What are the Bare Essentials?

I just read a blog about a man who lives in the trailer of the semi he drives. All of his belongings were listed and it's a short list. I live in fairly small space, but have way more than he does. Oprah just had a show about asking people to live with less for a week: no TV except an hour a day; no computer except for homework; no eating out ... It wasn't easy for the two families chosen for the challenge as you can imagine. But after the initial resistance, rebellion, anger and boredom, they seemed to settle into it and ended feeling grateful for the new closeness and appreciation for each other that developed.

I remember what it was like growing up without a computer. I can even remember what it was like when we bought our first TV and watching the test pattern on Saturday mornings before the regular programming began. I remember a time before video games and cell phones and even faxes and answering machines. Wow, I sound like an old person.

But life really was simpler then. We played board games and played outside every day, all day. Anyone remember Uncle Wiggly, Clue, Sorry, Cootie?! Monopoly was way too competitive for me although I loved those little hotels. People got together and played charades and going to the movies was a big deal. Eating out was a very special occasion until I became a teenager, then going to a hamburger drive-in was pretty common, even a ritual among my friends. Having two cars was unusual and the only time we got new clothes was when something was totally worn out or during back to school days. My mother insisted our family of five sit down to dinner together, even after the advent of TV trays. She had this vision of us all sitting around discussing our days, but most often it deteriorated into kicking under the table and remarks about my brother getting a haircut. She did try though and I do know which fork to use and to keep my elbows off the table.

So I think about what I would take with me if I moved into the trailer of a semi. I could get by with a few good clothes: a pair of jeans, a pair of black slacks, a few interesting tops, a warm coat, one pair of comfortable shoes. I would need to have my computer, a cell phone, good light, a healthy plant, someplace really comfortable to sleep. Three or four interesting books. It sounds strange, I know, but I'd have an altar with special objects and family pictures. I guess I wouldn't be happy in a semi trailer really, but it's nice to think about what I can do without and to be more conscious of all my stuff.

Goodbye to Pie

I felt anger when the vet said that my parakeet's lame foot was probably caused by a kidney tumor. I remembered losing Perry, the green parakeet who saw me through my divorce, a second marriage and a move to a new town. He had a stomach tumor at age 7 and died in John's hand at the vet's. We buried him under the eucalyptus tree outside the window next to his cage. Now, at about the same age, Pie had developed a tumor and was probably in pain. He certainly would not get better and when I asked our new vet about euthanizing him, she said it would be the thing to do. It doesn't feel fair that the timing of his loss comes right after John's surgery (which I am grateful was successful) and just as our grandson is in the hospital for his next round of chemo (although, again I am grateful because his PET scan shows he is responding "excellently" to the regimen he is on. The tumor is gone and hasn't returned.)

So I wonder if Pie is some sort of sacrifice I'm being asked to make for the health of my beloved husband and grandson. We still have Apple, the mate we bought for Pie, who turns out to be a boy. He seems a little confused and maybe a little happy to be the one and only. No more competing for food or treats. When I lost Perry, I didn't have another bird to fill my house with song, so I am happy to have Apple. But she doesn't sing like Pie. I still miss his voice. We buried him in the back yard overlooking the Bay with a spray of purple orchids that a friend brought John when she visited the other day. His marker is a fairy with translucent wings that my daughter gave me. She'll stand watch over his spirit as he flies free of his cage.

Home from the Hospital

Our experience of John's surgery was much different than we expected. We arrived at the hospital at 1 pm Friday for 3 pm surgery. As we waited in pre-surgery, our daughter Kara taught us how to make a friendship bracelet out of the lining of a Coke bottlecap. She had packed a bag full of distractions for the waiting room. John was visited by the head nurse, the anesthesiologist and the surgeon before surgery. The nurse asked if he had any body piercings and he said, "Not yet." His anesthesiologist looked at his chart twice and had trouble believing he is 70.

After he walked off with the anesthesiologist to the surgery room, my son, Daniel, Kara and I went to the waiting area in the lobby of the hospital. Less than an hour later, a physician's assistant we had gotten to know during his earlier hospital stay, came out with a smile on her face and said it was all finished and he had done great. It was 4 pm. They wouldn't let me into the recovery room until 7 to have a quick visit. He was more alert than I expected but still a little groggy. He gave me a big John smile and told me he felt like Tom Terrific. Sometime during our wait, a patient in a wheelchair started playing the piano in the lobby. Her blues style was professional sounding and we felt as if we were at a concert or a nightclub. By 9, he had a room on the seventh floor and an 80-year-old roommate who looked much younger.

