Here in DC we just came through the storm of the century. Seriously, for the first time, the storm actually was as bad as they predicted. It lasted two days, dropped a couple feet of snow, brought blizzards winds and freezing temperatures. In this city there are not enough plows to clear even the main roads, let alone small streets like mine. Not including the weekend, the US government has been closed for three days and today there is a three-hour delay.
This might sound terrible to people from sunny climates, but I had a fantastic time during the storm. I had plenty of notice and time to get supplies, and I scored one of the last snow shovels to make it into the region. I have friends within walking distance, plus, Murphy's, the coolest Irish pub ever is not two blocks away. They already had a great reputation of staying open in storms, but I wasn't sure they could keep that up with this monster. Sure enough, they stayed open by putting up their staff in local hotels. They kept their 1:30 am last call in the height of the storm. Amazing.
So basically I ate and drank and socialized right through the storm, and got all kinds of personal things done I never have time for, I got the tax paperwork ready, re-addressed the mouse situation, etc. A gift of time with no expectations attached.
I also had to do some serious manual labor. I only have street parking, so my little car was buried beyond all recognition. I waited until it had to be done and the plow finally cleared at least a path in the street, and dug in.
Particularly far from the street plowing, I had to almost shovel my own driveway to get the car free.
It was a good workout. A few hours of manual labor hurts no one.
My co-worker/neighbor advised me by text, "Put your trash can in front of it when you leave so no one steals it." He's not alone in his thinking. I have noticed a few lawn chairs, etc. holding the few spots that have been dug out.
I don't get it. I don't own the street, and to try to save my spot while I go to work for eight hours is just plain rude. I wrote to him I was not doing that...he wrote back, "But you'll lose your spot and be driving for hours in circles in search of another one." Hey, we all knew what "street parking" meant when we moved into this precious neighborhood. You want guaranteed parking? Move to the suburbs, you might even get a garage.
Someone even resorted to this pathetic plea:
Isn't that always how it is. We're afraid there won't be enough, that we won't get what we deserve or what we've earned. We let fear drive us into protecting what is "ours."
I have learned otherwise. I have learned that there actually is enough. There is enough time in my life for what I want to do that I don't have to resent my work hours or fear I won't have time for me. I have learned that there are resources enough in almost every case, to be magnanimous, to try for big things, to step out, to be audacious, and certainly to leave a parking spot for others to use all day.
I have learned to trust myself and the universe to provide what I need, and when I do, I am rewarded. I am rewarded for getting to live that day without fear. I don't want to live in such a way that fear of scarcity affects my decisions and has me being too frugal, too stingy with my time or money and living too small. My objective in life is to develop and live bigger, which does not include hoarding a parking space.
Now...let's see if I feel the same tonight when I get home.
I should be writing about Renaissance art, the Amalfi Coast, and the wonder of Rome. I should be posting pictures of the Roman Forum, my favorite scene of the Sistine Chapel and writing what it's like to spend Christmas in Sorrento. I have recently seen the wonders of the greatest empire to ever rule the world.
I should be writing about how magical the trip was, how I am coming to believe that only when you step out to do something as large as dragging your parents half-way around the world because you think they need to see it, does magic happen. There's a payoff for audacity.
But I'm not writing about that. Yes I was inspired, there are several posts in that two-week trip, and I may get to them. But I am more compelled to write about another topic, as it has become my semi-obsession.
War.
I live in a house built in 1890. It's in the historic district, it's charming, it is in a great location...it is suddenly a mouse haven. Not charming. I left it cold and still for two weeks in the middle of winter, with a pantry full of, well, tasty items if you are a mouse in winter, apparently.
So I had this to tackle ASAP when I got back, as I was too grossed out by the mess my tiny housemates made to let things lie for even a day. Jet-lagged, I walked down to the 24-hour drugstore at 3am to buy whatever they had. It is not fun to buy anti-rodent paraphernalia. They only had conventional traps, albeit hard plastic instead of the old wire and wood design, but they had teeth and looked effective. I grabbed a handful, took them home and loaded them up with almond butter.
No dice. These are city mice, street smart. I thought they might like the Whole Foods almond butter, and they did. I got home to empty traps. They know how to get the goods and run back into the depths of my crawl space. Not cool.
I went to the sticky traps. Evil, and mean, I agree, but I needed to deliver a strong message. Success. I awoke to two very alive but very stuck creatures. I have to say, they were a little adorable, and so I felt bad, even apologized as I put them out of their misery. Had to, poor creatures. There I am in the freezing, early-morning dark, in my jammies, apologizing to the tiny beasts as I hit them hard with a piece of firewood. Twice each. Ugh. It took more emotional energy than physical, but I can do this, and was heartened to be getting somewhere with this crowd.
