365 True Things: 99/Bills

We put the mail on hold for the three weeks we were gone, so today what did I find in the mailbox but a huge stack of envelopes, circulars, and a few magazines/catalogs.

Most of it was junk. There's way too much paper wastage in this world. I don't even bother looking at the junk mail. I wish I could tell the mail carrier not to deliver it, but things don't work that way.

Among the envelopes were seven bills, five of which (mortgage and utilities) I paid this afternoon. The other two are credit card bills. One is still a credit from an old overpayment. I don't usually use that card, though we did use it bigtime in Norway, since it's the card that doesn't incur foreign transaction fees—so next month, I'll be seeing a nice hefty sum. The second credit card is set up for automatic payment.

I actually prefer to write checks: I like to see how much of my money is going where, and I like to have a firm idea of the balance in my checking account. If all my bills were paid automatically, I'd lose track. At least, that's my worry. I probably wouldn't. After all, knowing how much money you have is important.

I set up the one credit card for automatic payment because it's due on the 25th of the month, and my habit is to pay all my bills at the beginning of the month. So I ended up paying that one late more than once, which meant late fees. Late fees are not acceptable. So: automatic payment seemed the best option. (Since then, a friend pointed out that I could have called Chase and asked them to adjust the payment date. That never occurred to me.)

I always pay off my credit cards. No late fees, no interest payments either. It just makes sense.

365 True Things: 98/Souvenirs

I'm not a big souvenir buyer, but when I travel and I stumble on something pleasing, I will often bring it home as a memento of my trip.

This time, I bought two cobalt blue egg cups at Blaafarveverke, a former cobalt mine—a reminder not only of that stop on the road but, even more, of all the soft-boiled eggs we ate at all the marvelous Norwegian breakfast buffets (at which they provide special little cheap-plastic egg holders, that's how seriously they take their soft-boiled eggs). I also got a glass heart with cobalt patterning to add to my slowly growing collection of heart paperweights. Most of which I don't recall where they're from—they were just picked up here and there. Hopefully I'll remember where this one came from.

I also got a few books, to help me with my ongoing struggle with Norwegian (including two on grammar: there's something to be said for understanding the underlying structure of a language). Though the more I think about it, the more I realize I need an actual living-and-breathing person, a tutor who will bust me out of my reluctance to speak and my difficulty hearing what people are saying. Passively reading books isn't going to get me very far. Sadly.

And, although this is not strictly a souvenir (even less so than books are), whenever I go to Europe I bring home Mars bars—made with sugar and not corn syrup; they live in my freezer and provide me with sweet treats on days when I need a little something extra. As long as they hold out, they remind me of my most recent travels—and they make me happy. This trip, with our leftover kroner, I snagged five two-packs. They make the freezer seem, for a few months at least, like a treasure chest.

From the top: Sicily, Ladakh,
England, Jamaica, Turkey,
(a non-souvenir, but it fit the wall),
Japan, Tuscany, Soviet Union,
Zimbabwe

In our old house, we had a wall by the front door that was devoted to small souvenir knickknacks. We haven't yet dedicated a wall for that purpose in the new house, and we may not. Though looking at a picture of it now, I find the idea pleasing. So many good adventures we've had, and such interesting little objects. Maybe we can scatter them in those odd small-wall spaces. That could work.

But first, I need to get back to unpacking the boxes in the garage. I will probably be amazed at all the forgotten souvenirs and mementos I find there. That should be encouragement right there to get down to work. No?

365 True Things: 98/Waiting

I do not like to wait—in a checkout line, at the doctor's, for cars to finally start moving after the light has been green for what seems like minutes already.

And yet a travel day is essentially a very long exercise in just that: waiting, waiting, and waiting some more.

This morning, it started with a short wait at the T-bane for a train to the central station, followed by a fifteen-minute wait for the NSB train to the airport. A short wait to check in, and another relatively short wait to get through security (where I was randomly chosen for a search—waiting in the spread eagle position, my favorite).

