Day 1.5 Iceland

Everything is better after a nap. I got about four hours on the plane, and another four in the room topped me right off. Then it was time for my favorite spot and a necessary stop. My favorite spot is the Handknitters’ Association where you can buy lovely, hand knit (in Iceland) Icelandic sweaters, gloves, hats, and more. You can also buy little felted wool Christmas ornaments and other souvenirs. But best of all you can buy Icelandic wool from Einband (lace weight) to Plötulopi (untwisted pencil roving usually knitted 2-3 strands together for a lofty, warm garment.

On today’s visit I got lots of Einband for my friend Ariane, and one roll of Plötulopi for me. I want to check the gauge and color for my project before going nuts(er). Then it was time to gird my loins and figure out the local bus system so I could get to Elko (an electronics superstore) and buy an electrical converter and adapters. Yup. I was packed two days before I came here. I had a comprehensive list of the items I needed to bring. But then I second (and third) guessed myself and repacked into a couple of different bags to see which one fit the best. In the process I managed to leave behind all the adapters and the converter—and who knows what else.

But the good news is that I was able to download the bus app, figure it out, find a route, get to the bus stop, and buy a ticket in the app. I went to Elko, rigged up some pieces that meet my needs, and caught the bus back to the old part of town where I am staying. For most people, everything I just described would probably be common place and no big deal, but it was a revelation to me. My last travel alone in Europe was in 1987. In the eastern bloc and the Soviet Union. Before the wall fell. There were no cell phones, laptops, iPads—zip, zilch, nada. Everything came from Let’s Go Europe, paper maps, route maps at the bus stops, and most of all—foreign currency. The first thing you did on arrival in any country was to change dollars to the local currency—francs, pounds, zlotys, lira, you name it. Depending on where you were, you either changed in a bank or official money exchange, or in an elevator, guesthouse, restaurant or bar. In the Eastern European countries hard currency was king, and trading with the locals gave both you and them a fantastic rate.

Traveling now? I barely have money—much less a need to change it. Apple Pay rules, and the only downside to depending so heavily on tech is that when your battery dies, you are hosed. When I finally got the bus stop, purchased my ticket on-line, and was waiting for the bus, my phone was at 1%. The bus took 20 minutes longer to get there than it should have, and all the time my phone stayed at 1%. Finally the bus arrived and my phone lived long enough to give me my destination stop before it died. I bought my charging things and the kind staff at the store charged my phone up a bit for me before sending me on my way.

When I got off the bus and started to walk to my lodging I came across a venue called BrewDog. It was appreciably busy with locals so I figured it was good and reasonable. It was reasonable and amaaaaaazing! Wednesday is all-you-can-eat buffalo cauliflower night, and it was like no cauliflower—nor like any buffalo sauce—I had ever had. Topped it off with a Valkyrie Vandetta (sic) sour cherry beer with hints of hazelnut and whiskey, and waddled home replete.

Now I recharge  all my devices, and check my schedule for tomorrow before going to bed. I’m still tired and tomorrow is the first day riding.

Day 1 in Iceland

 When we were here last in May, I bounced off the plane full of energy, vim, and vigor. This morning I arrived 6:30 am, went smoothly through customs, and didn’t have to have anything shoved up my noes—huzzah! The bus took me from the airport to a stop practically across the street form the guesthouse where I am staying, and—with the luck of the Irish—I was able to check right in instead of waiting till 3:00 pm. Also quite luckily they were still serving breakfast, and I dropped my duffle off in my room and headed down to partake. 

As I sit here replete, I ask myself, « Where is my vim? Where is my vigor? Did I leave them on the plane? » I took the tried and true jet lag preventative (2 Dramamine, 2 melatonin, and a lorazepam), and I did sleep the whole flight, but I’m still quite woozy and sleepy. Maybe wine would have been better than lorazepam…Luckily I don’t have anything scheduled for the day except to get rested up for tomorrow’s first all day on a horse—oh, and to buy some more wool (plötulopi in the vernacular).Never can have enough Icelandic wool.

