Life On Island

My new home.  Can you see me?

I have now been living on Orcas Island, or "on island," for two weeks. Rather than saying "on the island" or "off the island," the locals here say "on island" and "off island," because folks on Orcas do not like the word "the."

In many ways, it's a relief to be out of Portland. Here is something I learned during the three years I lived there:  if you love sun and dancing and aren't a fan of excessive facial hair or vintage clothing, then Portland might not be the town for you. And if your answer to the question "Ducks or Beavers?" is "Raiders," then you probably don't belong in Oregon.

I do miss giggling when driving past this place, however.

So far, I am in love with island living and am already lamenting the fact that I will only be here for three months.  Orcas has been very welcoming. On the first night, I saw a shooting star. On the first morning, a river otter ran across my yard. I am also delighted by my encounters with intelligent dog owners. When I tell people here that my dog is aggressive, they reign in their dogs and say, "Thank you so much for telling me," rather than saying, "It's okay!  My dog is really nice!" while allowing their off-leash dog to romp merrily towards my dog. Argh. Idiots. Don't those people realize it's even more upsetting when Libby bites a nice dog in the face? 

It's pretty easy to internalize Orcas' laid back style. Before coming here, I had a hard time staying less than 10 mph above the speed limit. On Orcas, I find myself looking at speed limit signs and thinking, "What's the limit? Okay, 35. How fast am I going? 23. Hmm. Well, 35 just seems excessive."  

My current state of utter seclusion seems to be a great fit.  In general, I find that I have much more benevolent feelings towards humanity when my interactions with actual people are primarily smile- and wave-based.

Isn't it nice just waving and not speaking to one another?

However, I believe there may be some pitfalls to spending too much time by myself, and I have begun compiling a list of Signs You've Perhaps Been Alone Too Long, including:

#1 - You become convinced that Pandora is reading your thoughts and attempting to communicate with you via its song selections. You may also find yourself arguing, out loud, with Pandora (e.g., "It's not my fault I don't like that crappy Nickelback song you chose! Why must you punish me with advertising?!").

#2 - You realize one morning that you've been using the same fork for an entire week. You decide it's time to start using a different fork, and when you look through all the available forks and choose a new one, it gives you a little thrill.

Oooo, perfect!  I can't wait to try it out!

#3 - You begin speaking on behalf of your pets and eventually move to creating intricate dialogues between them.

#4 - You can't remember the last time you had an actual conversation with another person. Was it yesterday? Last week? 2008? Even the sound of your own voice sometimes startles you. When you find yourself in a situation that requires verbal communication, you discover that you have lost the ability to have a cliche conversation. Someone asks, "How are you?" and you answer, "There's a painful blister forming on my heel," or, "I'm having extreme PMS symptoms this month," or, "I'm getting kind of nervous about my financial situation." 

I need one of these as a warning to others

However, in general I am most definitely enjoying this state of prolonged solitude, and one of the many luxuries this experience has granted me is the time to read over my journals from the past fifteen years. Here's a selection of my favorite lines thus far:

• Last night I only slept long enough to have a dream that I was having insomnia.
• I wish I could learn from my mistakes before making them.
• Life is funny sometimes. Not ha-ha funny, but blow-my-head-off funny.
• I was such a self-righteous little shit as a kid...um, and still am. But now I'm right.

And here is my all time favorite quote from Mom, also preserved in one of the journals:

"Try not to kill anyone."

:)

You Know Me - I Live To Serve

Here I am!

Yesterday I was hiking with my dog Libby, and we ended up traveling much farther than I had intended.  This sort of thing happens to me on a regular basis, given my utter lack of a sense of direction and extreme difficulty comprehending whatever maps are trying to tell me.  I didn't mind the extended walk, but I hadn't brought any water for Libby, and by about mile 6 or 7, she was panting pretty hard.

Thankfully, we soon arrived at a lakeside, and I stopped so Libby could take a drink.  Libby was definitely interested in the lake water, but it was just out of her reach, so I decided to be a super helpful owner and hold her back end while she lapped up the water.  This maneuvering worked for approximately 2 seconds before my foot slipped and SPLOOSH!  Into the lake Libby went.

Now my Libby is not a water dog.  Other than utilizing it for drinking purposes, she pretty much wants nothing whatsoever to do with water.  Therefore, she was quite despondent about this state of affairs.  She rocketed herself out of the lake instantaneously and then looked at me with a stony gaze that said, quite simply, "I don't even know you anymore."

