Now that San Diego mountain is created, Chris and I spent a lot of time talking business strategy. I realized I am always thinking and talking strategy with whatever I am working on.

SO NICE to talk it with my husband-partner

In an ironic twist, I discovered my old job that was eliminated is now reposted. I spent years talking strategy there and never ever made a dent.

SO GLAD that I can use my brain and my time to effect positive change now.

It’s not easy. I wishI could be enthused and delighted by another tea party. It can be fun. Mostly, it’s monotonous.

At this point. It’s been what feels like forever of caretaking her. I suppose it is only full time week 4.

It feels like I’m missing a secret. I shouldn’t have to go numb. But I do.

I am wondering if I can imagine another way of spending two hours alone with her.

One where I’m pleased to do it. It’s worth thinking about. She deserves to have me be happy to be with her.

There are rules to follow with experiments. I know it as the scientific method:

Hypothesis “I bet this will happen if I do that”

Experiment –do that

Observe –did it happen like I thought?

So tidy. So trustworthy. Just follow the rules.

Until the rules start to change. I can’t stop thinking about Kuhn’s book The Structure of Scientific Revolution. He’s talking about the rules of science, and how they change. The world isn’t flat. And if it’s not flat….what do we do now? It used to be flat. Or at least we thought it was. We have to ask different questions now.

There are only certain sorts of questions the scientists ask, though. Stray off the study map, and “that’s not a question for science.”

Faith in science is it’s own sort of belief.  Big trust that if we hang on it will lead us through. Never lets us down.

I’m a fan of Steven Pressfield. He’s not a scientist, he’s an author and a champion of all things creative. Here is an excerpt from his book DO THE WORK:

Imagine a box with a lid. Hold the box in your hand. Now open it.

What’s inside?

It might be a frog, a silk scarf, a gold coin of Persia. But here’s the trick: no matter how many times you open the box, there is always something in it.

Ask me my religion. That’s it.

I believe with unshakeable faith that there will always be something in the box.”

Pressfield  shares this faith with scientists. The scientists believe that the science box will always have something in it.

Pressfield’s faith in the box is a faith in imagination.

I like to think it’s even bigger.

Someone on the Internet quoted Einstein saying, “I think the most important question facing humanity is, ‘Is the universe a friendly place?’ This is the first and most basic question all people must answer for themselves.”

For me, the something in that box is a combination of my imagination and the forces of the universe. I could try to put something in that box, but if the universe is not friendly that day that marvelous object could fail to appear.

As terrifying as it might be for a scientist to come to the conclusion that his experiments no longer result in any useful knowledge all experiments are forever proven useless.

There would be no more reason to be.

It seemed an extraordinary thing for Einstein to say, far outside the usual realm of scientific inquiry. And on further research, it is highly doubtful he said it.

But whoever said it has a point.

It’s a most rational sort of faith. This universe, this system we all must live in and cooperate with, must be trusted. Deeply, thoughtlessly trusted. Trusted like sunrise and gravity.

I have dark nights when I don’t trust. I hate those nights. Who am I kidding? Daytimes can be doubtful too.

I wonder if a scientist sometimes doubts. If he thinks, “That’s it. This will never work and the universe does not follow any pattern at all.”

I would hope they avoid that sorrow. I hope I can learn to avoid it too.

I reach in my heart for the box, and I open it slowly.

If I try I could find evidence that the universe is out to get me. And if I try I could find evidence that it’s on my side. Bad things happen. Good things happen.

What will I see when I open the box?

I will likely find what I am looking for. I want to find friendly cooperation. I will try to look for it.

I’m sure Batman had it: the evil villain putting an innocent person in the hourglass.

The bottom of the hourglass. And she must be saved before the sand trickles through and she is suffocated.

There is nothing she can do. She trapped and time is passing in the form of tiny grains coming to kill her.

I’ve been watching grains of sand. I’m not in the hourglass I don’t think. But those grains mean something. They mean loss. Every single one of them. Lost opportunity. Lost resource.

THIS IS MY LIFE!

And now I’ve lost another grain to worrying about the loss. Maybe I am stuck in the bottom of the hourglass, because when the sand is gone it’s gone.

That’s what worry is like. The time lost and lost again because I pick it up and recreate the loss by running it through my fingers.

I want out of the hourglass.

When I have a routine I can pay attention to all the other little things going on, and not mourn the sand. After all, it is the way of all things.

John Wooden said “Never mistake activity for achievement”

I suppose the inverse is true. Never mistake achievement for activity.

Spinning in a panic at the bottom of an hourglass, I could use a little numbing activity.

Or maybe I should look around. It turns out that I’m not in the bottom of an hourglass after all. Just because sand is bouncing off my head into my face doesn’t mean I’m in the hourglass.

Once I get out of that distraction, out of the sandfall, I can see that I’m not in a bottle.

There is a wide world out there. I can go see what I can do to enjoy it.

I want to talk about this thing people do. First time I noticed it was when I came back to America from Russia in 1993. People couldn’t wait to talk to me about my trip. I was eager to talk about my adventures and what I’d seen.

