Jennifer Lauck's Blog, page 12
October 31, 2012
Day 44: 8:00 a.m.
I had a dream. I was knitting and the thing was, I had time to knit. Which was nice. In the dream I felt like I was an old woman, with fewer obligations and so finally, finally, had time to put towards more creative pursuits.
The thing is, in top side life, I never have time to knit. I knitted when I was married to a guy who was so bad for me I need charts and graphs to map out all the ways. I used to be an anxiety knitter when I was with that guy and no one was the wiser until he was finally out of my life and I stopped knitting.
Now I do other things with my time. Knitting is not one of those things.
So, it's a dream and I decide I'm going to knit. I sit down on the sidewalk and go to work on a project that I've been wanting to finish. The Vogue Wave Shawl. Dark gray alpaca, circular needles made from cedar and lots of time.
It's a warm, sunny day.
As I sit there, on the sidewalk, I focus only on my knitting.
People walk towards me and away and pretty soon, someone stops. It's a woman. She leans down and peers into my face. She seems concerned.
"Are you homeless?" she asks.
"No, I'm knitting," I say.
She is perplexed. "Do you need any help?"
"No," I say. "I just want to knit."
She stands up and walks away.
Knit, knit, purl, purl and another person stops. A man.
"Are you okay? Do you need help?"
I shake my head. "No, I'm knitting. I just sat down to knit."
He was as perplexed as the woman.
"You don't need a little help?"
"No. I'm fine."
I woke up and thought about the dream for a long time. I will take this one to my dream expert but it was so odd. By just stopping to knit, by sitting down on the sidewalk, all of a sudden, I was a person to focus attention upon. I became a problem to solve, at least in my own psychic terrain. Curious. The dream seems to be showing me the way I've been coping in my life. Look busy, look like you know what you are doing, do NOT stand out, and hell--DO NOT sit on the sidewalk and just knit. That would be a problem. That would be a serious problem to fix.
The thing is, in top side life, I never have time to knit. I knitted when I was married to a guy who was so bad for me I need charts and graphs to map out all the ways. I used to be an anxiety knitter when I was with that guy and no one was the wiser until he was finally out of my life and I stopped knitting.Now I do other things with my time. Knitting is not one of those things.
So, it's a dream and I decide I'm going to knit. I sit down on the sidewalk and go to work on a project that I've been wanting to finish. The Vogue Wave Shawl. Dark gray alpaca, circular needles made from cedar and lots of time.
It's a warm, sunny day.
As I sit there, on the sidewalk, I focus only on my knitting.
People walk towards me and away and pretty soon, someone stops. It's a woman. She leans down and peers into my face. She seems concerned.
"Are you homeless?" she asks.
"No, I'm knitting," I say.
She is perplexed. "Do you need any help?"
"No," I say. "I just want to knit."
She stands up and walks away.
Knit, knit, purl, purl and another person stops. A man.
"Are you okay? Do you need help?"
I shake my head. "No, I'm knitting. I just sat down to knit."
He was as perplexed as the woman.
"You don't need a little help?"
"No. I'm fine."
I woke up and thought about the dream for a long time. I will take this one to my dream expert but it was so odd. By just stopping to knit, by sitting down on the sidewalk, all of a sudden, I was a person to focus attention upon. I became a problem to solve, at least in my own psychic terrain. Curious. The dream seems to be showing me the way I've been coping in my life. Look busy, look like you know what you are doing, do NOT stand out, and hell--DO NOT sit on the sidewalk and just knit. That would be a problem. That would be a serious problem to fix.
October 25, 2012
Day 38: 12:00 p.m.
No homeless people in my life, for several days.
Not at the store, not at the corner and not on my street.
Not one.
But I am reading a manuscript, for The Attic, by a New York writer. Guess what it is about?
Homelessness.
And yes, it's pretty good.
Here's a quote from Lee Stringer, that fronts her book: "I don't know what's to be done about (homelessness) except to find what your relationship is to it. I think that's the only work...I mean, how as human beings do we relate to one another." ~ Lee Stringer, Like Shaking Hands with God.
Stringer is a writer who lived, homeless and crack-addicted, on the streets of New York City from the early eighties until the mid-nineties.
He is a former editor and columnist of Street News and his writing has appeared in many publications including The Nation, The New York Times and Newsday.
Not at the store, not at the corner and not on my street.
Not one.
But I am reading a manuscript, for The Attic, by a New York writer. Guess what it is about?
Homelessness.
And yes, it's pretty good.
Here's a quote from Lee Stringer, that fronts her book: "I don't know what's to be done about (homelessness) except to find what your relationship is to it. I think that's the only work...I mean, how as human beings do we relate to one another." ~ Lee Stringer, Like Shaking Hands with God.Stringer is a writer who lived, homeless and crack-addicted, on the streets of New York City from the early eighties until the mid-nineties.
