The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
...Due to the Cats
Petting our darling, pretty/cute-faced cats is dulling my edge. Their effect is too calming, I fear.
And Toonces now comes to visit nightly, any time between 1 and 5 am. She likes being taller than us, which she is only when we're prone. She still has her claws because Pat tells me it would be like cutting off their finger-tips if we de-clawed them...and she must knead nightly. She found my bare shoulder last night.
The thing is, I found myself staying up all night, waiting for her arrival; this morning, she came up to see us at 3 am. I'm much more tired than when I've slept solidly. It's for life, now
Still, I am pleased to feed them and freshen their kitty-litter each morning so far. They're a way to start each day, being of service.
Showing posts with label exhaustion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exhaustion. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
On the Eve...
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
...of India's Independence Day
I was craving more of my own independence tonight and burst into tears while on the phone with my sister Deb. Typically, I'm a day-person, not a night-person, and I try to wind down around 10 pm, and prefer not to get phone-calls after 8:30. Now, I remember why; the conversation began with her telling me that she was returning my call, having just cleaned up a flood in her basement.
Feeling survivor's guilt that our house no longer floods, since we installed a sump-pump, I wasn't about to berate her for calling too late. Still, I was frustrated to tears because I had just begged Pat's forgiveness for leaving her in the middle of a "Closer" TV episode, since I was craving some blogging. I had just come upstairs and begun to log on when the phone rang.
Through my tears: "All I ever do is work and study. I *never* have time to myself, it seems, and I know you can't imagine this, since we don't have kids, but it's true..."
As I'm trying to write this, Pat comes in just now and interrupts: "I don't think the cleaning service is using the stone-care products in your bathroom for the counter or floor, so I left a note, since there must be new people, but if I'm not here while you're working at home tomorrow, you need to tell them."
I am not trapped. I make choices. I am not trapped. I make choices. I choose to live with another human being, and to have our house cleaned by people other than us. I choose to work hard and study a lot.
I have to remember all of that because right now, it feels overwhelming. Deb said, "I can imagine and can relate. I bought the September issue of 'Oprah.' Let me read you an article by Norman Fischer, a Jewish Zen Buddhist.
"That other window-fan didn't work, so I threw it out," Pat just called to me as she turned on her electric tooth-brush. Earlier tonight, Pat said very quietly, "I know you got me the cats, since you haven't spent as much time with me, since you've been in school."
"Oh, God, Pat, my heart's going to break. It's true that I have felt guilty about not spending enough time together, and yes, I did get the cats, so that you'd have company in the house whether or not I was here, but I thought it would be nice for you."
"It is...."
"Oy, Pat, I want to keep doing the work I do because it's exciting, and I like studying, but I wish I didn't have to work and we could just play all the time. I do." And then I recalled the e-mail she had sent during the day, asking if I wanted to opt in to a series of four plays in the coming year, and I felt too guilty to say no...but wanted to. Each play represents basically an entire study-day lost. "So I was thinking about the plays I liked from the list, and definitely the one with Mary Louise Parker, and the one with Cynthia Nixon, and probably "A Man for All Seasons," and...I'm trying to remember the fourth one...."
"Fosse's 'Dancin?'"
"Yes!"
Now, it all sounds great right now, but I know I'll feel angry that I'm unable to study during one of my weekend days when it's actually time to go to the play. I know this because that's how I felt a few times this spring regardless of how good the play was.
Norman Fischer reminded me to breathe deeply, three times consecutively, and to focus on being more present to my surroundings. The windows are open and I hear crickets in the dark, two bright lamps surround me inside, my eyes burn with exhaustion and I'm missing Pat, who has gone to bed. These are my surroundings. I'm going to go to bed, too.
...of India's Independence Day
I was craving more of my own independence tonight and burst into tears while on the phone with my sister Deb. Typically, I'm a day-person, not a night-person, and I try to wind down around 10 pm, and prefer not to get phone-calls after 8:30. Now, I remember why; the conversation began with her telling me that she was returning my call, having just cleaned up a flood in her basement.
Feeling survivor's guilt that our house no longer floods, since we installed a sump-pump, I wasn't about to berate her for calling too late. Still, I was frustrated to tears because I had just begged Pat's forgiveness for leaving her in the middle of a "Closer" TV episode, since I was craving some blogging. I had just come upstairs and begun to log on when the phone rang.
