AUREVOIR

Aurevoir!

I’m going to be taking an extended break from blogging.

Thank you for “listening” to my kvetching, whining, borching and generally, opining on everything from politics to ants in the kitchen to television culture.

“For everything, (turn, turn, turn) there is a season. . .” as the song says (and the Bible for that matter).

It may sound strange, because I don’t really know any of you personally, but I will miss you.

Maybe I’ll pick up the thread again somewhere down the line, the next time I have so much to say that it’s overflowing and my husband can’t listen anymore. I’m thinking of self-publishing a “best of blog”, along with some of my short stories and articles. You can e-mail me if you would like me to let you know about that, if and when I do.

Best wishes always –

Robin

IT IS TRULY A WONDERFUL LIFE

IT IS TRULY A WONDERFUL LIFE

This morning I woke up and realized that the cold I’ve been fighting for the past three days is almost gone. This is nothing short of miraculous. I am familiar with this particular strain of cold, because my husband had it for approximately three weeks.

Then it occurred to me that I was using a remedy prescribed by our family doctor over ten years ago when I had the flu.

At the time, Art and I had just moved to Tennessee from California. Our California doctor (I’ll call him Dr. E) was now living in another state entirely. But he was the only doctor we had found with whom we had a strong rapport. This doctor was not only an M.D., but also practiced Eastern medicine and homeopathy. He only resorted to Western medicine when all else had failed. Furthermore, he was the only doctor we had ever known who always returned our calls the same day, even if he had to call at 10:00 at night. Dr. E. was truly compassionate and caring. He shared a little of himself with every patient, and thus made everyone feel they were getting personal attention. I honestly don’t know how he did it.

Another thing we appreciated about Dr. E. was that he didn’t seem very concerned about amassing a fortune by prescribing expensive pills and potions sold out of his office. On the contrary, he often would give us small samples of homeopathic remedies so that we could try them out. Then he would tell us which drug stores sold that particular type of remedy. Nine times out of ten, we didn’t need to use Western medicine at all. Dr. E. believed in using the most conservative means possible to achieve health. He believed you could help yourself a lot with sound nutrition. It’s not an exaggeration to say that we loved our family doctor. So when I came down with a miserable case of flu in Tennessee, I made a long-distance call to Dr. E.

Well, Dr. E., I remembered your exact prescription and general advice, and I’ve been taking it ever since for flu and cold-like symptoms. My fever is gone and the congestion and coughing are at least fifty percent better as of this morning. This is at a stage in the progression of the common cold when you would expect the little devil to just be revving up!

The point is – Maybe we’ve all made big differences in other people’s lives without knowing it. Any time you think your life is unimportant, or that you don’t know what purpose you serve, think of this. I was just one of a parade of many, many people who passed through Dr. E’s life. He may not even remember this particular call. And unless I am able to find his address again, he may never read this little tribute. But in a matter of seconds, he was able to save me weeks of suffering and gave me a technique for combating illness that will serve me a lifetime.

And you don’t have to be a doctor to help out another person. All you have to do is believe that you can make a difference, and be willing to share of your time and your compassion.

Again, I will refer you to “It’s A Wonderful Life” for inspiration and “cinema therapy”. It speaks to the heart of this very issue. At the very least, you will forget your own troubles for a couple of hours. At the most, you will be changed forever.

© 2005, Robin Munson

WHAT IS NEWS?

WHAT IS NEWS?

It never fails to astound me when I contemplate the “newsworthy” events of the day.

Yesterday, Art and I were driving somewhere with our radio tuned to a talk news station. They were going into lengthy detail about Michael Jackson’s stay at a local hospital for the flu. They even went so far as to describe his brief appearance at the window when he made the “V sign” to his fans. The commentator did not know whether the “V” was for “victory” or for “peace”. Hmmm. A weighty matter, indeed.

Do we really need to know the details of the separation of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Anniston? It seems like the news spends a lot of time and manpower telling me things I have no business knowing.

One of the Olsen twins (I forget which one) is struggling with anorexia, according to the papers. Again – What business is it of mine? And how can it possibly help her to feel the weight of the paparazzi on top of this potentially life-threatening disorder.

This morning in USA Today there was a piece about someone being successful on American Idol. Good for her. But do I care?

