Perfectly Imperfect

It had been an admittedly tough four days.  I was very down on Thursday and part of it was that my sister Tiffany was packing and moving to Asheville.  We had moved here together, excited and confident in our decision.  She was going to marry Prince Charming and we would continue our sister journey living in the same area.  It didn't work out that way though.  Prince Charming turned out to be a warty, old frog (my apologies to real frogs everywhere) and she was left in an untenable situation; she had given up her job, moved halfway across the country and when it all fell apart, she had to make quick decisions.  Luckily, she is an awesome salesperson and her old company hired her back immediately and gave her the Asheville territory.  She packed up and moved to her new home Sunday morning.  We spent Saturday evening weeping - uncertain, afraid and sad at the turn of events.  The good news is she's only a six hour car drive away - annoying but certainly not impossible - and we were able to bond over this whole, glorious, painful, growth-inducing experience.

But Saturday, oh Saturday, was something else. It was rainy and gray for the 9th day in a row and it got off to a rocky start for reasons that I won't go into.  On top of that, I had a very painful conversation, (argument) with someone very important in my life.  By the end of the conversation (fight), we were both in tears and nothing was resolved.  My spirits were low to say the least and I had that horrible, anxious feeling that I get when I have to walk around with unresolved feelings. I do not do this well - granted, I used to be worse - I would beat a dead horse relentlessly until the subject was resolved one way or another.  The problem with this approach is that I usually end up with a resolution that is unfavorable to my desired outcome because I pushed and pushed and pushed and just couldn't let.it.go.  This has been one of my most difficult challenges in sobriety - to learn to sit with unresolved conflict.  To practice restraint of pen and tongue.  To give the situation some time and space so everyone can breathe and regroup. To count to ten....or a hundred or even a thousand or ten thousand.  I absolutely hate uncertainty and I am *certain* (heh, joke!) that it stems from the uncertainty that plagued my childhood and teen years because of my mother's alcoholism and mental illness. 

To my very small credit however, I did manage to table the conversation before it descended from merely "ugly" to "fatally corrupted" but I'd like to have put the brakes on even earlier - when it first took a wrong turn; but hey like we say in AA, it's progress, not perfection.  Anyway, there I was, a rainy Saturday, miffed and off-kilter for so many reasons and next on my plate is a project that I had been looking forward to for several weeks - my Raku pottery class.  I have been enamoured with Raku for several years and wanted to learn how to do it since I first saw it. And full disclosure, it also holds a sentimental value for me with regard to the person I fought with that day.  It was a class being given in conjunction with the Craven Arts Council Festival, and I discovered it on a fluke which of course I consider to be serendipitous....nothing happens by accident in God's world, people!! 

Despite the poor beginning to my day, I was terribly excited. I was finally going to learn about Raku and create my first pieces.  There were only three of us in the class and it was outside under a big tent in the rain.  We chose 2 pre-made, basic, unfired vases and the instructor/artist explained and guided us through the process.  One of the pieces was to be for my friend with whom I had just had the fight - it was always my plan, even before the fight.  I applied my tape on the vase in the shape of a fish - a special symbol for us and dipped the vase in the mixture that would become the glaze on the piece.  When the piece is fired, the tape melts into the pot and creates a design in the pot.  I created another beautiful piece for myself with a free form floral design and we dipped our pieces in wax to protect the bottom from the heat (I think) and then they went into the kiln.  For 45 minutes, our art would "cook".  I wandered into the convention center to see the other offerings and visit the booths of all the vendors.  New Bern and Eastern Carolina are filled with some talented artists, I was pleasantly surprised and very motivated to pursue my own artistic pursuits.  They even had a writer's corner and the local theater groups were present as well.  All the artsy things I love under one roof!  Heaven! In short order,  I was feeling better about the last couple of days.