Waiting at airplane gates is always trying: all those "groups," where you distinctly feel like part of a class-divided herd of cattle. But this morning's wait wasn't too bad, maybe because I was simply happy that the flight was on time. Plus, the actual herd wasn't in the main terminal, it was in a second waiting room, so I was tricked into thinking there was no line! It worked!

Sitting squashed in an economy airplane seat can be a very long wait. Today I spent the first leg, from Oslo to Newark (eight hours), fairly enjoyably, watching The Woman in Gold and Interstellar—two very different movies, but both good. It's also easier when the longer leg is the first one, the shorter leg the second.

Then there's the long wait as everyone stands in the aisle or crouched over the seats, clutching their carryons and gazing longingly toward the door until finally, oh so very slowly, the shuffling begins—a wait that's even longer if you're at the very back of the plane, which we were on both legs today.

Waiting for the bags in Newark

In Newark, we had to go through customs, so there was the wait for our luggage—it seemed interminable! The last time I remember a customs official actually taking an interest in my or my companions' luggage was in around 1969, so I 've never understood this ridiculous formality: collect bags, haul them past the customs guy, then return them to the baggage handlers. And of course it means you have to go through security again: another wait.

In Newark, we had enough time for a drink and olive hors d'oeuvres, which certainly made the waiting easier. But then the six-hour Newark–San Francisco leg involved pay-to-view TV, i.e. essentially zilch in the way of entertaining distraction. Fortunately, the sudokus in the in-flight magazine were still pristine, and I had a couple of Harpers magazines. Somehow, I survived.

Finally, there was the wait for the airport shuttle, and the two-plus-hour drive to Monterey—during most of which, blessedly, I slept. After all, it was about 5:30 a.m. Oslo time when we got picked up. We'd been up all night! Except it was only 8:30 p.m. California time.

All of this waiting I did more or less graciously. Just the tiniest bit of grumbling when it seemed to take forever for the luggage to start churning around the carousel. In both airports. But otherwise, I took it all in stride, I'd say. I'm so grown up.

And now I'm home: no more waiting! But I did need to get this blog post polished off before hitting the hay. It's fifteen minutes short of midnight (or 9 a.m. Oslo time). I just hope I don't have one of those too-exhausted-to-fall-asleep moments—and have to wait for slumber to take me over! Fingers crossed.

365 True Things: 97/Reentry (7/3/15)

As I get mentally ready to return home tomorrow, I've been enjoying this free-and-easy last day in Oslo: a late breakfast out in the sunny little garden—scrambled eggs, juniper-smoked salmon, fresh rye bread, tomatoes and paprika, black currant jam, tomato herring; a trip downtown for one last look in a bookstore (I got a couple of Norwegian grammar books: I am determined to figure out the mechanics of this confounded language) and a kitchen store (searching for a porcelain bread knife that my in-laws have and that I covet); coffee and cakes (strawberry—white chocolate, yum); a video store to buy a children's stop-action DVD with English subtitles for us to watch this evening after dinner if we have the energy (it's based on a story by Kjell Aukrust, who came from the neighboring valley of my sister-in-law, and involves, if I understand correctly, a rocket ship, or at least a hedgehog and a magpie, and maybe cheese . . . yeah, and a race).

David and I then took the T-bane to the eastern suburbs, where we hiked into the forest to find the second stage of a very clever geocache that involves PGP encryption—which, fortunately, David understood, because I would have been lost. We found it! And two others as well! In fact, all together since we've been in Norway, we've found 69 caches. And didn't find one.

Yes, we're crazy.

As we've strolled through the day, I've been conscious of what's coming next: that back-to-reality push. David has to jump straight into teaching—he has a real job; but me, I don't have much I really have to do. Clean up an edit and review a few pieces by my writing group colleagues, yes, but that won't take long. And then: it's back to my own projects, my own interests, my own challenges and goals. Very few "out there" know or much care what I'm working on: I'm not meeting any deadlines, contributing to a bigger machine.

