Sleeping In

I hate the expression “sleeping late.” It sounds like you did something wrong. Or, worse yet, that you are speaking of someone posthumously, as in, “Oh yes, that late sleeper. It was really too bad about her, how they found her all tangled in yards of cream colored percale, no iron sheets.”

I much prefer the expression, “sleeping in.” There are days when horizontally occupying your bed an extra hour or two is simply the right thing to do. “Sleeping in” is an expression of occupation in the best possible sense. Giving yourself some extra rest, or as I used to describe it, “putting in overtime at the dream factory,” is the best way you can take care of yourself. Sleep is too often discounted. We have so many things to do. Sleeping in is a rare indulgence. An often ignored necessity.

Six in the morning is a sacred time, a time when I feel like I am standing on a threshold between two worlds. A time of choice. I can either shake myself into wakefulness or release myself into felt reality, a state where my feelings and inner knowing are indisputable. My dreams need no corroboration, no third party vetting. Every story or image that pours through my consciousness is as it is. While some urge to interpret arises, it’s an incredible experience of acceptance. Nothing needs to make sense. Everything can’t help but be felt. For me, during early morning sleep, almost unimaginable images paint themselves across my inner screen, like a quirky foreign movie. I may not know the language, but I never have any doubt that the movie is about me.

Just the other Saturday, I had one of those special mornings. I did not have any errands scheduled, no place where I had to be. I had already resigned myself to do my cleaning chores later in the day. I remember having woken up in the middle of the night and turned over to sleep on my belly (a favorite sleep position my mother seemed to have programmed in me). Then I seemed to have gone unconscious again, for hours, until the subtlest of early morning light began to creep into the room and my deep slumber gave way to its own form of lightness.

I saw myself walking down a narrow dirt street in an old colonial South American city, perhaps Spanish conquistador founded Cali or Cartegena. The sandy colored buildings seemed to match the pinkish, mildly bleached out hue of the street. The blueness of the sky penetrated my eyes and the palms of my hands felt sticky. I think I had just consumed a paleta, one of those all-fruit juice type of popsicles they sell on the streets. I was walking like I was going somewhere, as if I had a destination, although I couldn’t have named it. I heard a long chorus of church bells ringing from who knows where. There must have been a half dozen stucco churches within a few blocks. By the duration of the ringing, I would have guessed it was late morning, maybe ten or eleven o’clock. Just after I turned past an alleyway, the street opened into a square of some sort. Cars were circling a minor monument in the center as if they were in no hurry to get out of their circus ring route. I noticed an old beat up Pontiac, like the car Steve and Laura had when they went to U of I. The car looked like it was seventeen feet long. There were six or more young men in the car, laughing and joking; good-naturedly punching each other in the shoulders, as I guess boys will do. They were wearing Chicago Bears football (futbol) jerseys. How funny, I thought, that Brian Urlacher had fans out here.

Sleeping in, giving yourself space to dream, is no small thing.

Upgrades

We’ve all experienced the thrill of an unexpected upgrade, right? Perhaps, your airline overbooked and booted you up to the front cabin where you didn’t have to fold your knees like a Gumby doll all the way to Seattle. Or maybe a retailer gave you a higher quality version of an out of stock item at the same price, or maybe a hotel chain upgraded you to a room with a king at no extra charge.

But how about an upgrade in Fahrvergnügen?

Three weeks ago, my trusty ’95 Honda Civic was stolen…right from the street where I live, only hours after a particularly difficult workday, only days after I put in $300 to replace my front brakes and change the oil.

I thought I was going mad as I walked up and down the block where I knew I left it. First, I cruised surrounding blocks by foot then I drove around a wider swatch of my neighborhood with two different people until I gave up hope of finding it. As a fifteen year-old car, while it had a lot of life left in it, I only carried liability coverage and was not entitled to any insurance compensation for the loss. As I will often do, I tried to think of some positives in the situation.

Maybe the car had mechanical problems that I hadn’t identified, and its loss might have saved my life. I entertained this thought. Or maybe I had simply finished my karma with the vehicle as my primary way of getting around in the world. The hood and grill featured mismatching parts where they were repaired after separate accidents. I would think about the car’s many hurts every time I scanned a street or parking lot looking for my wheels and spied its crooked smile above the concrete.