At the designated time, I made my way back to our tent.  The instructor Candace was puttering about.  As I approached she looked up.  "How are we doing?" I chirped.  I was reinvigorated, happy - calmed by the creative process.  "Well," she said, "both of your pieces exploded."  I looked at her in disbelief.  I could not believe what I heard. "WHAT?"  I said.  "Yes, I am so sorry.  One totally exploded and I had to remove it from the kiln."  She pointed to where the pieces of one of my vases lay.  "The other is very damaged, but I think the part of the vase with the fish on it is ok..."  I just stood and looked at her and I felt unwanted tears prick my eyes and all the disappointment and sadness of the last three days come crashing back in around me.  As I tried to speak, my throat caught and tears eked out of the corners of my eyes.  SHIT.  I can't believe I'm crying now.  Poor Candace looked at me not understanding, I imagine, why in the world I was crying. "I am so sorry", I said, "it's been a tough week and this just feels like the last straw."  I stood there still crying, trying desperately to compose myself.  Finally, I looked down at my cute pink and brown Burberry rainboots and stared at them until I could speak and meet her eyes without bursting into tears again.

After a bit, I looked up.  She gave me a hug and said, "Now you know the heartbreak of Raku.  If  you still want to do this after this experience then you're hooked."  She offered to give me my money back or a discount of a future weekend workshop.  I said I would think about it.  Everyone else's vases were still being fired, so I went back into the convention center and talked to the women at registration.  I told them what happened, tears in my eyes again.  I explained that I had had a bad week and suddenly they had tears in their eyes.  "Please don't cry", one of them said - "you'll make us cry." Suddenly, the three of us were giggling at that and we agreed to see how my damaged piece came out and if I wanted my money back, they'd give it to me.  It was up to me.

Armed with a potential refund (although all I wanted were my vases), I went back to the tent again.  We tore up pieces of paper into metal trashcans; when the vases are removed from the kiln, you put them in a bed of paper and throw paper on top until the piece is covered.  The paper bursts into flames and the smoke and paper change the oxidation process, causing the piece to absorb the smoke and changing the glaze giving it a coppery, shimmery finish.  Candace and a helper removed the kiln cover and wearing thick, protective gloves and using long heavy tongs removed the vases from the fire, laid them on the paper in the trashcans while we quickly threw more paper on top watching as the paper first smoked and then caught fire.  We put covers on the trashcans and now had to wait 10 more minutes for this process to finish.  The last step would be to dip the pieces in water (where another risk of cracking still waited) and wash them.

The ten minutes ticked by.  Candace opened the trashcans and one by one pulled out the pieces.  The burnt paper clung to them but through it you could see the shimmery blues, greens and coppers of the Raku.  She then removed my remaining but damaged vase.  She dropped it in the water and I waited to hear the inevitable crack - the final destruction of what was left, but amazingly, just heard the sizzle of heat meeting water - no crack!  I went to the tub of water and peered in.  I reached in and pulled my piece out.  The bottom was totally blown out and there was a jagged hole in the back side like a cauterized wound.  But a funny thing happened; I wasn't disappointed - I wasn't even sad because it was beautiful.  The Raku process had finished perfectly on what was left of my artwork.  The fish I designed had burned into the clay - it looked like a relic from a time long ago.  The colors were amazing.  It was perfect. Damaged, broken and it would never be a vase, but it was absolutely stunning regardless. I scrubbed it clean and silently marveled at its beauty. Watchers and passer-bys including the ladies at registration oohed and aahed.  The ladies hugged me and marveled at its imperfectness.

In its imperfection it had achieved a beauty it could never have had it come out of the kiln academically "perfect".  In that moment, I saw that the piece was a reflection of me and my heart.  Cracked and chipped with few holes blown through me, but like the old Skin Horse from the Velveteen Rabbit, real.

“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.

Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'

It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

That vase is perfect and real.  I am real and because I am the only one in this universe with this particular set of DNA, I am unique and beautiful.  If everything in my life unfolded perfectly, if I never faced challenges of either moral, physical or spiritual nature, I would be something that needed to be kept very carefully - full of sharp edges and broken to the point of no repair.  The lines in my face, the gray hair on my head (which I dye - look - I've earned my gray hair but I reserve the right to honor it in secret), the cracks and scars in my heart all bear witness to my becoming "real".  I have loved with open heart and open mind.  I have lost with great, almost unbearable pain.  The rabbit asked if it hurt.  It does.  But still I retain the desire and capacity for love.  I am undeterred, despite the loss and pain, on my quest for love.

I appreciate the broken yet still beautiful things in my life, more I realize, than the new, shiny things.  The broken, chipped and cracked things have a story, a history and usually a memory that goes with them.  I lug them around from place to place and when I unwrap them yet again, in another new home, each one never fails to bring a smile to my face.  With my heart it's different.  Some of the memories are difficult and painful, they hurt when I pull them out and look at them.  I must look at them though.  They are a timeline of my life and the love I've given and received.  When I look at them, I remember the love that filled my heart, that still fills my heart.  It reminds that I cannot shut my heart down, give up hoping for love again.  I know that someday, someone will look at me, broken and cracked yet still beautiful - perhaps even more beautiful because of it and see me as I am.  Perfectly imperfect.

 Perfect

The back side - a votive holder*

Bottom is top.  Let the light shine!*

* a special thank you to the bartender at Craven 247 who helped me discover alternate uses! :)

PS. I am signing up for a Raku workshop this fall and taking a wheel class - so that's that, I'm on the path.  Wish me luck as I see if I have potter skills! 

Home (reposted from Friday night)

I'm in love with my new town.  I walk the streets and investigate the shops and stores downtown near my house and I have to keep from pinching myself.  This afternoon, I walked the dogs into town - I had made some homemade chicken salad and I wanted to buy some fresh rolls from Baker's Square to eat with it.  I walked down Middle Street with Pink and Blue and as I came to Christ Episcopal Church, I saw an amazing sight.  In the open space on the side of the church were rows of planted American flags.  There was something attached to each flag fluttering in the breeze.  I stopped and looked to try to understand what I was seeing.  I saw on the fence two banners - one with the FDNY logo and the word "Brotherhood" and the number 343; next to it a banner with the NYPD and Port Authority PD and the numbers 23 and 37 respectively.  As I looked over the low, metal fence, I saw a sign to the left of the flags ENTER and then it's sister sign at the other end EXIT.  I had to investigate, it was obviously 9/11 related but I still wasn't sure what it was.

I tied up Pink and Blue to a bench and walked into the church grounds.  I arrived at the first flag and turned the laminated, square paper attached with black cord to my face so I could read it.  It was a photo of the NYFD Chaplain, Michael Judge, who died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.  Then I understood.  I looked about me - 13 rows of 31 flags and one flag at the entrance and exit - 405 in all.  One flag for every first responder who died that day and 2 others for local residents who lost a family member at WTC that day.  Overwhelmed and awed, I slowly entered the tribute.  As I walked through each row, I touched each photo, reading their name and rank and said a silent prayer of thanks to those who gave their life to save us.  I am again, ten years later, moved to tears.  9/11 was a day that showed the best of us, the true spirit of our love for each other and the selflessness in which some of us sacrificed everything for the rest of us.  So many rows, so many faces. It became a meditation for me and I fought back tears for all those lost that day - not just the first responders, but all the others as well.  The dichotomy of this moment - of all these flags fluttering in this perfect sunny, blue-skied day was beautiful in its incredible sadness.

Halfway through, two men standing on the other side of the fence called out to me.  One said, "That is really wonderful what you are doing - walking through looking at each picture."  I looked up at him and suddenly I felt a huge lump in my throat.  I tried to tell them why I was so compelled but all I could choke out was "I just wanted to take a moment to thank them for giving their life for me that day," and I started to cry.  One of the men said, "I made that."  I couldn't find the words to tell him how beautiful it was and just kept weeping.  He jumped the fence and came over and we hugged.

