a son, son-in-law, brother, husband and father.

I have never known anyone more committed to the well-being of those he loved, giving of his time and effort, caretaking all those he cared about, lending a hand to anyone who needed help, or an ear to anyone with a worry.  His quiet devotion to my mom through her lengthy illness and disability was amazing, and a constant challenge to me to aspire to my better self.

Of course, Dad would be embarrassed by these words of praise because he was also incredibly modest, understated, and private.  This is, I think, an extension of his deeply embedded sense of right and wrong; not that he was judgmental, but that he just lived by  the Golden Rule, treating others as they would wish to be treated.  Therefore, doing the right thing would not be seen as remarkable or even to be remarked upon.  It was simply expected.

Now, despite all by Dad’s noble qualities, despite the fact that he is, in my eyes, a great man, he was of course a regular guy who loved to laugh, kick back, fish, play poker, and enjoy a brew in younger years.  He had his faults, his foibles, his fears, and goodness knows he had his share of life’s burdens.  But he seldom complained, he never blamed, he accepted what life gave him with equanimity, strength and courage.  He looked for the silver lining in all life’s circumstances, and expected and found the best in those whose lives he touched.

My dad’s legacy will be with me always.  There are very many things he taught me, but he always told me, “Daughter, you are book-smart, but when it comes to common sense, you have to learn things the hard way. “

As in most things, he was right.  I do learn things the hard way.  Here are the things I am learning the hard way, today:

There is never enough time.

It hurts, immeasurably, to say goodbye.

It is impossible for words to do justice to, to sum up, or to take the measure of a man’s life.

So let me end with these words from my heart.  Dad, thank you for being the great man you were.  Thank you for the legacy of your love and kindness that lives on in all of us here.  And thank you for loving me. 

I say goodbye, but always, you are my sunshine, and always, you are with me in my heart.  

The day after Labor Day

Wow, I did not post a single thing here in August, but did submit my poem "Why I Meditate" to the on-line magazine Elephant Journal, and it was published August 15.  I was so very pleased to be selected and get a little bit of exposure.

But back to blogging for the moment.

Labor Day got me to thinking about my work.

I have been licensed as a clinical psychologist since 1990, and spent thousands and thousands of hours in training in the ten years before that.   I was employed as a psychologist for about 10 years before opening up my private practice over 13 years ago.   I have seen thousands of patients during the period before my private practice but I have no statistics, except for my practice.  Here is what I found.

During the past 13 years, I have met with 701 different patients.  Actually more if I had kept count of collateral contacts.

I currently have 68 active clients.  Each week I usually schedule about 35 appointments, and end up having on average 30 direct service hours, with the balance taken up with phone calls, paperwork and a bit of down time for other things I enjoy doing.

Of these 68 folks, some I see weekly,  many twice a month, some once a month, others three or four times during the year.  I have no idea how this compares to other people's practices, but I feel fortunate that I am so busy.  I usually get at least three or four inquiry calls a week, and often direct people elsewhere.

This steady stream has kept me free to do my work, without having had to spend much time or thought on advertising or generating more referrals.  I do not want to get complacent about that, but I am thankful that as I got off the ground, I developed a few consistent sources of referrals, and then recommendations from previous clients and lots of self-referrals have allowed me to actually be selective in deciding with whom I wish to work.  Psychotherapy is often personally demanding, and it helps me prevent burn-out to stick with the kinds of people and problems that I enjoy the most and with which I work the best.

However,  a year or two ago I had the idea to build up my business in a different way, to market a personal development service for cash (not insurance) payment, and I put a fair amount of energy into developing that idea, even hiring a personal coach for awhile, but I stopped short of bringing it to full fruition.  It is still there in the wings waiting for me when I am ready.  I actually utilize a fair amount of those concepts with my current clients.

What happened instead: while going down the path of my own personal growth,  I re-discovered my love and passion for writing, and have directed my energy there instead.  And what a wonderful thing that has been for me.

I am re-energized.

I feel more creative.

I have taken risks.

I have come full circle back to something that was once so vital to me as an adolescent and young woman.  I realize I never entirely stopped writing, but until recently neither did I really embrace it and direct energy and purpose to it.

And that has made all the difference in the world.  I now see writing also as part of my work.  It is a true labor of love, for which remuneration is not important.    The chance to get some exposure, to have some sort of impact on the reader, to connect through my words, is the pay-off I seek.

In writing, as in psychotherapy, as in all relationships--words are powerful.

They can harm or heal, debase or empower, form enemies or alliances.

I intend for my words to provide pleasure for others, but more importantly to express an idea or an image that forms a connection, a reminder of shared humanity in both its many wonders and its frequent pain.  Sometimes the content is serious, sometimes humorous.

And when it is at its very best, I want what I write to create in the reader a moment of awareness of what is essential.

An awakening of spirit.

A calling forth of something that seeks to hear its name.

Thank you for allowing me that opportunity.

100 words or less fiction...

Our little local happenings and events paper, The Acorn, is running a writer's contest called In a Nutshell, for fiction 100 words or less.

For someone as wordy as me, 100 is really hard.  Here is what I came up with as an entry:

Abby awakens to darkness, a deafening roar and a jolt that throws her from the bed to the floor which rises, falls and shimmies beneath her.  As dry wall crumbles, girders groan and glass explodes, she thinks:  Shit, this is it, California tumbles into the sea.   Crawling blindly, she finds a pillow, pulls it over her neck and head, curls tight, and rolls with the seismic waves while the crunch of collapse thunders in her ears. 

Then, all is quiet.  Abby opens her eyes.  In her bed, Chris beside her, the apneic silence is punctuated by his monstrous snore.   

Sonnet

I share this for those of you who appreciate the form.  You may vaguely remember the defining features of three quatrains and one couplet of iambic pentameter, the ababcdcdefefgg rhyme scheme,  and the content.   I had to go to Sonnets for Dummies to remind me of what I learned in high school English many moons ago.  In any event, I did this as a writing exercise, and it is clearly tongue in cheek.

The name of the sonnet is, well, 'Sonnet' because it is about the experience of writing a sonnet.  But that is like naming your dog "Dog."

How about 'Meta Sonnet'?  'Sonnet to the Second Power'?   'Shall I Compare Thee to The Words of the Bard'?   I will consider any and all suggestions.


Sonnet

For practice, in iambic I will write;

although ‘tis foreign writing lines this long.

I do this, for I cannot sleep tonight.

These words perchance can soothe me, as a song.

Ah yes, the rhythm is a melody,

a cadence that caresses as it flows.

For in these lines there can be no spondee,

and my beloved trochees dare not show.

But music of the muse is often wild,

intense, unmetered; minor chords abound.

Then how to find true voice in form so mild,

and honor craft and meaning in the sound?

But hark!  The tune emerged here from my head,

so off I go to pentametric bed.

Good morning!

Nothing new, just an invitation to peruse these posts if you haven't done so, and I welcome any and all feedback.  

 I have not written anything new prose or poetry-wise, in about a month, although I am beginning to work on a sonnet as a writing exercise.  Mostly I have been working, and enjoying the summer when not working.

Warm wishes for a wonderful week!  (Alliteration nightmare...)