But for now, off to bed! 

Vegan cafe

Back in Austin for a week, doing things with the daughter. Today as I waited for her to get her hair cut, I popped in to a little coffee place down the block. The pastries looked divine, and I ordered a tuna salad croissant (for some inexplicable reason) and a decaf iced latte. I was asked my choice of milk for the latte and I went right to "whole". But they don't have cow's milk. I had the choice of soy, almond, oat, coconut, hemp, or rice. The person behind the counter helpfully suggested oat and I said "Sure!"

So now I'm sitting waiting for my order and I see a sign that says Everything is Vegan here. I am now both trepidatious and curious about what my "tuna salad" is going to look/taste like...

After eating...

It was delicious. It was chickpeas. It tasted like tuna if you don't actually eat tuna. There are lots things on their menu like "chicken salad", and "sausage kolaches", "ham and cheese croissant" "taco meat something-or-rather (I was so stuck on the words "taco meat" that I stuttered to a stop there and missed the bread type). Not sure _why_. Are they targeting non-vegans to show how like meat their non-meat (and non-dairy) items are? I would think it would be a turn-off for the vegans that eat here being constantly reminded of things they choose not to eat. Or is the assumption that vegans secretly crave meat? I am truly curious, so I go ask the owner.

The answer is simple--and I should have thought of it. Most vegans aren't vegan from birth. They know the flavor profile of ham. They know the difference between "taco meat" and ground beef. They make their own vegan "ham" at the restaurant, and the owner said that they would have no idea how to describe the flavor as other than "ham". It's not to convert people, it's not to trick people (which I absolutely NEVER thought), it's all about description. Apparently on the menu (as opposed to the small card in the pastry case which I saw) it says "chickpea tuna croissant". Were it me, I think I would call it "Chickpea of the Sea salad"--but maybe that's showing my age and millennials wouldn't get it.

Oat milk, however, is something I can totally get behind. It is really yummy and turned my decaf latte from standard to sublime. The haircut went well too!

12 Hours was Almost Enough Sleep

As it began in the days of old, I have an iced Latte in an avengers glass and I have the sounds of the fountain behind me and construction down the road for music. I could do without the construction noise, but the man who owns the house on the hill aways down City Park road from us has apparently been building pretty much constantly for the last 20 years. It's okay though, a breeze just kicked up so the sounds of the wind chimes and the rustle of leaves are working to drown him out. To paraphrase Kevin Spacey in Baby Driver, am I slow? It sure feels like it today.

I should be slow. Between writing for data.world, helping Jessie with her film, doing the bare minimum around the house and yard that I can get away with, shipping frit orders, sewing masks, minding bees and pets... I can't sleep enough. And I'm driving 1000 miles to Atlanta on Sunday with Jessie. After wrestling until 3:00 am yesterday with getting J's film online, I went to bed last night at 9:00 and didn't get up today till 9:30--and I'm still tired!

I posted on Facebook this morning and mentioned a bar my parents took me to after skiing when I was four. It has since burned down, but back in the 60's and 70's it was a little roadside dive outside of East Missoula. What I didn't put in my post was that 19 or so years later Wayne Nance, Missoula's serial killer, worked there as a bouncer and killed three women taken from the bar. 

Enough morbidity. It's almost too hot to sit outside and the mosquitos are the worst I have ever seen them here. But I am safe in my princess tent. Best way to deal with mosquitos is mosquito netting. I have dosed myself with enough bug spray over the past week in the course of filming on the front lawn that I had to scrape it off when I came back inside. And it was only marginally effective. I am covered from head to toe--including in some pretty unmentionable places--with mosquito and chigger bites. I even have a bite in my belly button! The indignity! But up here on the deck, on a porch couch, under a mosquito canopy, I am safe. 

And that's enough writing for now. I think it's time for a nap!