He is a former editor and columnist of Street News and his writing has appeared in many publications including The Nation, The New York Times and Newsday.
October 21, 2012
Day 34: 10:21 p.m.
Whole Foods I'm in Whole Foods and I pay for my groceries, an apple, a bottle of water and some roast beef. My checker is a short, round woman with a tattoo across the softest part of her chest. It's a swooping ordeal that always makes me cringe. It must have hurt like hell.It's cold, at last and the leaves are all gone to red, yellow and brown. The rain arrived about a week ago and now it's rain mixed with sun breaks mixed with more rain. Pumpkins are for sale.
It's been a week since my trip to Seattle and now I'm back in Portland, all week long, I've been ready to go. I've had my phone, I've had a stash of cash and despite my readiness, I have not seen one homeless person with a sign.
What's interesting about this situation is that people are telling me to go in search of homeless people, in order to make the web log more interesting. I've got locations to pick from, China town, down in the Pearl and down along Burnside, but that's not the deal. I'm not seeking to make the weblog more interesting. The deal is to face my fear by being with what is, as it approaches me. This deal does not include the caveat of pursuing homelessness. That would be like chasing the fear and to my own mind, chasing fear is the opposite of running away from it, or ignoring it. I'm just being with each moment and seeing what crosses my path.
As I stand on line, digging out my cash to pay and there on the register is a sign that reads: buy a meal for the homeless. The cost is $1.80.
"I'll take one of the meals," I say.
"Great," she says.
She adds the price to my bill and it's something. This situation is not a homeless person with a sign but it's a sign that says, "HELP." This sign is what is in front of me. It's help without a name, without a story and without a person to avoid or walk up to but it's something. It's what is.
TIME: 5 mins.
COST: $1.88
October 12, 2012
Day 25: 9:00 p.m.
Two homeless people stood on the corner outside Beneroya Hall. It was Friday night in Seattle and fresh rain slicked the streets.
I was on a date with my new man and we had just spent a couple hours inside Beneroya, where a lot of kids, very talented kids, performed jazz. Also, I had the chance to meet his son.
This night was a big deal. At least to me. Meeting the child of the man you love means something. And once that was done, we left the Beneroya and talked about how talented his son was, how poised and charming--all the regular stuff.
We moved close together, arm in, the way "in love" people tend to move.
As we approached the crosswalk, he held my elbow in that protective way I both adore and find a little surprising. I'm not used to leaning on anyone, let alone a man. But that night, I leaned on him and it was nice.
I was all dressed up in little black dress, very Jackie O, and had on a pair of silky high heels. Since I'm not really a girl who does high heels, I had my eyes on the slick street. The last thing I wanted to do was fall down on a date with my beautiful new man.
In my little clutch? I had a twenty dollar bill and a tube of lipstick.
And there they stood, ten feet away. A man and a woman. They had a sign all done up too and as I glanced in their direction--these street people with spikes of metal in their lips and ears and blacker than black dyed hair--all I could see was sneer. Their expressions were pissed off and something else. Buzzed up? High? I really don't know. These people were more than homeless and more than street. They were intense people with intense problems and an intense need.
I slowed up, just a little but my man hurried us along.
In the middle of the intersection, I said, "that's my thing, I should stop," and he slowed down a little as if it would be okay. But then I realized I only had lipstick and that twenty dollar bill which was money I might need later in our night.
And so I let it go. We walked away.
This is what I thought later: Portland people I've run into do not look like that. The people in Portland, every single man and woman I've met, have had such a sweetness to them. But there, in Seattle, it was a whole different scene.
I was scared and more, I was grateful to have a man like my man with his hand on my elbow. Nothing would have happened to me, if I was alone. I'm sure of that, but sometimes it's the right time to help and other times, I suppose it is better to let a man get you across the street and into the car.
TIME TAKEN: 0 minutes
DOLLARS GIVEN: $0
October 10, 2012
Day 23: 12:14 p.m.
There weren't homeless people or street people in Houston, Texas. At least they weren't where I went.
I did see mega sized strip malls, a Trader Joe's that looked like it should have been Caesar's Palace and I also spotted a huge sign announcing, "HOT WINGS." It must have stood twenty feet high. Who eats hot wings and more, who needs a sign that big?
"This is Texas," my host told me. "Everything is big here."
We passed the HOT WINGS sign on our way to River Oaks, which is the richest neighborhood in Houston. River Oaks is so rich there are walls of bushes built twenty feet high--often times two layers thick--so no one gets to see the house, the grounds and the servants quarters. These are little universes of privacy. Little states of America within America.