His name was Phil and he was from Long Island but had been a DC firefighter from 1975 to 2001; he retired after 9/11 and lives here now and works at the Pepsi store.  We talked about that day, and he shared with me how the first and last rows of first responders were photos of personal friends of his who were lost that day.  He told me how he had worked on this project for three years to bring it to fruition for this weekend, this anniversary.  He told me how the church agreed to let him display his work of art on their grounds. He told me that standing there watching me pay homage to his project, he was incredibly moved by how moved I was by his art.  We both gave each other something unexpected and ten years later, the memory of that day still has the power to bind us together; perfect strangers, now friends. There will be a special remembrance service at the church Sunday evening and Phil is going to play the bagpipes - he learned to play them as part of this great creation of remembrance.  I will be there, I hope everyone in town takes the time to pay their respects to our first responder heroes, to be touched by this art so infused with love.

I made my way back down the street to Ben's restaurant, my original destination.  I ordered a dozen dinner rolls and an iced tea and then Ben came out of the kitchen in his customary striped pants and chef's hat.  We chatted at the counter and then he asked me if I liked pumpkin pie.  I said of course!  Who doesn't?  He wanted to know if I really liked pumpkin pie and I told him it was my favorite.  He reached for a pie on top of the counter - it was his wife's creation and the winner of the State Fair's pie contest.  He took it to the back and came back with it on a plate with whipped cream on the side.  He pulled out two forks and we dug in. It was amazing.  The pie was fantastic but it was topped with an oatmeal, brown sugar and pecan buttery crumble.  We discussed the merits of butter and how it's pretty much good on everything.  My dozen rolls in hand and my sweet tooth sated, I walked next door to the Middle Street Antiques and Flea Market where the giant metal chicken that I have been coveting since before I moved here resides.  Worried the chicken would be gone, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her familiar light blue metal tail as I approached the store.  People leave goods out on the street here.  No one steals them.  If it was LA, you'd have to chain all this shit down, trust me.  Finally, my resistance broken by tears and pie , I made a deal with Gail, the store owner, and the metal chicken is now in layaway pending her future relocation to her new home on Johnson Street.

Across the street, The Call of the Wild Art Gallery was having it's Grand Opening.  I meandered about the objets d'art and bought a pair of delicate copper earrings with blue crystal beads.  I watched as two upscale, very well-dressed, gay men bought a wonderful painting and I was glad I lived somewhere where gay people felt comfortable living there as well.  I miss my LA gay boys.  They're the best friends a straight girl can have.  Really.  Around the corner is the used book store, The Next Chapter.  Inside, I met the owner Patti and an author doing a book signing, Deborah Wallis.  She writes murder mysteries and all her book are set locally.  I told them about my blog and they want to read it and I am both grateful and surprised by their genuine interest...we chatted for a while and I resumed my walk about town after securing a promise for coffee from Debbie.  Next stop, the hardware store that I owed $1.33 for the house key I had made earlier.  I forgot my wallet and they told me to take the key and come back and pay later.  Really?  

Meandering back up Middle Street, I came across the local theater group participating in a 9/11 tribute; it was also opening night for Guys and Dolls, so the players were singing songs and local town officials were giving speeches about giving back and contributing to your community in a way that makes a difference.  People sat on chairs or the curb or stood in the street as children who would never know the horror of that day ran about laughing and screaming oblivious to the rest of us. And finally, I stopped at the Arts and Culture Center where to my sheer delight,  I discovered an upcoming class on Raku - a type of pottery whereby the pots are fired and glazed using animal excrement.  Yeah, I know, disgusting - but the process creates a beautiful iridescent glaze that is stunning. Great beauty comes at a price, you know.  Anyway, I've wanted to learn the Raku process for over a year now and here it is - in my new town.  It was a serendipitous day and I couldn't have planned it's perfectness if I wrote a script.

