Vital Air

The birds are chirping happily, thinking it's still early morning...it seems dark out for 10:00am, but that is only because a light storm is on the way...I'll light a candle and enjoy my time on the mat...breathing deeply and slowly...with intention, with the freedom to release anxiety...releasing the mind from thought, thereby allowing clarity...and I'm thankful for being here, now.

Away I go...

I'm off to China to meet up with my husband, and explore a part of the world I never imagined I would see. We are starting in Beijing, then moving south to Kunming and up through the Sichuan-Tibetan highway to see Lugu Lake, Chengdu and Xian before we return to Beijing to fly home. I have a particular interest in the Mosuo people around the Lugu Lake area, which are one of the precious few matrilinear societies in China. The lineage of the family is traced through the women, which is unusual, and women make many of the household and financial decisions. There is also an interest in gender balance, as opposed to the prominent male bias in Han culture. Go Mosuo!

Powerful Woman

I recently finished reading "Infidel" by Ayann Hirsi Ali and, although I have passed this book on to another woman, I know that it will cross my path again someday. Ms. Ali was born into a traditional Islamic family in Somalia, and spent much of her youth trying to adhere to her ascribed religious beliefs despite the abuse and oppression she experienced as an inherent result of being a female Muslim. A major theme of her experience was an internal struggle between what she felt she was "supposed" to do as a proper Muslim and what her gut an her intellect were urging her to believe instead. She eventually fled to Holland to escape an arranged marriage, and worked her way through the refugee system to a seat in the Dutch parliament. She lives under a constant threat of death because of her outspoken views on Islam, the Qur'an and the gross mistreatment of women under this umbrella of religion. She's also made some really striking observations about the difficulty of integration of immigrants and refugees into Dutch society, also linked to religious beliefs. My understanding is that she advocates for a dissolution, or at least a major shift, in Islamic belief.

I don't pretend to have a very firm grasp on the principles of Islam, or the Qur'an (I've had enough trouble with the Bible...) but her book resonated with me because of the clarity of her voice and the way that she demystified her life growing up Islamic. She was told she was worthless, she was stupid, she was just a woman (less than a man) and should submit submit submit. Through all of that, through beatings and civil war and female circumcision and arranged marriage, she still clung to her own voice, her own reason, and saw that women and children were being relegated to less than second class citizen status.

I am a middle class white woman who grew up in the USA with reasonably stable parents who shuttled me to Catholic school for 9 years. I have nothing in common with Ms. Ali beyond being a woman and being a citizen of this world, really. I am intrigued by her life story partly due to the concentration of the Somalian community in Minneapolis that I have no insight into. As a woman of my somewhat commonplace background, I feel compelled to seek out a purpose for myself: how do I contribute to this world? What difference am I capable of making, what do I want to stand up for?

"Smoke Poem"

I will wake up eventually
and my eyes will rub from black to purple to blue,
if only there could be a little sun
or a bit better dreaming.

Steam is rising from my arms,
out of my mouth,
off the tails of cats and the slop of leaves.
It's got nothing to do with no one.

Giving Grief

I've been working a lot more in the past month or so...the semester ended in early May and I needed to supplement my income somehow. I don't know if I will have a class in the fall or not-admissions are looking rather bleak lately, what with (can you guess??) the recession. I'm so sick of that word and that concept. But, despite my grumblings, it is having it's own direct and personal impact on us all, so who am I to complain? I got a second serving job, which seemed like a good idea at the time (money money money) but ended up being an unexpected test of my patience and self-worth.

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

I should backtrack a little. I did not go to college and graduate school to wait tables. Granted, I studied in the fine arts, which in a sense is it's own abstract death sentence, but my gut has always told me that I will not fare well psychically in a traditional job. I did once have a cubicle, and I spent the bulk of my time making a 'zine and abusing the free coffee cart. So. I have had pretty steady adjunct teaching jobs for the past three years, which has been such a great blessing and equalizer. I've always served part time when I'm teaching to bring in a little more green, because teaching isn't like winning the jackpot monetarily. One thing it does afford, however, is some measure of legitimacy socially, and a little bit of ego padding in a subulture that prides itself on being entrepreneurial and creatively dynamic. I have an office...I have office hours even...I have a roster of people who look to me for guidance and critique and support. It's a big girl job.