I often get overwhelmed by the choices—because I have a lot of interests—and end up wasting time instead.

So if nothing else on this return trip, I am vowing not to waste time. But to turn to something productive, or at least good for me, if I find myself at a loss (or a crossroads) for something to do. It could be as simple as making a cup of tea and sitting outside watching the birds. It could be hopping on my bike. It could be starting a new book arts project—and not getting put off by the fact that I won't be able to finish it in one sitting.

And I will, every day, do some writing (this blog, for instance; and research and sketches for Amber Moon). Meditating and exercise are also musts.

Beyond those, I have plenty, but plenty, to do. I think the key, in all of this, is to remember how blessed I am that I have so many interests, so many choices, and . . . to just take things slow. This isn't a race.

365 True Things: 96/Light (7/2/15)

Last night and two nights before, we stayed at a lodge (fjellstove) on a lake at Halne, on the Hardangervidda (Hardanger Plateau). Our first night there, the sky was gray, and the lake looked forbidding (see 6/29 post for photo). It defied us to enter that barren landscape.

Which we did nevertheless the next day, taking a 12 km hike to a hut at a place called Tuva. The day ended up beautiful—though the way was sometimes pretty sloshy, what with all the melting snow. The next day, too, on our hike out, was beautiful: a bright blue sky, temperatures in the 70s thanks to a warm wind out of Spain. The biggest danger, after we realized we wouldn't drown in any of the burbling streams, was burning to a crisp.

Yesterday we arrived back at the fjellstove and were struck by the beauty of the lake across the road, now under brilliant sunshine. It's a big lake, and normally at this time of year it would be free of ice and supporting a vigorous boat-going tourist trade. Not this year, though. It will be at least three weeks before summer officially arrives here.

A few hours later—at about 10:30—we were playing cards, and we noticed that the colors of the lake had flipflopped: the snow was now blue, the open water was white. The almost-full moon was just rising—and this brought an analytical discussion of the tilt of the earth, the orbit of the moon, the meaning of the tropics: all to arrive at the fact that, the moon doesn't move very high in the sky during the summer when you're really far north. Or stay up all that long. It's the equivalent of the moon's winter. Or something.

Thinking about the moon and sun was interesting, but what really struck me was the change in colors.

It reminded me of an art class I took at our local community college, all about color. One of our assignments was to go to the same place at three times of day and paint it. We were also to draw a pencil sketch and, for each time of day, cut little snips of paper from a pack of Color-Aid paper swatches—220 gradations mixing hue, tint, and shade—to match various aspects of the scene in question. I went to the frog pond a half-mile away, and I remember being astonished at how different the greens of a single tree were morning, noon, and late afternoon, as I held up sheets of Color-Aid paper and tried to get the best match.

The last few days looking at the Halne lake were another lesson in the magic of color. And they almost made me want to pick up my paints again and try to see in another way than with a camera.

Though the camera worked in this case pretty well. You can see the flip of the colors. And oh, that beautiful, gently ascending moon!

365 True Things: 95/Games (7/1/15)

Heidi is playing a game of solitaire while I take care of my blog; Geoff is taking care of business on his iPhone; David is playing a game on the iPad.

The agreement was, we'll play a round or two of euchre before turning in. It's already 9:15.

So this will be quick.

I did not grow up playing cards, or games in general. I do recall playing Monopoly, Chinese checkers, backgammon, "the Game of Life," Careers, Sorry on occasion with friends, but we did not play games at my house. If any game was played, it was a serious one: bridge. Nothing for kids.

But anymore, I do enjoy a rousing game of something every so often. On SAR excursions, we often play hearts. My prayer group gets together occasionally without the prayers and we play hearts or a funny game that Wendy picked up from a New Yorker short story many years ago, Solo in Wyoming. David and I have a few board games that we enjoy sometimes—when we remember we have them.