The next morning there was a half-stuck mice that had crawled with one free leg out into the center of the kitchen in a final quest for freedom. Inspiring really. Braveheart came to mind.
I spent my weekend buying glass containers and bleaching every inch of the pantry, throwing out perfectly good food and paper items because, well, let's be honest, I needed to feel cleaner. Sorry to the environment, but, desperate times...
Feeling cleaner and a little smug, I thought the bleach and eliminating their ability to find any morsel of food would encourage them to go elsewhere. Sure I had given some effort to close up some possible entry points, but to really get back in that scary crawl space...well, no one wanted to do that.
So back into another work week, waking up and coming home to dead mice daily began to wear on me. I got tired of killing mice. While I was apologizing to the first two and feeling bad, by the time I got to numbers six and seven, I was just tossing them into the outdoor trash. I had gotten calloused in a hurry, and starting to take this personally. Hey, freezing to death isn't that bad of a way to go. Don't judge.
I wasn't winning this war. Mice are China. I can kill them wholesale, and they will just keep on coming. I was going to have to deal with the scary crawl space. As I armored up with gloves, goggles and old overclothes, I couldn't help but think about how I have learned that in life, I eventually have to face the scary crawl spaces. I should have gone there first. It was scary, and nasty, and it took a few self pep-talks to clean up and seal the nooks and crannies. Got it done. Felt better, but couldn't help but wonder if everything was really sealed, and, did I seal any in?
It wasn't over. The next day I had to go all the way to hand-to-hand combat with a brazen mouse trying for my dog's food, right before my eyes. Absolutely not. We went one v. one. There was yelling involved. I did not apologize to that mouse.
And so...that was that last dead mouse I have seen. Good, right? No. Right after the dog food incident I saw another attempting the same kibble. There is one remaining. This one is wily. A special-ops mouse I think, as he or she has avoided all fresh traps with all manner of enticements for days. I'm going to have to raise my game, study up on warrior ethos.
“Living through enough, we all come to this understanding, though it is difficult to accept: No matter what path we choose to honor, there will always be conflict to negotiate. If we choose to avoid all conflict with others, we will eventually breed a poisonous conflict within ourselves. Likewise, if we manage to attend our inner lives, who we are will—sooner or later—create some discord with those who would rather have us be something else.
In effect, the cost of being who you are is that you can’t possibly meet everyone’s expectations, and so, there will, inevitably, be external conflict to deal with—the friction of being visible. Still, the cost of not being who you are is that while you are busy pleasing everyone around you, a precious part of you is dying inside; in this case, there will be internal conflict to deal with—the friction of being invisible.
In a daily way, I have to be conscientious about being truthful and resist the urge to accommodate my truth away. It means that being who I really am is not forbidden or muted just because others are uncomfortable or don’t want to hear it.
The great examples are legendary: Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, Sir Thomas More, Rosa Parks. But we don’t have to be great to begin. We simply have to start by saying what we really want for dinner or which movie we really want to see."
It took about five years for the, "You need to write," voice to become louder than anything else I needed to do, and another year for me to actually listen, which is a whole 'nother thing....
Six years ago it became apparent to me overnight that I had to turn my attention to a project that would take all my energy: Building a life on my own.
I did that. The journey has been as rewarding as it has been hard.
Six years ago I instantly dropped all creative work and went into serious survival mode. From the initial job-search to the eventual house-buying, I felt my plate was full. There was little time or emotional energy for creating, only space to exhale, recover and try to have a little fun. However, over the past year or more, I have found myself driving to work on Mondays without a feeling of anxiety over getting through another week, and, I now have time and space for travel, reading and many, many time-wasting endeavors. I'm breathing easier.
These days "You need to write," voice is very loud. I have resisted it with every imaginable lame argument, until recently, I lost the debate. The argument trumping all others was this: If I don't throw in and start writing, I will never know. I will never know what I could have written or what it is like to be a writer. I will have the regret of the un-lived life.
I can see myself on my death bed saying, "But wait...I was going to write something really, really good."
Six years ago I loved this blog, maybe read by a handful of people. I was taking baby steps to see if I, like everyone who aspires to do something creative, had the courage to put my stuff out there and create a tiny piece of art with my choice of words. It felt great. It gave me an outlet for my thoughts and a growing feeling of confidence and satisfaction every time I got to click on the word "publish." It was as if I was a real author.
