tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-118154272024-03-19T04:49:23.333-07:00Blah de Blah Blah BlahhghCogito cogito ergo cogito sum.
(I think that I think therefore I think I am.)
--Ambrose BierceJennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-2956878517409917502008-07-26T13:51:00.000-07:002008-07-26T14:01:04.902-07:00Randy PauschI've certainly noticed I've become more sentimental/emotional as I get older...the new commercial for the Beijing Olympics with the Derek Redmond and his dad puts a lump in my throat.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nifq3Ke2Q30&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nifq3Ke2Q30&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />When I heard yesterday that Randy Pausch had succumbed to <a href="http://www.pancan.org/">Pancreatic Cancer</a>, I was truly grieved. What an incredible soul and spirit that man shared...<br /><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ji5_MqicxSo&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ji5_MqicxSo&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />I have much work to do.Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-15640058386918403622008-07-22T14:13:00.000-07:002008-07-22T14:15:04.465-07:00Madness takes its toll. Please have exact change.I'm trying to remain positive about the job hunt. My natural tendency to downplay my own strengths is not helping, and neither are the lists of jobs available through the usual suspects. I am going to keep trying. :) <br /><br />More later...Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-45682587614283244472008-07-14T09:52:00.000-07:002008-07-14T10:16:14.402-07:00I found Jesus - he was behind the sofa all the time.Searching for a job is a daunting experience. There are always things to distract you from your task. Like blogging. :)<br /><br />At the risk of sounding like a housewife, I got an unbelievable level of joy from vacuuming and steam-cleaning my carpet yesterday. WTF? Brett and I were one finely-oiled machine...moving furniture, me vacuuming one room while he shampooed the carpet in another... Priceless. The pride I felt while surveying my clean apartment was tantamount to painting a portrait, or finishing an important presentation or...something else like that. I was giddy for hours. Ok that's a lie - I'm giddy now. It's beautiful.<br /><br />I guess the fact that our old vacuum kicked the bucket a couple of months ago, after a fe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GwBoyIQw4-BDCJ3z-FZ4o_swaP9Uh6WvuDEvPHAxr0MoluueygJ-R1x4ndyiear5txv_8mdI4q-Ea56RduCp_H55dH5tOhhZbWmXnNjjTfPcNwJUeYW3m-MWmnQE5OgDsZyfkA/s1600-h/Libbynapping.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 93px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GwBoyIQw4-BDCJ3z-FZ4o_swaP9Uh6WvuDEvPHAxr0MoluueygJ-R1x4ndyiear5txv_8mdI4q-Ea56RduCp_H55dH5tOhhZbWmXnNjjTfPcNwJUeYW3m-MWmnQE5OgDsZyfkA/s200/Libbynapping.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222916919710260114" border="0" /></a>w months of failing health. Our new <a href="http://products.howstuffworks.com/dirt-devil-vibe-m091020v-upright-vacuum-review.htm">vacuum</a>, a lovely purple upright with hepa-filter and all, sucked up enough cat hair to form an entirely new cat - albeit a dusty one. (We'll stick with Libby.) We got it at reliable old <a href="http://www.target.com/gp/detail.html/601-7835126-0971363?ASIN=B000FEC97S&AFID=Froogle&LNM=B000FEC97S%7CDirt_Devil_Vibe_Swivel_Glide_M088915V&ci_src=14110944&ci_sku=B000FEC97S&ref=tgt_adv_XSG10001">Target</a>, but not online, and it was cheaper in the store. Yay us!<br /><br />We then <a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/productImages/0/9/00000115309-BissellProHeatSteamCleaner8910-large.jpeg&imgrefurl=http://products.howstuffworks.com/bissell-proheat-steam-cleaner-8910-review.htm&h=400&w=400&sz=14&hl=en&start=4&um=1&tbnid=2gGSfSQSSGMlDM:&tbnh=124&tbnw=124&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dbissell%2BProHeat%2BSteam%2Bcleaner%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26sa%3DN">steam-cleaned</a> the HECK out of it.<br /><br />Voila.<br /><br />Enough about my clean apartment.<br /><br /><br />Back to the job hunt.<br /><br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-5765833468157291342008-07-12T14:19:00.000-07:002008-07-12T14:32:53.654-07:00Catching up...So it's been over a year. So sue me. I've been BUSY.<br /><br />Really.<br /><br />I had a job and everything.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />I fell in love.<br /><br />I got all marriaged and stuff...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHh2q0I7zQtzphUhfECsLfMw3qPTWP8M5vfaKJfZnTIEGyTjVvomjbyCTeioHWsdgBWyNs-JQACfVa6R8zdvBEHHXtNieVgQ3i1gRz0Dg59XrtxBzDmeQB9-6hyphenhyphenFqfeHJ94HgoDQ/s1600-h/cake.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHh2q0I7zQtzphUhfECsLfMw3qPTWP8M5vfaKJfZnTIEGyTjVvomjbyCTeioHWsdgBWyNs-JQACfVa6R8zdvBEHHXtNieVgQ3i1gRz0Dg59XrtxBzDmeQB9-6hyphenhyphenFqfeHJ94HgoDQ/s200/cake.