By the next morning, he was sitting up and eating a clear liquid diet and had gotten up with help from his Nigerian nurse, Owen, at 3 in the morning. That day we walked four or five times up and down the hall. Two days after his surgery, he was on his way home. If the original surgery hadn't been cancelled, he would have had traditional surgery instead of laproscopic and his recovery time would have doubled. Now it's his first full day home and he's happily doing the crossword puzzle and the parakeets are clucking and chortling now that their flock is back.

After canceling all my organizing clients for the past two weeks, I'm looking forward to getting back to two of my favorites the end of the week. I had to also cancel going to the NAPO conference in Reno but I'll get the tape of the keynote speaker, Peter Walsh, author of It's All Too Much. I learned a lot more by staying home and taking care of my partner. And the biggest lessons were about gratitude and compassion.

Learning to Wait

We were ready to go to the hospital Monday for John's surgery for a benign stomach tumor when we got a call that it was postponed because the surgeon wasn't feeling 100%. Personally, I'm glad he doesn't do surgery unless he's feeling perfect but it threw us into a waiting mode that was uncomfortable. We knew we had a date for the 16th at the latest, but he was trying to find an earlier time. Then we got a call that it would be tomorrow, Friday, with a new doctor. We looked him up online and were satisfied that his credentials looked good and we liked the looks of his photo.

Got up this morning, had our oatmeal and smoothie and prepared for the day. When I went to make a phone call I heard a beep that let me know someone had called last night during our walk; I hadn't checked the voicemail. It was a nurse from Kaiser telling us to come in at 11:30 today for surgery! After a number of phone calls we learned that the surgery is, indeed, tomorrow. So now we're back to having a relaxed day.

Also yesterday our grandson was going in for a new round of chemo for his lymphoma. We got a call from his dad last night that his blood count was down and instead of chemo, he'll be getting a transfusion today. We saw him on Sunday and it's difficult to believe he needed this because he was having light saber fights with his brother and jumping around like the energetic 5-year-old he was before this journey began. It's not unexpected for him to need a transfusion and it just means a slight delay in the chemo.

We're getting a big lesson in waiting. Surrendering to what is instead of what we want it to be. While I wait during the surgery, I'll be distracting myself with knitting a scarf, a book called The Memory Keeper's Daughter, a book of Sudoku that my friend, Marion, gave me. And sometimes just being present with what's going on in my body. And breathing and trusting.

A haiku: Simply Trust: Don't the Leaves Flutter Down Just Like That.

A Trip to the ER

After a five day retreat with Threshold Choir in Healdsburg filled with singing, good food, new friends and camping in a VW van, I came home in time to call 911 when my husband passed out on the way to the bathroom at 3 a.m. We spent 12 hours in the ER and he had many tests before learning that he has a benign stomach tumor and will have surgery Monday. The night in the ER was a particularly busy one and at one point we had to be moved to a different room because they were bringing in a woman who had just given birth to her baby at home and had developed complications.

At one point, when I walked out of John's room, I bumped into one of the choir members I had been on retreat with. She is a hospice nurse and was there because one of her patients was having difficulty breathing and a family member had called 911. Helen came into John's room and we sang him a beautiful song, the words a haiku: Simply trust. Don't the leaves flutter down just like that. Later, Helen asked if I would sing with her at her patient's bedside because the family was falling apart. It was my first experience of singing for someone who was dying.

I was impressed with the great care John got even though the nurses were overworked. Each one treated him with respect, care and some humor when it was called for. In a strange coincidence, our neighbor across the street was taken to the hospital the day after John with chest pains and she was in the room directly above his.

I was set to go to the national conference for professional organizers in Reno next week where the keynote speaker is Peter Walsh, author of Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat? Instead I will be hanging out in my husband's room at Kaiser. I am grateful to all the caregivers, the doctors, the nurses, the orderlies who have taken such good care of my husband. And to my family and friends who will be sitting with me Monday as we wait for good news of a successful surgery.

Why You Might Hire a Professional Organizer

The following article is from realsimple.com. I found it via unclutterer.com, another excellent source of good organizing tips. One of the organizers quoted below is Annie Rohrbach, owner of Letting Go and Lightening Up, whose training I took last year. I'll be seeing her in April at the National Association of Professional Organizers conference in Reno.

Should You Hire a Professional Organizer?

