little deformed bean

Two months ago when spring was starting to hit here I became obsessed with plants. I went out daily, collecting pieces and parts from plants that were overgrown in the neighborhood. I put them in water and in soil and created for myself, a garden. The garden grew.

We bought wine barrels, cut in half after they were deemed too leaky or too old for the aging of wine. We filled them with soil from the farm supply store, a store full of animal feed, fertilizers, water troughs and baby chicks; a type of store we used to frequent growing up. I blew kisses at the baby chicks and oogled over them like a mother with a newborn baby. I'm always a little embarrassed about this, but I can't help myself. They are too precious in their halos of fluff.

I made daily trips to the local nurseries and bought seeds and starts. I collected wood stakes from the reclaimed wood store. I have religiously checked on the growth of the plants: the pole beans, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, zucchini, onions and sweet peas.

The beans are almost always the most exciting in their early days. It is almost as if you can sit there and watch them grow, reaching up and putting out new leaves. Their heads were the first to break the surface of the soil. They shed their skins and split in half to reveal their first true leaves, in miniature. One bean in particular was quick to reach the surface and open like popcorn. But the little leaves that were hidden between its fleshy fruit were not fully formed. They were like little hands without fingers.

Everyday without fail, I would walk outside to check on the little deformed bean, giving it encouragement, not having the heart to pluck it from the earth and lay its little body beside the other healthy beans. So I watched it. Wondering if it would pull through with a new set of fully formed leaves. But the fleshy bean shrank as it fed the plant, and it did not grow. And today it is turning brown, out of energy and shriveling. Soon, it will begin to break down. It will return to the soil. It will disintegrate into water and carbon and sugars. It will become the soil that feeds the other beans.

Bye bye little deformed bean. I could never be a farmer.

Reflection.

We arrived exhausted as usual, ready for the desert, set up camp and slipped into our cozy bags. The morning brought welcome sunshine, and the chaos of first day organization: packing and unpacking and repacking, and shuttling people and cars and bikes to the appropriate start and end points. Then we biked into the canyons once again.

Our first night of camp was at Airport, our intended camp for our last night on the white rim last year. We couldn't resist the temptation to find the place where my mom fell last year. After all, that had been the plan for nearly a year: find the place, measure the fall, measure and weigh the rock that fell on her. We searched the edge of the rim, looking for the right spot, recalling where Nick, Jules and I had been sitting when we saw my dad call for help, trying to remember exactly what it had looked like.

We found it without too much trouble, and my sister and I climbed down in. We each took turns trying to lift the rock, but it was too heavy. When sitting upright, it measured up to my thigh. Tomorrow we would come back with the scale, measuring tape and some strapping.

We wandered back and set up our first nights camp, talking about last year, and confirming over and over that it was definitely the right spot, no doubt. On day two the rock weighed in at 200+ pounds, almost double what my mom weighs. She was flattened, quite literally, under a giant rock, rupturing her quad, bruising her entire body one year ago. She was in the hospital for nearly a week, suffering from a head injury (that, as we have discovered, resulted in some minor brain damage), and a squished body. Yet, this year she biked nearly the whole white rim, almost all 100 miles of it, and some of it pulling Alex behind her on his mini bike while he put on the brakes. She is most definitely superwoman.

Andrew and I set out for an all day hike on the third day, down 1,000 feet to a wash, and an overlook of the Green River. By day four we were adequately sandy and embracing the unique opportunity to avoid bathing for DAYS. On day five we reached the slot canyon. Everyone had paused there to take a look, as usual. Andrew and I headed down in. We climbed, hiked and slid down into the curves on our way to the end of the canyon: a 300+ foot drop-off into a wash that leads to the river. We were only about two curves shy of the end when we were stopped by a giant mucky puddle. It was too wide to span and of inestimable depth, so we turned back, satisfied and cold.

The rest of the trip seemed to be a quiet, pensive passage through the canyonlands. We cooked and slept and wandered through the desert. We watched the stars and the moon move through the sky, and the moon shadows walk across the landscape. The ravens were there, and the lizards, the bighorn sheep. And this year the leaves were peaking out of their buds for the first light of spring.

Quit.

It has been eight months since I started interviewing for work here. I have applied at coffee shops (yes, plural), outdoor stores, planning, architecture and landscape architecture firms. I have interviewed or spoke with or sent resumes to countless firms, businesses, or agencies of city, county, regional and federal government.