These are only a few examples in very recent memory. But it seems to me it’s always been this way. Back in the 50s, a prominent Hollywood star gave birth out of wedlock, and it was front-page news. (By the way – She was ostracized and blacklisted for years). I realize that mores have changed and that back then, having a child out of wedlock was considered taboo. Still, it seems to me a lot of to-do about nothing.

At the same time, the news continues to use scare tactics to get attention. Yesterday the United States was warned through coverage in all the media that Al-Quaeda was trying to regroup and plan a new attack on our country, possibly with biological or chemical weapons. You might think it is important that we know that. My own feeling is that 1) It’s not really news, because we know all too well that there are certain elements, like Al-Quaeda, who are constantly plotting to do catastrophic harm to the United States while making spectacular headlines. 2) There is absolutely nothing we can do about it as private citizens, except to worry, which is exactly what the terrorist organizations want us to do. Believe me, I don’t need to read alarmist headlines in order to remind myself, “Oh yeah – If I happen to overhear someone plotting to bomb Time Square I’d better call the FBI”.

Every morning in the newspaper, just across from my crossword puzzle, there is a picture of a child. Every morning it is a different child. The caption tells you that the child disappeared from home, and then tells you vital information such as the child’s date of birth, their race, eye color and hair color, when they disappeared, and how old they would be now. Sometimes they use computer technology to age the appearance of the child so that you can see roughly what they might look like now. Some of these children have been missing ten, or even fifteen years. I always take a good look at them. I think maybe one day I will spot one of these missing children and be able to alert the authorities so that they can be returned to their parents. I can’t believe that so many children go missing. Imagine. A new child, presumably abducted, in the paper every single day for years on end. Stuck way back in the “Life” section, across from the crossword puzzle.

© 2005, Robin Munson

A SNAPSHOT

A SNAPSHOT

You never know where life is going to take you.

At the moment, my father-in-law is recovering from the flu, and my brother-in-law is in the hospital recovering from surgery. My mother-in-law is recovering from the stress of it all.

Our niece is coming to visit us in March, as is my friend from Nashville along with her husband – possibly overlapping each other’s visits. That would be more than fine, except that in terms of space, we are kind of in a bind. The room we used to use for a makeshift guest quarter has been cleared out, since we moved the furniture downstairs to our new studio. The only place for anyone to sleep in our house at the moment (besides our own room) is on the sofa in the living room or in a sleeping bag on the floor. Experience has taught us that this is a less-than-ideal situation, both for the guest and for the hosts.

Last night I was signed up for a seminar for aspiring writers on how to sell your articles to newspapers and magazines. Since the seminar was way over on the other side of town, where my mom lives, I decided to stop by her apartment first, pick her up and take her to dinner. We had a very nice early dinner at a sweet little Italian restaurant, and I dropped her back home. Then, when I drove up to the building where the seminar was being held, the street was completely dark. There were no parking places anywhere near the building. I was feeling kind of flu-ish. So I went home. (Lost my tuition in the bargain, but I figured it was better than walking the dark streets at 10:00 at night).

On my way home, I tuned in to the classical music station. They were playing the most extraordinary recording of “Rhapsody In Blue” by George Gershwin. I was stunned. I was sure that it was some very modern recording conceived and created by some musical wunderkind. Wrong. As it turns out, it was a 1934 recording of the London Philharmonic conducted by Mitch Miller! (Yes, that Mitch Miller – the one who had the television show in the sixties called “Sing Along With Mitch”. At the time, he seemed like a total dork to me). Sadly, the record is out of print, and the only way to get it was to pledge $10.00 a month to the radio station. I couldn’t quite justify that.

We got a call this morning from our son, and he is planning to come and visit us this evening. He will most likely stay overnight, since his home is a long train ride from here. He may wind up staying even longer; depending on the reason he has decided to come for a visit. (One never knows with grown children).

Meanwhile, I feel like I am either fighting off the flu, or I’m having an allergic reaction to something in the air. I’m not sure which. We live in California, and there’s always something exotic in bloom here, but it is flu season, too. I’ve been dosing myself with echinacea and astragalus just in case it’s really the flu. But I took some Benedryl last night just in case it’s allergies. The result is that my head is a little fuzzy from all the medication.

Maybe it’s the medication talking, but I’m seriously considering calling the radio station to see if I can still get one of those records.

© 2005, Robin Munson

VALENTINE’S DAY

VALENTINE’S DAY

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I know that some of my readers are in countries that do not celebrate the holiday, so let me just briefly describe it: This is a holiday that celebrates love, especially romantic love. The tradition is for couples to exchange valentines (cards containing love notes). Some people give gifts. Traditional gifts are flowers, especially roses, candy, fragrances, and less traditionally, lingerie for women.