Playing Scut in North Carolina

Euchre is an old Canright mainstay, and Geoff has taught it to Heidi, and now they play it whenever they get together with her sister Gunnhild and her husband, Amnon. Other Canright games that manage to cause much hilarity when we all, or some subset of us, get together: Pit and Scut. And a good game for two players: Casino. And Two-Ten-Jack, but we never play that anymore because David always wins. Even though he claims he doesn't. But he does.

Last night, Geoff taught us a solitaire game called Idiot, which he learned from Heidi. It's fast and easy, and you almost always lose. But that doesn't keep you from playing.

Here's how:

1. Deal four cards face up into four piles.
2. If there are multiple cards of any one suit, remove all but the highest card of that suit.
Do likewise for any other suits.
3. Deal four cards onto each pile (leave the bottom cards showing for reference).
Remove all but the highest card of any suits with multiple cards.
Do it again—until the top cards of all four piles are the four different suits.
If a hole opens up, you can move the top card of any pile you like into the hole. (This is where the "strategy," such as it is, comes in.)
4. Continue.
The goal: to have only the aces remaining in each of the four piles.

Easy, right?

365 True Things: 94/Writing (6/30/15)

This post was prompted by my being without my laptop for a day, and having to prepare my blog post by hand. I very rarely write by hand anymore, so this felt like a challenge. And indeed, I waltzed around from one thing to the next for a while before I arrived at my topic for the day. When I'm on my laptop, in contrast, I usually just start writing, and something vaguely coherent emerges. So this was an interesting exercise. The following is based on what I wrote yesterday by hand, and I am editing as I go.

Sometime when I was a teenager, I radically changed my handwriting. Was it when I was in school in Germany? I sent postcards home to my parents that year, and can easily check (since I believe I kept those cards, saved by my mother). Or it might have been in junior high, or when I got back from Germany—eleventh grade, when I felt like a misfit, an outsider.

In any case, I abandoned the old cursive—round, connected letters—and switched to a print hybrid. Which over the years has loosened up, though I still write a tidy page, with straight lines and all more or less the same size. My handwriting now looks very much like my father's writing did, and also like my brother's. Can handwriting be genetic?

Several years ago, I took a class called "Your Handwriting Can Change Your Life!" with Edward Espe Brown (of Tassajara Bread Book fame) at the Green Gulch Zen Center in Marin County. No, I'm not woo-woo, but yes, sometimes I like doing goofy stuff like that—and Green Gulch is an amazing retreat spot, and Edward Espe Brown is a hoot. It was totally fun.

Relying on a book by Vimala Rodgers (with some Brownian variations), he had us practice each letter of the alphabet while he described its attributes. I'd forgotten what the various letters meant until I looked the book up just now.

He instructed us, for example, to cross our t's (the "letter of the visionary") high up—in fact, not a cross, so much as a lower-case capital T (which I can't bring myself to do: I just stick to crossing high up), and to make the ascender nice and long: closer to the sky, for spirituality. Capital A's should be in the shape of a star (because we are stars! though again: I go only halfway on that one). He taught us to make lower-case f's (the "letter of using one's talents in service to others") that reach both high and low and loop a lot—surging into the future with plenty of spirit and grounding both.

It's almost tempting to say, "I'd like to be more openminded; I think I'll work on my U's," or "I need more balance, I'll work on my s's." As if it were so easy. But Edward Espe Brown insisted it is.

After we'd practiced awhile, Edward came around and critiqued us all. He gazed a long while at my writing, suggested the starry A's and loopy f's, but otherwise said I shouldn't change a thing. That felt validating: made me happy. I'm almost perfect just as I am! Or at least my handwriting is.

I did sort of try to change my f's after the workshop—but I just can't bring myself to loop the ascending part. It reminds me too much of the cursive writing I threw over all those years ago. Now I loop the descender, but the upper half of the letter is a straightforward, no-nonsense downward line. I also still use a printed-letter f. The variability: a sign of confusion or flexibility? Take your pick. 

And usually, I'm even able to read my writing. Which is the point in the end, after all.