Writing at McDonald’s, With a Picture of a Beagle (Maybe)

5000 year old writing (not mine). I wonder what kind of space they used to create this?

I have a great writer friend who just wrote a particularly good post on reclaiming your own creative space.  You should read it because this women’s issue has been around since before Mary Wollstonecraft, and it’s one a lot of women in general (especially me) neglect.  And also because it’s really well written and has a picture of a beagle in it.

It seems particularly apropos to me at the moment, as I am sitting in my local McDonald’s doing my daily writing.  This writing will last as long as it takes for my 2 large diet Dr. Peppers to do their job and send me home to cleaner facilities.

My daughter judges time in songs, I judge time based on how long my bladder is happy.  This is the world I live in.

As I sit here, I wonder why I’m here in this space instead of my own.  This space, with its not-up-to-my-standards bathroom and shitty Wi-Fi that blocks my own blog.

McDonald’s blocks my site, but not myerotica.com. Go figure.

No kidding.  I cannot log on to my own website from the Wi-Fi at this (maybe all?) McDonald’s because it has been blocked as a courtesy.  I’m not sure why blocking my site is courteous, but my deportment lessons were all pre-internet so who knows what I’m missing.  Also, what’s up with the distinction between guests and customers?  Do you think I could come in here every morning and sit myself at a table without ordering anything and just be a guest instead of a customer?

This idea, disturbingly, intrigues me.

In possibly unrelated, or maybe just vaguely related news, I was able to click through to a Medium page entitled myerotica in this very same McDonald’s, so I’m even more clueless as to why my site is blocked.  And no, I don’t know why Medium suggested that page for me.  Is it a bug or a feature?

In any event, when I saw my friend’s post pop up, I had to wallow, just a bit, in the irony that I have made this space into enough of my own that I was a little peeved my usual seat wasn’t available when I walked in this morning.  Indeed, I was ticked off I couldn’t sit in my usual spot in this very public space.  While that certainly doesn’t make it my space, it does make it seem that I believe it is my space.

My clean bathroom requirements aside, right now this space is working for me in a lot of ways that are important, and I’m calling it my space while ignoring the irony.  But I’m left wondering what I’m avoiding to be here, while at the same time I’m feeling pretty good with what I am managing to produce in the space.

That leaves me with lots to ponder and think about as I avoid doing the hard work, of both writing and life.  And, because I like to be as efficient as possible in this avoiding, I would love to hear about your struggles and insights surrounding creating your own space in the comments below.

I don’t have a beagle, so here is the squirrel of judgment.

Please, help save me from myself!

Also, please feel free to call McDonalds at 1 (800) 244-6227 to request they unblock my website!

(c) 2017 Gigi Quinn

Mindfulness and Mayhem, mmmmmm

In my twenties, mindfulness practice seemed impenetrable.  All that sitting, and focusing, and what the hell was I supposed to practice anyway? Seriously, I let the word “practice” get in my way much the same way I let the word “metaphysics” derail my first philosophy class.

Now in my fifties, DBT has come in handy as a good practical introduction to mindfulness.  We start off each group with a different mindfulness exercise.  Mindful observing, mindful knitting, mindful counting, mindful candy eating.

Folks, you can do it with candy!

I was clearly reading all the wrong books in my twenties. Mindfulness isn’t about clearing your mind of all thoughts, it’s simply recognizing what you are thinking about and not hanging on to it.

This, along with my deep-seated need for survival, has brought me deeper into mindfulness.

At home I sometimes practice mindful dish washing (getting better), and on the road, mindful driving (lost cause).  It has really opened up my idea of what mindfulness is and how I can use it.  Almost in spite of myself, it has become a real tool.

In my current life-as never-ending-crisis cycle, I find myself reaching for this tool more and more.  Recently I have tried to incorporate it into my weekly routine, grasping for even the barest bit of sanity.