Summer cut

Some might (would) sneer. Some (like his breeder) would probably disapprove. But I was tired of the snarls, and the burrs, and the drool, and the caked-on food under the chin and tonight I took action: For the first time in six years, Gallifrey got an actual hair cut. This wasn't some brushing and light stripping, oh no. This was an all-out, grab-the-trimmer-and-whack-away job. And I don't care if Dave thinks he looks like a hobo werewolf, I think he's handsome. He's certainly more pleasant to pet, and I have to imagine he also feels better. Okay, so I missed a few spots (and there is one rather sizable bald spot). But have you ever had to hold onto a 185-lb dog with one hand while trying to give him a haircut with the trimmer with the other hand?

Too bad I didn't think to get a before picture!

I Pick Up the Pen

Earlier this week I was talking to an old friend who asked me if I was ever going to post again on Misbeehiving or Glass Incarnate. I hadn’t thought about it because I’ve been so busy writing technical doc for a SAS (service as software) company that I hadn’t been jonesing to get fingers on keyboard. But that’s a different kind of writing, isn’t it? When I started thinking about it, I realized how much I missed writing about life. It’s weird, but it almost feels like it didn’t happen if I don’t write about it. It goes by in a blur and I can’t remember it. On the one hand that’s good because it means I’m living in the present, not the past. But on the other, I find myself living so much in the present that life is just a bubble around me—timeless and weightless—with no gravitas and no anchor. Writing about it means slowing down and processing it more. Taking it in. Savoring it. So I write again. Today I’m going to write about bees because the girls took up most of my morning and they were particularly interesting. Go on over to Misbeehiving and see what I mean.

Mindfulness

Just finished my piano lesson for the week and am settling into groundedness and mindfulness for the first time since we got back from Austin last Friday. I have to remind myself both to be grounded and mindful as crazy got back on the bus this week and I had the bright idea of going to London next week (as a family) to take Jessie to the Dr. Who Festival for her birthday. I heard about the festival this morning and just for a lark looked up ticket availability and airline tickets and there were really cheap airline tix available and still tickets for Sunday's Who festival (again, Dr., not The) with Peter Capaldi and Jenna Coleman. So I called Dave to see if he wanted to go and maybe make a run to the Dr. Who Experience in Cardiff while we were over there, and I was seriously shocked when he got really stressed and said no (as in ARE YOU HIGH?!?! NO!!).

It took me a couple of hours to figure out that I didn't think it was a good idea to go across the pond on a whim the week before going to Chicago for Thanksgiving (and the Dr. Who convention "Chicago Tardis" that we also do that weekend) either. Then I realized that I have a pattern that I have never acknowledged before where when life is out of sync for me and I'm not in my groove, I am not only easily distracted and liable to chase any squirrel that crosses my path, but I actively search out squirrels! You would think I am bored or something, but that's not it: I have several interesting projects on tap right now (not the least of which is managing the renovation on the new house which continues whether we are there or not). No, if I am out of sync with my life, I don't recognize my own destructive behavior and I am more likely to drive myself into exhausted hysteria than I am to make good decisions. Good decisions lead to a good time had by all and adventures aplenty. Exhausted hysteria is not an adventure, it's just exhausting.

My body tries to tell me when my mind is out of whack. I am clumsier than usual and totally off balance--I fell into a door frame today and whacked my hand on the pickets on the gate earlier today. I am tired, and restless, and can't automatically focus and relax.

But now that I know what I was doing, I'm hoping I can get back to me, I'm back in Atlanta, and I am firmly centered in the now of November 4th. Jessie's birthday. I should have written a post today about Jessie and how lucky I am to be her mom. Or I could have written a good-bye ode to Buttercup who is going to her new home next Friday. Instead, I had to get my head back on straight.

Craft Day

Iced coffee (from yesterday) in a large plastic cup with a straw (the straw makes it the best), the sound of the washing machine (thank you Dave!) for music. Today is what we affectionately call "Craft Day" at the Griffith household. Craft Day happens every Tuesday and consists of having a couple of friends come over and work on our own handcraft projects from 10-3 or so. We either meet at my house or at the studio depending on the tools and materials we need to use, and we grudgingly break for lunch when hunger drives us to.