The only writing I've done since is is scribbling in scores of journals for my own mental health. So, I have to start back with baby steps. However, I've grown up a lot in six years, maybe I can get to full-on walking before too long.
After plowing through the water for weeks, I am suddenly swimming.
I really thought I would be plowing forever, splashing inefficiently and forcing myself to stare at that damn black line...I really thought it would never be more than that. I have taken up swimming a few times before, and I've never progressed beyond that. It has never flowed, I have never glided.
I just needed to accept it.
I used to think that if I really worked at something in life, I would get better at it. At some point, life would begin to flow, and it would feel like gliding...it would feel right. Then experience, and other people, convinced me I couldn't, and shouldn't expect that. Things in life are hard and they only get so good, and you need a formula to muddle through.
But...I am swimming now.
It was so sudden, it just clicked. One day I found myself reaching farther with every stroke, feeling stronger with every lap. It shocked me--I had quit expecting things to "click."
So, there is my proof. Sometimes at least, life works the way I thought it should. I was right. Contrary to all those rule-following naysayers who said I shouldn't expect things to flow, sometimes they do.
When I decided to take up swimming this time, it was really just a resignation. I have a beautiful pool a couple blocks from my house--I should throw myself in there a couple times a week for cross-training. I never expected to be gliding within a few weeks...
Well, gliding is too strong a word, but I am swimming. I am pulling myself through the water and getting stronger...can gliding be far off?
Well, regular life has resumed, if at a much slower pace. Unlike D.C., people in New Mexico are not rushing around trying to conquer the world, or save it. It seems they are happy to just be here...this is one quiet, sleepy town.
It's cool. I haven't waited in a line since I've been here, traffic and parking problems are non-existent. I've met a few locals, then run into them a couple times since--it's that small of a town. We've been saying that we have to allow an extra 20 minutes if we're going to run errands in town, no one is in a hurry and they love to shoot the breeze.
There's been something to do every weekend. There's a little park in town where all the festivities take place--the pancake breakfast, the Cottonwood Festival, the Wine Festival, the Balloon Festival, the Fiesta--and as you might imagine, once you've been to one, you've pretty much been to them all. There's always a few booths with a few artists and vendors, and a stage with a local band playing...that's pretty much it.
The weather has been nice since we got here, and it's true, the sunsets over the desert mountains are worth a look every night. I do a lot of dogwalking/running out there, it's giving me a quiet, big sky, God-must-exist perspective. Plenty of air to breathe and horizon to vent to--I do not feel hemmed in living on-base.
Apparently it's hunting season. I've overheard some locals talking it up and even saw a guy carrying a rifle downtown--we are in the West. Lots of pick-up trucks, ball caps and a few cowboy hats. I had my first rattlesnake encounter--it was the sound that was more startling than the snake--he gave me a nice warning I took to heart.
If I'm home, or near home I get to hear music every day, a couple of times. Each day at 4:30 loudspeakers all over base play the national anthem. Wherever you are, or if you're driving, you are to stop in your tracks, face the direction of the flag, and listen. I find myself trying to work around it if I'm withing earshot--not that I don't like the anthem, it just feels a little...staged. And, because we have a German squadron based here, on Wednesdays they play the German anthem first, then ours. It's only hospitable I suppose. The whole thing reminds me of the organized way of living in Japan, where every little town had their loudspeakers play a song at 6pm. We would make up our own words to those.
So I'm not sure about the 4:30 call to patriotism, but what is growing on me is the 10 pm playing of "Taps," every night. At first it was a little startling--I felt like I was living in a movie and was reminded that any of our people could be called away to fight and die at any time. Now I'm finding it painfully quieting. It is a reminder of what could happen, is happening, and of our purpose here, and that is just, well, true.
I think it was the move, the traveling, the adjustments to a new life and place--I'll even blame feeling under the weather for a few days. It takes some time to even figure out what I feel about a new life and a new environment, and I don't feel quite like myself here yet.
There are a couple of ways to get back on a horse you've been thrown off...I know this from experience.
You can jump on, grab that mane and hang on, hoping you stay on and gain control before you're thrown again...OR, you can take your time, try to manage the horse close to a fence, be still and quiet, climb up the fence and slowly ease yourself back into the saddle. Maybe the horse won't even know your back on until your set and ready to deal with the beast.
Anyone who knows me knows I'm going to take my time...
