Silence

I shouldn't write I shouldn't write I shouldn't write...my brain keeps telling me this since I am so obviously triggered by what has happened this past week. All the signs are there and I know my patterns pretty well, though they can still surprise me. I know a lot of people read this who might use my vulnerability in ways I can't control, who might not know they add to the grief, who are mostly respectful but also might be compelled to read this like people watch wrecks...for the juice, for the life exposed, and it doesn't make me feel safe. My safety is an illusion I cling to with both hands.

I know I go to this confessional to lay bare my emotions, for myself and in case there is someone out there who needs my clarity and help. I know the confession hurts me more and any net gain is dubious. Trauma just keeps giving and it doesn't matter what the original source or the recent event is, it doesn't matter what the specifics of this episode are. Damage is real and accumulates, and truly I don't believe it is healable. For me. I hope it is for you. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help in real life, in some subtle way. You help me, and I know it, and I appreciate it. The more quietly you do it the more I appreciate it.

I know I no longer walk around feeling like I have a visible gaping wound in my chest that shows my faintly beating heart with all of its scars. I healed that over with fifteen years of therapy with a wonderfully supportive woman. I know I forgave my Dad by visualizing a tiny flame in the ball of ice that lay in my pelvis blocking me from a healthy sexuality for decades. That tiny flame did melt that ice, but only just. What helped the most with him was looking at his wedding photo, where both he and my Mom looked so innocently nineteen, with no possible idea what their lives would bring. He didn't mean to do anything to hurt me, but was a product of his own damage. If anything, I blame alcohol, but of course that is too simple. I don't really want to blame, I mostly want it to not have played out the way it did. Yeah, no do-overs. As I recall I was having a beer on his birthday when I made that forgiveness happen. I love irony.

Between episodes of this PTSD I am always certain that another will never come...that learning my patterns gave me the tools of prevention and self-care that would steady me so I could turn it off. I am always so discouraged when the lie is put to my faint denial. I'll carry this damage to my grave just like my broken ankle and heel and whatever else simmers inside me. The task now is to be strong despite it, to speak out through it, to use it for the forces of good instead of complete submission.

I cried yesterday just trying to watch twenty women on the street corner dressed in black. I was so grateful to be working so I didn't have the option to join them as they asked. I was grateful that they didn't walk by my booth so I didn't have to dissolve in tears of gratitude and horror. The pains are always so fresh when I am around other hurting people. I love my empathy, and wouldn't trade it, but I see too much of all you transparent people and it makes me so vulnerable to know how transparent I also am. I also derive joy from this...and hope. If we can see, we can help.

We can carry each others' pain, maybe easier than we can carry our own. I am crying for my brother and my son as they have to sort through all the ways I didn't help them, protect them, teach them how to be better men, though I suppose it wasn't completely my job and I probably did okay at it. I know, though, that my damage prevented me from projecting a healed sexual being who could teach the good ways. I hope I gave them some skills to find their own paths through what our culture throws at them. I have always tried for honesty, to an extreme, for justice, and to not be phony. My son didn't see me put on makeup to be something I wasn't, or dress to seduce, or use controlling behaviors to get my needs met...or more correctly, he helped me identify them and stop using them, a constant life process of learning improvement. I dragged him and one early girlfriend to an NVC workshop. I asked him to teach me what he knew of NLP and how it operated from his perspective. We were able to be allies rather soon in his life, though he might have rather had a bit more parental authority in place. Can't re-do that one. He seems fine: exploring, balancing, being honest.

My brother is part of our deep family tragedy that is so far back we can hardly address it any more than we have. It doesn't unfold so much now, but we've kind of evolved into addressing ways it set us up for what happened later, when we left the family and tried to find our way as independent adults. At our recent reunion all was not comfortable in our family group, despite our mutual wish that it would be. None of us have all the keys to make it so. We try pretty hard, and have the gift of the great-grandchildren and the kindness of each other. Mostly it's good, but then the damage seeps out. I try to minimize it as much as I can, keep it in my journal. None of them deserve it either.

It was rough, my past, though not so much compared to what I've read and heard about other women and children. My experiences in college and during the Sexual Revolution of the 70s and 80s were mild enough but deeply unsettling. Rough enough that I don't like to think about them. On Thursday and Friday as the world watched a battle on TV, I worked myself to exhaustion on my roof hammering on shingles one by one in the extreme heat. I didn't eat and didn't drink enough water, obsessively working in silence. I wanted to "finish it." I finally stopped on Friday at 4:00 which was probably my breaking point, and had the sensibility to take a bath, drink so much water I was amazed, and sit still after making a beautiful meal and smoking some bud. I did not allow myself to walk down to the store for a beer, though I dearly wanted one or two more than just about anything.

Escape is necessary in some form, it seems. I know better than to add alcohol to the mix at these times, though the impulses are very strong and are why I keep it at the store and not at home. I know it can be cathartic, but it's just too loaded with guilt and shame. Sugar is safer...bud is good in that it limits what I will do and say. I need limits...it's at these times when I wonder if a supportive partner would indeed help, but really, the silence of my backyard is what works best. I drink that in.

I went though the first stage, exacerbated by my 50th HS reunion which I missed. I would've liked to go, but 3000 miles and thousands of dollars prevented me, since I had to go to the same place for my family one month before. But I would have liked to see some of those friends I went through so many years with. Some of us were together since first grade. We stumbled through a lot. The first stage of examining my past was thinking about some of the hundreds of harassments and assaults I experienced as a woman born in 1950. Stuff was just built in. There was no way to avoid a lot of it, and I was unprotected, mostly, except by suburbia's relative safety, and my privilege of being in the middle class. Plus I was a smart kid, so got some entitlements. But no one encouraged me to think big back then...not really even to go to college, though you would think someone in the 99th percentile would get more encouragement. Maybe it was those old men who were the Guidance Counselors. I had one brilliant English teacher, Kay Booth, but she stands out as the only one who empowered me, and she just made me give up on college when her estimation of me didn't follow through into my treatment by my male teachers there.

College, oh dear. I dove into the revolution. We ended the war that was killing off the  boys of my generation. We all sacrificed our psyches too, though it took a long time to realize that. We had our bodies on the line as well. I can't think about the details. I stopped adding them up long ago.

What surfaced for me, this time, was all the ways in which I was complicit in the oppression of others. I feel devastated by ways I turned on other women, and even men. I see no way to make amends. I can't even remember names for sure, or all the details, and I feel sure none of the other people involved want to talk about it. I am sure no one at the reunion wanted to talk about the party where someone "pulled a train," which is a deflected way to describe gang rape of an incapacitated girl. In my memory I heard about it the next day, and it was outsider boys, not anyone in my friend group. I turned on her, though, and took away the support she deserved. I was at that party. We didn't do much to monitor each other, our level of drinking, our willingness to go all the way with our boyfriends. We were all confused kids lying to ourselves and each other about what was right and wrong. I was raised Catholic...a bad setup for sexuality, at best. No parents were watching us. They were off drinking with their own friends, I suppose. I would love to check out these memories with my old friends, to see if maybe we took better care of each other than I remember. We would now, I think.

I remember two incidents of assault, one physical and one verbal, on the day of my Dad's funeral in 1970. Really, grown men? Did you think because he wasn't there to protect his daughters, they were now fair game? So damaged. I remember being angry, and telling my Mom, but what could she do? One was a neighbor, and one was someone from my Dad's job. She couldn't respond. I could barely respond. Were they just drunk? I'm sure they had their excuses.