Yesterday I heard two wildly varying accounts of the history of Valentine’s Day. One of them had to do with a pagan ritual in which men drew women’s names out of a hat (“billets”) and then the men coupled up with whatever woman they had selected and the couple went into the woods and “frolicked” for the day. Then, the Christians got hold of it and turned it into something more of a religious nature. The second account I got began with the Christians. It was the one about St. Valentine, who was jailed for his religious beliefs and, while rotting in prison awaiting execution, fell in love with his jailer’s daughter and began writing sweet nothings to her (the first valentines). Who knows?

Most people will tell you, if you ask them, that St. Valentine’s Day is a “bogus” holiday, made up by the card companies and the candy companies and the flower shops to create a financial bonanza. If you ask them, most people will tell you they “don’t believe” in Valentine’s Day. Most people will go ahead and buy something for their sweetheart, lover or spouse anyway because they don’t want their significant other to be hurt. Or because, depending on the dynamics of the relationship, they don’t want their significant other to hurt them.

Also, many people like to go out to a restaurant for dinner on Valentine’s Day. The restaurants have one of their best days of the year, and in a splurge of unchecked price gouging, they present “special menus” with a “prix fix”, which translates to mean “beaucoup bucks”. The food is usually ho-hum, the rooms are crowded, the service is lousy, and you walk out noticeably poorer than you were when you walked in. Again, many people feel pressured to follow this tradition in order to “prove” to their partner that they love them.

I could certainly understand people balking at the idea of Valentine’s Day. It makes sense to me that many, many people find it unworthy of their attention, if not downright offensive. And I feel that by its very nature, Valentine’s Day is an exclusionary holiday that probably hurts many people. I know by past experience that being single on Valentine’s Day is a lot like being Jewish at Christmas – You just feel left out. What you might otherwise have celebrated as your independence, your strength of character, your alone-ness, may on Valentine’s Day simply feel like loneliness. At its heart (pun intended), Valentine’s Day is a heartless holiday for many.

Because of that, my sisters and I try to do something lovely for my mom on Valentine’s Day. Mom is single, and we are acutely aware of how that could be difficult for her when the whole world is celebrating love. Yesterday, for instance, we gave Mom some flowers, and my sister took her out for the day. There are all kinds of love, and I see no reason why Valentine’s Day should not be more inclusive. We really should honor our mothers, our fathers, our children, our friends.

Having said all that, spending Valentine’s Day with my husband is always a joy for me. Art brought me some beautiful flowers, and I made him a special dinner. We didn’t make a huge fuss, but it was a very sweet day.

I think love – in all its forms – is a wonderful thing to celebrate. Every day.

© 2005, Robin Munson

FEEDING THE KITTY

FEEDING THE KITTY

This morning I got myself to yoga class.

I have a hard time with making time for yoga (and anything else that might be deemed “self-improvement”). When I make my mental list of priorities, I have a tendency to put such activities at the bottom of the list. And then, too, I have a fear of becoming a Hollywood cliché – the self-indulgent woman in the sunglasses, totally obsessed with her own navel.

On the other hand, whenever I do go to yoga class, I find it extremely centering, relaxing, and reassuring. I don’t necessarily think it makes me a better person, but I don’t think it makes me self-indulgent, either. We have to take up time in our lives doing something, so some of it might as well be something that makes us feel better.

I have another motivation for going to yoga class, and that is my health. Evidence seems to point to the health benefits of yoga practice for everything from reducing high blood pressure to strengthening the immune system. Being a cancer survivor, I am especially interested in strengthening my immune system. That alone may be justification enough for taking time for taking this class twice a week.

But isn’t it interesting that I’m writing about it in an effort to defend my choice. There is a little voice inside that just hammers away at me saying things like, “You are so selfish”, and “What are you accomplishing, can you tell me that”? and “Who are you kidding? You can’t do yoga! You’re not spiritual enough” and “Even if you were spiritual enough, you would never be a) strong enough b) graceful enough c) persistent enough”. And, “Don’t you realize how many really ‘important’ things you could be doing – for someone else - instead of this”? And the ever popular, “What a waste of money”! There are probably a lot more such statements that go on just below conscious awareness.

