I can’t really diss it, because since I’ve started “suggesting” my blog posts to it, I’ve gotten many more hits.

But I’ve never been on the stumbling end of it.

Do people think this search engine can surf better than they can?

Does it really turn you on to tons of great stuff?

Seems like just another addiction, like Twitter and Facebook, bidding on Ebay, and now Pinterest, which is yet another “you have to be invited, you friendless slob” arrangement, like Google + was (maybe still is?)  Are people seriously so desperate for acceptance that they would assume that an invitation to these things is worth pursuing, or that once they get into the club there will be some kind of awesome party going on? Because let me tell you, the novelty of Google + wore off pretty damn fast. Now it’s just an echo chamber.

I admit I’m prejudiced against this StumbleUpon thing because my husband uses it and actually reads some of the blog posts he trips over, (or however you want to describe the magical “chance” encounter between surfer and site). Being a “real” writer (evidently words are only worth reading when their author has been paid), he normally insults bloggers and their output to no end and doesn’t ever read mine unless I happen to insist. Which I’ve done precisely twice, I believe.

So a search engine that inspires my husband to read blog posts that aren’t mine? Ummmmm…. not gonna like it. (It’s even more fun when he recommends blog posts for me to read. “That’s just so special that ums has found an interesting blog post by a total stranger! It’s too bad ums doesn’t know any bloggers more local that are worth reading!”)

Unless it gets me more hits. In which case, I’ll certainly supply it with plenty of fodder!

In fact, I think I will suggest this very post to it.

If you’ve read this thanks to StumbleUpon, be sure to give it a nice pat on the back here in my comments section!

Or if you adore StumbleUpon for some reason, please, enlighten me.

When I was about 4 months pregnant with Baby Girl I broke my wrist. I’d also been breastfeeding Hank, who was almost 2 at the time, so I was wondering if maybe Baby Girl didn’t get a whole lot of calcium with that kind of situation.

And like a moron, I asked the dentist his opinion. Nice guy. Friendly, young, approachable, listens intently.

“Oh no,” he assured me. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

Then he raised an eyebrow. “Did you breastfeed?” After I confirmed this and added, “Still am,” he nodded knowingly.

“It’s those night nursings. I see it all the time in breastfed kids. Very common.”

“Didn’t happen with the other four,” I pointed out.

“They got lucky,” he said.

So, if night nursing causing cavities was a COMMON thing, then wouldn’t FOUR of them have suffered from it, and just the ONE have gotten lucky???

Sounds to me like the others experienced a normal eating/tooth health situation, and poor baby girl got unlucky.

But what the hell do I know.

To show them the landscape that looks so huge and eternal, and to let them know that in reality, it is moving and changing as surely as the wildflowers make their fleeting appearance and then die. Change is the law, and anything that is before you, whether it seems pleasant or painful, will soon be gone.

The fantastic amounts of time involved in geologic processes also helps us concentrate on the present moment, and put our  human time frame in perspective. That special event next week that you are so desperate for you feel like you will explode? That’s not even a couple seconds away in geologic time.

The most amazing things in life cannot simply be bought at the store ready made. They take time, effort, sometimes tools of a paradoxical nature, such as water to wear away stone… or build it up. We learn that success requires perseverance, that it is a process, not a final destination.

When we see the rocks and even attempt to understand the length of time involved, it clears our mind of all the tiny little limits we tend to operate within. It opens us up to infinity.

This isn’t how my life was supposed to be. If I’d known, when I decided to throw myself body and soul into mothering five children, that I would fail so often and so profoundly to help them find joy in life, that they would all be so frequently miserable, full of conflict, anger, disgust, resistance to any good thing, would I have carried on?

Nothing else I’ve ever done has even come close to being as rewarding as being a Mama. So if that vocation is such a pit of misery for everyone involved, then nothing else would be worth it either.

The only logical alternative is oblivion.

I open the book The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching by Thich Nhat Hanh. In it he writes:

Even if we are in pain, if we can see meaning in our life, we will have energy and joy. Energy is not the result of good health alone or the wish to achieve some goal — material or spiritual. It is a result of feeling some meaning to our life.

But what does it all mean?

I’ve always identified too well with the existentialists. I’ve always been able to see much too clearly how none of this has any rhyme or reason. All the explanations of some jealous, angry higher power torturing us into being so afraid that we will do anything to avoid even more torment in hell’s eternity… I’m certainly not going with that brilliant philosophy.

What does it mean?