"Artists never thrive in colonies. Ants do. What the budding artist needs is the privilege of wrestling with his problems in solitude--and now and then a piece of red meat."
Henry Miller
"For Christ sake and don't worry what the boys will say nor whether it will be a masterpiece nor what. I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the waste-basket....Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously."
Ernest Hemingway, in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald (1934)
"There's no one out there waiting for it, and nobody's going to scold you if you don't do it."
Lynne Sharon Schwartz
"It's easy, after all not to be a writer. Most people aren't writers, and very little harm comes to them."
Julian Barnes
"Writing is easy. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."
Red Smith
"The most solid advice...for a writer is this, I think: Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell, and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough."
I was ready to leave the beach…it was a nice break, but it wasn’t real life.
We left there and headed directly north to an Army base in Georgia. An Army Ranger friend was having a party and participating in an event so we decided to make it our first stop.
Many of the people at the party just got back from Iraq or Afghanistan, and our friend is heading over there next month. He’s been over there a lot, even been shot a few times. He has a titanium plate in his leg for crying out loud…
The event was a Change of Command ceremony. I’ve been to several in the Air Force, they’re always a little moving as one commander leaves his leadership position and what has consumed most of his time the past two years, and another one takes charge. In the Air Force it typically happens in a hanger…the squadron of 20 or 30 pilots and a few others stand at attention in front of jets. It’s a picture of our war-fighting capability—a few people and multimillion dollar tools.
At the Army Ranger ceremony there were no tools of war. Standing at attention behind the outgoing and incoming leaders were just men. There were of course no jets, but also no tanks, no artillery, no helicopters--no tools. Just 1500 well-trained, highly-fit men, all of whom would rather be fighting the fight than standing on that parade field. They are the tools of war...their well-trained bodies, their minds, their willingness and whatever they can carry on their backs.
It was a stunning picture.
The outgoing commander choked back tears reciting the names of the ten men he’d lost in his two years of command. Then he apologized to his kids for not being there, and complimented their mother’s raising of them.
Wow. Our Air Force people are gone some and work a lot, but we don’t lose many and our people don't typically have to concede they haven’t even raised their own children. We are feeling this war, but not at that level of stress and loss. We are removed from it with our outlying bases and our multimillion dollar airplanes flying high above the fray. Army Rangers are over there all the time doing America's bidding, and I could feel the sacrifice.
I was struck by the clear knowledge they were giving their lives for this. It’s always interesting to see what people do with their lives, but usually it isn’t so clear. People are into their jobs and families, just living their lives and getting by, maybe not thinking too hard on what they are spending their lives.
Those are the exactly the words that came to mind watching those men—They have decided to spend their lives on this. They've done all the work to be fit, strong, willing and able to do whatever it takes, whatever it takes, over and over again. And with all their battle scars they are not crushed, or even weakened, they are strong and fired-up and itching to go again. It was obvious to me it’s just what they do, like there is no other option. Everything else falls into place behind this mission--no compromises--family and even religion get in line behind it.
I’ve heard a lot of prayers in my life, but the one at this event about knocked me over. In the Air Force we have chaplains of all faiths, saying prayers that tend to be pretty generic and politically correct. This chaplain pulled no punches. He basically called for a holy war—in Jesus’ name, of course. He not only prayed the Psalm of David asking God to “Prepare their hands for war,” but he also called down God’s "fury upon our enemies."
Wow again. No love of Jesus? No mercy? Yeah, no F-ing way. You know the other side is praying the same thing, not realizing God bleeds red, white and blue. Yikes. I wonder what God is thinking about all this...
I hate it when people mix patriotism and God…like he’s blessed us and is on our side because we’ve been so good following him. It was one of the last straws weighing down my Christian camel’s back a few years ago. I gave this chaplain a break though…I don’t know how many dead or injured Rangers he’s prayed over, he might deserve to be angry. I suppose the Rangers appreciated the prayer, and truthfully, I actually thought to myself, “Whatever you guys have to think to get the job done.” I’ll let them have it. I'll let them have whatever reality they live in that fires them up to give their lives to this...
Why? Because I’m sleeping in a safe bed and driving around drinking a Starbucks with my radio blasting, that’s why. And although no one is making them do it, they’ve chosen to give their lives to going to war for this country. They might not even be doing it for noble reasons, they might just be good at it and get a bang off it, but they can have that too...
Why? Because someone has to do it.
The next day in the car traveling across the South we were listening to country radio and I had to fight back tears when I heard a pro-military, patriotic song bragging about how we can rage at our enemies and silence them easily. Yes, I suppose we can, but there is a heavy price. Are we even looking at the bill?