Through my tears: "All I ever do is work and study. I *never* have time to myself, it seems, and I know you can't imagine this, since we don't have kids, but it's true..."
As I'm trying to write this, Pat comes in just now and interrupts: "I don't think the cleaning service is using the stone-care products in your bathroom for the counter or floor, so I left a note, since there must be new people, but if I'm not here while you're working at home tomorrow, you need to tell them."
I am not trapped. I make choices. I am not trapped. I make choices. I choose to live with another human being, and to have our house cleaned by people other than us. I choose to work hard and study a lot.
I have to remember all of that because right now, it feels overwhelming. Deb said, "I can imagine and can relate. I bought the September issue of 'Oprah.' Let me read you an article by Norman Fischer, a Jewish Zen Buddhist.
"That other window-fan didn't work, so I threw it out," Pat just called to me as she turned on her electric tooth-brush. Earlier tonight, Pat said very quietly, "I know you got me the cats, since you haven't spent as much time with me, since you've been in school."
"Oh, God, Pat, my heart's going to break. It's true that I have felt guilty about not spending enough time together, and yes, I did get the cats, so that you'd have company in the house whether or not I was here, but I thought it would be nice for you."
"It is...."
"Oy, Pat, I want to keep doing the work I do because it's exciting, and I like studying, but I wish I didn't have to work and we could just play all the time. I do." And then I recalled the e-mail she had sent during the day, asking if I wanted to opt in to a series of four plays in the coming year, and I felt too guilty to say no...but wanted to. Each play represents basically an entire study-day lost. "So I was thinking about the plays I liked from the list, and definitely the one with Mary Louise Parker, and the one with Cynthia Nixon, and probably "A Man for All Seasons," and...I'm trying to remember the fourth one...."
"Fosse's 'Dancin?'"
"Yes!"
Now, it all sounds great right now, but I know I'll feel angry that I'm unable to study during one of my weekend days when it's actually time to go to the play. I know this because that's how I felt a few times this spring regardless of how good the play was.
Norman Fischer reminded me to breathe deeply, three times consecutively, and to focus on being more present to my surroundings. The windows are open and I hear crickets in the dark, two bright lamps surround me inside, my eyes burn with exhaustion and I'm missing Pat, who has gone to bed. These are my surroundings. I'm going to go to bed, too.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Well Is Still Damp
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
...And Will Become Full Again, I Hope, with Time
Today, at lunch, a colleague told me that she was gardening last weekend and had to move a rock off of a tulip, so it could grow. "I moved the rock and thought, staring at the tulip, that's me!" she said and continued, saying that she wanted the courage and time to take a course in a subject that interested her. Each day she sat on the application was a day that she felt a rock, sitting on her.
This week has been a rock piled on me.
At first, it was great, swimming two days in a row, Sunday and Monday, but then I had to be at work too early on Wednesday and Thursday. I was at an amazing Web 2.0 conference at the beginning of the week and then a two-day meeting, and I've paid for it. At lunch, I responded to my colleague: "I know what you mean. I blog as a creative outlet and when I do not get to do it, or am too tired, I actually feel angry."
...And Will Become Full Again, I Hope, with Time
Today, at lunch, a colleague told me that she was gardening last weekend and had to move a rock off of a tulip, so it could grow. "I moved the rock and thought, staring at the tulip, that's me!" she said and continued, saying that she wanted the courage and time to take a course in a subject that interested her. Each day she sat on the application was a day that she felt a rock, sitting on her.
This week has been a rock piled on me.
At first, it was great, swimming two days in a row, Sunday and Monday, but then I had to be at work too early on Wednesday and Thursday. I was at an amazing Web 2.0 conference at the beginning of the week and then a two-day meeting, and I've paid for it. At lunch, I responded to my colleague: "I know what you mean. I blog as a creative outlet and when I do not get to do it, or am too tired, I actually feel angry."
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Jinxed Myself
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Trumpeting Anything Is Dangerous
This is the longest I've gone without blogging in at least two or three months...and right after I showed off about having posted 100 entries. Predictable.
I have to keep writing because I can't not, not because it's a numbers game.
Disclaimer: I had 90 minutes of sleep last night and five hours the night prior to that.
This morning, I couldn't find the Delete button in my e-mail program. That should be a cautionary tale, that I really can't go sleepless effectively.
