Honey

I can barely admit it, but I must. I hold on to a lot of stereotypes that distort my experience in relationship to other people. As you may have been following in the last while through my blog, I am attempting to dissect and disseminate my own “outsider syndrome” (did I just coin a phrase?) and learn all over again how to connect with people in real and meaningful ways.

I went for a walk yesterday. It was blazing hot outside, but I was in desperate need of an adventure. I packed all the water I could carry without putting too much strain on my aching knee, collared up my trusty puppy, and headed out on one of those excursions that the young folks these days call “urban hiking”. I had a few possible destinations in mind, but mainly followed the instincts inherent to the part of myself who is free and innocent and trusting. I headed south.

Miso and I kept an easy pace through the neighborhoods of Northeast Portland. I know I teased her a little by walking through Irving Park, but it wasn’t too bad, seeing as how there were no other dogs playing on the hill. We stuck to the shade where we could find it. Miso spent most of her attention on the curved base of trees while I wondered at the lush, beautiful gardens embracing old Portland homes.

When we finally reached Broadway, it was like entering a whole other place entirely. The traffic was, as it is typically, commuter centric, cars on a mission. The sidewalks widened, making room for a homeless population that I rarely see from the outside of my car. A closed-up, out of business deli stood empty beside the goodwill and the Chinese buffet. Every corner held at least two of our poorest fellow humans, old folks in older clothing, sometimes yelling but mostly just looking forlorn and drawn.

I couldn’t help it. I gave money to whomever asked. (Side note: Every time I do something like this, I think that I can never, ever tell anyone, because that would mean that my intentions weren’t pure. Maybe it doesn’t matter how “pure” my intentions happen to be at any given moment and I was just brainwashed by the Catholic Church. Hmmm.)

I went to my favorite sushi place, Yuki on Broadway and 14th. My order was a little complicated and I had to sit outside with my dog, in the sweltering heat. I asked for a pitcher of water and the server who brought the water was so confused at my need for an entire pitcher that he almost took it away. Luckily, he granted my wish when I begged him to leave it.

I made a good sized puddle out of the ice water for Miso to lay her hot body in. We sat there together, observing the constant activity. It was then, looking around at the corner and the intersection full of people that I started to see myself making assumptions about the people who walked, rode, or drove by me. I noticed that the negative assumptions were aimed at the kind of people to whom I consider myself an outsider (there’s that “outsider syndrome” I was talking about).

As you may have been gathering in this endless search I’m on to find out what’s beneath the bullshit, I am tired of feeling like an outsider. Gazing at the strange and diverse pedestrians addle by me and my dog, I wondered if perhaps a way to help me stop thinking that I am separate than other people is to seek out the goodness in others rather than seeing what I have taught myself to see.

Unfortunately, this post serves to admit, most humbly, that I am a judgmental person. Did you already know that about me?

I would love more than anything to free myself of all that cynicism and rejection I’ve felt toward other people. I want to really care about everyone, not because I have to, but because I want to. Is it possible to recognize the person in every person, the thing(s) that make us more alike than we are different? Are we doomed to continue to lose touch with helping each other and taking care of each other until we crumble under the weight of our loneliness? Or will our evolution turn us toward the love and respect that will finally heal us? I don’t usually think about this question, since in it lies the greatest sadness that we share as human beings.

Back to how I was sitting outside with my dog in 94 degree weather on Broadway in Northeast Portland. (Have I told you that I love Portland?) Once I had finished my delicious veggie tempura roll (yum) I headed north with my hot dog. I had two interactions with people that were meaningful to me on the way home. They were meaningful because I am (astonishingly) growing out of my shyness and finding ways to genuinely relate to people. I’ve been afraid of people for a very long time.

With all that and a soy dream icecream sandwich under my belt, Miso and I made our way home. I was content and satisfied with my urban adventure.

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I’m writing this from my iPhone, so I can’t link to Barney’s blog when I tell you about how Barney had a deep, philosophical thought today. Perhaps having deep, philosophical thoughts are contagious through the iPhone, since he started using one yesterday, and I just had a deep, philosophical thought of my own.

What was Barney’s thought, you might wonder. Well, perhaps he’ll post about it on the blog I can’t link to, but probably not. I can tell you that it had something to do with beer, reality, and of course, the iPhone. What else would a new owner of this miraculous little device be thinking about?

As with most of my thoughtful thoughts, I have connected two dots, or two experiences in my brain, and I wonder how a successful experiment can be extended. Usually I think, how can this new piece of information add to my quality of life?

It all begins on rollerskates.

I’m not a very good rollerskater. I don’t look very cool, and I certainly don’t have any fancy moves. This is in stark contrast to Agent, who skates like an angel, smoothly weaving in and out of unpredictable bands of people, skating forwards then backwards then forwards again. Even after years of going skating with Agent, I’m typically going slower than everyone else, my butt sticking out for balance, my arms windmilling, and my body tense and rigid.