I don't want to list my credentials for MeToo. I don't want to have these credentials. I am fully aware that I participated in some of my own damaging experiences more or less willingly. Trauma victims do that. They often ruin their own lives, unable to imagine anything else. On some levels I have done that, though my life is far from ruined.

Yes, the challenges today are to work right though the damage to keep on shouting for less of it. I am so happy to see how powerful young women are these days, at least ones in the progressive culture. I fought hard for that, with so many others. We bought that with our painful experiences. We want that for you. That's one reason why it is so devastating to see it erode, to see the Kavanopes and the Brocks get away with their shit over and over. I am so tired of bullies. I am so dedicated to calling out bullying, no matter who it takes down, even when it is me.

Bullies hurt all of us, whether they do it through sexuality, racial injustice, economic injustice, or the current depravity of power over all. I hate America so much right now. I hate old white men (I give some exceptions to that, for those of you who are really trying, and I hope you know I see you and love you for it.) I am sad to be feeling hate. I am full of grief for so many reasons. I am stalled and can do only this.

But I'm going to call my Mom in 30 minutes and talk about none of this. Then I'm going to go out and put on some more shingles and work harder on forgiving myself, and most of you. I'm going to look harder for what's going right, to be grateful for the young man who had my back yesterday, when in my trauma I took it on myself to kick a vomiting man out of the Market. I wasn't thinking. He almost clocked me. It wasn't my job and I wasn't keeping myself safe, because traumatized people often can't do that. Thank you to my fellow member, who might not have known that he was there yesterday to save me from myself for a minute. That's the good news: allies. We are legion.

We are in this together, and we are in the right. We may not be winning all the many races and jumping over the many obstacles, but we will. It has taken our lifetimes, and it will take the lifetimes of our children, and theirs, but it is not all pain. We also have joy. I saw the Bewick's Wren and a woodpecker at the same time today, because I could rouse myself to put out the suet. The birds are hungry. I'll start there. Forgiveness is a process. Practice peace. Work for justice, one foot in front of the other. And cleansing it all with tears is pretty cathartic too, so I can feel good about that skill. I can weep. I am proud to be a woman who cares.

Looks like Fall

Lots of emotions swirling around today. A friend lost her husband, and he joins a list of lamentations that are a function of my age that I am struggling to get used to. Sure, we know people die, but many of us are still not equipped to ride through the storms of feelings that come each time. I guess it gets easier. Mom, at 92, is much more philosophical than I am about it. I'm sure I'll learn, the hard way.

OCF struggles with deep structure at the moment, and some issues are so complex I haven't even wanted to weigh in. I try to pay attention, to witness, but this last Board meeting wasn't livestreamed, though I sat there waiting just in case it kicked in, while I watched the Eugene City Council on another channel. I monitor the City Council for my Market community, so we can prepare for when they come to us soon about the changes to our home ground, the Park Blocks we have rented for 34 years (and 15 or so more if you count the Butterfly and Courthouse Plaza.) This is our 49th season. I've only missed the first five. I should have gone to the OCF meeting I guess, but I just don't have enough energy to get deeply involved when it's so complex. Even witnessing takes a lot of energy. It's chilling to think that my own volunteer efforts could come back to bite me. I have the skills to be a good Board member, but skills wouldn't be enough in the current climate. It takes true dedication to work very hard to find that balance of all those needs. I can't do it for more then KF and SM right now. I'm still working, too, when I can fit it in. I'm drawn to help OCF, but I can only be part of the mostly silent network that supports and waits. I will most certainly vote.

I find myself wanting to go out to Fair site in a deep way, to visit the Spirit Tower where I have always connected with my lost people, even though it has mostly disappeared and lost its sacredness. The river is still the same, the land is still quiet, and you can still hope to see the Pileated Woodpeckers and hear the tree limbs clacking together in the high breezes. That land is ours, is mine, when I need it, something which feels like the most amazing accomplishment of the community I am so lucky to be in. Grateful for the people who had the foresight to make that happen, the big group that raised the money and understood the need.  It's a safe place. Still, when I go, it's a bit like work.

I go to my booth, all packed up for winter, and poke around looking for lost pushpins or scraps of wood that will float, but it's usually quite clean. Sometimes I rearrange the vegetation into the living boundaries of our camping clearing. I try to envision the next project I'll do, and talk myself into the new design of the roofline. I am the one who has to do this. It's the same ownership as I have for my two houses. I'll think about my 50th Anniversary projects. I have big plans, but can't do them right now.

I vacillate between feeling too old to do the work and too young to give up using my hard-won skills. I evaluate my abilities to climb ladders and make the right decisions. I try to think about when I will fit the work in. In one sense it's vastly easier to pay someone to do the construction, but in other senses I need to do it. I need to go out there and see how my choices have played out, how my directions have been followed, and how nature has treated what I've made. On my two houses, (I have two small houses on a city lot, one of which is my shop) I've done substantial amounts of the work, in fact spent about fifteen years remodeling the larger house. It was life-altering work and it brings me a great deal of satisfaction. I thrive on a feeling of accomplishment.  Yet death reminds me I could go quickly too, so what projects should I prioritize? Everything's right at the top of the list; everything's vitally important.

I've been trying to find that satisfaction in less physical work, in archiving and writing, but it's harder. I recently removed a piece of the plywood siding on the shop to replace a rotten place, and had to take out the window and add some trim. It took a lot longer than I had planned and while it was relatively straightforward, it was just maintenance, one little project on a long list. I'm reluctant now to start another one, with the weather changing and deadlines coming up. Here I sit on a day when it didn't rain, thinking I need to get out there and start on that roofing. But my friend and her husband were roofing, and now I know she wishes they hadn't been. Certainly today is not the day for me to climb that ladder. So I got out the archives, and told myself I'd spend a day organizing and writing, but I have a feeling I will end up finishing up the summer pruning and preparing for the next rain.

I had to navigate someone's unjust interpretation of my actions again, and his attack. It wasn't the first time from that person, so I could discount some of his ire since I know how he works it, but of course it still derailed me a little. I'm mostly aggravated that he was thoughtless in his actions, in his drive to have his own way, and caused damage, not just to me, but to our process and other people involved. it wasn't major damage, but the discouragement of injustice adds up. Again, I'm getting used to it. I'm starting to tell myself things like "people will always be messy to deal with, and it's unrealistic to think that they will understand ethics in the same way I do." I'm trying to be patient with those who are young, rash, and need more education, because lots of people had to be patient with me while I learned how to be a little wiser and slower to react. I have enough support from people who do understand, but most of yesterday I spent checking in with various people, not even all the ones I needed to, and it was an astonishingly low sales day for me. I didn't even get near to $100, with my great-selling products that easily bring much more than that on a better day.

So it wasn't my day, and I joined the ranks of the discouraged who really get creamed by our fee structure, so I made a vow to bring out my chart early next January, and petition again for fee relief for the low-end earners. I commiserated with a lot of members yesterday who have had many bad sales days, so it isn't about me at all. I can certainly absorb one when it was mostly caused by my inattention to my customers and my job. I talked to many who are experiencing lots of marginal or just really bad days, and I don't think it is "paying their dues" while they build their businesses and improve their products. I think it is the capriciousness of our event, that on any given day there is a lot of luck involved in how well you sell. I think we can build a much more compassionate fee structure that acknowledges that unpredictability and eases the burden on the majority of our members without savaging our profitability. But I will set that aside for now, as it will be better done later and other things are on that horizontal list that push profits to the edges.