I'm working on an exciting program for work -- remember, the other day, I said I needed to channel Madonna's creativity for a project? Same project. It will be complete by early-September. And that's all I can say, as I don't talk about real work stuff here because it's confidential.
...which makes it fairly challenging to post entries sometimes, since much of my experience, especially this past week, has been work-oriented.
The worst part of being over-tired is being less alert to poignant moments in my day and just writing like an automaton.
Blah, blah, blah....
I guess the only other thing I'll hazard writing about while this tired is the fear I have of being out of sight, out of mind. In terms of this blog, I don't even know who most of you who kindly visit are, other than my family, friends and other people who are moved to comment when they comment with their names, rather than anonymously.
When I was away from the blog with work later this week, I actually worried about losing visitors permanently. And even not knowing you, I don't want you to stop stopping by. Of course, this sensation's exacerbated by my feeling out of sight, out of mind in being this far away from my typical environment.
I'm sure everything will feel less dire after some sleep. Hope this entry didn't put you to sleep. Well, *somone* should get some.
Trumpeting Anything Is Dangerous
This is the longest I've gone without blogging in at least two or three months...and right after I showed off about having posted 100 entries. Predictable.
I have to keep writing because I can't not, not because it's a numbers game.
Disclaimer: I had 90 minutes of sleep last night and five hours the night prior to that.
This morning, I couldn't find the Delete button in my e-mail program. That should be a cautionary tale, that I really can't go sleepless effectively.
I'm working on an exciting program for work -- remember, the other day, I said I needed to channel Madonna's creativity for a project? Same project. It will be complete by early-September. And that's all I can say, as I don't talk about real work stuff here because it's confidential.
...which makes it fairly challenging to post entries sometimes, since much of my experience, especially this past week, has been work-oriented.
The worst part of being over-tired is being less alert to poignant moments in my day and just writing like an automaton.
Blah, blah, blah....
I guess the only other thing I'll hazard writing about while this tired is the fear I have of being out of sight, out of mind. In terms of this blog, I don't even know who most of you who kindly visit are, other than my family, friends and other people who are moved to comment when they comment with their names, rather than anonymously.
When I was away from the blog with work later this week, I actually worried about losing visitors permanently. And even not knowing you, I don't want you to stop stopping by. Of course, this sensation's exacerbated by my feeling out of sight, out of mind in being this far away from my typical environment.
I'm sure everything will feel less dire after some sleep. Hope this entry didn't put you to sleep. Well, *somone* should get some.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Fresh Pleasure
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Plane-ride Reflections
Sipping a cup of Peppermint Tingle tea by the London Fruit & Herb Co. , it occurs to me how much better my life is today compared to my early days in Chicago exactly 20 years ago. During the summer of '87, I lived down the street from Saree World and Rosenblum's Jewish Books, now Rosenblum's World of Judaica -- with its own web site.
In the West Rogers Park neighborhood, I had my choice of Tel Aviv Kosher Pizza, Fluky's Hot Dogs or an all-you-can-eat buffet for US$4.95 at one of the neighborhood's Indian restaurants.
The buffet was among the dim, bright spots for me then. I've written about this before, but I'll never forget a hand-written sign on a door I passed while walking down Devon Avenue: "FRESH PAIN." Evidently, it had just been painted, and then the sign-writer forgot to add the "T," but the sign as it was felt more aligned with my state of mind.
Right after graduating from college with my highly marketable(!) Comparative Literature degree, I interned at a Chicago magazine startup, where I wrote blurbs on clubs and bars to which I'd never been, for heterosexual singles...which I'd never been either, though I tried to be between 15 and 20.
Michael Feinstein's publicist sent the magazine a tape of his "Live at the Algonquin" show, hoping we'd review it. We didn't do music reviews and no one else was interested in the tape, and so, knowing nothing about the artist or the songs he was covering, I agreed that I'd like to have it.
The next morning, during the six-block commute by foot, I began listening to it with my Walkman. A song came on that made me cry, "Rhode Island is Famous for You." When I got to work, I learned that it was a Bob Hope song and felt silly. Still, every time I hear Michael Feinstein sing it, I tear up.
This was the era before the era of getting a job as a tech. writer, when Pat had to teach me that sick-days were only for when I was sick. The summer of fresh pain was exactly 20 years ago and the fake sick-days era probably was only 15 years ago.