As I made my way home, the moon sat high in the darkening but still blue sky.  I thought about 9/11 and about my friend and co-worker, Bruce Eagleson.  He died that day in the South Tower.  He evacuated and was out safely but then he went back in to help evacuate others.  That's just the kind of guy he was.  He left young sons and a wife behind.  He worked at Westfield and reported to my boss, so I talked to him almost every day and I was lucky to get to know him in person as well.  He was larger than life, always had a smile on his face - his enthusiasm for life was contagious, he loved his family, he loved his job, he loved his life.

Then I thought about an article I read in the Boston Globe this week about the people working at Logan Airport that fateful, terrible day - the ticket counter agent who checked in four of the terrorists, the security agent who waved them through with their hidden boxcutters, the flight attendant who was too sick to fly and the girl she knew - her friend - who took her flight and died - the theme of the article was survivor's guilt; most of these people are still haunted ten year later and their lives irrevocably changed and not in a good way, the article reads - and I thought how sad it was that they had not been able to move past that day and what came to me was this:  Bruce and all the people who died that day would want nothing more than for those of us that survived - all of us - we are all survivors of that day - to be happy.  We remember and honor those that are gone by living a good, happy life or else their deaths were in vain and the terrorists win.

So I think of Bruce and his laugh, and I think of Phil and his phenomenal art piece, and I think of all the wonderful people in my new town who are truly glad that I moved here, who show me that every day with their welcoming smiles and their genuine interest in their new neighbor, and for the first time in a very long time, as I walked up Middle Street towards Johnson Street, I feel that I have finally found my spot - I am home.

Thank you.

BAWK! My new chicken. 

Sign outside the Hardware Store

Pax.

I Live Next Door to Elvis

Elvis is my next door neighbor - or at least a reasonable facsimile of him is.  The first time I saw him, I thought he was wearing an Elvis wig made of plastic - his "hair" is shiny and big and helmet-y-ish.  Upon closer inspection though, I think the Elvis hair is actually his own - he's got the Elvis muttonchops and the hair on his head is dyed an unnatural shade of black and fixed with some type of pomade that causes it to violently refract light.  "Elvis" is in his 70's I'm guessing, and I really want to ask him how long he's worshipped at the alter of Elvis.  I lay in bed wondering if he's had that hairdo for 50 years?  Every night, the sounds of Elvis's music echo from his apartment.  It's actually quite pleasant - he plays a mix of Elvis, Don Ho and some random country music thrown in.  He is quite the character and sitting upstairs in my bedroom, listening to "Elvis" playing Elvis, I feel as though I have been thrown back in time - if I walked outside and saw Packards and girls with poodle skirts, I wouldn't be surprised.

Part of that is the charm of this new town of mine, New Bern.  Everyone is nice here.  Really, everyone.  After 2 days, I am known by name at the Java City Coffee Shop, the Baker's Square restaurant (not the chain, a little indie restaurant where they bake their own bread and give you extra rolls to take home with your leftovers and don't charge you for your iced tea and the grits are real and thick and all the food is freaking awesome - but Ben, the chef/owner doesn't know how good it really is - he does Thanksgiving dinner at the restaurant and with a small amount of embarrassment told me that he charged a whole $13 or $14 for an entire turkey dinner including coffee and pie - yeah, that place).  Then there's the four star restaurant, Craven 247, where I had the best salmon I've ever eaten.  And how can I forget the local hardware store that looks like a throwback to the old Main Street hardware stores of yesteryear? All of it is amazing and beautiful and surrounded by water, lots of water - where the Trent and Neuse Rivers meet before heading out to the Atlantic.