I for one, am tired of paying it.
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We had to cross Alabama, and ended up in Montgomery at lunchtime. Ummm, fried chicken and sweet tea one more time...
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We didn’t have time for much sightseeing, but wanted to take a little downtime every day, so we decided to stop at Vicksburg National Battlefield and Cemetery in Mississippi. We’ve visited a few battlefields from our wars, and it always takes some imagination to understand how things went down. Here the battle was over the river, control of the Mississippi was imperative to both sides in the Civil War. President Lincoln himself mandated that Grant clear the Mississippi of Southern strongholds.
Well he did easily, except for here at Vicksburg, where the Confederates were dug in deep. It took several attempts, a months-long battle, and finally a siege before Grant finally succeeded. The National Cemetery there has 17,000 Union dead...13,000 of them unknown. Countless Rebels are buried a few hills over, they apparently don't deserve the honor of the National Cemetery. The details were brutal. I guess it's always taken a lot of sacrifice to make this country what it is.
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I found that the farther west we drove the more comfortable I became. I know that is crazy and I didn’t give any state its due time, but I liked Mississippi more than Alabama, and by the time we drove into Texas I was feeling more like myself.
It doesn’t make a lot of sense, because really, how much does it really matter where I live in the USA, but I am such a Westerner. Every time I move back west after having lived east I am struck by it. I do not fit in the cities of the East, nor in the South. I am more relaxed and comfortable, the farther west I get.
So when we crossed the Mississippi Texas just felt plain good to me. The terrain started to open up, and I saw the big Texas sky. That’s why I know New Mexico will be okay…it’s the West. Since there is open sky, mountains, and a quick hop to the Pacific I'll be fine. It’s fun to live other places, but there’s just no getting me to change stripes I guess.
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One reason Texas is great is because people who are from there love it so much--they are all believers. We have several Air Force friends from Texas and it’s like it’s bred into them…they are proud of Texas and always plan to return. Why would they want to live anywhere else? Kevin always says he wishes he was from Texas and thought it was the greatest place…then he could buy a million acres for next to nothing, settle there, and actually believe he was in the best place.
Instead…we know better. Unfortunately so does every other Californian...hence the price difference.
I do like Texas…it’s just open, bright and BIG. It had to grow on me though, it was our first stop on this Air Force journey when we were first married and I was not impressed. I think I couldn’t get why it wasn’t more like California. Now I just let it be Texas. This time I got so carried away with it I bought a pair of boots.
We spent three nights getting across it, and after Ft. Worth there wasn’t much to see but beautiful sky. We left green behind and embraced the desert...again. But about an hour or two before we got to our new home we entered some surprisingly beautiful, green mountains, and the temperature dropped 40 degrees. Nice. It jumped right back up though as we descended to our new town, and I decided I needed an ice cream to deal with my new reality.
So far New Mexico is working for me, partly because those cool mountains are always in view. In only 30 minutes I can be there.
I watched the movie “A Beautiful Mind” the other day.
The brilliant man in the movie went a little crazy, he saw and heard people that weren’t there. Those delusions became his mechanisms for getting through life.His mind and its dysfunctional patterns got away from him.
Finally at a desperate point he was forced to look hard to find the flaw in his reality—he was about to lose everything.He then made the incredibly difficult choice to every day pass on what he felt and saw, on what seemed to be working for him, the alternate reality that for so long comforted him and made him feel important.
It’s not that different than what we all have to do if we want to get past our bunk and dysfunctional mechanisms--discern what is real, then choose to pass over and over on things that aren’t.Like the man in the movie, we have to say “no” to our own delusions; else we too are carried deeper into our own dysfunctional patterns, our own brand of crazy. It doesn’t matter that we can see and feel them, that they make us feel important or that they seem to be getting us through this difficult life.
That’s faith—believing there’s something worth that painful journey…There is hope for change, it matters what we do, and there is more to life than what we see.
The man in the movie also added healthy patterns to his life:He became part of a community, developed some attachments to people to “elbow out the delusions.”He had to quit treating his delusions as real; quit talking to them, quit giving them his time and attention…quit feeding them. He replaced time spent on them with real, hard work. He also had the love and care of someone who believed in him and affirmed his right steps.Maybe no one does it alone.
He never got completely free of his delusions, we rarely get miraculously healed, although we're taught to pray and wait for it. No one tells us instead we have to face down the delusions and “elbow them out."