"That's were your $4.00 a gallon is going," my host told me, as he meandered the car past locked gates and layers of bushes that blocked all views. Based on the length of the gates though, I did get a sense that a massive amount of property was on the other side. Some of the gates went on for blocks.
This area of Houston is so wealthy, they have their own police force.
And this is what I thought while I stared at the window at the stunning display of wealth that comes from oil.
1) There are no homeless people here.
2) The cost of these houses will be more than I, my neighbor and several of my neighbors will earn in a lifetime.
3) This disparity of wealth reminds me of the lessons in the history books where the people--the people who can barely eat--will rebel and tear all the wealth down in a frenzy of rage, injustice and hunger.
Being homeless didn't seem like such a scary thing after all. Being crazy rich, that must be damn scary because history tells us it's just a matter of time. No wonder they have their own police force.
I did see mega sized strip malls, a Trader Joe's that looked like it should have been Caesar's Palace and I also spotted a huge sign announcing, "HOT WINGS." It must have stood twenty feet high. Who eats hot wings and more, who needs a sign that big?
"This is Texas," my host told me. "Everything is big here."
We passed the HOT WINGS sign on our way to River Oaks, which is the richest neighborhood in Houston. River Oaks is so rich there are walls of bushes built twenty feet high--often times two layers thick--so no one gets to see the house, the grounds and the servants quarters. These are little universes of privacy. Little states of America within America.
"That's were your $4.00 a gallon is going," my host told me, as he meandered the car past locked gates and layers of bushes that blocked all views. Based on the length of the gates though, I did get a sense that a massive amount of property was on the other side. Some of the gates went on for blocks. This area of Houston is so wealthy, they have their own police force.
And this is what I thought while I stared at the window at the stunning display of wealth that comes from oil.
1) There are no homeless people here.
2) The cost of these houses will be more than I, my neighbor and several of my neighbors will earn in a lifetime.
3) This disparity of wealth reminds me of the lessons in the history books where the people--the people who can barely eat--will rebel and tear all the wealth down in a frenzy of rage, injustice and hunger.
Being homeless didn't seem like such a scary thing after all. Being crazy rich, that must be damn scary because history tells us it's just a matter of time. No wonder they have their own police force.
October 5, 2012
Day 18: 11:00 a.m.
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} p {margin-right:0in; mso-margin-top-alt:auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:Times;} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style> It's finally caught up to me. Being late.<br /><br />I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.<br /><br />I will not let myself think this. And it's also too late because I type a text to my beloved,"I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight." <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2417/2..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2417/2..." width="200" /></a></div>It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the Portland Airport.<br /><br /><i>Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. </i><br /><br />I know, I know, I know.<br /><br /><i>What we think we are one step away from creating.</i><br /><br />I know.<br /><br />But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it. This time I'm so late, I am going to miss an important flight to an important place, and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.<br /><br />And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole thing out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I never timed things this close.<br /><br />My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.<br /><br />And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I panicked. I texted my fear of doom to my new beloved, just for a bit of his sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids, because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.<br /><br />"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I typed.<br />"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.<br /> "I've get less than 30," I texted.<br /> "Plenty of time," he wrote.<br /><br />I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, <i>Story Engineerin</i>g. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.<br /> ~ <br /><br />The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment. I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm desperate. I cannot miss my flight.<br /><br />I stand in the impossible long security line, tap, tap, tap my foot and it takes me almost ten minutes to work it out in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ask for help,” I tell myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, no, it’s too much of a hassle, I don’t want to bother these people,” I tell myself back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“ASK FOR HELP,” I tell myself again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you don’t, you will miss your flight.”<br /><br />So I swallow my pride and ask. I am tentative at first, "Can I move forward in front of you? I really need help." <br /><br />The lady wears a pink sweater. She smiles and says, “Of course.” <br /><br />I ask a man who wears a sweater vest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is it okay?”<br /><br />“Sure,” he says. <br /><br />Like the Red Sea, the lines part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there had to be three hundred people who made way for me. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."<br /><br />As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.thecypresshotel.com/design..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="http://www.thecypresshotel.com/design..." width="200" /></a></div>I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem was about how she ran in an airport to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she made it on the plane with a second to spare and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."<br /><br />I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of everyone who got me to the flight on time. <br /><br />I asked for help. Help came. <br /><br />After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified and pretty much NEVER asking for help, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help. <br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com...' alt='' /></div>
Day 18: Time 11:00 a.m.
It's finally caught up to me. Being late.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I panicked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm desperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
It takes me almost ten minutes to work it out in my head. “Ask for help,” I tell myself. “No, no, it’s too much of a hassle, I don’t want to bother these people,” I tell myself back. “ASK FOR HELP,” I tell myself again. “If you don’t, you will miss your flight.”