I tried to remain upbeat as I got flung into the reality of car shopping, for the most part an unhappy experience. I felt off balance by the swirl of “Don’t worry, we’ll make a deal” pitches and felt invisible to the salespeople who preferred addressing the male companion I brought along on all car subjects except color. Then I landed in Fahrvergnügen heaven. I recalled VW’s old ad campaign about driving pleasure and it seemed to apply to their customer oriented approach to selling cars as well.

After several anxiety filled days of pushy salespeople and test driving cars where I had to re-discover where they placed the wiper controls (Why don’t all cars have these things in the same place?), I decided on a Volkswagen Jetta. Before making the decision I had to grapple with some entrenched thought patterns. When it came to cars, I had been pretty well indoctrinated in the belief, “In Japan We Trust,” and I couldn’t help but imagine the scorn of relatives and archetypal ancestors intoning, “How could you buy a German car after what those people did to Uncle Jack?”

But the car felt safe and solid and fun to drive. The salesman was sympathetic to my situation and didn’t try to sell me more car than what I wanted or needed. The dealership was reasonably close by so service would be easy to arrange should I need it. They even offered unlimited car washes for the life of the car.

I thought the hard work, the decision-making, was over, but, it turned out there was back and forthing yet to be done. This time, the dealer had to put in extra duty. Turned out that the model, color and option package I wanted was very popular. After hours of searching online, scanning inventories at dealerships in three states, City Volkswagen could not find a single silver Jetta S-type. And, as far as a date for replenishing stock was concerned, new cars only showed up as “in transit” on their inventory lists. Whether taking a slow boat from Stuttgart or an even slower train trip from Juarez, delivery was a real X factor.

After some more searching and more negotiating, they found a silver Jetta for me about thirty miles away, but it had a moon roof and cruise control, nice features that I didn’t bother looking at because I didn’t actually need them. City Volkswagen decided to give me this nicer model at the same price we agreed on for the basic S-type.

Just as I try to figure out why I experience what seems to be bad luck, I couldn’t help but contemplate my good fortune on this. In some way it felt like I was being rewarded for making up my own mind. A simple thing, I guess, but my friends had opinions on what kind of car would be a good choice. My neighbors had opinions. J.D. Power & Associates had opinions. But in the end, I chose what felt best when I sat behind the wheel.

A Fahrvergnügen upgrade is no small thing.

Starting Fresh

It seems to be a fall and spring tradition, like setting your clocks backward or forward an hour. Twice a year, my refrigerator seems to speak to me, telling me to look inside, really look inside, and decide what to part with.

I heard the voice just this past weekend. After swinging the appliance door open and shut so many times, asking myself “When was the last time I changed the filter on my Brita pitcher?,” I knew the time had come again to remove all the contents of my refrigerator and take a good look. Cleaning your refrigerator is a little like a psychic cleaning. You can see everything you’ve put in, everything you’ve used, and everything you wanted to try but lost interest in.

Isn’t my life full of such things? Things that I have held on to for too long or things that I reached out for enthusiastically and abandoned at least as quickly? What could cleaning my refrigerator tell me?

Chucking some items right away was a no-brainer. I threw out a half-empty box of chicken broth left over from some recipe experiment. It was way past its expiration date. I proceeded more cautiously with a miniature Tupperware container filled with two tablespoons of tomato paste. Without benefit of an expiration date stamp, only the evidence of some gray fuzz growing around the surface, I held the opaque mini-tub at arm’s length as I spooned the contents into the garbage and ran the hottest water I could coax out of my pipes over it.

While by no means a child of the Depression, I clearly understood why these spoiling items took up residence in my refrigerator. I so completely do not like the idea of waste. I wanted to use everything that passed through my kitchen. I wanted to believe that, eventually, I’d find some new purpose for the last two spoonfuls or last four ounces of anything. I didn’t want to think of myself as thoughtless or frivolous, but the truth is that as a cooking for one person, using the contents of every jar or box I opened within four days was not realistic. Not everything in life can be re-purposed.

It was obvious that the glass shelves needed a good wiping with a hot, soapy sponge.

I couldn’t figure out how to take the shelves out, so I kneeled in front of my apartment-sized, frost-free and practically crawled in. I was able to get my vegetable drawers out to be cleaned in my double basin sink, but my deli drawer, like the shelf it was anchored to, seemed immoveable so I would fold and unfold myself for frequent walks to the sink where I refreshed my sponge. Damn, I thought, bending over or kneeling for kitchen cleaning used to be much easier.