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222243038105262530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I've been working on my website. Check <a href="http://jennlwalker.com/">it</a> out.<br /><br /><br /><br />I've been writing a BOOK. (ooooh)<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvPaD3Q3TZyqPROfSTaFtInJXAnWI9SREKeKk4l-XEpQmpiOFayKxHrY88Sfbs1bRPJXzbcr-oNGWBDjqlzjXyyNnUsFsgP1Q1mmcvc11K0_K0vR_oSzhTFT975DlnOpVjBX53g/s1600-h/Slide1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvPaD3Q3TZyqPROfSTaFtInJXAnWI9SREKeKk4l-XEpQmpiOFayKxHrY88Sfbs1bRPJXzbcr-oNGWBDjqlzjXyyNnUsFsgP1Q1mmcvc11K0_K0vR_oSzhTFT975DlnOpVjBX53g/s320/Slide1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222243270644039442" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I promise I'll write more soon. Honest.Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-1136251746859919502006-01-02T17:15:00.000-08:002008-07-12T13:03:39.774-07:00Marching unrelentingly toward...2007<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Happy new year. Or is it "Happy New Year!"? Or maybe it's "Happy Gnu Year!"?. Whatever. I haven't written in a while. Now I'm writing about my new year's resolutions. You're thrilled, surely.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Instead of the specific resolutions of year's past that always get thrown by the wayside, I have decided to embrace a more conceptual idea of resolutions. Rather than things I will do that I didn't do before, these are ideas and behaviors about which I will become more <span style="font-style: italic;">resolute</span>.<br /></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Health</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I shall endeavor to be more healthy, the whole mind-body-soul thing. I don't know if that means I will ever take a yoga class, but there's still hope. I will try to find the inspiration I need to move my body again. I want to feel all the muscles connect and work together. I am going to try and free my psyche from the baggage--no, CRAP, that I've been hauling around. (see "self" below and "forgive" a bit further down). This may or may not involve interaction with a trained mental health professional; jury's still out on that one.<br />I will also heed the passage of time and limit my intake of garbage, for all the reasons that's a good idea.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Self </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The last few years of my life have been, without question, kind of difficult. I'm not saying I didn't make the bed in which I now lie, but still, some tough times. I have ( new-agey word alert) "processed" much of the "information" I've gained over these years and I think I am now standing as tall as I've stood in a while. (Easy for me to say...) </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There have been some truly dark moments. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Here I must also say without my friends I would not be alive. I wholeheartedly believe that.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Friends</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My friends are my wealth, and I am rich beyond measure. I will cherish my treasure each day. I will no longer worry about who called whom last, or more often, and focus instead on what each friend means to me, and be the embodiment to them of that friendship. (I think that makes sense.) My friends have gone so far above and beyond the call of any "duty." I am humbled that they care so deeply for me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Learn<br /></span>My brain is very unhappy with me. Brain sad. Brain lonely. For too long I have let it graze along, munching quietly on nonsense and vapidity. My brain used to like me a lot, but I don't think I ever gave my brain the credit it deserved. Now I say, "Stand UP Brain, be accounted for! I shall not let you atrophy one millisecond longer." My brain is hungry for many, many things, and I will allow it to feast. Promise. Pinky swear. Really.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Write</span><br />I'm doing it! I'm really doing it! This sounds silly, honestly, but I watched a documentary about JERRY SEINFELD and he said something that affected me more strongly than anything in a long while. He was talking about how he would grudgingly work on his act 2 or three days a week, and then one day he saw some construction workers going back to work after lunch, and how even though it wasn't the greatest job in the world, they were going back. Jerry (I feel I can call him Jerry) said, and I'm paraphrasing of course, that if they can willingly go back to work day after day, week after week, the least he could do was give his job (which he felt lucky to have) the same dedication. There. That's it. It goes hand in hand with "Learn", but I have to use it, or I will lose it, in more ways than one.