Agent tries to help me have more fun by loosening up. “Bend your knees”, she says encouragingly. The main reason I’m so tense is because I get really nervous when I do happen to be going faster than other skaters and I can’t seem to see a way around them. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve run into, and I just feel terrible about it.

Agent’s been offering some new advice lately that seems to be helping me out a great deal. She says, if you look ahead to a spot you want to get to, you’re likely to reach that spot with little trouble. And I’ll be darned, this little piece of advice actually works! I just focus on a place on the floor I’m aiming at, and usually I’m able to get there without running into anyone and more importantly, I get there without stressing out about it.

I started using this technique on my bicycle today. I’ve never been very good at turning corners and leaning into the curve, but as soon as I applied Agent’s advice and looked at the spot I wanted to get to, it’s as though my body let go, and I was able to naturally and easily meet my own expectations.

Once I see something like this apply to at least two different scenarios in my life, I quickly attempt to align the idea with my personal philosophy. The idea I’m having actually might feel a little familiar, especially if you’ve watched or read The Secret.

Oh, you haven’t seen The Secret? Do it now! Seriously. I’d provide a link, but…

Anyway, I’m gonna get all life skills on you for a minute. The idea of looking ahead and trusting that you’ll arrive can easily be applied to all sorts of personal goals. Once you acknowledge your intention and express trust in the desired outcome, a funny thing happens. It’s almost as though something else gets to work on it for you. Perhaps your own intuition gets involved or maybe the universe is harnessed to your will. I think mostly, you allow something to happen, rather than forcing it.

So the idea is to identify the intention and then to let it go. No matter what, it’s a much less stressful way to get there.

As many of you are aware (or at least those of you who subscribe to my blog through a reader), I attempted to post from the new Wordpress app on my iPhone last week, and rss readers everywhere were subjected to a random post that had a funny title and linked nowhere.

That was a very long sentence.

So here I am, trying again. I’m at the bus stop, listening to Radiohead this time, and still a little quiet and introspective, maybe even sluggish. I’m almost entirely sure that I’m extremely hungry, and starving my brain. I wish I could jump online and type in my feelings somewhere and have a service respond with the appropriate next steps to feeling better. I would enter “I’m tired and slow, but happy.” The all knowing wisdom of the web would say, “Follow this easy three step plan to recovery.” That would be nice.

Here’s a random picture from my phone, my favorite hole at Golf-o-Rama in Vancouver.

I’m standing at the busstop in the shade with the Be Good Tanyas in my ears and the smell of dry, yellow grass filling my mind. I left work early because I could and also because I’m feeling introspective all of a sudden and I needed to get away.

My blues don’t feel like a bad thing at all, but rather a quieting, gentle sleepiness. I’ve had a big week, on my bike a lot, socially active, discovering all sorts of new things about myself thanks to the neverending Internet.

A natural waning pulls me inward and begs for rest. But not before I’ve successfully posted this from my iPhone, complete with a photo of my bike hanging out on the bus, more than ready to go home.

Lesbians love potlucks. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as a conglomeration of strangers and friends, gifting and inhaling home cooked deliciousness, whilst chatting enthusiastically about everything and nothing in particular. Potlucks glorify and celebrate the feelings of home and friendship and provide a comfortable atmosphere to get to know all sorts of people.

At first, I was embarrassed to call our new weekly get together a potluck. Even the word potluck is dripping with lesbian sentimentality I thought I’d be unable to bear. Unfortunately, there just isn’t another good name for the typical event of inviting friends to bring and share food in your home. As other people threw the word around, I started to get used to it, and have even begun to feel some ownership over the idea. The fact of the matter is that I had convinced myself that anything lesbionic somehow didn’t apply to me, cause it’s just not cool. The funny thing is that I am the utter representation of everything that is dorky about being a lesbian, and it’s high time I start to feel a little bit of that pride that surely exists outside the months of June and July. What is and isn’t cool becomes so much less important after 30 (mostly).

What is important, to me anyway, is hanging out with people I like and having fun. Although every week hasn’t been spot on (some weeks it’s just me and Agent), mostly the potlucks have been quite excellent. Every week we’ve welcomed people we’ve never met before and some we’ve known for a while. It’s always a mixed crowd of folks who wouldn’t have otherwise ever known of each other’s existence. The food has been delicious, the conversation has been entertaining, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

I guess if having a weekly potluck in my own house with my girlfriend of 7 years and our two dogs and all our random friends makes me a lesbian, then so be it. I didn’t always feel so funny about being a lesbian. I was 17 years old, innocent and eager at my first pride parade, confidently walking around with a t-shirt that read “Nobody knows I’m a lesbian”. I thought it was so funny that I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face all day long.