I often feel restless here, during my writing hours. I'm restless to become, to feel, to connect, to see a little clearer, to move past my bunk. And although writing here alone is my way past it, or through it, it is hard to sit here.
Sometimes I think it might be the caffeine from the couple of cups of coffee I down first thing, that I'm just physically amped up. That might be adding to it, but really it's just this incredibly deep need to get my thoughts and feelings out.
When I'm restless I'm impatient for movement, progress, interaction and distraction. I want it all to happen now, I want it to be easier. I want someone to bang around my thoughts with me and help me through my pain, I don't want to stare it down myself.
But for me, it doesn't work that way, that's too easy--No overcoming there...
Although, I could use an easy day every now and then....
I also feel grateful to have found a way to deal with it all. The questions, the tough answers, the loneliness, the dysfunction--sometimes I can write them off me. Sometimes I get to rise above it, break free for a bit or get a bit of light on the path. It soothes my soul.
Sometimes a little miracle happens here...I write it all off me and I walk away relieved, lifted and just a little freer.
It's a great feeling, and that's what brings me back--Hope.
So I'm a little lifted about life, moving and being back in the Air Force community, I'm feeling up for it. I think it was watching Kevin fly again that did it, it was such a beautiful thing. It's sinking in I have only a couple more days on the beach, and it's really okay. This vacation at the beach has been a tonic for me, but I'm mentally moving forward now, just in time.
I heard the joke about the "beach" in New Mexico three times when I was at the squadron the other day, and I managed a little laugh every time. It's painful to have everyone tell me how we're going to have such a good time there. When you're going somewhere good they don't have to try so hard to be positive.
I saw one of the guys who moved out there and got settled before he came here for training. He's actually from my hometown and was in Japan with us, so he might have a similar perspective on good places to live. I looked him right in the eye and said, "We're going to have a good time out there, right?" He met my gaze and seriously waited a full five seconds before launching into all the positives.
That's fighter-pilot talk for, "It sucks." It's like when they don't like a guy...they'll start by saying how great he is, list all his good qualities and only drop a hint there might be a flaw. If they like someone they just say, "He's such a good dude." Enough said.
So yeah, I know what we're getting into. I also know how to find the best in a place and take advantage of it. There will be some cool mountains nearby for hiking and biking, and I can get into that. There are no great restaurants, but there has to be some kick-ass Mexican food there--has to be--plus I plan to get back into cooking. And the sunsets are apparently enchanting--to what else could the license plates be referring with that "Land of Enchantment" emblazoned on every one? UFO sightings? Alien encounters?
Really I haven't been worried about living in New Mexico, I'm pretty much always up to live somewhere new for a year or two. It's the living on-base I've been worried about.
We've never done it. We've always tried to keep the USAF as a job, not a life, but when you get to this level there's no getting around it, I'm afraid it's going to be pretty all-encompassing. We're going to have some regular social obligations--I'm going to have to perfect a non-awkward version of the "smile, stand up and wave" as we're introduced at every event.
Hell, I'm not sure I have a version of that in me...
The house is big, beautiful and new. There are enough bedrooms for me to have my own office in one and a Pilates/yoga gym in another, with still a spare. The garage is huge if we needed to re-buy all the yard tools we've sold, but we won't--get this--Someone is going to do our yard for us. I feel like I have to whisper it. Okay so there is a perk I can get comfortable with...I guess I'll be taking that one.
I will not, however, park in a "Colonel" parking space at the gym, BX or commissary. I am not a damn Colonel. This is just principle and a point that needs to be made over and over to every officer's spouse--WE DO NOT WEAR RANK. This will be my way of restating it every day...I'll walk across the parking lot like every other non-handicapped person in the world.
The gym is supposed to be one of the best in the USAF, so I've got that going for me. The pool is new, so I'll take up swimming again since I suck at it, and there's a little Starbucks-ish place in the Officer's Club for when I need a good coffee.
Perfect, right? It's all right there, so incredibly convenient and close--Which is why I'm afraid I'll want to escape it. It's okay, we aren't moving to Stepford...right?
I can ride my bike to everything--Except I'll be required to wear a helmet, and maybe a safety vest--DORKY, if smart. I'm afraid that's enough of a deterrent though. So maybe I'll get my scooter going--Except I can't drive it until I've taken the "Motorcycle Safety Course" (actually a good idea for me); I'll have to wear closed-toed shoes (okay, can do...), a helmet (again, smart, and not that dorky on a motorcycle), long sleeves (okay maybe, but in summer?), and gloves. Whew. By the time I get all that on I'd be halfway through my workout if I'd have taken the car.
