What would I do if I knew I could not fail . . .

I think I've always been my own worst enemy, harshest critic and unflagging detractor. Somewhere in childhood, I believe, I made a decision about my own lack of self-worth: that decision dogs my footsteps relentlessly to this day. I couple that with a rather enthusiastic right-brained approach to things . . . dive in and do, and if it works I'm rather surprised; if it doesn't, that old decision comes out of the storage closet in my heart and whispers "see, I told you so . . . you really aren't good enough".
     The odd thing is, there have been times in my life that I've done things based in both sides of my brain, stepped outside the shell created by perception of lack of self-efficacy, and I've been very happy and very successful. I'd really like to get to that place again, with a great quickness.
     I posted about my Dad dying. For myself, I miss him; for him, I'm glad because he was old and tired and starting to be sick, and quite ready to go. I think I didn't discuss as much of the meaning of his death, particularly at this time in my life. I've been out of the workforce for a year, tending to him and to his affairs. It's been a sort of "not quite retirement" time: a preview, if you will, of things to come. I'm not impressed. I've put on 20 pounds, and lost muscle. I have new aches and pains that I didn't have a year ago. If this is what my retirement life is going to be, it sucks and I don't want some, now. But I digress. Dad's death means the end of the home of my childhood (must sell). It means saying goodbye to all of things in the house (part of the estate, must sell). What I hadn't really considered, or at least I did with my left brain but not my emotional mind: I have to go through all of the volume of stuff that is mine, and make choices (must downsize). All of the school photos of my kids, cards I've bought over time to send to someone and never sent, art supplies I don't use, books I may read again someday, clothes that are no longer in style but that I love (some of which almost fit), three bookshelves of professional books that I've clung to in defense of a career that I really don't want to go back to . . . file boxes after file boxes of professional handouts (again, the career I don't want to go back to), dishes I've had for more than 30 years. The guitar I don't play, with all of its trappings. Then there are the fluffy fibers and fiber arts tools . . . Oh, dear.
     And parallel with all of that . . . what the hell am I going to do to make a living?
     Dad did leave me some money. If I'm careful, I can live for a couple of years on it, while I'm figuring out my life. I'd rather not do that, however, because realistically I'm looking at retirement in 10 years or less (that's its own set of pain, and too long a birdwalk for this post). That little nest egg could be used to really enhance whatever home I end up buying so that I can live comfortably (gourmet kitchen, spa bath, fiber room with sink and stove for dying fluffy fibers, eco-friendly square foot garden, the little things in life :-D).
     And in the meantime, the ongoing grieving process for everything I'm saying goodbye to . . . it's hard to reframe to the positive in the midst of loss.
     Add to that the fact that I've been in not only a career crisis for sometime now, but also a spiritual crisis, and I have a triple-header of shit to sort through, and a triple-header of choices to make. All sprinkled with that voice of "see, you're really not good enough . . . you're going to fail." Glarrrrrghhhh.
     If I knew I couldn't fail . . . what would I do? All very conditional. Based on the premise that I will not fail. The reframe: "I know I cannot fail, so I will . . ."
     To be continued . . . 

My Life in Less than 4 GB

My dad died on February 28, and everything that had been safe and familiar and comfortable is now completely topsy-turvy.

The house is torn apart, emotionally and literally. We've been cleaning, and clearing out, and preparing for the dreaded inevitable -- selling the home place. I wouldn't, really, except that I have to in order to fulfill the terms of the will. My Dad, who was stubbornly fair, decided that my little sister should be entitled to half of everything. She hasn't lived here, she hasn't cared for him, she hasn't done anything except consume resources. But she gets half. I'm trying hard not to be bitter about it . . . I'm not succeeding. 

The cats have been freaked right the hell out. Peaches had appointed himself Dad's "kitty angel", sleeping with him most of the time, and alerting me to Dad's nocturnal prowlings. As we were waiting for the morticians to arrive, Peaches kept vigil. While we were cleaning up Dad's body, Peaches supervised. When we were done, and waiting, Peaches hopped on the bed to . . . I'm not sure what. Say goodbye? I don't know what that cat knows, or why he does what he does.  Gracie, who is not normally a clingy cat, has been clingy like no other thing. Rascal, who is normally a clingy cat, has been extra clingy and very whiny.

The house echoes with silence. We've cleared out so much stuff, boxed up and ready for auction, that the dining room echoes. The kids brought some stuff into the living room so that it wouldn't echo quite so much, but I still look for Dad to be in there . . . I spend most of my time either in the kitchen, working in the yard, or hiding out in the bathtub.

I haven't been able to focus well enough to spin. My spindles are not nagging me, and the fluffy fibers are, for the most part, pretty quiet. I know that Dad would want me to keep spinning . . . I just can't, yet, without crying buckets. 

Every box I've packed, after having been inspected by Gracie, has gone to storage in one of the garages with the admonishment "I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things." That's provoked a kleenex box full of tears, too. I will be moving from a very poorly designed 2700 sq. ft. house to -- if I'm lucky and smart -- a better designed but less than 1200 sq. ft. house. So. I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things.

Old tools. Old clothes. Old paperwork. Old dishes and cookware. Old stuffs of all kinds. Yikes. But leaning down is essential. My son said it best: "If it doesn't nurture us physically, emotionally, spiritually and financially, it has to go." In the culture of this house in which duplicates abound, the above-mentioned leaning down is difficult, painful, and depressing. The major good-bye to my Dad is being followed by multiple, smaller, painful good-byes.


But also some hellos. More space in the kitchen while we're still here . . . cookware I haven't used in a while because too much other stuff was occupying the space now occupied by my stuff. More space in my desk now that I've gotten rid of most of the duplicates and several years of old paperwork.


And, maybe, the crowning touch for now . . . all of the songs that have been important to me throughout most of my life now safely ensconced on my iPhone.


In less than 4 GB.