Major woodwork, dyeing, soapmaking, and glass are done at the studio as will be jewelry and ceramics when we get around to them. Spinning, weaving, knitting, crochet, felting, beading, etc., are all done at the house. Dave works from elsewhere on Craft Day so we don't have to worry about disturbing him. Some might say everyday is Craft Day for me as Dee also comes down once a week and is helping me go through the studio and decide what to keep and what to sell/give away when we move in June. But I don't count that time as a Craft Day as the things I am learning have more to do with what a packrat I am than anything useful.

Craft Day is for learning/trying new things, working on one-off projects, and mastering techniques. For the past few weeks we've been working in wood at the studio. Becky finished up some lucets that she cut in May and learned how to use her router. I started on another inlaid games cabinet for the Waldorf School, and Peyton and I made peg looms. We cut, drilled, and sanded with a table saw, a chop saw, a drill press, a router, a scroll saw, a Dremel, a Foredom, and a hand sander. One of the coolest parts of craft day is learning to use cool new (to us) tools.

The other night Dave and I had friends over for dinner and we joked about how I have a lot of (maybe too many) hobbies. But there are just too many fascinating things to learn, study and practice! Last night we watched the Dr. Who episode from a couple of weeks ago, and the main guest character was bored by her immortality. True, she was living from the middle ages through the 1700's and life did move pretty slowly and brutally through much of that time. But, the Renaissance! I'd have learned Italian and hung out there with the artists and mathematicians. 

Sadly for me, I don't have immortality so I have to cram as much as I can into my short time here. Today is a full day of spinning more of the alpaca fleece I am processing for a trade with Ruthann, and then shipping glass work. Tomorrow is working on the games cabinet and hand cutting the veneer for the inlay with a scalpel, and then juggling contractor scheduling for the new house. Thursday and Friday are full glass days in the studio making the pieces for orders to ship next week and for shows to prepare for in December and January. 

Automation

Coffee in the New York skyline mug, Alexa is playing "Freebird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd (and she just added coffee mate to the shopping list), and Jerremy is doing his daily clean of the floors. I am living in the damn future. With the new home, Dave has taken the idea of automation to whole new levels. While I might grumble at Alexa's voice recognition, I find myself starting to talk to my other devices even though they don't do anything about it. Notice I didn't say they don't understand me because I am no longer sure that's the case. And let's be honest: I want less to talk to them than to tell them what to do.

It's amazing the things you can now control with your voice, integrate with other systems, and schedule/manage through your smartphone.We already use Nest thermostats and Schlage keyless locks in Atlanta (in addition to Alexa and Jeremy), and in Austin we will add voice and remote controlled lights (indoors and out), irrigation system, cameras, room fans, blinds, awnings, and an intercom system. I am hoping for voice control of the entertainment system too, but that may be a ways off. Now if there was just some way to automate cleaning up after the dogs...

Two Years, Seven Months, and a Day

Coffee in a stemless wine glass (we don't have any mugs here at the new house), "Cloudy This Morning" by George Winston on iTunes. It isn't cloudy this morning. It's beautiful, and breezy, and sunny, and I have a full exciting day ahead. Nonetheless I am a bit... sad. Two years and seven months ago yesterday I wrote a post about massaging my mother's feet. That was after her second hip replacement surgery. And after that life got... complicated. And dark. For a couple of years. Now I sit on (I hope) the other side of the dark, and I contemplate the gains and losses of that time.

The biggest loss for me was the passing of my mother in April, but to be honest, I was gradually losing her from the day my father died four and a half years ago. Living with her after he took his life (he had terminal cancer and time left, but he wanted to go out on his own terms) hammered a couple of hard lessons into me. You really can't live someone's life for her--or make her enjoy living her own life. Just because I saw a new world of fresh possibilities free from constant criticism and financial worry didn't make it her reality. However bad she said her marriage was and how much she seemed to want to be out on her own didn't make it true. I guess an anchor is just that; something that keeps you stable and grounded. An anchor, as such, is neither good nor bad. The person who is the anchor has all the personality traits and characteristics humans have and that can be a destructive and grim as you can imagine. But the anchor, that person's role as an anchor, is what keeps you set. When you lose your anchor, you can either sail or drift. Mom drifted and eventually broke on a reef. The irony that she died while in vacation in St. Croix with us is not lost on me.