Does it mean we prove how tough we are to just plod along, even when everyone around us hates everything and wishes we were dead, out loud, several times a day?

Is it worth all the misery for those couple of minutes a day when the kids get along and share a giggle?

Cuz here’s what it seems to boil down to: It sucks being alive. It’s hard, frustrating, at times agonizing, frightening, a constant, relentless struggle with someone or something. Even the richest, most spoiled brats in the world are still heavy with misery over some kind of drama, lacking, addiction, pain, sorrow. None of us escapes it.

What does that mean? What significance could it possibly have for people to carry on, slashing and smashing as best they can through the jungle of every day life?

I feel like if I could just get the point, I could be a better person, and relieve the suffering of those around me just a bit.

But instead of relieving suffering, I have actually created five new people with the infinite capacity to experience horrific misery.

I remember when my first was born, the thought occurred to me, I’ve given birth, and I’ve given death. I’ve just condemned an innocent soul to death. Hopefully not soon, hopefully not painful, hopefully in her sleep after many years of blissful existence. But nevertheless, however it happens, it was because of my choices.

No wonder people want to put off the responsibility on some higher power, who has the “Plan,” and they are just hopeless pawns in “his” game, trying desperately to follow “his” rules in order to escape punishment for the terrible shortcomings that “he” bestowed upon them.

Is that what it means? I have demonstrated my awesome ability to confer life and death, and now what? I’ve tried to be an example of enjoying good food, nature, books, ideas, enjoying the company of loving, creative people, and it works for a little while. But then they get bigger and their attitude becomes, screw you old lady, and the horse you rode in on. Get your lameness and cluelessness the hell away from me!

Ah, good times.

I want to be a beacon of light. My name, “Elena,” is a form of “Helen,” which means “torch.” The whole purpose of a torch is to be a tool to light the way. You don’t lead someone, and I don’t feel like a leader, you just keep burning and allow them to use you to lead themselves, shining your light as best you can.

But in this dark time, when all the air has been sucked out of my atmosphere, my little flame struggles and flickers and gasps for some kind of fuel to consume. Some kind of meaning to allow me to burn on.

Ain’t gonna happen. I can’t even finish a sentence around here, much less an entire project.

I couldn’t even get a shower yet today.

I couldn’t even get up on time, because my husband had, Oops! reset the time. So the kids missed their buses.

Writing a blog post is one tiny thing I do every day to feel like I’ve done something. So far, during this little amount I’ve written, I’ve had to get up FOUR TIMES to attend to Baby Girl hollering “Mama!” from the other room. Even though I set her up with chocolate milk and gave her carte blanche to scribble on my new phone book. Or rip it, or eat it, but for god’s sake just let me get through one sentence!

So you can see why I am less than hopeful about getting anything at all done, yet again.

But when you see that face… I suppose that makes me feel accomplished. I made that unfathomably absurd cuteness!

Don’t know how many years I can ride on the coattails of that particular accomplishment, but maybe it will get me through one more day.

On Ghost Mountain, Lompico, California, circa 1990 -- Back in my seriously hippie days

I lodge no complaint against the holier-than-thou attitude of the cloth diaperers. I know they are in the right, fulfilling yet another of the requirements of the “Natural Living” standards that gets you in the club. I completely ignore the ECers (“elimination communication,” where apparently you follow your barebutt, legwarmer-wearing child around with a bucket all day) since who even wants to reach that kind of saintliness. I’m only human, after all.

But how many of them have gone totally carless for nine years, like I did? Relying solely on a bike with bike trailer or buses, whether rain, shine, gale force winds… no matter what? (And yes, this was with two, then three kids, not as a single childless person!)

Yeah, I thought so. They toted their righteous poop catchers  home in some kind of earth-polluting monstrosity. (And hey, even the electric cars are tied to resource depletion, so don’t even start with me!) My near-decade of pedal power has to count for something.

I did try cloth diapering for about three months with my third child. This was during the two years I didn’t have a dryer, but had to either use the clothesline in the back yard or, when the Oregon weather would piddle for days on end, I’d have to use wooden racks, shower rods, the backs of chairs, etc. (Yeah, and how many have done THAT? So see, I do have some karma in the bank…)

After the three months it just sucked unbelievably bad. Like not even worth being in your lousy club bad. Maybe if I’d had the money to invest in the fluffy-bunz-smooshy-cozy-ne’er-do-leak covers and the pre-fold-half-caf-double-back-flip-twisted inserts, it would have been a true joy. But with some old hand-me-downs and some stuff I found at the thrift store being the only diapering system within my financial reach, it was beyond craptastic.