And I'm broke. I can't pay my bills. I know I'm not alone, as every time I listen to NPR or the local radio station, or any other news outlet, the headlines almost always reflect the condition of the economy right now. But I'm still frustrated. Persistence and a positive attitude, patience and MAKING IT WORK are supposed to get me a job. Yet 8 months later I still have only a part time job that pays me enough to afford if-I'm-dying-health insurance ( I think), car insurance and a car payment. Note the fact that I did not include food, rent, electric bills, phone bills, student loan payments, or credit card payments let alone entertainment, gas money, interview clothes money, resume and portfolio production money, money to change my driver's license and registration, money for increased car insurance premiums.

The guilt of not being able to support myself is setting in. My parents can barely afford to help me. Andrew has been more than supportive, both financially and emotionally. He has encouraged me unquestioningly, bringing home news of a new firm here, or another opportunity there. But I feel I've already taken too much.

one year ago

Today we are leaving for our annual pilgimage to Canyonlands. Today we leave for the trip that one year ago almost claimed my mom. Today we leave for the canyons to measure the rock that bit her.

I'm excited and numb. I can't believe it has only been a year, it feels like decades. Decades since I set my bare feet on the sandstone, since I felt the cool, dry desert breeze on my skin. Decades since we hauled her out of the canyon, hoping she would make it.

And I know why she still wants to go back. I know what she craves because I too crave it. And I can't explain how happy I am to be returning with her. Glad she has not been discouraged by her chewed up leg, or by others that are convinced she shouldn't go.

A different kind of predator / what's in a smile.

On This American Life a week or two ago they talked about the effects of testosterone on both males and females. One of the interviewees offered a particularly interesting perspective, as he had formerly been a woman. He began the transformation by taking large doses of testosterone. He talked about how, prior to his transformation, he (she) could look at a woman and feel attracted, appreciate her appearance, and move on. These thoughts changed markedly with high doses of the hormone. He felt crazed sexual, almost pornographic, urges towards women that before he would probably just have noticed and appreciated. Another particularly interesting insight was how he had to learn to navigate the world, for the first time, as a man. This is interesting because most men work through this throughout childhood and adolescence. He was entering this as an adult. He noted that when walking down the street men would now veer into his space and almost body-check him without provocation.

I'm reminded of this because today I deal with the issue of navigating the world as a woman. In the past few months I have been the subject of what many feminists would consider sexual harassment. Now, I don't think I've provoked any of these actions, and to be sure, none of them have been extreme, but certainly uncomfortable. I also made it known as soon as any lines were crossed. Three men in particular have approached me with conversation, not unexpectedly, as they are acquaintances of one sort or another. And the conversation took a turn for the worse in all cases. By this I mean, that in at least two of these cases the men have suggested and said outright in different words that they would make a great man for me.

Today I said hello to our upstairs neighbor who I have never felt comfortable with. He seemed positive and so as he was getting into a car with a young attractive woman I smiled at him to acknowledge his existence, then I walked inside.

A few minutes later, he took his trash out with the heavy entry door banging behind him. I saw him walk out and down the steps of the porch, as our kitchen window overlooks the porch, and I was cooking a meal for the bike trip. I drew the shades for some privacy. On his way back in, he stuck his head under the crack at the bottom of the shades and said 'hello'.

The conversation through the window started out well enough. It wasn't comfortable, but technically he wasn't doing anything too inappropriate. Then he became noticeably different, like he had taken something that was starting to kick in.

"You know, I see this and that, and I see you and your boyfriend and some of your lady friends that you have over sometimes, and it makes me happy, and I wish I had a group of friends like you" then he proceeded to talk trash about our housemate, calling him all sorts of very inappropriate names.

Then he said: "your fine"

"excuse me? That's inappropriate" I warned him, in a serious voice, yet he kept going, eventually I was hot, beautiful, and he could make me happy and he would never treat me wrong; he went on and on. Then he asked me straight up:

"What do I have to do be good enough for you?"

He wasn't being sneaky, our whole conversation had been fairly philosophical up to this point, as he was asking how he could be a better person. Then he launched into how I had smiled at him when he was in his sister's car. He implied that I smiled in a way that suggested I might be interested. I can assure you I gave him the I'm-only-smiling-to-acknowledge-you-are-alive smile. There was no warmth in it. Eventually I became so uncomfortable that I said:

I'm going to go do some other things done, but I'll talk to you later. And walked away from the window, secured and locked the front door, closed all the windows and went into the back bedroom. By his verbal reply to my leaving and locking the door, I knew he understood. He then knocked on the door. Three times. Then I saw his silhouette stagger up the stairs to his apartment.