Yesterday was her birthday and she would have been 75. She liked to note that she and Teddy Roosevelt shared a birthday. They also shared their the day with Captain Cook of the Sandwich Islands fame, Paganini, Emily Post, Dylan Thomas, Lichtenstein, Sylvia Plath, John Cleese, and my personal favorite, Simon LeBon of Duran Duran. During the past couple of years Mom remarked frequently that she had lived longer than her mother did. She followed that observation up with the bitter comment that people had an expiration date and she had passed hers. It has taken me until now to remember her as she was before Dad's death, before her numerous surgeries and health issues. When she died, at first all I could feel was a numb relief. No more fights with her to get up, to care, to live. And when I saw her in my mind's eye, I saw her as the old dried out husk of a person that she had become. No one should have to remember a loved one that way. But lately when I think of her, when I see something I would like to share with her or something that reminds me of a time we spent together, I see her as she was--mischievous, wicked sense of humor and fun, loving, strong, smiling, vibrant, energetic, athletic, up for anything, young at every age. And I am so happy to have her back.

My mom believed that when she died she would get to be with her parents, her sister, and maybe even my dad again. She believed she was going on to a better place and a new "life". I don't share her beliefs. I believe when you die that's it, there is no more. But I hope for her that she was right, and I know that even if it didn't work out that way so that she could be happy now, at least she is at rest. At peace. I love you Mom, and I miss you more every day.

Massaging My Mother's Feet

I just finished what has become one of the most soothing and rewarding routines of my day: giving my mother a foot and leg massage with shea butter from the Body Shop. I cannot fully communicate how relaxing, grounding, and centering this action is for me, and how wonderful and balanced I feel at the end of it.

I love my mother. I have always had a close relationship with her--strengthened, I believe, by the lack of relationship I had with my father. My mother comes from good Kansas stock. Her parents were no-nonsense, self-reliant people. They loved each other; they cherished their children (and grandchildren); they boot-strapped themselves up; and they never took anything from anyone. My mother was raised to do the same, and there was no time for pampering herself when I was growing up. She never used expensive (relatively speaking) creams on her skin--even though it was always quite delicate. She certainly never had massages.

Two years ago, after my father died, my mother moved in with us. She has since been obsessed with pulling her weight, not bothering anyone, not getting in the way, and not making anything more difficult. A few weeks ago, she had her right hip replaced, and her desire not to put anyone out had dire consequences when she carried some recycling out to the front porch--without her walker--a week after the surgery and fell and broke her leg below the prosthesis. The fall resulted in seven hours in the ER and then a transfer to the hospital where she had had her surgery performed so her surgeon could do another three-hour long emergency hip-replacement surgery again the next day on the same leg. This recovery has been physically, mentally, and emotionally much more difficult for her. She has needed me to do many more things for her--dressing and undressing her, carrying things, arranging pillows, leg support, getting ice packs and medications, etc--than I did the first time. I noticed the first night when I helped her get her support stockings off (she has worn them since the surgery to help keep down the swelling and prevent blod clots) that her legs were really dry. I asked if I could put some lotion on them. She said okay, and that was how we began. Now it has become a small night-time ritual. I apply the lotion, and then I stroke and massage. I try to soothe muscle and sinew as well as dry skin--and I feel so connected to life and family and time by this one, small act of taking care of my mother.

I finish this post with one piece of advice: Try it. Find someone in the generation above yours--preferably a parent, but aunts, uncles, and even random old neighbors will work fine--and do something personal for them that they would never do for themselves. Cherish them, and feel your connection to the cycle of life deepen. It's amazing.