My yoga teacher says that you can “invite that critical little voice in to tea”, instead of trying to suppress her. He says you can have a dialog with the “shadow side”. That rather than try to get rid of all those negative messages, we should embrace them as a part of ourselves. The idea is that if you try to put a lid on those thoughts and feelings, they’ll just grow underground and become more powerful. That makes sense to me, and yet it’s very hard to get my mind wrapped around the idea of “embracing” such a nasty persona.

But maybe I could answer that voice by saying that there’s room in my life for all of it. For being a good friend, a caring daughter, a loving sister, a wife to my husband, a writer, a dreamer, a citizen of the world, and a student of yoga. There’s room in my life for a lot more than that, too. But – remember that wonderful old game, Monopoly? You can’t even begin to play until you “feed the kitty”. The “kitty” is the fuel. Without that, you can’t even spin the dice. So in life, we also have to feed the kitty! If you starve the kitty, you won’t be any good to anyone!

May I suggest, dear reader, that you, too find some way to “feed the kitty”, whether it’s a quiet walk, reading a good book, taking a swim, or gardening. Or maybe, taking a yoga class. Namaste.

© 2005, Robin Munson

FRIENDS - A GREAT INVESTMENT

FRIENDS – A GREAT INVESTMENT

They say that friendship is a lot of work. Sometimes, I admit, it does seem that way. Friends require that you check in with them on a fairly regular basis, hold their hands when they need it, hold your tongue when you must, forgive when they disappoint you, and thank them when they come through for you. Friends require that you remember their birthdays, send cards or gifts at Christmas, sympathize for their losses and help them to celebrate their victories. Friends require a modicum of honesty, but not brutal frankness. Friends require caring when you’re just too tired to care.

Maybe that’s why some people turn into hermits. People who are termed “schizoid” in psychological jargon tend to keep to themselves. They are the “loners”, the “workaholics” who stay long after all their colleagues have gone home to family, and often they are quite successful and may be described as having “tunnel vision”. They stay away from distractions – like other people. I guess you could say that such people find the necessity to protect themselves from possible hurt more urgent than the need to nourish their souls.

But good, true friendship – the kind that prevails over time, distance, and even memory, is a treasure worth fighting for. This morning Art and I spoke with a dear friend whom we have known for many years. Even though she lives halfway across the country and we only might see her once a year, if we’re lucky, the feeling between us is always one of warmth and kindness, with a lot of laughter thrown in for good measure. We must have been on the phone for over half an hour.

I used to think that family was enough. I used to think that friendship was somewhere farther down on my priority list than, say, career, or even grocery shopping. I no longer feel that way. Family is wonderful, and there is no substitute for family. But good friends become family as much as your biological family. And there is room and need for both in this life.

This morning we talked about our health and the health of our spouses, our families, pets, small discoveries, weather, and even the foliage in our respective climates at this time of year. Nothing exceptionally “deep” was discussed. The depth is underneath the words, like a score under a movie. You never really notice it, except perhaps in retrospect. It’s just there.

When we got off the phone this morning, I felt like my spirit had been bathed in warm sunlight. I felt someone had heard me, understood me, and appreciated me. And I felt I had been able to do the same for her. If you put it in terms of investment, this is what is known as a great rate of return.

© 2005, Robin Munson

WHEN THE TRUTH HURTS

WHEN THE TRUTH HURTS

Yesterday I got a call from a life-long friend. I had asked her to read the first draft of a screenplay – the first screenplay I had ever written. I knew that she had lots of experience with this sort of thing, so I knew that her opinion would be valuable.

I didn’t know that it would be painful.

She started out by saying that this was only her opinion, so I knew I was in for trouble. She said it was a “good first draft”. Then she proceeded to point out every flaw, every faux pas, every area in which it lacked substance – and there were plenty of those. Apart from all that – well, she didn’t say she hated it. (That I figured out for myself).

I must admit that I was pretty devastated. I had promised myself not to be defensive, no matter what, so when she inferred that the dialog was stupid, that the overall effort was an insult to my audience, and that the entire movie would be overly simplistic, I swallowed hard and thanked her for her honesty. We said goodbye with me plastering a smile over my face, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the lump in my throat. I considered going back into therapy.

The trouble for me is that somewhere deep down inside (or maybe not so deep) there is a little kid who longs for approval. So along with my innate love of words, I carry an equally compelling desire to have someone say, “What a clever little girl you are”! I hand over my homemade treasures to anyone who will take the time to read or listen to them and keep expecting that someone will recognize and honor my talent and hard work.