Fiftieth Season and Anniversary design projects are in the center, and stories from the archives, and the time is near when I will lose the opportunity if I procrastinate. I have good designs worked out in my mind, but nothing on paper. I dread that feeling when I try to go from mind to pen, when I am not really capable of expressing my vision. I know it's common and shouldn't stop me, but it makes it hard to start. Of course there is only one remedy for that, starting. Or saying maybe later.

At some point there will no longer be a maybe later available. Quite possibly that is the base fear that is behind all of my distress today. At some point I will have to lose my attachment to all my things, to all my future accomplishments, to all my visions and cares. I will have to let go of all of it. Maybe I'll get time to finish up a few, but maybe not. Staying off roofs won't help. Successfully processing small traumas won't help. Calling out injustices won't matter. It's all going to be one big injustice if I don't get my mind around the ultimate justice of It Is What It Is. What Goes Around May or May Not Come Around. Que sera, sera. Be Here Now.

Fortunately I can access a lot of wisdom from my community and what my generation has learned in our explorations, and of course, humans of the ages. They've all stood more or less where I stand.I'm not experiencing anything that new or that serious, just more steps down the human paths. Think I'll wander off for the rest of the day. I always feel at my best when I'm out in the yard, putting things in order, just enough to feel good to me but not enough to really disturb her comforting chaos. I guess I can thrive with a messy garden, so can thrive with a messy life. No sense in trying to change everything at once, even if I could.

Policies and Practices

I find so much irony in life; it's a curse at times, other times baffling, mostly amusing. Currently everyone is up in arms about rules, one of those micro-macrocosm things we get tied up in way too frequently. In our little lives, remember that there is the intent of the law, and the letter of the law, and then the procedures and practices that grow up around the law, and also the guidance or misguidance of the levels of enforcement of the law. And your opinion of the law, of course, which is probably somewhat different than mine. Let me say before I launch into anything that I am speaking here for myself, in my own private blog, and not as an officer or responsible party for any of the rules and regulations of any of my member organizations.

Kids on the border: clearly zero tolerance is evil and beyond absurd. The phrase itself is a buzzword that gets strong emotions roused. It's duality thinking: right or wrong, this way or that way, no grey areas to interpret, no mitigating circumstances or good excuses or any other kind of justification. Doesn't really work too well with people. Really doesn't work well with the kind of people I hang around with.

At Market, for instance, we have a lot of policies and guidelines and rules. Like Michael famously says, when we add a rule we don't take away any of the old ones. Generally I am a rule-follower, but that is tempered by what I perceive as the intent of the law, as well as the equity and sensibility of the procedures and enforcement directives. For instance, there are quite a few Market rules that I interpret a little differently from the way you might interpret them. Sometimes I have modified my thinking over the years, for instance when I got on board for loading out at HM instead of pretending to. That was ethical, as I realized we were making our GM, my friend, essentially lie for us when she signed the contract. I don't like to lie and didn't want anyone to do it on my behalf. The rule wasn't likely to change, so I did.

And with the weights: we didn't use to have a policy. The fire marshal came with a draconian one, involving 80 pounds per leg, and specific types of weights, unlike what most of us had been doing for years to keep everyone safe. The intent of the law was public safety, but we worked hard to craft a workable policy and negotiate it with the marshal. We settled on 25 pounds per leg, but I only have three corners to my space. I used to put a corner in the fountain well, but that was prohibited, so I developed a workaround. It isn't strictly in compliance with the policy. I'm not thinking the Market would get shut down because of my workaround, but it could in a zero-tolerance atmosphere. About 80% of us are not in strict compliance with our weights policy, I believe. We all have workarounds, be they in the type of weights we use, the way we use them, or the other time-tested methods of securing our booths to the ground. I want and need that flexibility. I would have to change my space to comply or maybe quit the Market. I know quite a few people that won't come on windy days because they can't comply. It's a policy that needs a compassionate procedural adaptation that still meets the goals of public safety while allowing us to sell in iffy weather. That struggle isn't over. Market, however, has several compassionate responses. There is assistance available to meet the policy. That's how we work.

So I was alarmed to hear that a potential volunteer was told that service meant you had to obey all the rules to the letter. Um, does anyone do that? It's akin to saying that someone can be completely honest. There is always that lie of omission or kindness or convenience that gets the denial going. I tend to agree that it is good to follow rules as well as one can. Yet our rules are flexible for a reason. We know our population is a group of self-motivated entrepreneurs who live by their own efforts and reasonable adjustments to systems. There's a lot of personal choice built in because we like it that way. You don't want to bring tent weights? Don't bring a tent. Don't want to pay $13 plus 10%? Get a 4x4 or share a booth. We still have the honor system because we are honorable, and we enjoy being treated as honorable people. Because some might not be, do we want to have to keep receipt books and have our fees assessed like some Fairs used to do? No thank you. Let's build up reasons to act honorable, like respectful interactions and neighborly policies, and compassionate enforcement.

Packing early is a great example of how a zero-tolerance rule could go bad. Suppose you are doing some organizing in preparation for packing and your neighbor interprets that as packing and reports you, and you lose your point for the day. What kind of due process will we build into that system so you can explain you were putting away your lunchbox? What about your eight hours of full compliance with every rule? What about your years of dedicated service? What about your migraine? What about your exhausted kids? Nope. We delegated our staff person to take away points, and that is that. I venture to say no one wants to sell at that Market.

I've watched one of our associated organizations react to rule breaches with fines and suspensions. Those people resented the hell out of it and generally quit. Sure, there are others glad to sell, and customers rarely know, but do we want members going away mad? Is that good for our community?

What is good for our community? What kind of organization do we want to be? I'm guessing compassionate is high on most lists. I think we continue to want case-by-case, workable solutions for our common problems. Over time, we need to find ways to keep our values in place while we adapt to changing conditions. Right now, we have a fading founding generation and a lot of new members. They might not feel the community interest yet, so maybe they think packing early is what you do when there are few customers to notice. Maybe their needs are getting more attention than your need to keep the community value of waiting to pack until the moment of 5:00. We will have to work with them to bring them into our community feeling so that they are motivated to honor it. It's a long discussion, and it could end in lots of ways: closing earlier for everyone, for instance, like another organization did. All members' opportunity to sell was cut short so the big guys could maximize their employee time and cut their costs, and get on to their other work. I know some members who still resent that, years later. Decisions have consequences too.

But maybe there are a lot of solutions for this particular problem that aren't punitive. For instance, the GM gives them a call to make sure they get the intent of the rule and the expectation of the community, after someone files a written complaint. Or maybe we stop allowing envelopes to be turned in early and pay all of our staff to work longer hours to accommodate a later closing procedure. Maybe we ask our GM to work a 12-hour day so she can be there to monitor closing and respond in the moment, or maybe we decide she is human and works hard enough to not be there for early opening and late closing. Maybe we hire parking staff to tell us where and when to park. Maybe we pay a closing monitor to go around and make lists of people who do get their points.