The storm damage from Irene in the historical downtown area was limited to lots of downed trees - really big trees ripped from their roots and thrown into houses, or trees literally sheared in half by the winds, and not little saplings - trees that were easily hundreds of years old.  The huge tree that used to be in front of my house was split at the base and fell on my neighbor's SUV, crushing it.  Downed trees are everywhere, but so are the cleanup crews, they come in, cut it all up, stack it on the curbs and move on to the next house.  There is no wringing of hands here - the people do what needs to be done and get back to their lives.  My dream house down the street has already been repainted.  Today, I met a man who drove up and down the streets stopping and filling the bed of his pickup truck with the newly sawn logs - he's stocking up for his fireplace this winter.  He offered to show me how to split a log; knowing I'd probably cut my own foot off, I laughingly declined.

I am fully exhausted but happy and content; I have made the right choice.  I know this more than I have known anything else in a long time.  The drive was brutal especially given that I drove a 24 foot truck packed to the gills, by myself, the entire way (Yes, you were right, Drury!)  Turns out my sister Tiffany, does not have what it takes to be a trucker - I though, apparently do.  The first night, I was scared shitless.  We didn't get on the road until 9:00 p.m. and if you want to try something new and exciting, try driving a 24' truck down a dark interstate for four hours.  It was fine until the first 18 wheeler passed me.  He was so close to me, I was clutching the steering wheel so hard, I thought I was having chest pains; it was only a muscle cramp and I had to try to relax into the truck's rhythm.  Not easy, let me tell you!  Did you know that trucks this big have no rearview mirror?  At first, when I discovered this, I was pissed - all I could think was that Budget gave us a shitty truck with no rearview mirror and it's too late to trade it out and I have to drive the whole way like this....but then, to my mutual chagrin and amusement, I realized that there is no rearview mirror as you cannot see anything behind you because it's blocked by the truck. Dumbass alert! As Homer Simpson would say - D'oh!  Apparently, I am to drive 700 miles using the side mirrors only.  Oh Lord.

Did I mention that we had to take the first truck back because it was too small?  Two men told me that all my stuff and all my sister's stuff would fit into a 16' truck.  Turns out they were wrong.  It reminded me of that old joke about why women are terrible with measurements - we were always told by men that this (extend thumb and forefinger apart from each other) was 9 inches...har de har har...(Yes, I know - a real knee slapper, boss! Tell it again!) To make up for that huge inconvenience though, God sent us a truck packing angel from heaven. My neighbor brought three of his employees over to help us load and one of them was an unbelievable packer.  It turns out we needed every inch of that 24', and that man packed it so tight, we didn't lose a thing. (This entire paragraph is just set up to sound ridiculously pornographic, isn't it?!)  Regardless, we didn't lose a picture, nor a dish, and there wasn't a scratch on the furniture - even the three huge tomato plants that I refused to leave behind in Nashville made it safe and sound.

So, back to our departure - two trucks and about six meltdowns later, the Pletz sisters hit the road.  Tif said she'd take the first shift driving the truck.  We made it about half a mile down I-40 before my cell phone rang.  She was on the other end, weeping.  It was too much for the princess - as we all suspected.  (Love ya, Tif!) We pulled off the freeway and she got in my luxury and sports package-equipped Lexus, and I climbed into hell.  The seatbelt cut into my neck and the damn truck shook and belched and roared so loudly, I couldn't even hear myself think.  I put my Chihuahua, Pink, on the seat next to me, where she did some shaking of her own and left Blue, my lab, to keep Tif company - and off we sped (so to speak) down the freeway to our destiny.  By the way, did you know that the gas tank for these kind of trucks is literally directly under the drivers seat?!  Really.  I guess it's good in a way - if the worst happens and you're blown to kingdom come, it's gonna be quick. I'm always looking for the small mercies, you know?

So, there it is - the first part of my adventure.  I will recount more tomorrow.  Every little bit of my body aches and my legs hurt so badly, I couldn't sleep, so I decided to catch you all up and get back to my beloved blog.  Tomorrow, I am taking the day off and going to the beach.  I can't wait; I am never going to live far from the beach ever again...and I can't wait to learn more about my town - and besides living next door to Elvis, I almost forgot to tell you the next best part - I live 2 doors up from the library - now that is heaven!

Pax.