And how’s that working so far? About the way you would expect.

We must remember that Van Gogh never sold a painting during his lifetime – except to his own brother, if memory serves. I should needlepoint that on to a pillow.

So the dilemma is – What to do? I am blessed and cursed with a desire to write. I can’t seem to prevent myself from seeking an audience for all this output. And when you think of the odds for any kind of success, you might think I’m just bonkers.

At the same time, I wonder what they said to Van Gogh? Did they tell him to hang it up and get a real job? And what if he had done just that? Would the world be a little poorer for not having his paintings of potato eaters and sunflowers? Would he have avoided cutting off his ear? Or would he have done something even more drastic, having cut off his own drive to create?

Well, I’m much recovered today. My friend gave me a lot of good, constructive criticism (even if it was hard to hear). I will go back to the drawing board, so to speak. I’m not ready to cut off my ear or my writing career. Not today, anyway. I’ve got too much work to do.

© 2005, Robin Munson

THINGS THAT DON’T WORK

THINGS THAT DON’T WORK – EVEN THOUGH THEY SHOULD

Right now my whole house stinks of vinegar.

I am in the process of trying to save our cast iron skillet. You see, it was one of my favorite pans a couple of weeks ago. And I thought, well, maybe I should season it again. For those of you who are not familiar with cast iron skillets, you’re supposed to rub the inside with oil and bake them in the oven every now and then so that they maintain their “non-stick” quality. If you do it correctly, these pans will last forever and will cook like a dream with barely any clean-up at all.

Well, it had been a while since I had seasoned the skillet, and I wasn’t sure how much oil to use or what temperature to bake it in. I also was unsure about how long to bake it in the oven. So, being a twenty-first century kind of a girl, I consulted the Internet. I Googled “care of cast iron pans”, and a whole bunch of information appeared before me. I read several of the offerings, and finally hit upon one that seemed very sensible. They instructed me to first rub the pan with a “generous” amount of vegetable oil. They gave me a temperature and told me to leave the pan in for about two hours. Which I did. At the end of the seasoning, they said to “pour out the remaining oil”, and that’s where I did a double take. I remembered vaguely that the first time I had seasoned that pan I had just rubbed it with enough oil to cover it, and then when I took it out of the oven, most of that oil had seeped into the pan. But – (and this is my own particular downfall) I didn’t trust my memory, and I thought, “If it’s on the Internet, surely it must be right”. So I dutifully lathered vegetable oil on all three of my cast iron skillets and set them in the oven.

Lo and behold – When I removed them from the oven at the end of the prescribed two hours, each pan was covered with a brownish, greasy, sticky coating. I couldn’t pour out the excess oil because it was now solid. It appeared that the only way I was going to get the excess oil out of these pans was to scratch it out with my fingernails.

So this morning I finally got around to looking in my household tip books - I’ve got a little book called “Mary Ellen’s Best of Helpful Kitchen Hints”. My mother-in-law gave it to me early on in my marriage, since it was apparent to her that I was – shall we say – domestically challenged. I have to admit that at the time I felt a little bit miffed by the implication, but this morning I was overwhelmingly grateful.

As best I can determine, the best I can do now is to boil a little vinegar and salt in the pans. This is supposed to lift off the burnt-in food. (Well, in this case, burnt-in oil). That’s why my whole house stinks of vinegar. The jury is still out as to whether this will actually work.

I seem to have a knack for following directions that don’t work. I don’t know why. I mean, I’m very obedient by nature. When I was in grade school I always got As in citizenship and the comment, “follows directions”, was always checked off.

But there is such a thing as “too much of a good thing”. I am forever undercooking or overcooking our dinner because the directions on the package aren’t calibrated for our oven, which is always a little hotter or a little cooler than what it’s set for. When Art asks me whether I “stuck my finger in it” to see if it’s done, I am appalled. I don’t want anyone sticking their fingers in my food. I protest, “But the directions said. . .” and he cuts me off by pointing out, “You can’t go by the directions!” This flies in the face of all I have ever believed in. I have always believed in my heart of hearts that if it’s written in black and white, it must be so. (Where on earth did I get that)?!