Maybe we ring a bell at 5:00 and make it clear that you have to wait for the bell, or maybe we don't allow any cars at all in neighboring parking spots until 5:00, including customers, or issue a parking sticker to member cars so they can be so identified. Maybe we give out flyers, maybe we make jokes and point and laugh at early packers, maybe we kick them right out of the Market or maybe we do nothing and let them do whatever they choose. Karma will sort it out.

Obviously there is a range of solutions and some group needs to sort them out and find the best ones. That is why we have a Board, to work out policy with which to direct our staff. But this Board can be composed of lots of types of people, some who don't mind zero-tolerance or others who don't like rules at all. That's why we have discussions. That's why we continue to work toward consensus on these types of decisions, so we can come up with the most well-thought-out solutions that will work the best in practice. That's why Facebook discussions of policy are so marginally useful. You can't build consensus on the member's FB site.

For one thing, staff can't weigh in there. You might not realize that only the GM is authorized to enforce rules like parking and leaving early. You might not know that you are asking for her to prioritize being there from 4:30 to 5:00 instead of in the morning when bigger, more complicated situations need her attention. So if the consensus is to prioritize parking and leaving early over dealing with the mentally ill, the cars that need to be towed, or hazards on the site, she can be directed to work then, and can delegate the other things, but I prefer to let her decide on priorities. Public safety and operations flow are more important to me. She knows her job, and I want her to decide how to do it. She'll do what we ask, but we need her input in the decision-making. And we need the input of all staff, most importantly when we are discussing their jobs. So the member's page is not the best place, but the Board meeting can be.

And philosophy issues like how we get loyalty and buy-in on our regulations, how we move forward when things aren't working ideally, those things aren't driven by someone's opinion, however forcefully or eloquently they are stated. Those are group decisions made by as large a group as possible, in an organized group process. With rules. With a facilitator and a scribe, so the discussions can move forward to action. With careful process, with people who understand how to make good participatory decisions in a group. That's why we have elected Board members, who get training. And we have non-voting people at the meetings, who are equally able to give input and help find the solutions. Our process is sound, and has been in place for almost 50 years, and is why we are thriving now.

I had my best Park Blocks day ever yesterday. I have never seen it so crowded in the aisles, and even with quite a few regular members absent, we were full. I hope everyone did well. There was a lot going on. I had quite a few situations that weren't ideal for me that I was mostly unable to deal with in a really elegant way. I had to wing it and do the best that I could. I was only operating one tiny business in one tiny space. I can't even imagine all the things the staff members had to handle with so much happening. I barely saw any of them, but I trust them and I know the reason it ran so smoothly was that they are stellar at what they do. They are amazing. Their energy is high and their accomplishments are legion. I truly appreciate how willing they are to respond to our needs and help us make the Market we want. I support them fully in interpreting our intent and our letter of our laws for the common good of us all.

I do not want a Market that is punitive. I do not want the point system to be compromised by tieing operational rules to it. I want us to have sensible, well-thought out policies with room for interpretation and incentive for compliance, not punishment for non-compliance. We have always, throughout our history, maintained a lot of respect for ourselves and each other and worked very hard to craft policy and procedures that meet our mutual needs.

We've always had to struggle to get everyone to follow them, but we work it out so the intent is clear. We count on each other to make our rules work. We ask questions and think deeply about solutions. I have a lot of faith in our process and abilities to work together. So I ask people to be patient and engage in the process in similar good faith. We all work toward improvement, within the framework of who we are and how we want to live. See people on August 1st for policy discussions, at the Board meeting, where they are best done thoughtfully. And slowly. And inclusively. And above all, from our best selves, not our tired selves on our one day off. Thanks for reading.

A Fiction About Fair

From a few years back:

Disco Inferno

Just before dawn Jane descended into sleep, in the quiet that she hadn’t believed

would come. The Country Fair was starting tomorrow, or had started today, with thousands of people moving into their aged wood booths along the dirt paths. Ten feet from her head passed a river of excited people, mostly under thirty, prowling the darkness for possibility. They caffeinated up the street at Liberty Coffee, and cruised down to Dana’s for desserts. Maybe they didn’t need fuel, propelled by desire and held up by each other until they dropped, or maybe they didn’t know where their beds were.

They would suddenly howl like young wolves, connecting with old friends or new lovers, and it was catching, that exuberance. The howl spread up and down the path and one time Jane joined in. They were irresistible, and if it were not dark and she were not exhausted, she would go out to the front of her booth and watch them, their young smooth faces in the moonlight, beaming and blank, in their bliss.

Of course they had no idea what it was to be old, and to need sleep, to be thinking about selling tomorrow and how hard it would be, so tired. Some of them could sleep in their tents most of the day, or go around in spaced sleep deprivation. Jane would have to draw on all her resources, to keep working for a few more days with no hope of real rest. She stayed in her sleeping bag while the birds replaced the revelers, until the Recycling Crew in their garbage truck came by, until the Holy Cow Cafe across the street started ringing their blasted cowbell. Perhaps some lukewarm, weak coffee was ready, which would almost be adequate. Jane pulled on her pants and shoes and stumbled to the outhouses, then wandered up the path for the stronger stuff at Liberty.

The old folks complained, like they would about the weather, standing around in the morning with their coffee. Jane and her neighbors, Don and Lou, and Tim and Paula who camped in the woods behind Jane’s booth, and various friends and acquaintances who happened by, gathered in the one sunny spot they had been standing in for two decades, one weekend a year.

“Geez, they were noisy all night. Did you hear that one woman who couldn’t stop talking? Her friends kept trying to quiet her down, but nothing worked.”

“Until you told her to shut the hell up. That was effective!” Jane’s neighbor Lou was the neighborhood mean Mom. She could always be counted on to get to the point.

“Then there was that little bluegrass band who set right up across the path. They said, “Here’s a place to play!” like it was the middle of the day. It had to be three in the morning.”

“They were actually kind of pleasant,” Jane said. “And when you told them to move it on down the path, they actually apologized.”

“Yeah, but they probably just went and woke up some more people.” Lou was a musician herself, but between the two Parades and the circus shows, plus the evening gigs in the food booths, she found plenty of music during the day and didn’t need to play all night too. But of course, she was old now, at forty-five.

Ron wandered up, already dressed in the total American Flag outfit he wore every Friday for some obscure reason. “You know the rules. One, we don’t come here to sleep, and Two, we don’t come here to be alone.” They all laughed at the simplicity of it.

“You can sleep when you’re dead. Somehow that had a different meaning when we were thirty. Now we seem to want to do it every night.” Jane shuffled off to get in the coffee line for a second hit.

It was indeed a grueling day, hot and dusty. Jane scrambled to get shelves arranged and kept neat and labeled and pointed out to the customers who came in waves to buy gifts and souvenirs and back-to-school clothes. She was so much less interested in the sales than in the passing streams of costumed people, who might be accountants or veterinarians or teachers but were masquerading as hippies and fairy people. Women wore see-through tops or none at all, with painted breasts or strategic flowers. Men wore loincloths and kilts and sarongs and barely anyone was dressed in just regular clothes. Sometimes she thought people bought her t-shirts so they could put on something normal again before they lost their composure altogether. It was a hippie theme park, where it seemed the tourists were stranger than the residents. It was a zoo, where the visitors were the show and the attractions were mirrors.