Living on-base will be super-convenient for Kevin, he'll be working long hours. There will be zero commute time, he can run home for lunch, and I might be able to watch him fly from the back patio. Cool.
It will be like the smallest of small towns and I like to be anonymous. I don't want to be that crazy "Colonel Robbins' wife" that's known for riding that wacky scooter or walking her dog at all times of the day and night. Or, and I can hear it now, "Is that Colonel Robbins' wife? Wow she sure runs slow...I think she's put on weight. Maybe she should pick up the pace..."
Yeah? Well maybe you should...
Just kidding, no one's going to care what I do, it's just I know I might be a bit of an oddity wearing my sun hat and walking everywhere with my ridiculous-looking, fox-like dog. I was one in DC, but there oddities are the norm.
Our next door neighbor is the Wing Commander, which sounds horrible and intimidating, except he and his wife are long-time, easy-going friends, so that part will be fine. Actually it will be more than fine if I get into trouble. I've recently realized if I get a ticket for having my dog off-leash or for speeding maybe I can run next door with a bottle of scotch and apologize instead of having to have my husband "notify his commander" of my "violation." Not that I'm asking to get around rules or consequences...I DON'T WEAR RANK.
I can't be reminded too often, I might start to get used to my husband's special treatment, it's human nature. For crying out loud I'm already taking the yard work for granted and I haven't even crossed Texas yet.
I had a friend for awhile who was an addict.I would never call him that, it seemed like such a bad label, but that is what he called himself.He was a full-up addict who had been through it all.
I met him at the dog park.Dogs can have great connections with other dogs, just like people, and my dog was absolutely crazy about his dog—the two of them were fast friends from the start.That first day my friend said when he watched dogs, especially the ones that herd sheep, it made him think there must be a God.I knew then this was someone I could talk to.
We did talk often while the dogs played about God and philosophy and how life works.I remember I told him I was coming out of 30-plus years of hardcore Christianity and he was a little fascinated, “What’s that like?” he said.Although we were both Californians our backgrounds could not have been more different.
He said he started getting into pills in elementary school.When he realized there was something you could take to make you feel different, it was all over, he always chose to take it.I’m pretty sure he tried everything.He was a musician for many years, and told me only a few stories of his hardcore drug days in that life, when he started every day with vodka and a few other things.He always took something.When I worried my crowd was drinking too much he asked me to describe it. I did and he said, “You're fine.”It didn’t touch where he’d been.
He said it ended, and clean life started, when he met his wife, whom I also met at the dog park.She was a natural, outdoor girl who worked with horses and was like fresh air to him.For the few years he’d been with her, he'd had a clean and stable life.He said she was the reason, although I think there was a little more to it; she represented his only hope of life and health.He didn’t claim to be doing it alone--he let me know he went to meetings and had people he talked to all the time.
I never could figure out what he did for a living.Every time he started to describe it I’d get lost in all his details and business buzzwords.It had something to do with internet technology and he had some plans for a business of his own.He was a big talker, he always had some crazy idea to share and his mind was always spinning fast.I had a hard time following him--he’d get on certain topics or authors and get a bit ethereal.I remember asking him if his mind ever stopped, if it ever really got quiet. He thought about it for a second and then said no.
We had a few good discussions about God and life philosophy, I could hang with him there. It was like we were coming to the same non-answers from opposite sides—he from extreme addiction, me from Christianity.He was less frustrated than me though, less accustomed to having answers.
He drank ridiculous amounts of coffee and went through Advil like candy.When I asked why, he said he had headaches, but really I think it was because the alternative was bad…it was like he was saying, “Believe me, you want me to be taking half a bottle of Advil and drinking 16 cups of coffee a day.Really.” Maybe he just had to take something.
I remember telling him aboutmy travels to Ireland.He said he always wanted to check out that music scene but would never be able to.I was puzzled…Heavens, why not?He said it was because the music all happens in pubs there and is tied to drinking.I asked him if he could just not drink or have just one Guinness, and he said no, he could not.Didn’t I get it?He was and always would be an addict.
No I didn’t get it, to my naive self it seemed he was only addicted to Advil and coffee.I felt like it was such a bummer his addictions so defined him, like it was something he could never get free of.It seemed horribly unfair and wrong to have to live with that label.Wasn’t there always hope for change? That's what I learned in Christianity, we can all be healed from our troubles, "addicts" could be freed. Well, not in his reality. I didn’t realize that in that label was his freedom…freedom from all the using.