3 days a week of mindfulness practice at the beach a week—that’s the goal.

Waves of Mindfulness

Now before you get too far into imagining me sitting peacefully in lotus position on the beach in some sort of flowy garment smiling the Mona Lisa smile of a true practitioner, I should remind you that I reach for mindfulness to help me function.

Function minimally.

If I was together enough to arrange a quiet, pleasant mindfulness on the beach session, I wouldn’t need mindfulness.

No, my mindfulness consists of stopping off at the beach parking lot on my way home from carpool.  Sometimes I even manage to change out of my pajamas before I leave the house.  And as much as I would enjoy having a quiet moment to myself, usually I’m sharing the lot with a sketchy RV on one side and someone who is blasting hate radio on the other.

The goal is to do 30 min to an hour of mindfulness practice, or writing, or thinking about gratitude.

Yep, you got that right, mindfulness in my car, that’s the best I can do.

It usually turns into 15 minutes of me checking Facebook then another 15 trying to find a meme I really wanted to share with someone, 15 minutes of wondering if I’m doing it right, and maybe 5 minutes of actual mindfulness.  The ratio has been changing in the last few months, to the better I might add, but it’s roughly 5 minutes of mindfulness.

Don’t judge.

But today was different, today I went beyond mindfulness.  Today I was full on communing with nature.  Today it was dolphins!

Pulling into the parking lot I could see what I thought looked like dolphins moving close to the shore.

Remember, I always want dolphins at the beach, but I don’t always actually see them.  And when I do, it’s usually just one or two and I only see a glimpse of their back and maybe some spouting.  Maybe only 6 out of every 10 visits do I get full on, whole dolphin sightings.

I know, sometimes I hate me for living here too.

When I reached my parking spot, placed strategically between the industrial trash can and the recycling bin, I confirmed the dolphin sighting.  Lots of dolphins.  A small pod moving north.

I never even made it to checking my Facebook.  Still in my jammies, I jumped out of the car to get a closer look, noticing they were swimming toward a group moving south.  Today, I decided, watching dolphins was going to be my mindfulness practice.

Leaning back onto the hood of my car, I focused on them.  I focused on the color of them, the slide of them through the water, the arc of their backs as they surfaced. I noticed when one would surface, I absorbed the closing distance as the two groups moved toward each other. I breathed in through my nose then breathed out through my mouth (not required for mindfulness, but I do try to incorporate all the clichés I can). I was so totally rocking this mindfulness shit.

I didn’t actually take this picture

OMG there was a baby!

Not that it takes a lot to distract me, but this was total dolphin pandemonium—a couple of babies and more than a dozen other dolphins.  The two groups met up and then all began moving south together, showing off lots of flippers and tail flukes and breaching. Some were running into each other and then chasing each other.

Mindfulness evaporated, my mind was in full flight imagining what they were up to.

It was almost like the adults were going back to look for the teenagers that were lagging behind.  Teenagers trying out independence and being awful about it.  I saw the eye roll one of the girl dolphins gave her mom when asked why she wasn’t staying closer to the main group. I felt the mom’s relief and simultaneous frustration at finding her daughter safe, then realizing there was no reason to worry to begin with.

I’m sure one of the tween dolphins was bitching about having to look after his baby brother.  I imagined teenage dolphins flirting, showing off.  I saw the boys daring each other to do totally dangerous things to prove they were “cool”.  I imagined a great white shark following them around like the schoolyard bully.  An octopus trying to give them her words of wisdom, while trying not to be eaten.

I saw the whole ocean being dwarfed by the energy of the teenage emotions they were desperately learning to manage.  And the parents struggling to keep them safe while realizing there is no way to control them or their environment.  I could hear their grandparents sigh, those damn kids, where have they gone off to now?

These dolphins were living my life, I swear.  And they were doing it better!

I don’t know how I knew they were better, but it could be because they were not at all terrified of open water.  Or not.