Finally evening fell and the tourists were swept out in a long, complicated process of checking wristbands and gently pushing the swell of humanity in the direction of the front gate. The din damped down only slightly as the prowl continued. Jane and Paula closed up with curtains drawn over the front of the booth, and sheets pulled over all the displays to catch the damp and dust. It was well past dark when the neighbors gathered in front of the booth again, cold beers in hand, thinking about dinner.

“What’s still open? We had chalupas last night.” Tim and Paula’s two boys were chomping on pizza but that was a last resort meal for adults. “I had the philly cheesesteak for lunch, so that’s out. I say Golden Avatar.” Tim was used to directing the action but everyone was comfortable in the lawn chairs they had dragged out from the deck in back. There would have to be some real impetus to move. Glow sticks and other raver bling were coming out and it was endlessly amusing to see how people would decorate themselves with the flashing LEDs and fluorescent plastic tubes. The darker it got the more interesting the interactions were, as people peered into each others’ faces and recognized each other by tribal clues. The energy was ramping up again, with snatches of music and loud conversation bouncing around above the heads of the streams of people. At home it would be bedtime, but here that was an impossibility.

“We could go for ravioli. Rising Moon has that Friday night meal thing, in fact Lou is playing there now,” Don told the others.

“Too bad we’ve eaten Holy Cow’s food so many times. I see they finally figured out their light-glare problem. It really isn’t bad this year.” Paula drew their attention to the food booth across the path but Jane noticed that the brightest light in the neighborhood was the full moon coming up behind it, through the trees. No wonder everyone was so amped.

Jane was munching crackers with her beer and didn’t care too much about dinner. She considered going to bed, maybe going up for a shower first. Maybe she’d sleep better if she went to bed clean. But when the group decided on ravioli, is seemed like a good idea to wander a bit with them.

The meadow on the other side of the Fair was a soft panorama of colored glowsticks, with small groups of people gathered in circles on the ground, and a low hum of music and laughter floating like a mist. It was gentle, like an eddy where the river slowed and pooled, the hot pursuit of the prowlers caught here for a spell.

“Here’s where our kids hang out.” Don and Lou and Jane all had teenagers who didn’t spend much time at the booth. Paula and Tim’s were younger, but only by a few years. “What did they do before there was the meadow?” It was easy to see the exponential of population growth here, with the rest of the Fair just as full as it had ever been.

The friends drifted off to Rising Moon. It was still lit up, but only one man stood behind the counter, with a look of amusement. He shoved a plate of chocolate sauce and a chunk of bread across the plastic surface to a crusty guy in a battered felt hat. “Try it,” he said. “Who doesn’t like chocolate.”

The man grunted as if to argue, but took the plate and sat at one of the tables.

“So, no food?” Don asked.

“No food.” Behind this man two others were dressing, one applying torn pieces of duct tape to the ruffles of a huge yellow petticoat, seemingly to make it stay up in front like a can-can dancer. His head was bald, his legs in striped stockings. Pirate night? We looked around for Fellini. The man at the counter was speaking in slow motion to another wandering couple.

“No-o-o fo-o-o-od.”

“But there’s bread,” Don said, indicating a large steel bowl of chunks and slices of rough wheat sourdough. “Pesto?”

“Pesto. Pesto and bread, we can do.” The counterman emptied a container of pesto onto a paper plate. Everyone took a handful of bread.

“How much?” Don took out a pile of small bills.

“No charge.” Don shrugged, looked at the others and took the food to a table. No food. No money. They ate but didn’t get full.

The pirates finished dressing, grabbed large knives and faded out the back of the booth. The counterman strung up sheets and turned out the lights, still smiling graciously to the succession of two-and threesomes approaching the counter. When it got dark no one even looked toward the booth---just kept walking toward the next light.

Jane licked her fingers and stood, and the group rejoined the flow of people shuffling in the darkness. The moon wasn’t making it through the trees here in the deep woods. She kept sight of the others, just barely, and walked slower.

Around a bend, in a clearing, she saw the scatterlight of a mirrored ball. The Disco Bus! The Disco Bus was back! Jane started to groove to the beat of the familiar song, those silly Village People, singing YMCA. A syncopated crowd was packed in around the bus, moving as a unit to the pounding bass, arms in the air, some spelling out the letters, singing along. Red and blue lights pulsed from the bus, which was more like a cart this year, carried by a quartet of young men, one at each corner. A framework like roll bars supported the disco ball and shiny streamers and flags. It was moving slowly toward them, the groovers stretching from side to side, completely covering the path. It was a portable crowd, moving together, lost in the groove, a party you wanted to be in.

Laughter was immediate. Jane and Don looked at each other and cracked up, but they didn’t hesitate. Tim yelled “Disco Salmon!” and they waded into the crowd, dancing upstream, fingers pointing up, crying “Hoo,Hoo” with the rest. The crowd allowed them in, and Jane’s body pulsed with the music and the lights and the contact high from the young bodies all around her. Her hips met their hips, their shoulders curved smoothly past hers as they danced one foot and the other up and back, side to side, dancing all directions, spinning like the disco ball. Each time she caught sight of Tim and Don and Paula, they laughed harder and danced with more ease. Burn baby burn, Disco Inferno!

On the other side they watched as the crowd of dancers detached from them, laughing again as they reluctantly let go of the groove. The Bus would keep on going around the long path, crossing the figure eight at the junction and around again, all night long as it had last year and the year before. The outrageous Disco Bus that you just couldn’t get mad about when it woke you straight upright out of sleep. It took away your tiredness, it carried away your dull old self, it brought you back to the land of fur hats and tight pants. You could get with it, get by it, or get on it and go with it all night, but you couldn’t get along without it.

The old folks hobbled home and went to bed, but when the bus came by her booth two hours later and woke her up out of a deep sleep, Jane got up and went out to have a last look. The crowd pulsed by like a river otter or a friendly dragon. The party moved by and down the path, a chatter of conversation trailing behind, a bit of hypnosis in action, like the Pied Piper. It was taking those young folks for a ride. As it flowed on past, Jane wondered how long it would be allowed to exist. Surely someone would complain about the noise, want to move it to the parking lot like the drummers who used to keep everyone up all night at the junction.

It came around again Saturday night, but Sunday night she saw it for the last time, and there was a strange change. The ball was spinning, the glitterlight was falling all around on the groovitude of the surrounding crowd, and it was all moving in unison at the same pace. Fingers were in the air, shoulders humping to the same beat, but it was all silent. Each person had a wire to their ear, an earbud inserted. They were all synched up to the same broadcast, something only they could hear.

The future of the Disco Bus was assured. Nobody could complain about a silent moving rave.

Jane let out a howl, that echoed in communal response up and down the path. She didn’t want things to get too quiet.

How to Begin Writing the Stories

Since the light wakes me up around five anyway, I've been going to bed early and reminding myself what a joyful time it was when I got up every morning to write. I produced an unpublishable novel and many short stories and essays during a period of a few years, about a decade ago, and I miss that richness. I worry hard that my aging process will make writing harder or impossible, so I've vowed to use my self-discipline to restart.

Both OCF and Saturday Market are asking for member stories, and I have a wealth of them. Writing them is the easy part; deciding how to write them for publication is much more difficult. They're personal, and some are confessional, and some thinly disguised as fiction to tell the more embarrassing or deeper emotional truths that I don't want to fully claim. I want to share them, but am I ready for what could follow?