Now, by contrast, one of my sisters cautioned me as we were leaving for India, "Sarah, don't become a workaholic. It's very seductive, but don't jeopardize your health over work...." More proof that doing work that suits me is the key to realizing my potential.
Twenty summers ago, if I had imagined myself living anywhere beyond the United States for six months or longer, I'd have picked Israel, not India. And we would have been there by now, if Israel had been the destination. Instead we're somewhere between Istanbul and Bagdhad and we'll keep going till we reach Bangalore.
Back when I lived in the Indian/Jewish neighborhood in Chicago, if you had said to me, "In 20 years, you'll have a job that engages you, and that you're good at, and you'll get to go on a short-term foreign service assignment, accompanied by your partner of practically 15 years," I would have been excited about the partner part, dubious about the job part and would have fantasized that the assignment would have been in Israel.
It would have seemed only natural: I lived in Jerusalem for a year at 20; I used to be fluent in Hebrew; I'm Jewish....India, as much as I've always loved the food, had no emotional hold over me 20 years ago, or even until less than 10 years ago, when I had a UK-based, Indian employee on a team I managed.
Even today, the dream of an assignment in Israel remains compelling. When I consider what it would be like compared with this upcoming assignment, though, I have less confidence that I could make a success of it; most of my colleagues would be Jewish and I have close Israeli relatives, and so I think I'd walk into it, feeling that I would understand, perfectly, how our Jewish culture and their Israeli culture informed their leadership...and forget to recognize that every leader has an individual personality that trumps his or her cultural background.
Also, I think I might get a less warm reception than I hope to in India, where I'm automatically more open to the experience because it's almost totally remote from mine. In Israel on the other hand, I would worry about two possible road-blocks: my own potentially inaccurate assumptions based on what I know personally about the local culture, and a fear that I might be "hazed" a bit, i.e., need to pass some initiation rite -- that Jews might be harder on one of their own...or vice versa. Oy, who wants to admit *that*?
Disclaimer
A number of paragraphs ago, I suppose, would have been a good time to add a disclaimer that everything I'm writing reflects the lucidity of someone who has had up to eight hours of sleep over the past two nights, total. And there's a teething baby crying almost directly behind me.
OK, I'm sure I should be sleeping, rather than writing, but my hand won't stop. (How refreshing to be writing in an actual journal -- thanks, Ria, Lynn & Mary Alice for the journal-gifts), even as my left hand makes a complete shadow over my words. It's fun to be using this bright red, metal Caran D'Ache ball-point pen, rather than simply clacking keys. Later, I'll transfer all of it to the blog, when I'm plugged in and online. [You're seeing the fruits of that labor now.]
I want to continue my reflections on an Indian short-term foreign assignment compared to an Israeli one. Perhaps I'm in for a rude awakening, but I feel good that every Indian at whom I've smiled on the plane has smiled back readily and instantly. It's vital to guard against my objectifying, human nature.
I don't want to exoticize Indians because I need for us to recognize each other's basic humanity asap, yet I also don't want to shut off my capacity for wonderment and delight at human variety, nor deny them their sometimes curiosity at my blue eyes or height, or however I seem different to any of them visually.
By now, I've had a second cup of Peppermint Tingle. I'd like to tell the girl who was just barely a woman 20 years ago, who ate by herself most often in a brand new city, and who had no idea how well everything would turn out, thank you for the fresh pain you endured, which helped make all of this adventure possible.
Plane-ride Reflections
Sipping a cup of Peppermint Tingle tea by the London Fruit & Herb Co. , it occurs to me how much better my life is today compared to my early days in Chicago exactly 20 years ago. During the summer of '87, I lived down the street from Saree World and Rosenblum's Jewish Books, now Rosenblum's World of Judaica -- with its own web site.
In the West Rogers Park neighborhood, I had my choice of Tel Aviv Kosher Pizza, Fluky's Hot Dogs or an all-you-can-eat buffet for US$4.95 at one of the neighborhood's Indian restaurants.
The buffet was among the dim, bright spots for me then. I've written about this before, but I'll never forget a hand-written sign on a door I passed while walking down Devon Avenue: "FRESH PAIN." Evidently, it had just been painted, and then the sign-writer forgot to add the "T," but the sign as it was felt more aligned with my state of mind.