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Debt</span><br />I am not speaking simply of financial. I owe the world my consideration. I owe the earth my concern. I owe my friends my undying love and friendship. (I owe myself my undying love too, but that's harder.) I am going to honor my debts.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />Forgive</span><br />This is the toughie of the bunch. I will forgive my parents for being my parents. I will try and remember that they are people who made questionable decisions under difficult circumstances that affected me greatly for a really long time. I can't say I will no longer feel the effects, but I will forgive them for their part. I will forgive myself for my own weaknesses. I must be true to myself and if I am successful, maybe the fear that has infiltrated all the cracks and crevices will go away. If I can forgive myself for the things I haven't done, or didn't do well enough, or did the wrong way, perhaps I can clear the way for finding out what I really want to do, and the voice and power I need to get it done.<br /><br />Oh, and I'm going to learn Spanish. I am.<br /><br />Today is the first day of the rest of the week. That's as much slack as I'm willing to cut it. Maybe tomorrow it will be better.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span> </span>Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-1134458154290618132005-12-12T23:12:00.000-08:002008-07-12T13:02:54.703-07:00People like you are the reason people like me need medication.I was reminded today of an incident from my past that while making me look like a complete idiot, still made me laugh, then and now. They say it's healthy to laugh at oneself--it helps if one is laughably stupid at times.<br /><br />I living in Oakland, California in a beautiful one-bedroom apartment near Lake Merrit. The rent for this spacious and well appointed apartment was a miraculous $610, and that included a parking space in a secure garage. And it was only about 10 years ago; how stupid was I for moving, eh? The same apartment now is undoubtedly nearing $1500 or $1600 now, if not more.<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />What is that about hindsight? 20/20 vision? Something like that. I should have eyes of an eagle by now, an eagle with lasik surgery, even. Criminy.<br /><br />When parking in my parking space in my secure garage at my spacious, well appointed $610 one-bedroom apartment in Oakland, I would always park head-in, and then back-out.<br /><br />(Let me confess right now that I can be sarcastic at the wrong time.)<br /><br />Let me set it up for you:<br /><br />Early Spring Morning outside my parking garage in Oakland.<br /><br />Neighbor (whom I had never before met): Wow...you back out every day?<br /><br />Me: (Alright, snidely) I guess it's just as easy as backing IN every day.<br /><br />I got in my car as she watched and backed out of my space. As my car passed through the garage door opening, I proceeded to scrape the entire passenger door along the garage door. Loudly.<br /><br />Of course, I kept going as though there was nothing unusual.<br /><br />*sigh*Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-1112730065256511032005-04-05T12:22:00.000-07:002008-07-12T13:01:12.179-07:00It's All Relative Part 2<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Nearly a year passed, and then my 40th birthday, and the subsequent realization that my real life was carrying on without me, and it wasn't particularly pleased with what I was doing with or about it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">When my roommate decided to buy a condo, giving up the lease on our apartment, I took it as evidence that the universe, no, The Universe, was pointing me in a direction. A further sign came when I was told that once again I would not be advancing in my job, ever. My quasi-relationship was still circling, though whether it was circling commitment or the toilet remained to be seen. While we both insisted we loved the other Truly, Madly and Deeply, after nearly two years of uncertainty we definitely needed a break, some distance, some perspective. So there it was. Short of speaking out loud in a Thunderous Voice, The Universe was now telling me in no uncertain terms that now was my chance, my opportunity, my time. It was my destiny unfolding before me, almost without my control or consent. Call it Fate; call it serendipity, coincidence, or just an interesting confluence of events, things were changing, just as I had hoped. (What's that saying, be careful what you wish for…?)