This man is young, fit, and probably weighs at least twice what I weigh. And he scares me. A lot. I was afraid to leave the house; I closed all the blinds so he can't see us anymore. Then when I did leave, I snuck out, and didn't come back until I knew Andrew would be home.

Navigating the world as a man or a woman, everyone learns to imbed within their actions a kind of defense mechanism to help them deal with these types of situations. But I'm tired of having to fortify my defense mechanisms to deal with the man-predator. I'm frustrated and angry. I'm tired of having to tell people outright that they are being inappropriate multiple times. And, as a woman it is not just about feeling uncomfortable, it is about feeling physically threatened. About knowing that this man could do whatever he wanted to me if he so desired, because he is that much bigger and stronger than I. It is about being afraid to be at home with the blinds open, so the sun can shine through. It is about being afraid of being watched by someone who lives in the same house. It is about feeling powerless to say what I really think to him out of fear of provoking a reaction and suffering the consequences.

Performance review....

Although I am generally happy and enjoying my time off, I've avoided posting on my blog. The reason? Fear it might turn into solely a bitch blog. I'm posting this anyway. Beware.

Today I had my performance review for work. I was hired in October, only one-point-five weeks shy of 6 months, the review period for our particular brand of corporation. Yes, our CORPORATION. Two or three months into the job I heard rumors of being promoted. Then the rumors stopped. Overstaffed, I thought. Eh, whatever, no big deal. I finally got my training courses in coffee and tea 5 months into the job, after I had helped teach a barista training course, and before I was certified as a barista myself (I am still uncertified, as apparently corporate doesn't have enough time to adhere to their own standards).

These details, though related, aren't so important. What is important then? The ratings on my review. And the raise I got. My first raise ever.

We are rated on a scale of 1-5, where 3 is "meets expectations", a very high standard in and of itself, my manager explained. I prepared myself for 3's or lower across the board. Instead my review paper showed 4's and 5's. The summary comments read:

"Melissa has quickly established herself as an anchor of our morning team. She has mastered our service expectations by maintaining quality standards... while contributing to the warm sense of community in our store..."

The summary goes on, but I'll leave you with that. You get the idea. After explaining my ratings and the summary, she started into a personal disclaimer...

"Unfortunately, the ratings don't mean much to corporate. We have nothing to do with corporate's decisions on raises and hours our store is allowed to hire out. You were just shy of being here for the full review period, so they've pro-rated your raise.

Then the amazing news:

The base raise for the first 6-month period is $00.24 an hour. Your raise is $00.22 an hour."

Yes folks, I will now make an extra $1.10 a day, which on average will add up to about an extra $14 a month before taxes. My base wage? $9.00/hour.

The List.

Everyone seems to have a list of the things they would do if they didn't have to work, if they didn't have to write a thesis or study for an exam. This is the list of Things to do when I have more time. My list is miles long, but unfortunately is completely intangible. I have never written it down in full. I realize now that was bad planning, but I'm managing quite well. I've taken to making it up as I go.

I've been, what I consider to be, unemployed for 3 months, and looking for work for 6-7 months. During this time I've gone through periods of denial, rest and relaxation, pure joy, frustration, depression, and have settled on contentment. Why? The roller coaster of job-hunting is just that: a roller coaster. It is unpredictable, rough; sometimes it turns you upside down and leaves you wondering why you got on in the first place. But there is also a sense of exhilaration and a subsequent feeling of exhaustion once the adrenaline has worn off.

In the meantime, I've learned to be happy about my mostly unemployed life. I've learned to start checking things off the list, or at least starting the check mark. This, when I look at it from this point of view, helps me to recognize where I should feel a sense of accomplishment, instead of the guilt I feel for not doing something else, for not having obligations.

I have to point out the difference, however, between busying oneself out of fear of silence, out of fear of real problems. I believe many people avoid confronting problems by overworking themselves, and feel lost and distressed without the crutch. This is not how I feel. I'm happily busying myself with things that feel good, that make me happy. I have nothing to run away from, not even silence. And so, I throw myself into the list, choosing the right one for my mood.

I've been nerding out on world music, politics, and national news, listening to hours of NPR each day while I work on other things. I've developed a crush on Ira Glass, the host of This American Life on WBEZ Chicago, the world's greatest storyteller. Okay, maybe not the greatest, but certainly one of. I've buried myself in natural history books about this area, and researched local projects and organizations. I've learned about wine and coffee and tea and architectural standards. I've tried building paper lamps. I went camping by myself in Big Sur.

And so, here I am for the first time (in my entire life, I think) taking full advantage of the possibilities of THE LIST.