What actually happened was I got to hear what other people thought they knew about Russia.

“So you just got back from Russia? Oh man, that must have been amazing. I was just hearing that…”

and he would go on and on to tell me all about what it was like where I just came from.

I would listen, waiting for a chance to tell my experiences. There might come a part where the speaker was so off base I would have to say something.  “No, that is not what it’s like.”

And he would argue with me! “Yes, it’s true! I heard it on the radio.”  My presence at this conversation was ceremonial

This was a long time ago. Why am I thinking of it now?

Because I am looking for a job. The amount of advice I am getting is off the charts. At first I was grateful and did my best to absorb and implement it. To be sure, some of the advice had merit. Until it stacked up and I am tripping over the contradictions.

And I remembered my time back in 1993. All the enthusiastic people needing to tell me.

So strange. They needed to tell me. They couldn’t bear to be interrupted. What were they getting out of telling me things they already knew?

Maybe deep down they knew it wasn’t really that way.

Now, some of the advice givers are virtual. My email inbox is flooded with “7 things to never say in an interview” or “How to get recruiters to call.” These ones are particularly insistent.

For a similar reason. They are self-interested and have something they are selling.

Back in 1993 I learned to be cautious. I knew what it meant when someone approached me all fascinated with my journey. Yes, you sir are fascinating because you once read an article about what I lived.

Some of these emailed articles are useful. Most are not. And after being pulled to ribbons and tied into knots I don’t think I’m listening anymore.

I have to go live it. I have to experience what is happening, look around and see what makes sense. And when I find someone to have a conversation with, eager and wanting to hear, then I know I’ve found something special.

“Veronica, every time I pour water on your head to wash your hair you jerk your head. I know you hate water in your eyes. Can’t you keep your head still when you know the same thing happens every day?”

Her beautiful blue eyes look straight at me, considering. “No.”

Every day the same thing, you know. It’s part of the bedtime routine. We have it all worked out with clockwork regularity.

She complains about all the same things.

And, I am ashamed to say; I get snappy at the same times too.

My head is running the top hits:

I am so tired. Why can’t she hurry up? Is she going to complain about the pajamas AGAIN? please please please pick a short story to read tonight. Please, I can barely stop yawning.

I’ve even taken advantage of her illiteracy to skip sentences in the chosen bedtime story to make them go faster. I yawn my way through.

When I was working, I felt the pull of time so heavy. I had to be up at five! I had spent ALL DAY being exhausted, couldn’t I get to the part where I could sleep? It felt like an upturned bucket of tired over my head all the time.

I don’t have to get up at five every day now. Once I paid attention, I made a discovered. It didn’t’ matter how caught up on my sleep I was. I yawned my way through the bedtime stories. I still had a bucket of tired on my head.

The irony. This sleepy-time ritual worked on me too.

I spend years–Veronica’s whole life!–kicking against the goads and railing against the burden of how supremely tired I was at bedtime.

I was so blind. I wonder how many other things I’m completely wrong about?

The moon has been big and round. I walk the dog at night, now that it’s starting to be dark earlier I can see the moon.

Nine years I worked at that job. Many many of those years hurt. I have the memory of a lot of walks when my mind wrestled with the troubles I had.

Years of not knowing what exactly to do. Years of feeling trapped.

and years of being very very determined to find a way.

I looked up at the sky and saw a twinkling light. Oh, no, that is an airplane.

And I remembered that song “Can we pretend that an airplane in the night sky is like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now.”

When that song came out I wished and wished that I could find a way to connect with my co-workers.

That I could tell them in a way they would understand how frustrated I was and how much we needed to work together.

I did try. I silent often, but I did try.

Isn’t that how relationships work? Should I make a point out of every dissatisfaction? Or prepare a special confrontation…no, communication..of how I feel and what I’d like?

That is what I chose to do. I chose to give a presentation. I am pleased with what I said.

I was not pleased with how it was recieved.

The next part was escalation. Was I willing to escalate?

not further than I did.

And.

Now.

It’s done.

I remember crying into the airplane lights, wishing for a wish.

It’s done.

It happened. It counts. Not as much as it did while it was happening.

I’m free now. And that counts for a lot.

I’m not sure how much time to give to the painful memories. I do remember them. Yes I do. And…they are done.

everything in my life is telling me I need to get my time under better control. These 24 hours are flicking by not quickly, but with far more that they need to accomplish than I can fit into them.

So I have to use each minute like a gold coin.

more pressure on myself.  See, when I am all bound up I can’t think right to choose the right thing to do next

It turns out that I need to spend some time figuring out next steps

I must take the time to get organized. It takes thought to get thinky things done

Uh-oh. This was not turning out the way I wanted.

My hair had turned a most unnatural shade of red. Burgundy, really. I should not have bought this dye just because it was on sale. They had discontinued my favorite kind, called “Natural Essences” and I have been casting about for a replacement.

See that? NATURAL Essences. If I am going to fake color my hair I want it to be natural. This burgundy nonsense screamed to everyone who saw it that I was a fake.