Even now, she won't deign to look at me

This was certainly not the first time in my life that an attempt at benevolence had unintended, calamitous results.  In fact, as a wet, cranky Libby and I continued our walk along the trail yesterday, I recalled three such events which, despite the fact that they occurred several years ago, still cause stomach cramps when I recall them.  And here they are, in chronological order:

#1 - Throw Dad's Money To The Wind

When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I was traveling in the back of my dad's convertible with my dad driving and his friend Roy sitting shotgun.  My dad had a check in an envelope and was looking for a secure place to store it once we hit the highway and picked up speed, so I offered to hold it for him.  Before he handed it to me, he said, "This check is for a lot of money.  Be careful.  Hold onto it tightly."  He handed me the envelope.

Because I was a sarcastic little shit even way back then, as soon as I had the envelope in my hand, I said, "So I shouldn't do this?" and waved the envelope haphazardly in the air, intending only to startle my dad but maintain a firm grip on the envelope.  However, the wind had a different idea and immediately whisked the envelope right out of my hand.

Ha ha!  Um...oops.

My dad and Roy spent about the next hour searching the side of the highway for the missing envelope, which, thankfully, they did find.  I offered to assist in the search, but my dad declined, stating that it was too dangerous.  However, in retrospect, he probably didn't want me to "help" because he had just learned that his daughter sucks at helping.  So instead I curled up into a ball of patheticness in the back of the car, thinking about what a little turd I'd turned out to be.

#2 - Get That Batterer To The Altar

In my early-20s, I was the coordinator of a batterers' intervention program.  In that position, I was charged not only to work with the charming men who'd been arrested for beating their partners, but also to have regular contact with the victims of the crimes they had perpetrated.

One day I met with the girlfriend of a man in my program.  She explained to me that her partner was continually accusing her of being interested in other men and stepping out on him.  She said, "I know his ex-girlfriend cheated on him, but I'm not her!  I would never do that, but he just won't trust me."

The next day, that very guy came to my office.  He said that he knew his girlfriend had met with me the day before, and she'd told him it was helpful talking to me, so he wanted to try it out, too.  He talked ad nauseam about the trouble he was having trusting her, although she'd never given him any cause to doubt her loyalty.  I asked him if he remembered what I'd talked about regarding trust during our last group session.  He didn't (what a surprise!), so I reiterated the message:  if you find that you cannot trust your partner, for whatever reason, then you should not be with that person, because you will try to control her, and that is abusive.  I spoke for quite awhile about the fact that he needed to address his trust issues, and until he was able to move past them, he probably shouldn't be in an intimate relationship.

A few nights later, that guy asked to speak during our group session.  I gave him the floor, and here is what he said:  "You guys should listen to Kelly.  I had a meeting with her the other day, and she told me I just needed to trust my girl, so you know what I did?  Yesterday I took her out to Little Palm Island, and I married her!"

Communication breakdoooown!

As one, all of the other men in the group spun around to witness my thinly-veiled, horrified expression. One of them even burst out laughing and then said, "Is that what you had in mind, Kelly?"

A few months later, that guy was arrested, once again, for domestic violence.  Nice work, Al.

#3 - Memories?  Who Needs Those?

A few years ago, my mother, sister, and I took a trip to England to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday.  Throughout our amazing adventure, my mom and I tag teamed taking pictures.  Since we each had a camera, whenever we encountered a photo op, one of us would snap the picture, and that way, between the two of us, we captured all of our fabulous experiences.

On the last day of our trip, my mom's camera lost its ability to focus.  She tried changing some of the settings, but nothing seemed to work.  Therefore, I offered to help.  (Uh-oh - cue The Doom Song!)

I fiddled around with the camera until it asked me if I wanted to reformat it.  Hmmm, I thought, that sounds like a good idea!  Who couldn't use a little reformatting?  So I said - sure!  Go ahead and get reformatted!  

Are you sure? the camera asked.  

But of course! I replied confidently.

And that is precisely how I erased all of my mom's pictures.  Every.  Single.  One.

Shut up, Nelson.

In conclusion, folks, if you ever find yourself needing assistance, and I offer to provide it, be afraid.  You should probably save yourself the headache and just take a pass.

Longing For Simplicity

After my final class at the kickboxing studio I've been attending for the past couple of years, the head trainer stopped me to say goodbye and wish me luck in my future endeavors.  He asked where I was moving and what I was going to do there, and, wincing in anticipation of his follow-up question, I told him I was moving to Orcas Island to finish the book I've been writing.  And then, of course, he replied, "Oh, really?  What's your book about?"

Ugh.  I have grown to dread this question for two reasons:

1. I suck at talking about my writing, and
2. That's a very personal question, and I shouldn't have to answer it for any rando who happens to cross my path.

So I gave the trainer my "you're-a-stranger-who-has-no-right-to-ask-me-that-question" answer, which is:  "It's about laughing at human tragedy."  His response was simply to stare back at me in silence, blinking, which got awkward real quick, so I decided to offer him a longer, even crappier answer to that question.  When I finally blundered to the end of my rambling, incoherent explanation, the trainer informed me that he's also writing a book.  I asked what it's about, and he replied, "T'ai chi and qigong."