They were clearly doing it better because they had created a community of strength and support.  It takes a pod to raise a dolphin.  The mother and father aren’t in it alone, and they’re not afraid to accept help. It was like these dolphins were speaking to me.  Directly to me.  Reminding me that I don’t only find my strength in independence, I find it in interdependence as well.  My community, my tribe, my relationships.

I wondered how dolphin parents would handle cell phones.  How do they deal with depressed teenagers?  Is it easier to manage teenage sleep when you sleep with half of your brain?  Are hypoglycemic dolphins as volatile as my daughter?  DBT talks a lot about rational mind, emotional mind, and wise mind.  But I don’t remember it talking about metaphor mind. My life works better in metaphor mind.

Realizing I didn’t make it to even 5 minutes of mindful practice, I noticed an adult break free from the crowd and take a moment to ride a wave before returning to the pod. That dolphin gets me, I’m certain of it.

(c) 2017 Gigi Quinn

 


One Step, Two Steps, Breathe

I don’t have pictures from Mother’s Day last week.  We didn’t have any special celebration.

We are fragile.  We are feeling fragile.  We are not up to noise, or cheer, or talking.  We are over talking.

For the moment.

So we went to the mountain that is not really a mountain.  And we held hands while we walked silently.

One step, two steps, breathe in.  One step, two steps, three steps, breathe out.

Hand in hand with the two who define my motherhood.  Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

When I got distracted by my thoughts, I just went back to left foot, right foot.  I realized I still mix up my right and my left.  I laughed.

When our hands got sweaty we released and walked on our own.  Left foot, right foot. Someone behind me was talking about cats. I got annoyed.  The only directions we received:  no talking.  I needed to get back to walking.  I had to let my annoyance float away. It was hard.

One step, two steps, breathe.

I missed the soft skin of their hands in my hands, I reached for one again.  I felt love, and family, and peace.  I remembered a book, Peace is Every Step.  How long ago had I read it?  Why wasn’t I reading it now? I let it go and went back to my walking.

One, two steps, breathe in.

My husband’s knee couldn’t make it up the hill so we were three, not four. There were over a hundred of us, but for me it was only us three.  Warming up as the sun melted the mist, and breathing harder as we headed up a steeper hill.  I got tired, but still I walked and counted and breathed.  The road was rough and pocked with holes and ruts. The hand I held steadied me.  A subtle role reversal, but I noticed.

One, two, three steps, breathe out.

I thought about the Dharma talk we had just heard.  Imagined finding the baby Buddha inside me, waiting for me. Like honey inside a swarm of bees, he said.  Isn’t that nice? Or the seed hidden in the very depths of the flower.  Much nicer I thought.

We are all mothers of the baby Buddha inside us, he said.   We just need to have a clear mind and access, and…  And something else he said.  I couldn’t remember.  The talk was peppered with words in a different language, in an accent I couldn’t quite penetrate.  Like looking through a dusty window and trying to comprehend the beauty of the meadow on the other side.  I could make out the shape and color of the flower that was his talk, but couldn’t quite see its delicate structure or catch its scent.

Come back, breathe, walk.

A few people stopped walking and began staring at the bushes, pointing out something they had seen to others.  I thought of the sign posted on the way in, “Be mindful of toxic snakes and insects” it said.

I love that sign.  Every time I pass it I want to take a picture.  But I never do.

Right foot, left foot.  Be mindful of rattlesnakes.

Then we continued down, down, to harmony grove.

I guess the girl got a picture or two

A small stand of trees beside a dry creek bed.  Flowers were everywhere.  A small statue waited to be washed with flowers and water. Everyone had the opportunity to pour the sweet water on the statue.  The symbolic bathing of a child, the nurturing of the peace within us.

When we met back up with my husband, their father, we were indeed home. We had arrived.  And, in that step, there was peace.  And maybe we were a little less fragile.

 

(c) 2017 Gigi Quinn