I wanted to be fake, but not so that people could tell. I am not alone in this. There is a reason why even grocery stores carry hair dye. When I was younger, I could pick a color and try it on, because it was fun. Now, I can see bright flashes in my hair. The dreaded grays.

So I feel compelled to be diligent with my hair coloring. I want to be seen as young.

I want other people to see me and react to me as young and attractive. I want to look in the mirror and approve of myself and look forward to how people will see me.

This burgundy did not meet my approval. I had seen ladies with this shade, and it was acceptable. I could have gone to any job interview and been professional with my hair looking like that. But it clashed with my personal aesthetic. It looked weird on me.

I didn’t want something so different. I wanted subtle.

Shaking my head at my reflection, I knew I had to fix this. I didn’t want to be seen like this!

So what do I do? I immediately take a selfie and post it on the Internet. I needed the intimate commiseration of a few hundred of my closest friends. I’m not saying it is logical, but that’s what I did.

I’m not ashamed of my choice to color my hair. We have a social contract. We agree to believe that women really are what they present.

Hair dye has been around forever. Henna has been used for 6000 years at least. Red! Hair! It is rude to suggest that my red hair isn’t the way God made me. Of COURSE I’m a natural redhead.

But I am having trouble owning this burgundy. It clashes with my life. I don’t feel beautiful as I walk around. I had to do something to change this.

I was so mad at myself. I knew better. This is not what I wanted. I had to go find a fix.

I can imagine 6000 years ago, henna ladies had experienced the same problem. “Not THIS shade! What have I done?”

This is where the snake eats it’s own tail. I want to present a certain image. I want to be pleased with what I see in the mirror, and a big part of that is how I think others will be pleased with what they see.  What I think others will think.

Others agree to believe.  Only one or two percent of the world is redheads. It’s dramatic, to have bright red hair. So when ladies choose to henna their hair, they are taking on a rarity. I am one of a hundred! I have red hair! And society? We buy it. We accept it. We suspend our disbelief.

That’s why it’s been around so long. If we women make the effort, it is accepted. People grant the status, the favor of rarity. Even if we are sort of faking. Why not believe? What’s the harm?

So after I decided that my color was unacceptable to me, I took efforts to change it to good. It’s not like I wore a bag over my head. I did go out in public. I didn’t get criticism, people mostly didn’t talk about it.

Of course, there were comments on the internet-posted selfie. I asked for it. Some people were critical. Most were nice.

Even more were silent. I posted the progress, after I’d lotioned and potioned out the glaringness of the color and updated my friends on my journey. The usual suspects made comments.

I’d achieved hair parity by Sunday, and almost forgotten about it. Then a sort of debut of the hair happened at church. It turns out a lot of people were paying attention silently. “Your hair looks pretty!” they said.

Really? I didn’t think that many people were following my drama. It turned out more people cared than I realized.

Even more than I realized. These lovely friends made a point to tell me I was loved and accepted. Sometimes that is what “Your hair looks pretty!” really means.

I suspect they would have loved me and been sweet even if my hair had remained the burgundy color I hated.

Most people are really nice. Most people are willing to see our best selves if given half a chance.

Six thousand years of history tells us that society will buy it. You are one of a hundred, nay, one of a million.  At least today, because you made the effort and that counts for something.

Maybe it counts for everything.

It was a hard-won realization recently that I am a many-talented person.

I thought, well don’t we all have lots of talents?

Sure, to an extent. Something about me is different though. There is a flame in me, a hunger, that wants a lot of things, and wants a lot of things a lot.

I want to write. More than want, I have to.

And I also want to be that guy in mission control. I’ve made a career on it.

These are not the same things at all. I am the things that don’t go together. But they do, in me.

So here I am, the things that don’t go together. Yesterday I came to realize that really really was true.

Not in a defensive way. I’d been carrying these talents and passions like a crayon picture that I was REALLY trying to convince everyone was a fairy.

“See? It’s a fairy! Do you see it? Can’t you see it?”

I had to draw that picture, because inside of me I had to. I had to do it and keep doing it. Because I had to.

Only…I didn’t understand it and I didn’t now why I had to, I didn’t know what this compulsion was or what I was trying to do.

Do you see the fairy? Tell me what it is! It’s a fairy. Isn’t it?

People patted me on the head, sure, honey. Or sometimes they saw it before I told them what it was.

Sometimes they said they didn’t see anything.

And those people who didn’t see anything were the ones I believed the most. They were right. What was I doing?

If a lot of the naysayers happened in a row, I would leave off the drawings. Give up hope.

Only draw the fairies in the dark. Or erase them

drawing in sand

tracing the outlines in the fog on a mirror

the ideas of fairies won’t leave me alone

when the fog lifts from the mirror

the fairy disappears and leaves me

me with who I am

and what I’ve been given

God spoke

Let there be my child

Reflecting to myself

Let there be me

Let me!

Divinity wills it so

How dare I fight the will of God?

My heart

My expression

My voice unifying with the voice of creation

Let it be! Let me be as I am designed!

all other voices fall as the noise

I know

I create what I am created to make

[Those other voices don’t fall as much as I wish. And still I create.]