Right after graduating from college with my highly marketable(!) Comparative Literature degree, I interned at a Chicago magazine startup, where I wrote blurbs on clubs and bars to which I'd never been, for heterosexual singles...which I'd never been either, though I tried to be between 15 and 20.
Michael Feinstein's publicist sent the magazine a tape of his "Live at the Algonquin" show, hoping we'd review it. We didn't do music reviews and no one else was interested in the tape, and so, knowing nothing about the artist or the songs he was covering, I agreed that I'd like to have it.
The next morning, during the six-block commute by foot, I began listening to it with my Walkman. A song came on that made me cry, "Rhode Island is Famous for You." When I got to work, I learned that it was a Bob Hope song and felt silly. Still, every time I hear Michael Feinstein sing it, I tear up.
This was the era before the era of getting a job as a tech. writer, when Pat had to teach me that sick-days were only for when I was sick. The summer of fresh pain was exactly 20 years ago and the fake sick-days era probably was only 15 years ago.
Now, by contrast, one of my sisters cautioned me as we were leaving for India, "Sarah, don't become a workaholic. It's very seductive, but don't jeopardize your health over work...." More proof that doing work that suits me is the key to realizing my potential.
Twenty summers ago, if I had imagined myself living anywhere beyond the United States for six months or longer, I'd have picked Israel, not India. And we would have been there by now, if Israel had been the destination. Instead we're somewhere between Istanbul and Bagdhad and we'll keep going till we reach Bangalore.
Back when I lived in the Indian/Jewish neighborhood in Chicago, if you had said to me, "In 20 years, you'll have a job that engages you, and that you're good at, and you'll get to go on a short-term foreign service assignment, accompanied by your partner of practically 15 years," I would have been excited about the partner part, dubious about the job part and would have fantasized that the assignment would have been in Israel.
It would have seemed only natural: I lived in Jerusalem for a year at 20; I used to be fluent in Hebrew; I'm Jewish....India, as much as I've always loved the food, had no emotional hold over me 20 years ago, or even until less than 10 years ago, when I had a UK-based, Indian employee on a team I managed.
Even today, the dream of an assignment in Israel remains compelling. When I consider what it would be like compared with this upcoming assignment, though, I have less confidence that I could make a success of it; most of my colleagues would be Jewish and I have close Israeli relatives, and so I think I'd walk into it, feeling that I would understand, perfectly, how our Jewish culture and their Israeli culture informed their leadership...and forget to recognize that every leader has an individual personality that trumps his or her cultural background.
Also, I think I might get a less warm reception than I hope to in India, where I'm automatically more open to the experience because it's almost totally remote from mine. In Israel on the other hand, I would worry about two possible road-blocks: my own potentially inaccurate assumptions based on what I know personally about the local culture, and a fear that I might be "hazed" a bit, i.e., need to pass some initiation rite -- that Jews might be harder on one of their own...or vice versa. Oy, who wants to admit *that*?
Disclaimer
A number of paragraphs ago, I suppose, would have been a good time to add a disclaimer that everything I'm writing reflects the lucidity of someone who has had up to eight hours of sleep over the past two nights, total. And there's a teething baby crying almost directly behind me.
OK, I'm sure I should be sleeping, rather than writing, but my hand won't stop. (How refreshing to be writing in an actual journal -- thanks, Ria, Lynn & Mary Alice for the journal-gifts), even as my left hand makes a complete shadow over my words. It's fun to be using this bright red, metal Caran D'Ache ball-point pen, rather than simply clacking keys. Later, I'll transfer all of it to the blog, when I'm plugged in and online. [You're seeing the fruits of that labor now.]
I want to continue my reflections on an Indian short-term foreign assignment compared to an Israeli one. Perhaps I'm in for a rude awakening, but I feel good that every Indian at whom I've smiled on the plane has smiled back readily and instantly. It's vital to guard against my objectifying, human nature.
I don't want to exoticize Indians because I need for us to recognize each other's basic humanity asap, yet I also don't want to shut off my capacity for wonderment and delight at human variety, nor deny them their sometimes curiosity at my blue eyes or height, or however I seem different to any of them visually.
By now, I've had a second cup of Peppermint Tingle. I'd like to tell the girl who was just barely a woman 20 years ago, who ate by herself most often in a brand new city, and who had no idea how well everything would turn out, thank you for the fresh pain you endured, which helped make all of this adventure possible.
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