I don't want much of that vulnerability: people passing judgements, learning intimate details, having access into my interior life. It's why I haven't been writing this blog much. I also don't want to make pronouncements as I tend to do about my reality, imagining it as universal, sounding like I have expert opinions that must be shared for the edification of the masses. I don't want to sound that confident in my own judgements. Mostly I don't want to get wounded.

It's these times. We're all so constantly in shock and ashamed to be white Americans with all the privilege we carry. We see all our collective sins, and we know we have to pay. The psychology is deep and I feel I know why we are not in the streets protesting every minute this corrupt regime and the turn our political life has taken. I feel manipulated no matter which way I move. I feel helpless and profoundly confused, and at the same time completely sure of my convictions and completely present and poised for action. Yet no action is clear.

And I am busy working. My refuge seems to be work, when I can be engaged, thinking, solving problems, and not trying to fix the seemingly unfixable. I can do the writing part of my tasks, but how can I help myself do the putting-it-out-there parts?

First, write. I put together one short piece today and reviewed some written a decade ago. I have more in my files to unearth and edit. Do I make a plan and release them one by one? Do I figure out some framing or parameters for myself to make them a collection that makes sense with a context, or let them go out unexplained, at face value? Do I simply give them away? Do I hand them over to be edited by others?

Or do I write all new ones with my present perspective, less personal ones perhaps, and set these aside? What is being asked for is not blog posts, not opinions, but actual stories. Can I be a storyteller, or am I stuck in this role as personal essayist and confessionaire? Will they lose their value if I take out all the insight and emotion I am actually proud of, in my egoist role as person who writes the best about these things. Dropping the ego is the first thing I have to work on, as well as the biggest. I'm in my own way, that's clear.

It's humbling to be needed, and I see that I run from it. It's a responsibility. I went out to pick berries and think through some of these arguments. What if I take the egoism all the way out to its limits and expose it right now: I am one of our community's most willing and able writers. Lots of honest people have told me I am good at it, and I believe them. I have a perceptive position in the interstices of our organizations, as one who has participated in lots of levels with a full heart and plenty of personal investment. So I am qualified. And I have the skills. And I'm of an age that allows me to use some applied wisdom, and maybe can do it without some of the pitfalls of my earlier writings.

Plus it brings me great pleasure. I'm really happy today at getting up early, having so much extra time. I got up because either a bug crawled into my ear and fluttered wildly or I have some congestion in my head that needs to drain, but it was enough of a cosmic message to make me sit up and type instead of reading our dreary newspaper. A lot of my vulnerability at the moment comes from the recent RG article about me, for which I feel explicitly and embarrassingly exposed, but look at how he titled it: Veteran vendor contributes to marketplace of ideas. Could that be any more affirmative of what I should be doing with this opportunity? It's my chosen path, and not by accident. I'm here because I have applied my combined skills to make my niche with my wit and intelligence.

The writer, Christian Wihtol, intuited and prised out a lot of my authentic self. He asked a lot of



questions I was happy to answer. While appealing to my ego in a sense, he also had a story to tell about the Market and those of us who are invested, and he told it well. Many have thanked me and come to support me and each time I read the article, it seems more benign. There's little to fear. I didn't tell my innermost secrets. He didn't say anything objectionable, except calling my booth a stall (we don't use that word, as we aren't animals and it isn't a barn...) but I didn't get around to telling him the forbidden ways to speak about craftspeople.

So my fear that something bad will happen with my writing is groundless, and anyway, why do I care? If someone thinks my style is annoying or my ego is showing like a soiled slip hem, so what? Will I even know? Won't that be balanced by the delight of another person who enjoys my story?

What's my real problem? I suppose it is losing control of my products...squandering my material by giving it away, pearls before swine. Easily remedied by asking for editorial control, or by more diligent editing so I don't give away points I might want to use. I sincerely doubt I will write a book about OCF, though I do plan to write one about Saturday Market. I don't, however, want to write a definitive history book about market, but actually have another plan. It would only add to a body of writing about the Market, not be the one and only book. The more available to not only outline, but to fill in the details of our experience, the better, from a historical perspective. My thoughts die with me, unless I put them on paper and share them while I can. If I truly have enough ego to think they are valuable, giving them away should cost me nothing.

So I have no good reasons to hang onto my writing and now, with the 50th arriving, now is the time. I want to feel compelled like I do today. I want to immerse in it and get all the deep feelings that make the brief week of Fair so rich for me. The more I write about it the better it gets.

So it seems I've decided. One first draft every morning, and one edit of an old piece, and some research into the blog posts for forgotten writings. Then start, soon, giving them away. Maybe do that today, send one. Push myself a little, for the common good. When someone reads mine, bad or good, they will feel a tiny push to send in their own. I want to read them, and I am not the only one.

Write. Pick berries, move the sprinklers, read, write. Turn the sacred upside down. Gaze at the beautiful summer light, go deep, feel satisfied. Cry. Write. Push "publish."

Writing All the Blog Posts, Without the Paper

Generally on my slow way home from Market and as I unload my trailer, I write blog posts in my mind about my day...post-Market I have so many deep appreciations for what we do there all day every week. Sometimes I'm chewing on some situation that needs resolution, sometimes I'm feeling that I should shut up and crawl back into my cave. Most times I am singing. I do the same walking home from meetings. Walking to meetings I am usually going over my mental lists of what I have to do, or say, but going home I just let the reflections flow while I enjoy the flowers and trees of my wonderful neighborhood.

This week I ran around Market on adrenaline getting set up for the Founder's Day display, buying flowers, excited about a photo shoot for a future RG article, full of anticipation about a wonderful surprise that is going to hit the news on Monday, and a little bit worried that something random would spoil these golden moments that are going to be such important parts of our history.

I spent a lot of time in the office this week, and last. It is not my habit to dump big projects on our staff. I am more used to having an idea, and then putting my whole heart and soul into making it happen, with the attendant hours of labor involved. I do the work happily, take on whatever isn't really in someone's job description, and have no problem spending my time and money on something that has fed me so richly for so many years of my life. I do it because I love it. This week I found out a lot about Vanessa as we worked on making easel backs for those posters, and I found out that our staff is a group of singers. They just break into song all the time! What's not to love about that?

It was fun and I could have done more of it. Our staff, all of them, get my undying gratitude for running with this honoring Lotte concept, and for saying yes so many times all throughout. It's one of those types of promotions that might not show direct effects...though we had a nice Weekly mention. I didn't get to spend a lot of time on the deck myself, but once I was surrounded by Lotte's daughters, her best friends, and some of the artisans who were built at Market as I was, and another time three former managers and Vanessa were up there laughing and talking shop. Every moment I got to be on the deck was golden. Bill Goldsmith patiently sat there ALL day and also took home parts of the archives to scan, as we need a digital archive as one of the first steps toward keeping our history accessible and complete for all of us. I hope many more people than I am aware of took home something valuable from Market yesterday. https://www.facebook.com/eugenesaturdaymarket/videos/10155255581981640/UzpfSTcxNDQ5OTYxOToxMDE1NTgwNjk3OTg2OTYyMA/

I have decided that Archivist is my next role for the market...way beyond the Secretary role, which I will at some point gladly mentor another member into. I was very nearly voted out of that officer position this January  after ten years...for whatever reasons, I got the message that some are ready for me to shut up and get into that cave. Carrying the historical legacy better suits me anyway, so I won't question the ondas (kind of a silent wave) or care about who or why, just acknowledge that change is good and I have plenty of ways to use my time that might actually result in more important and more personal gratification than just selfless service.