Oh, really?  How Zen of you.

Okay, consider me green with envy.  How I long for an answer like his!  T'ai chi and qigong?  Seriously?  What a marvelously simple response!  Why can't my book be about t'ai chi and qigong, or puppies, or World War II, or something else I could say in 5 seconds or less?

My current book topic issue is much like my employment situation has been for the past 15 years.  That pesky "What do you do?" question has plagued my existence due to the fact that I've never had a simple response, like, "I'm a dentist," or, "I'm a lone cowhand."  No, my answers have required multi-layered, complicated explanations involving social justice theory, federal funding issues, nonprofit business models, and brief lessons about foster care, mental illness, domestic violence statistics, and best practices for human behavior modification.  Whenever I found myself at some sort of gathering with my sister and someone asked us what we did for a living, my sister would say, "I'm a fourth grade teacher."  And then I would sigh, hand the person a large glass of wine and say, "Have a seat.  This is gonna take awhile."

What is particularly annoying is the knowledge that, for the most part, people only ask questions like "What's your book about?" and "What do you do?" to be polite, not out of any true desire to know the answers.  And yet, those questions historically have caused me to spiral into an abyss of frustration and anxiety.  Therefore, I think I might start lying.  That seems like a good self-preservation strategy.  When someone asks what my book is about, I'll just give the first, simple answer that pops into my head. 

"It's about dirt."
"It's about Pluto's fall to non-planet status."
"It's about six-toed cats."
"It's about a dentist who falls in love with a lone cowhand."

I think I need this book

At least now I have an easy answer to the question "What do you do?"  I can say, "I'm a novelist."  Except that simple answer will then lead to a series of complicated questions.  Hmmm.  Maybe I'll just say I'm unemployed.  That usually serves as a good a conversation killer.

Yes, just like LOL.  I hate you, LOL!

Big Girls Cry Annually

Two weeks from now, I will leave Portland to live on Orcas Island by myself for three months. While I'm excited about this opportunity, I think it's very likely that I will spend the first 24 hours on the island just bawling my eyes out. This would be a timely occurrence, not only because I'm experiencing a huge amount of change and loss right now, but also because I believe I'm due for my annual cry.

My husband is an excellent and well-versed crier. He cries when he's sad. He cries when he's happy. He cries when someone else is sad or happy. He cries when he's sleepy, startled, concerned, or simply feels like crying. I really admire his ability to engage regularly in the healthy, cleansing ritual of shedding tears. I, on the other hand, cry when I yawn or cut onions. Even when a situation is definitely cry-worthy, instead of crying, I find myself thinking, "I should totally be crying right now."

Over the past few days, I've experienced several endings that could or perhaps even should have been cry-worthy. I haven't cried yet. Occasionally I feel sudden, overwhelming emotions begin to flow over me, but my brain kicks in with the message: Yuck, negative emotions! Abort! Abort!  And then I stop thinking about whatever circumstance is creating the emotional reaction. I am certain this is an unhealthy practice. I'm probably going to have a brain aneurysm.

Eventually, however, I know I'm going to cry. It's been quite a while. At this point, I probably have about 2 gallons of stockpiled tears waiting to come out. I know how my annual cry cycle works, having gone through it enough times. For 364 days, I stoically face adversity without shedding a tear. But on the 365th day, something minuscule happens (e.g., I stub a toe; I spill my coffee; I see one of those dog food commercials where the dog and the kid grow up together and then the kid goes off to college and the dog sits on the front porch, waiting for him to come home), and I bawl like a baby for hours.

Ow, my toe!  And everything else that's happened for the past year! 

At the end of this ordeal, I'm left with a pounding headache and a feeling of extreme relief. Thus, the cycle begins again.

I've had quite a few periods in my life like this one, wherein I make the decision to discard the majority of the stabilizing elements of my life and start all over again. The first time I did this as an adult, I called one of my friends and told her, very calmly, that over the next month I planned to systematically drop everything in my life, pack a bag, go home to my parents, and go into crisis. She responded with a lot of support and encouragement, then remarked, "By the way, only you would plan a crisis."

I suppose I'm doing a similar thing right now - scheduling an appointment to cry in the not-too-distant future rather than just crying in the moment like a normal person. Although I realize this is bizarre behavior, I still find myself comforted by the knowledge that, once I'm on Orcas, I'll have a full day set aside to dehydrate myself via the violent expulsion of ten million tears.

Going to Orcas this fall is the fulfillment of a dream for me. I get to live in a gorgeous, magical environment and devote three months of concentrated time to completing the novel I've been working on for the past year. My observation as a human being in this world is that it is a rare thing indeed to experience the realization of a dream.

That being said, I am trying not to read too much into the fact that the calendar on my wall features the following image this month:

Eep.