So as I begin to wonder which will be the last pack of evil throw-away pee soppers I’ll ever buy, I can also feel myself relax into the possibility of being a real, 100% grade A certified natural human, once I’ve shed this terrible addiction to convenience.

You’ll have to excuse me, now, I think I smell something untoward that’s gonna put another black spot on my record…

My first attempt at "hot pockets"

I’m probably not even allowed to say “Hot Pockets” because of copyright infringement, am I? What if I spell it “Hawt Pawkets?” What if the pocket of my jeans is actually on fire? And then I put some filling in it, a little cheese on top?

Well, anyway, pirating of colonized bits of the English language aside, I know my peeps love the real thing. And it didn’t seem that hard to do.

Well, as you can see, my first attempt resulted in an explosion. They are more like “Sloppy Joes” (can I say that without risk of prosecution?)

These particular ones contain BBQ chicken and cheddar cheese. I made a basic dough recipe, then rolled pieces out pretty flat into circles, put the filling on, twisted up the edges, turned them over and cooked them seam side down.

Possible errors: Rolled dough too thin? Filling was pretty warm already, so maybe it made too much steam too quickly? Should have somehow allowed more room inside (but the dough was yeasted, so should have expanded to accommodate, and I didn’t pack it really tight…)? Should have baked it on a lower temperature (I did 375) so that the outside wouldn’t firm up right away and halt expansion?

Not sure. But they were hella tasty, I can guarantee that. And maybe if they’re ugly, fewer people will be tempted to eat them, and then, more for me!!!

Sure, they’re calling for snow tomorrow and Monday. But you know, they do that occasionally, and 99 times out of 100 it’s a bunch of hooey.

I may have jinxed us for a blizzard.

Either way, carrots or snow, I’ll be happy!

One class is over every 12 weeks, with no guarantee that I will get to teach another. The other is essentially week to week, without guarantee.

Talk about being unattached!

I have a lot of control over content. I can tailor it to meet the needs of the particular students I have that week or that semester. In this way I can follow the suggestion of Thich Nhat Hanh when he talks about “Right Speech:” “The truth must be presented in ways that others can accept… Before you speak, understand the person you are speaking to.”

And so in my Spanish conversation class, I can tailor lessons to the needs of these particular students. In the budgeting class, I can focus on whichever topic my current students are struggling with, or spend more time filling gaps in certain areas of knowledge.

There are no tests or grades (unless we decide we want some!) so I don’t have to waste time passing impersonal judgments when I can very well hear and observe in which areas they need more help. My Spanish class in particular WANTS to be learning the subject matter, and so it is just a matter of being available to them and guiding their progress. No need for me to “objectively” evaluate (as though such a thing were possible) and then classify along the spectrum from genius to moron. They are each just a student walking their path, hanging out in class and engaging with the material for a while.

I also have the freedom to be the instructor I feel like being that day, whether I’m in more of an entertainer mood, bouncing around the room cracking jokes, or if I’d rather get more in depth, tie in relevant ideas that give the class a more serious tone and encourage students to reconsider fundamental assumptions that might be unhelpful to perpetuate.

In short, other than staying within the general subject matter, teaching these adult education classes seems to be inspiring a very unattached career. And with no benefits, no tenure, no job security, no 401K or health insurance or any other long term advantage, what better way to live in the now?

Okay, I’m being sarcastic with that last part, but definitely trying to look on the bright side with the rest.

As my computer devolves into a dinosaur (it is from 2006, after all), I realize how much I have grown fond of it. Perhaps laptops inspire more loyalty than desktops, because I’ve never quite felt this way before.

Maybe it’s because it’s a Mac. (Let the fist fight begin.)

But it’s bogging down, getting sluggish, telling me there’s no more room on the disk, and just generally being pathetically annoying.

And I find myself feeling sad, as if it were an old, tired dog reaching the end of its usefulness, even as a lazy companion.

I think if I could afford to buy myself a new one, I could let go much easier!

Still, it’s the first time I’ve ever owned a piece of metal & plastic that I can pick up and take with me, containing all my photos, music, documents, contacts, all the bookmarked websites I like to visit… how could one NOT grow attached to such a doo-hickey?

As I struggle with it in its death throes, I simultaneously want to pour money into maintaining it and put it out of its misery. In a violent way, when it’s being particularly slow and incompetent.

Perhaps when my husband realizes how much I will be using his computer when mine finally breathes its last, he will find the money SOMEWHERE to get me off his desk. Fingers crossed!