Serving, no matter how lucrative, doesn't carry with it the same kind of esteem. I guess it doesn't need to, even though it takes a lot of skill and finesse to be a good server. A lot of people who eat out don't realize it, but their server probably has an entire cavalcade of pursuits and endeavors that have nothing to do with how they make the bulk of their money. I understand that it is a very American concept to view that how you make your money is also how you identify yourself (and your self-worth??) A server doesn't necessarily have any training (I learned on the job in the beginning) and somehow that translates into a position of disrespect and even a tinge of cruel harassment. I've had people that I'm serving ask if I'm educated, where I went to high school, what I want to do when I grow up (ugh...), if I can count high enough to seat a table of 9. People huff and puff and use me as their social punching bag if the kitchen is out of something they wanted. They glare at me when I smile and greet them. They grab my arm to look at my tattoo. I become a kind of public property, without my consent. Serving is far more socially complex that it initially seems-you have to be able to read people, to multitask, to predict the future, to deliver disappointing news in such a way that doesn't disappoint, to maneuver awkward questions that aren't appropriate, you have to jump through hoop after hoop after hoop, like some kind of bedraggled circus freak. It gets even worse when the people behind the scenes are making it just as trying for you as the people in your section. When your head chef throws a piece of ham at you, thinking it's a cute move on his part (nevermind the absolute breach of any kind of professionalism, comraderie aside...) and then you stagger up to your table only to have the man ordering from you act like a total nightmare and to tell you that he's just "giving you grief" as if that is supposed to alleviate the irritation that has already twisted your shoulders into a knot and set your jaw like iron. "Giving grief." It's a very revealing phrase, because it's dramatic and personal and totally unnecessary. When I go into an establishment or an office or a department, I don't feel the entitlement or desire to give someone a hard time. I do not go into my guest's job and give him grief. Why is it acceptable to treat servers like this? Especially when they are being cordial and efficient and helpful? Why is the kitchen in turn treating the server like some kind of ragdoll, without a shred of respect for our mutually linked and stressful jobs?

The bright side to all of this is that I can be compensated sometimes around $50/hour for all this rigamarole. I can make in 3 days what some people make in a week. I can take a week off and not be penalized for it through my vacation or sick time (which, by the way, doesn't exist) nor do my benefits suffer (because I have none through my job!!)

Teaching, however, sets up a completely different set of social circumstances. There is order and a title and a classroom and deadlines decided by you. It's tough to move within the two worlds: server and teacher, and even more difficult to try to maintain a sense of your own adult identity.

I recently had an interaction with a woman that left me a little shaken in terms of my identity. I was waiting tables on a Sunday night, and everything was going well, when I had a two-top that included a woman whom I know from my time in graduate school. We didn't know each other super well, but she knows my photographic work, and she seems to like me well enough. When I greeted her table, she looked really surprised and remembered my name, and immediately blurted out, "What are you doing here?!" It really stunned me, because with those few words she immediately communicated to me so much more, so much dealing with her thoughts on what someone like me should and shouldn't be doing. Serving, to her, seemed beneath me? Serving meant that I was amounting to, well, not much ($40 an hour thanks.) I looked at her for a beat, and replied, "WORKING." I mean, what the hell else could I have said? The rest of our time together passed just fine, mostly because I made it so, but she did proceed to ask me if I still had time to make my work. I don't know if she is of the belief that every artist just finds money in the mail or under their shoe or in their paintbox, but she seemed REALLY shocked that I had to work to make my life happen. It's been a real effort to get over that sting, because even though I scoff at her ignorance and insensitivity, there is some validity to the idea of not doing what I would like to be doing, or at least getting paid for it.

Since I am serving so much, my body is getting beat up a little more, my fuze is a little shorter, but I'm trying so hard to keep a full and balanced life. I'm finding new ways to leave the grief at the restaurant, to shake off the stupid and invasive comments I field on an almost daily basis. I'm reconfiguring my free time to work for me, to bolster those little dark pockets of my mind that might be left bruised by working a double on Father's Day. I think if I can learn from this, even if I never have another teaching job again, it will help me set me course to a richer place. And I don't mean richer as in cash, although that would be nice.

Sweet Thief

Last night I was listening to a radio piece about art heists, and the speaker was explaining how the thieves aren't the suave, handsome characters from film, but rather look and act like regular schmoes. He insisted that these people don't "wear baklavas and smoking jackets..." and I thought, "Baklava wouldn't be a very sophisticated disguise." However, given further thought, a burglar disguised as pastry is a concept I can endorse...it's genius, the height of deception, and delicious!

Potat-owl

While I was peeling potatoes to make a curry this weekend, I found this growth in the last potato. I'm not a big believer in religious images popping up in oil slicks or french toast like some more fervent people, but this is my equivalent. It's a perfect owl!! I have a mild owl obsession that started in my childhood. I was completely infatuated with Greek mythology, and I had a particular affinity for the really kick-ass goddesses like Athena and Artemis. Athena's animal is the owl, and one of my favorite incarnations of this was Bubo, the mechanical owl from the movie "Clash of the Titans." The character Wall-E kind of reminds me of Bubo in mannerism and aptitude for bumbling cuteness.




I recently remembered the character Archimedes from "The Sword and the Stone." I'm not a huge Disney fan, but this movie was part of a pocket of time when the animated films were quirky and odd and far less slick than today. I loved Archimedes crusty, fussy attitude, and I would imitate his voice to the best of my little-kid ability.




It's kind of embarrassing that I'm posting about owls, but it's probably time I admitted it. My husband gets a little spooked when I bring in more owl stuff, but it's fairly rare nowadays. I did have a really intense dream months ago that I was walking in a forest with a talking owl. I guess that's an indication that the animal is a part of my totem. Owl medicine is connected to communicating wisdom and guidance, and I value that. Plus, they are such physically interesting animals, both eerie and charming. It's written that the owl is the messenger of death; not necessarily actual, physical death (!) but a dying of a part of oneself to make way for new growth.