When it came time to wipe down the side doors, I took out all my condiments and lined them up on my counter near my hand-me-down microwave. I had to use the scratchy side of my sponge and the hottest of hot water to rub off droplets of sticky, msg infused flavor enhancers. What the hell was I doing with a thimbleful of Sweet Baby Ray’s Barbecue Sauce? For how long had this bottle been in there? There wasn’t enough to coat a carrot stick. And these folksy patterned topped Ball jars, only two fingers full of apple butter or peach preserves -- considering my low carb consuming consciousness, I couldn’t imagine spooning any out let alone ingesting the toast that they would be spread on.

Then I thought about how they were homemade. One-of-kind. They were gifts. I hate to discard anything that was given to me, or anything that was the result of someone’s skill or passion. I love the idea of tasting, wearing, or even just regarding anything that’s one-of-a-kind. But the sides of my refrigerator, where I kept my condiments, had turned into a poster appliance for regular recycling. Each jar of someone’s great aunt’s pickles may have been occupying the space I needed to try out the mango-salsa or marinated mushrooms I’d see at the farmers market from time to time.

Do not waste is an all right mantra, I suppose, but Keep what you’ll use is probably a better one, or Make room to start fresh. Maybe that’s really the point.

When it comes to cleaning out your refrigerator, or your psyche, making space for what delights you over what has simply fed you, is no small thing.

Walking the Dog

There must be half a dozen books or more with titles like DOG is GOD Spelled Backwards or GOD is DOG spelled Backwards. The internet is full of blogs that wax on about the miracle of dog and man relationships.

Some dog lovers look at their canine companions as the purest example of unconditional love. Some dog owners may consider their continual dialog as being akin to prayer. Releasing their fear of judgment, people often unburden their souls to their furry friends as they would never think of doing with even the closest people in their lives. Some dog fanatics think of their pets as angels, literally. They think that dogs are beings that are on earth to teach human beings how to live.

I don’t know about being halo-less, cold-nosed and panting angels, but I have no doubt that the beagles and corgies and labs of the world are taking many of us to school – whether we recognize it or not.

In my neighborhood, 6:30 in the morning, then 6:30 and 10:30 at night are DWT. Dog Walking Time. Every breed and color of pooch seems to be out padding along the sidewalk, sniffing trees they marked during previous strolls. I like checking out the parade, seeing what kinds of people are attached to what shape and size and pedigree. Like observing an old married couple at a restaurant and forming opinions about how they relate to each other in other situations, watching dog and master, or human and master, connected by a fifteen foot long strap of leather, is a regular source of amusement for me.

And when I’m cruising down School Street or Roscoe or Melrose, seeing pets and their people out for their walks, that’s when I can see how things really are. Observing these interactions gives me a strong feeling about our relationship with God.

I will smile at what kinds of people choose what size and shape of pet. Princess types of women often choose princess breeds. Jocks often seem to go for strong, trainable types with easy-going personalities, and freelancers seem to like mid-sized pups with unusual lineages. They’ll let them scamper ahead, begging passersby to ask the question that might start a full-fledged conversation. “What kind of dog is that?”

My favorite dynamic to watch is the ultra pro and his pooch. Whether the typical Type A personality chooses to collar a dog with a similar temperament or whether he seeks to balance his own orientation for vigilance and control with a drooler, when you see someone who normally tries to manage everything and everyone in his environment getting dragged into a rock garden or over a sewer cover because their precious pup picked up the scent of a candy wrapper or discarded glove, I have to laugh.

Maybe they’re aware of this unexpected form of surrender and opportunity for humility. Maybe not. But walking your dog can be a great reminder of your relationship with God, your relationship with life. Just when you think you’re in control, you get the reminder that you’re not. Not really. And, for some reason, when you walk your dog, that reality seems more than okay.

When a person thinks he’s taking his dog for a walk so that he can relieve himself, he forgets that his dog is actually taking him for a walk. When a dog walks his human, he gives him a chance to drop all his preoccupations and be in the moment, to look at the stillness of the street and hear the sound of his breath and sink into rare moments of surrender. In these moments, while walking the dog, some people actually allow themselves to embrace not being in the lead.

When I see grad students, super moms, or CEOs of start-ups follow their long-haired or short-haired, black or tan, pure-bred or uber mutt at the end of a leash, then wait patiently for them to extrude a turd that they then wrap up neatly in a small baggy before heading off to Starbucks, I can’t help but smile.

Letting yourself take cues from the same creature you think you’re leading and enjoying being in service is no small thing.