The 50th Anniversary of Market and OCF is the force of nature that will maybe catapult me into a new phase of my life. I need more time to write. I have several books nearly written in my mind and in my many journals...I also want to make sure that Market history is set into permanent and useful form. I plan to study and acquire techniques for the physical parts, preservation of the artifacts, and hope to use and develop some personal skills for interviewing and networking with people in person, something I do rather badly and can improve by being less tied to the day to day overseeing of our legality and proper Board actions and also to whether or not I have approval from the membership for the many actions and decisions in which I am involved. Maintaining the approval of others is wearying and I dislike both examining it and being re-assured, caring about it and thinking about it. I'd like to unhook from it completely and just do what I want to do. Maybe not realistic, but I do seek ways to diminish that anxiety and do less of what brings me criticism and more of what brings me simple joy.

The ways our membership organization, and Country Fair's as well, fail us all, is when we descend into our pettiness and resentments and forget how we are all on the same team working for the same goals. If someone has a great idea, ideally we all get behind it and help push it through! Ideally we don't pick it apart, especially afterward, or bring up how one of us gets more than our share of whatever quantity or perceived benefit, while others are unfairly deprived. I get that this comes from deprivation and insecurity, but it serves no one when this dominates our work. I have heard many times now how us old people need to get out of the way for change and for the young and how the new members are the future and so on. Who invented this duality where if one gets, there is an "other" who loses?

If one of our master craftspeople is still successful after a lifetime of effort, not only have they earned it, but we are so lucky to get to share their gifts! They know things we will never know starting today...our history is rich with ways we have adapted and struggled and overcome. They are our precious treasure. New is fantastic and change is essential, but it isn't a choice of one or the other. We have everything in the Market. The more of everything we have, the better. We don't have scarcity. We have abundance. When someone brings their success, we all gain.

We're going to be in the civic spotlight tomorrow and for the next while. We are in a golden moment for our organization and we are so poised to make the most of it. We've always had stellar and hard-working staff, and right now we have a marketing expertise that is unmatched in any time of our history. Goodbye to our inferiority complex about whether or not the city loves us (actually it has been mostly the county that has made us wonder.) I had a meeting with the City Councilor for my ward this week, and she got us so thoroughly I laughed in relief. She said all the right things.

So often it has been our self-sabotaging perceptions as humans that have gotten in our way, more than any external force. Take a look at "internal and external locus of control" readings. When we operate from an internal locus, our confidence rises and we are freed from a lot of doubt and hesitation that can cripple us. With our crafter population, one of my problems is that I have seen all of our warts and flaws and witnessed many of our errors in judgement, and I fear that we will destroy our momentum and bite ourselves in our collective asses. Fear is not a good driver! Get someone at the wheel who can drive well, and maybe just read the map for awhile. I have always been a better navigator and support person that driver. I'm so happy to let our great staff drive our bus.

I'm happy to yield to the real visionaries among us, to let experts in the many aspects of us come forward and be expert. I am not a person who wants power and control. I want to be left to my simplicity and joy and also to feel in control of my seat in the back, my lunchbox, and my satchel of homework. I've always been happier to wind my way home on foot and meander my way through the woods while other people rush to keep up or get there or make big plans or do big jobs.

I do have a big plan, which is to have Lotte and the Eugene Craft Movement be enshrined in a museum wing. I intend to do my little parts to take that dream as far as it can go. In my imagination there is a little display of Jell-O Art in a corner. In my plan maybe I get paid to write things instead of hauling tote bags to the fountainside so often, but as long as I can be by that fountain, I intend to stay there. For those of you happy about that, thank you, I really appreciate the support. I got a lot yesterday, and it feels wonderful.

For those of you resentful of that, or who want to stick out a foot and trip me, well, that is in your power. I suffer as much as anyone with emotions. Go right ahead with your bad self if you have the need to punish others. Be prepared to be ignored. Be prepared to watch the positive among us rise above it.

Get on Board, children of the market! We need your positive energy and your great ideas right there in the room. We need you to collect our wisdom before we rest. Run for the Board! Drink one less beer and attend a committee meeting instead. Put aside your phone and take minutes for it. Extend yourself. Our success is mutual. Now is the best possible time to be a Market member who thrives, with the connection, the support, and the outstanding collective expertise of our almost fifty years.

We have everything we need right now except robust volunteer participation. We have people waiting to step away, as soon as you step forward. Volunteers made this Market, including Lotte, who did it all for free, and continuing through the thousands of us who already stepped up. It's your turn. Please try. This is the common good we are preserving, with a big slice for each of us, in the ever-growing, never-finished pie. There is a piece for you, and it is luscious.

And now, a chat with Mom, who also has my undying gratitude, and a HOT DAY! I will be silent and on the deck. Or possibly singing and in the garden. Or both.

Spring Renewal

I've always enjoyed having a birthday in May, for the flowers and birds, and the ebullience of another season of abundance, with the coming promise of hot weather. I feel so much better with heat, long days, more outdoor activity...I've never successfully cultivated a love of being cold and confined even though I've come to appreciate what my winter brings too. Plus I have this sense of order from my birthdate...the fifth day of the fifth month, which is the 125th day of the year, 5x5x5...and when I was five it was 5-5-55. Don't tell Facebook. I need a sense of order. I like reassurance that all will be well somehow.

The recurrent theme of deprivation juxtaposed with abundance has shaped my life, a condition of growing up in the fifties to parents who survived Depression-era poverty, into the rich Delaware landscape where elite people owned all the good lands but the farms were just beginning to turn into suburbs. We moved when I was six from a downtown duplex into a big lot in a place called Cooper Farms...we could still locate the original farmhouse we thought, and our place had fruit trees, lots of space, neighbors who didn't have fences. And we could freely roam. I wandered all over the woods learning plants, finding bones, going to the Bookmobile and walking to school. Everybody knew everybody else. We were so safe in our world we took it for granted.

Of course not really, and our family had dark secrets we thought were normal. It wasn't that bad. I thought I had a happy childhood until some time in my twenties. I spent a decade in silent reaction to my father's actions, though I never really blamed my Mom. I did hide from her for a long time, or maybe I didn't, and she was just extra good at letting me be. I struggled for decades to find some normal, to find that elusive "one true love" of the Disney fantasies. It was having a child at age 39 that really changed me the most. I only did it because my Mom said she would back me up if I needed anything. Which ordinarily you might assume, but I had to hear it said, while drunk enough to actually ask for that.

My change was not without effort, of course. After reading "Your Child's Self Esteem" I was in therapy once a month for a couple of decades and followed it up with co-counselling, and other work. I read so many books, wrote so many journals. Journalling was my main healing modality and I do it daily. I started in my teens on my mother's urging...she meant travel logs as I ran off to Mexico in a wild adventure, but she probably knew I was a writer. I had a teacher in High School who could maybe tell it was what I needed. She was the first authority figure that really convinced me I was smart and good at something. I tested very well...I am smart and good at things. But self esteem is a wily snake that has many ways of biting you and self destruction was hard-wired from an early age. And let's not talk about Catholicism today, even though, as usual when I write, it's Sunday. The day we try not to work. The day we pretend to take a real day off. I needed outside affirmation that I had something special to bank on. Deprivation, even perceived, makes you fundamentally insecure.