<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">I called my mother and made arrangements to visit her for an extended period of time, say 8-10 weeks. She told me in her gravely smoker voice, a Midwestern Tahllulah Bankhead, that she was thrilled and that she loved me and couldn't wait until I arrived, but not to hurry too much, to be careful and arrive in one piece. I quit my job, moved my meager belongings into storage, tuned up my 1993 VW Fox, visited a few friends, and said my goodbyes to them and to Dean, the man in my life. I knew this would be good for me and for my future and for my relationship, but it was difficult, nonetheless. I drove from Los Angeles to Long Beach, where I met up with 2 retirees I had found on a Baja travel website and had arranged to caravan with the 1200 miles or so down to La Paz.<br /><br />The retirees, Larry and Larry (Larry 1 and Larry 2 for clarity's sake) were on their way to deliver household items to a house in Cabo San Lucas owned by Larry 1, who had made the drive at least a dozen times before, and was a constant source of encouragement and support from the minute we first spoke and arranged our trip together. The Larrys were a godsend, to be certain.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">I had no idea what I was in for, the trip in and of itself was a bit scary; simply driving in a 10 year old car 1000 miles into a third-world country was frightening enough. I was leaving any form of security I had ever had, the man I loved, my friends, my home and life as I knew it, and I didn't even know if my car would survive the journey. I knew, however, that all I had was the future and answers to the questions that had plagued me in my present and in my past. I also knew that come hell or high water, I could and would, finally, make my little mark on the world, even if that mark was a faint and tiny scratch--much like carving your initials on the underside of your desk with an unbent paper clip in the 4th grade--only the one who carved it knows it exists.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">We set off at 2:00AM on a Saturday and drove 900 miles before stopping in Loreto for the night. Now, if you've ever driven the length of Baja California, you will know that there exists some of the most beautiful coastline you will see in your lifetime. The drive crosses back and forth over the peninsula from the Sea of Cortez to the Pacific Ocean. There are parts of the drive that will take your breath away; picturesque little towns and seaside fishing villages, miles of beaches, coves and bays. The available lodging runs the gamut from downright scary to 3 and 4-star and restaurants serve fresh fish caught that day in waters so blue and so clear you can see the sandy bottom. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Unfortunately, in addition, there is mile after mile after mile after unrelenting mile of the most barren, desolate and hot desert, interrupted only by mile after mile after tedious mile of winding, monotonous mountain ranges that twist and turn so often your neck and shoulders begin to cramp with the effort of turning the steering wheel so often. (Ok, I have no power steering, but still…) It seems endless and endlessly miserable at times.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">The kilometers are marked one by one on the road, counting down the mileage from one town to the next, and after a while I found myself adding and subtracting to see how much further this could go on before the next town and a chance to stop and stretch my legs. Frequently the mileage would be incorrect, and I began to feel as though they were taunting me--teasing me that Mulege would be only 20 kilometers away, but I would count backwards with the numbers on the road, 19, 18, 17, 16, etc. only to reach 1 and have there be no town in sight. The mountain ranges go on for hours it seems, climbing and descending, leaving you always hoping that next turn will reveal another stretch of the coast and some relief from the monotony of turning and the sight of hundreds upon thousands of giant cactus as far as the eye can see. (Believe me, their novelty wears off quickly.) I couldn't help but think of the old Spaghetti westerns, and what a miserable way to die this would be--in the desert on horseback or on foot, no water, and Clint Eastwood squinting at you from behind the barrel of a gun. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">We drove 900 miles without stopping for anything but inspections by the Federales and bathroom breaks. We passed through the inspection points without any hassles, and Larry1 would give the bored young men a six-pack of Coke or some American candy as we left, promoting good-will or something. No food worries, I had a cooler full of sugar-free Red Bull and chocolate peanut-butter Zone bars, they had cheese puffs and meal replacement drinks. We were golden. After 12 hours following behind their Toyota 4Runner Larry2 drove my car and let me take a short nap. The car for which I had expended considerable anxious energy was actually a cheetah I had kept in a cage, ignorant of its true nature. Beyond having no problems at all, the Larrys teased me that it generated gas. I said if my car were a person I would buy it a beer, and that got a pretty good laugh. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">We stopped in Loreto, a small town that primarily attracts sport fishermen and campers, and checked into a great little hotel right on the beach. We came to the end of very long day after a couple of margaritas and a good meal. We slept in a bit the next morning, climbed in the cars and finished the last few hours of the drive the next afternoon. I felt the Larrys and I had bonded quite a bit--I felt like I had two wonderful and protective father figures looking out for me--they urged me to call soon, and come visit them in Cabo. They continued south and I drove into La Paz toward my mother and finally, some context, some answers, some sense of identity--or so I hoped.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">I arrived at my mother's house at 4:30 Sunday afternoon. She was very happy to see me--she hadn't been well, and didn't look it, either. She had been an enthusiastic hippy in San Francisco in the 60's, and still looked, dressed, spoke and did enough drugs to fit the part. Once she told me "God is far out." She had found a place that would accept her and embrace her and wouldn't question her lifestyle, her past or her appearance.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">During my first two visits she quite literally alternated between marijuana, cocaine and cigarettes. All the years of drug abuse and poor eating habits had taken their toll on her. In addition she had contracted hepatitis C along the way. Before she moved to Mexico nearly thirty years earlier, the doctors had given her six months to live. When she told them she was moving to Mexico they said, ok, you have three months. Still alive 30 years later, she credits her survival to God, daily injections of vitamin B and Yoga. She once told me "God is far out."<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">When I arrived this time, however, she wasn't fairing well at all. She had to have an oxygen tank and was down to one or two cigarettes a day and no marijuana or cocaine--that was cold-turkey for her. Her organs were systematically failing and vitamin B or no, she was not going to last much longer.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">This reinforced my firm belief that the universe, er, The Universe (won't happen again) had directed me to this place at this time because it really was not only my last chance but hers to forge a relationship. I felt vindicated in my decision to come here, and any misgivings I'd had seemed inconsequential, given the course of events and circumstance. I was where I should be, where it was intended.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Hers was an alternate reality, of course, a reality where dirt, lizard and bugs were plentiful but running water and any real cleanliness was not. I am not prissy, but I have over the years, developed a fondness for consistently functional plumbing, among other things. I accepted this alternate reality--I had been here before, and knew it was only a matter of hours or a day or two at most for the culture shock to subside.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Next: The Mother of All Culture Shocks<br /><o:p></o:p></p>Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11815427.post-1112495543157314172005-04-02T18:07:00.000-08:002008-07-12T13:00:24.604-07:00It's All Relative Part 1<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;">I turned 41 this year, much to my consternation, as my real life hadn't started yet.<span style=""> </span>I had coasted along on my youthful appearance and demeanor for quite some time, but when I crested the hill over the big 4-0, I was faced with the prospect of being at least halfway through my life having accomplished next to nothing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;">At heart I'd always felt I was a writer, but I preferred up until now, the safety of being a writer who didn’t write.<span style=""> </span>One's work cannot be rejected if one doesn't produce anything, now can it?<span style=""> </span>I suppose it was the stereotypical fear of failure/fear of success/fear of hard work/fear of my own brain that fueled my years of avid procrastination, but now that endless procrastination had caught up with me and was biting me in the ass.<o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;">I began a lengthy and serious self-examination that resulted in the realization that I was profoundly unhappy, depressed even.<span style=""> </span>I had always prided myself on my resiliency, my malleability, my chameleon-like ability to adapt to situations and to remain upbeat and cheerful--on an even keel.<span style=""> </span>I couldn't rise to the occasion. I had held a mind-numbingly boring job for two years that offered me neither a living wage, any sort of challenge nor any hope of either. I was living with a roommate in an apartment where I never felt at home.