Same thing with recipes. I am scrupulous about following the recipe when I cook. If the recipe says to add an eighth teaspoon of salt, I will use a quarter teaspoon and fill it exactly half way. Of course, none of this guarantees anything. I had a recipe for applesauce cake, for example. I would follow the recipe religiously time after time, believing that it was somehow my fault that it came out spongey and undercooked. It took our son, Tobias – himself a very talented chef – to point out to me that the recipe was flawed. He took one look at the directions, halved the amount of applesauce, added some flour, changed the time in the oven, and finally, I had a real applesauce cake. Toby made me chant with him over and over, “What don’t we follow? The recipe!”.

And while we’re on the subject of things that should work but don’t – I have this problem with the computer. Time after time I will be working on the computer and will try to execute a simple command, like “save” or “print” or “close”, and the computer will suddenly freeze on me. I have no idea why. After a half hour of pressing the little button over and over again in a desperate but futile attempt to save face, I am forced to call on Art. Most of the time (there are exceptions) he will calmly walk over, press the same button that I did, and voila. It works. I am long past the point of getting angry over this. I simply accept it as part of my “magic touch”. But it is embarrassing.

I don’t know what the lesson is in all of this. Some things work. Some things don’t. And some things are inconsistent – They work sometimes. They don’t work other times. And some things work for some people and not others. Sometimes you should follow directions. Sometimes you shouldn’t. But it’s anyone’s guess as to when and to what extent. (Sigh). Just one more mystery to the Universe.

© 2005, Robin Munson

THE RAVELED SLEEVE OF CARE

THE RAVELED SLEEVE OF CARE

It was one of those nights. First, I fell asleep on the sofa watching TV at 8:00 p.m. At 9:00 p.m. Art woke me up and gently guided me toward the bedroom. Like a sleepy child, I just managed brush my teeth and then gratefully slid under the covers. I slept peacefully while Art watched the ten o’clock news. Then the TV went off. It was now about 10:30. I had a hot flash.

Ladies – If you have reached a certain age, you know what I’m talking about. For the uninitiated, I’ll try to give you a brief description. Imagine that you are being roasted from the inside out. That’s a hot flash.

So at about 10:30 I woke up. Completely. Now I had to go through my little mantra, counting backwards from 100, which sometimes seems to help. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety. . .GOD I’M SO HOT”!!! (Toss, turn, nightgown off, covers off). “Ninety-one, no, ninety . . .Maybe I should open a window – But it’s so noisy out there! . . .Ninety-seven. . . I know! I’ll take a pill! Maybe that’ll help. Just knock myself out. But which pill? Pain pill P.M.? No, I’m not in pain. Allergy pill? Yeah, but sometimes it makes my heart race – and besides, they’re habit-forming. . . Just try counting backwards again. One hundred. . .”

And so it went for, I don’t know, maybe an hour? At some point, I fell asleep.

Two-thirty p.m. Time to tinkle. My eyes open reluctantly. “Oh God. I really don’t want to get up now. I know that once I’m vertical, it will take another hour to fall back to sleep. But what to do? If I don’t get up I’ll burst.” So to the bathroom. Then back to bed. Now semi-awake. Another hot flash. “ Great. I can’t take a pill now because if I do I won’t be awake until noon. Just count backwards, Robin. Try putting your hand in the ‘mudra’ the yoga teacher taught the other day. That’s it. Thumbs gently but firmly touching. That connects the two sides of the brain. There you go. No, it’s not working. Crap. Ninety-eight, ninety-seven . . . Namaste! Crap . . .” I look at the digital clock with the glow-in-the-dark numbers. Three forty-seven. (Toss, turn, wiggle, covers off, covers on). I look at the clock. Four 0-six.

“Alright. Just relax. Just lie here and rest. That’s almost as good as sleep. Eighty-nine, eighty-eight . . . Maybe I should get up and start my day. But if I don’t get some sleep I’m going to be bleary-eyed tomorrow. I’ve got to drive across town twice tomorrow. I don’t want to be on the road feeling that way! Eighty-seven . . . Eighty-seven . . . Eighty-seven . . .”

The clock says 5:30 a.m. Now I must get up and start my day. I lie there for one luxurious moment. A famous line from Macbeth comes to me: “Sleep, which knits the raveled sleeve of care”. I imagine my own raveled sleeve, gray, tattered, shop-worn, and then imagine a disembodied pair of needles (about a size 7), and this beautiful grayish-purplish hand-dyed wool, and the beautiful wooden needles slowly and methodically knitting all this mess together into a gorgeous whole. “Shakespeare”! I marvel. Then I am asleep.

© 2005, Robin Munson

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