So, raising a child while I worked my ass off was not ideal, but I did pretty well at modeling work. I shared my inner work some...introduced my teenager to NVC, took him to my therapist once, though he clammed up of course. I didn't date. Never even tried. Never had a babysitter. His dad and I broke up when he was two, after I read that book and figured out that my "high self esteem" was a bald-faced adaptive lie. I was so damaged. My child didn't save me, but my will to make a good, non-traumatic life for him did save me. I build a house for us...so he could have a room with a door, and got it (kind of) done when he was about fifteen or so. I made safety for myself even before I could articulate that was what I needed. It's odd to even admit that we need that. Not as odd now as it was only a few years ago, as now we all feel in jeopardy, except maybe the very rich. May 4th with the return of Kent State reminded me how we thought campus was safe, until we got teargassed, and then shot down for protesting, or merely being near a protest. By kids our age. You don't get back your sense of safety after experiences like that. Still you have to try to have one. Living in fear is debilitating. I've refused to do that.

Not that I mastered it, but this house is pretty solid and I can hermit here with fair assurance that I can keep my demons and nightmares at bay. I have space for all my projects and what turned out to be archives, not merely junk I hung onto. Mom admitted on her last visit that she worried I'd become a hoarder, but after I got over my defensive shock I can explain. Most of it is art supplies (and my archives) and I can indeed get rid of useless things and have begun to thin. At some point I will have to get out of my shop to rent it, so I can work less, so that's one of my goals. I turned 68. I'm not going to be able to screenprint that much longer. But I'm not mentally ill in that particular way and I'm not going to be a hoarder. I like things, that's all, and like to use them up before I throw them "away." Earth day got through to me in my twenties too.

I enjoy the regrounding and reassessing that comes with every birthday. I take a look at things. I'm so happy that last night my son indulged me in about an hour of texting. It was mostly some uncommon sharing about his life, which was so welcome, but we touched on parenting things too and he gave me the Mother's Day gold I had been needing for years. Just a bit of affirmation of my hard work and dedication. I didn't need a lot. I just remembered how damn hard it was for me to process my own childhood and family relationships and since all I have is him, I do have a strong need for his occasional compliment or acknowledgement. He delivered. I hate to ask for it.

One of the things I've tried really hard to lose is coercion. Control patterns built from irrational need are debilitating to others and I've gone over my past many times to pin down my guilt and root out what drove me to do the mean or stupid things I've done. One upside of Catholicism is that I really do want to be a good person. Not to go to heaven, of course, but maybe to be a saint here on earth. Just to not cause more damage. Just to make the world a better place for others, after so many years of thinking only of myself, or feeling that my own needs were so great that others should fill them for me. Or that I was justified in placing myself over others for survival reasons. To really feel equality.

Growing up with four siblings, I always wanted things to be fairly distributed, and being a member of so many membership organizations that have this as a value makes me take it seriously. I grew up with plenty of racism, too, which of course persists, and as a woman I've worked my whole life to just embrace internally what I know is logically right. Equal means all of us. It isn't granted. We have to demand it, work for it, give for it. We the privileged have to release what we've gained. When I do well, I have to share.

Thus my security is tenuous...I haven't accumulated much in the way of financial resources, and I won't depend on someone else to keep me safe. No strong husband scenario for me. An equal partner has never seemed something I could handle, at least not with anyone I have ever known. Maybe I just don't have the patience for the negotiations. Relationships use up a lot of time, and as a creative person I have a flair for the dramatic so even though I have learned what drama is, that doesn't mean I can always avoid creating it. So at some point, or many points, I've just opted out. I'm solitary and I like it. Plus I have a lot of work to do.

That solitary hermit life

wasn't great to model, as interdependence is healthier and acknowledging the contributions of others should be a constant habit. I've had to train myself to say thank you instead of operating on the assumption that everyone will do their assigned part quickly and with professionalism. People need to be thanked and know their contribution wasn't taken for granted. It's a goal to be grateful.

Group process, the formal pursuit of the common good, is an excellent way to spend energy and time and I'm dedicated to us in the craft world to not get too lazy and go for the more efficient majority rule. Whenever we have a tightly split vote at the Board level I feel that we have not worked hard enough. There should be a decision all of us can support. I don't mind long meetings if we find consensus, but not many people agree with me on that. I don't usually insist any more. I wish I would speak up more, but I get the feeling I've been dismissed in some ways...put in some categories I don't accept. I hope to work my way out of them rather than give up. Efficiency has its place but poorly-made decisions come back again and dig holes in our shimmery fabric of mutual well-being.

It's like the Jell-O Art Show this year...we went off into the winners/losers paradigm and threw it out. Everyone got participation awards, everyone won the golden roses from the Golden Commode of competition for one highly valuable prize...no one got to be at the top. I thought our political quotient was perfectly attuned to the zeitgeist and left us all richer. You had to be there. The video, which we saw this week, only shows that we meant to make the points...but I guess they got across. I'm too critical as I watch my wardrobe fail and dropped lines. Being too critical is something to work on, isn't it?


Mom says I was always hard on myself. Maybe the quest for sainthood, instilled at such an early age, has made me cynical and devoted to abstract justice which is not attainable, but I'll probably die trying for increased self-awareness and incremental improvements in the lives of my friends and neighbors. Hopefully not too soon. Someone told me yesterday they were aiming for 93...that's the age I've always aimed for too. My Mom will be 93 next winter. She still has it all...she's doing super well. It's probably obvious how much I am like her, though to me I'm also so much like my dad, and really unlike either of them.

My son said he is trying to be like me, but better...you have to laugh at things like that. I agree, of course, that he should be better...and I'm sure he will be, with the benefit of seeing my efforts and some of my mistakes. I'm mostly relieved to know he isn't really mad at me for some of them. I might tell him more about my mistakes as we grow older...I have a lot of cautionary tales that I've kept to myself. He's an experiential learner, and I respect that. It's my challenge to watch as he learns, and not judge and not advise. I get to marvel at his solutions and his explorations, and I hope he will brag to me about his accomplishments as I do to my Mom every week in our phone calls. She tells me about her limits and some of her mundane challenges, not so much her fears...I tell her what I'm proud of, and what I'm working toward. I put my fears in my journal. I like to think she doesn't have to worry about me now. She doesn't want me to worry about her either. She has taken care of herself, after taking care of so many people over the course of her life. That's what I want to do, take care of myself and not worry people. And I want to truly learn to care for others, while not expecting them to care for me...except on my birthday, when I do want them to care for me. They did!

I'm lucky. Plus I got Mother's Day out of the way a week early, so I can focus on Founder's Day, which is a whole other level of caring. Maybe I'll have time to write about Lotte this week. Her vision has been such a gift to me, to our community, to my friends and family. I hope to convey my appreciation for that, if that is even possible. Carrying her legacy forward is something I'm proud of. I told Mom all about it. Next Saturday, come and see what we've done, say hello to her daughters, and spread the love as thickly as possible. It looks to be another spectacular Saturday. See you at the Market, where I live and breathe in the beauty of our mutual creation. Bring flowers. Smile more than you ever thought possible, for it is glorious spring!