<span style=""> </span>I was in a quasi-serious relationship; (serious for me, quasi for him) that had been circling over commitment in a holding pattern for months as if it were an airplane trying to land at SFO in July.<span style=""> </span>I hadn't felt like "me" in a very long time.<span style=""> </span>I felt out-of-sorts, out-of-place and out-of-time.<span style=""></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style=""></span>I was miserable. Something had to change. It seemed the time was right to pay a visit to Mom.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;">But first I must backtrack just a bit...<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;">My mother, in absentia from my inherently strange and estranged family from a few months after my birth, had recently been re-introduced into my life after I sought her out nearly three years ago.<span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style=""></span>My family, consisting really of my older brother and my father, had scattered to the winds years and years before. As a child it was forbidden to even mention her name--Starr--it always sounded beautiful and exotic to me.<span style=""> </span>It was apparent to my brother and me that she had performed some unspeakable crime against my father and us, but we were never filled in, which led to years of speculation and the most interesting theories based upon overheard whispers between my grandmother and her friends and some clippings from the paper my brother found in a trunk.<span style=""> </span>There were no pictures of her; we never met any of her relatives.<span style=""> </span>It was as though her role in our lives consisted, by design, of our births and nothing else.<span style=""> </span>We grew up motherless, except for an unfortunate step-mother episode that lasted less than five years.<span style=""> </span>My father did the best he could, but whatever had happened between my parents had destroyed any sense of normalcy my family would ever have.<span style=""> </span>My father, tormented by demons of his own creation and other's, finally decided it would be in everyone's best interest if he disappeared, and without any discussion did so and has remained invisible for over a decade.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;">After years of having no interest in meeting the woman who had abandoned us without any contact in my lifetime, somehow I felt now I was ready to at least hear her side of the story.<span style=""> </span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;font-family:trebuchet ms;">After a wild-goose-chase of a search (details perhaps best left for another blahhgh)I found her in Mexico, where she had been living for nearly thirty years. The first time I visited her was remarkable, in that I had never met any female that looked at all like me--we have the same fingers and toes, and the same colored eyes--a bright greenish blue. She was a tiny, frail little thing, looking older than her 58 years after decades of sun and cigarette smoking. She had small soft features and a very childlike face, in spite of her punished skin and ill health. I didn't know what I had expected--nothing I guess. But I felt a bond with her, this odd stranger, that I had felt with no other woman in my life.<span style=""> </span></p><blockquote style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"></blockquote><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This was my </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >mother</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. My </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Mother</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. MY mother.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">After some fits and starts, it went well enough on this first visit that I came back six months later, with her promises of information about "what had happened" enticing me as well as a desire to have some sense of family identity after all these years.</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; font-family: trebuchet ms;">The second visit was longer, and some of the tensions underlying our relationship began to surface, making it more difficult, but we were forging something new out of a history littered with rumor, innuendo and resentment.<span style=""> </span>I left her that time with promises to arrange a more lengthy stay, and she promised, again, to tell me "what had happened" when I came back "next time."<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="trebuchet ms" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Please stay tuned for the next installment...</span><br /></p>Jennifer Walker-Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12161014198343006236noreply@blogger.com