So I swallow my pride and ask. I am tentative at first, "Can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
The lady wears a pink sweater. She smiles and says, “Of course.”
I ask a man who wears a sweater vest. “Is it okay?”
“Sure,” he says.
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of everyone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I panicked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm desperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
It takes me almost ten minutes to work it out in my head. “Ask for help,” I tell myself. “No, no, it’s too much of a hassle, I don’t want to bother these people,” I tell myself back. “ASK FOR HELP,” I tell myself again. “If you don’t, you will miss your flight.”
So I swallow my pride and ask. I am tentative at first, "Can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
The lady wears a pink sweater. She smiles and says, “Of course.”
I ask a man who wears a sweater vest. “Is it okay?”
“Sure,” he says.
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of everyone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
Day 16: Time 11:00 a.m.
It's finally caught up to me. Being late.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I paniked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm deperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
So I start to ask for help. I ask, "can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of eveyrone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I paniked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm deperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
So I start to ask for help. I ask, "can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of eveyrone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
Day 16: Time 11:00 a.m.
It's finally caught up to me. Being late.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I paniked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm deperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
So I start to ask for help. I ask, "can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of eveyrone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I paniked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm deperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
So I start to ask for help. I ask, "can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of eveyrone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
Day 16: Time 11:00 a.m.
It's finally caught up to me. Being late.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I paniked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm deperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
So I start to ask for help. I ask, "can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of eveyrone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
I'm so late today, I am going to miss my flight.
I will not let myself think this though although it's too late. I'm so late, I am going to miss my flight, I type in a text.
It's a cold day, 50 degrees with no clouds and a clear sky. Wind gusts devil dead and brittle leaves in circles on the street, the sidewalk and in front of where I sit. I wait for the Red Line to take me to the airport.
Negative thinking brings a negative reality about. I know, I know, I know. What we think we are one step away from creating. But I cannot help myself. This time, I've really done it, I tell myself. This time I'm so late I am going to miss an important flight to an important place and I am so freaked out by the "being late enough to miss a flight," I am about to cry.
And here's the deal. I should not be late. I was up at five, I had hours to get this right, I got my kids to school and had an hour plus to spare. I choreographed the whole out too. That's what former TV news producers do. They are careful with time and while I have a habit of packing my hours tight, never letting a minute of fat slip through, I have never timed things this close.
My plan was so simple: Walk to train, catch train, arrive hour early. I thought I would get to the train in fifteen minutes but somehow it took me thirty and then I missed the train.
And so I did what I never allow myself to do. I paniked. I texted my fear of doom to my new love, just for a bit of sweet southern reassurance, which he was fast to give. But then I went a step further and asked advice from my "former," the father of the kids because he's a guy who catches two planes a week and knows how to make it work.
"How tight have you cut a Southwest flight," I asked.
"Fifteen minutes," he texted back.
"I've get less than 30," I text.
"Plenty of time," he writes.
I'm on the train at this point, breathing. In, out, in, out and I tug out a book by Larry Brooks, Story Engineering. I read because I have a class to teach in a few days and I need to read this book. So I read and pretend I'm not losing my fricking mind.
~
The airport is a mess. Security lines so far back and so packed with people, I assess and decide to take the shorter check point which means I'll also have to run twice as far. I have strong legs. It's fine. The security lanes are jammed and this is my moment.
I am now a homeless person. I am one of the people I see every single day. I am a person who needs other people to help me. I mean, I-really-need-help. I'm deperate. I cannot miss my flight.
I am not crying but I am damn close.
So I start to ask for help. I ask, "can I move forward in front of you? I really need help."
Like the Red Sea, the lines simply part and I am at the security checkpoint and through and getting scanned and I'm telling you there was an hour of waiting in that line. There had to be three hundred people and they all made way. They all said, "no problem, of course, you bet."
As I ran, barefooted through the airport, cutting my feet on the metal of the moving sidewalk and barely able to breathe, people moved. One man called out, "you can do it. Go. Go. Go."
And I ran as I have never run before. I ran and ran and it was a poem by Sharon Old's that came into my mind. The poem about running to catch a flight to see her dying father and how she got on the plane with a second to space and then wept the way the dead weep when they realize they have made it into heaven. "With massive relief."
I made it to the gate. Heart pounding. Breath in ragged, hot, dry gulps. Bare feet on fire. I stood on line, in my spot with my ticket and pulled my flip flops out of my bag. I dropped them on the ground and slid my feet in and gave mountains of thanks for the kindness and generosity of eveyrone who got me to the flight on time.
I asked for help. Finally.
After all these years of going my life pretty much alone and pretty much terrified, I asked for help and got it. It was so easy and yet, so horribly hard. All around me, there was help.