One day he was talking about his sobriety, his job, his house, his “stable” life and he said, “Come on…how long can I really keep this up?”I got my Pollyanna on and pointed out that he had done it now for years and why not?I told him I thought he could do it, and really, I had little doubt. He had this great life now, he certainly knew how to live it. Wouldn't he choose this life over the drug life he had described? Of course he would, it only made sense.
Well, addictions are irrational, I had no idea how hard healthy life was for him. And isn’t it just easier to think everyone is normal and functioning well, even if all evidence is to the contrary?
The dog park was a phase for him, he quit going.We still got the dogs together a few times, but we lost touch.After about a year he called and asked if I wanted to meet with the dogs again sometime.It took weeks to get together but we finally did.
I think it was huge for him to make that call, he had to look our number up old-school, he no longer had a cell phone.He apparently fell off the wagon one weekend there in Vegas.He didn’t elaborate, but it resulted in him losing his job and giving up the house.He was not working, but living a somewhat isolated life helping his wife on a horse farm she worked.He gave up his phone, his internet work, all his big ideas, and maybe even the coffee and Advil. He just wanted a simple life.That was his big talk now…living a good and simple life.
I did wonder if he'd be able to keep that up, his mind seemed no quieter.
I love being on this beach watching the jets fly over.
Almost exactly 20 years ago I was right here, doing exactly that. On one particular day I was hoping for a little wing-rock from one before I rushed to the Air Force base to take pictures of Kevin landing from his first solo flight in the F-15 Eagle.It was a big deal then, we were on a huge adventure. He was studying hard, always “two rides from busting out…” and very excited to be doing what he was doing. He didn't dare to hope he would still be doing it 20 years later.
Today I know better than to look for the wing-rock--he can't give it to me--but I will drive to base and take some pictures of him flying and landing the F-22 Raptor for the first time.And it’s still a big deal, I'm pretty excited. For crying out loud he’s still flying, and it's the hottest, latest most fearsome jet in the world.
Admittedly, since he’s now logged close to 4000 hours of fighter time, we aren’t quite as worked up as we were back then, we’ve done more than a few photo-ops by cool jets.I’ve seen my share of fini-flights, I even had tears at a couple, thinking these days were done, that the fun was over. I’ve helped his buddies drench him, and him drench his buddies with champagne and the fire hose many times.
Still, this will only happen once, and these moments should be even a little sweeter at this age--it's a bit of a charmed life, and it can't last. (Although, we've been saying that for a lot of years...) He’s incredibly fortunate to still be doing this.It’s also good for me to get out there and try to understand what it is he does.Every time I’m still amazed, I still have some trouble getting my head around it.
It feels a little like home to have him flying again—to see him a little lifted by it, to live where I can hear the sound of jets.I’ll start checking my watch again when I see one--would he be up right now? Might that be him?And I love hearing how the dogfight went down when he gets home.
But then this morning, a reality check.
In a rush to get out the door he hands me a questionnaire I have to fill out and sign before he can fly.Standard, I have no time to give it any thought, it is just a square that has to be filled, and it’s not like I haven’t seen this before, I know exactly what it is.
It’s a form that goes in an envelope only to be opened by his commander if he doesn’t make it back from one of these missions.It lists all my preferences on how I’ll want things handled—who I’ll want to bring me the news, who I’ll want the Air Force to notify, and who I’ll want flown in to help me deal with it all. Do I have a clergyman I’ll want around?Will I need someone to help out with kids or pets?What kind of funeral will I want?Cremation?
Somehow I forgot about this part, and in the five minutes I had to fill the form out I couldn't get my sleepy brain to think straight. I already want to change my answers.
Yeah, so that old, tiny, undermining feeling of fear I used to be so familiar with just came back... I’m surprised I didn’t miss that bastard in the past 18 months, I'm so accustomed to him. He's a feeling I want to shove aside because the worst can’t possibly happen, but...since it actually can, he never goes away. I’m great at ignoring him though, we have a highly dysfunctional relationship. He's like a gargoyle that lives in the darkest corner of my brain..."Not one peep," I tell him. "I don't want to hear it." Mostly he stays quiet and just looks scary. I do not ever want to hear him roar.
I guess I’ll get back to checking the clock on flying days, waiting for Kevin's landing time to pass.I know if I haven’t heard anything by then, it’s all good and I’m still running my life...
Apparently I'm running it now, because I'm really looking forward to being out on the flight line again.