Have you ever considered hiring a professional organizer? The reasons for hiring one are seemingly endless. They can help you find order in a specific area of your home or office (a bedroom closet or managing e-mails at work) or they can come for many sessions and help you with your entire space. At a recent conference for professional organizers, I met with some of the most respected professionals in the industry and asked them the following question: "What would you like potential clients to know before hiring an organizer for the first time?" Their responses were refreshingly candid and insightful. Here are some of their answers:

Before you ever pick up the phone, "consider your goals and motivation for hiring outside help. Have a rough idea of what you'd like to accomplish by working with an organizer, even if you don't know how it will happen. Ask yourself why you've not been able to do it alone, and communicate the answer to the organizers you contact. It will be helpful for them to know what your roadblocks are." -- Monica Ricci, owner of Atlanta-based Catalyst Organizing Solutions

"Personal organizers are not mental health professionals, but they still want to get to know you well so that they can help you solve your organization problems. Don't be surprised by the personal nature of questions on new client forms. An organizer may ask you if you've been diagnosed with ADHD or if you have a reading disorder. Clients obviously don't have to answer these questions, but the best solution for a person's needs may stem from truthful answers to these inquiries." -- Geralin Thomas, owner of Cary, North Carolina-based Metropolitan Organizing

A good organizer may meet with you for the first time and realize that there is another professional organizer out there who is more qualified for your specific needs. A great organizer will take the steps to get you in touch with that person. -- Annie Rohrbach, owner of San Francisco-based Letting Go and Lightening Up

If you're someone who is only looking for a little motivation or a new perspective to get started with an organization project, it may be worthwhile for you to hire a professional organizer just for an assessment. -- Kathy Waddill, owner of Orinda, California-based The Untangled Web

Other valuable points that arose in conversation:

Don't let price be your sole reason for choosing one organizer over another. It's important that you can work it into your budget, but there are other factors to consider such as the person's people skills and experience. You're hiring a person who will be delving into the personal and business areas of your life, so it's important you trust them and feel that they have your best interests at heart.

If you're a business professional who is nervous about competitors or clients learning about your need to seek outside organizing help, you can ask your professional organizer to sign a non-disclosure agreement and arrive at sessions without company branding on his or her clothes and car.

If you're choosing to work with a professional organizer for multiple sessions, you should expect to have homework between the sessions.

The most common question asked of a professional organizer is if your space is the worst the organizer has ever seen. Even if your space is the worst, they probably won't admit it. In most cases, though, your space is not the worst.
Have you used a professional organizer? Any tips or stories to share? To find a professional organizer in your community, check out the National Association of Professional Organizer's online referral system.

I Have a Picture in My Mind

I am sitting sorting through pictures, cards and memorabilia this morning trying to follow the advice I give my clients. Do I really need every Mother's Day card my kids gave me? Every picture of every trip no matter how out of focus or even forgotten? Now, where was this cobblestone street scene? I was prepared to throw out quite a few but my toss pile was embarrassingly short. And my enjoyment level very high.

I did create some order, even putting all the pictures of houses I've lived in, along with houses of parents, grandparents, even great-grandparents into one album. Till now they have just been collected in a bit of a jumble in large envelopes. Now I have an album for friends, one for trips, one for my kids, one for my husband and me in a variety of poses and countries.

I discovered a poem I wrote in 2003 in Suriname, where John & I were serving in the Peace Corps. We were riding on what we called the boom bus (for the loud, Caribbean music that played as we wove through the crowded streets) and I noticed a billboard with a little boy sitting on the floor trying on a man's dress shoe. Here's what I wrote:



I sit on the sofa icing my back.
"Does it hurt when you do that'?"
Yes.
"Well, then don't do that?
Dad wisdom or a joke he told about a man going to the doctor.
I thought of my Dad yesterday on the #1 bus
when I saw the picture of the little black boy
sitting on the floor putting on one of his Dad's
black dress shoes -- it looked like one of those
Bostonian wingtips mine used to wear to work.
The ones he loved to have me untie and pull off his feet
when he got home from work and sank into his favorite chair.
My 4-year-old feet half filled them as I clumped around the den,
making my father smile and reveling in his precious attention.
When he was feeling particularly relaxed,
he'd let me have a sip of his beer with the foamy head
from the wide-bowled glass; I always tried to get more.
I remember how he'd dance me around the room
while I stood on his feet and how he sometimes
gave my brother and me horsey-back rides before bedtime,
trying to buck us off as we clung to his neck squealing
until our mother told him to let us settle down or
we'd never go to sleep, but looking quietly pleased
that he was playing with us and giving her a few minutes for herself.
Then her bad back, which I learned later was really a deep depression.
It kept her from roughhousing with us and made her take long naps
in the afternoon, during which we had to play outside
or go to the neighbors or try very hard to remember to play quietly inside.

I don't think little boys in Suriname have black Bostonians to try on
but they probably slap around in their father's flip flops. Do they
sip from their dad's Parbo beer bottles? I know they learn basic English
from watching Amercian cartoons and they get their impressions
of how blacks live in America from Sanford and Son reruns.

Here I am in Suriname, waking with my mother's puffy eyes
from an allergy to something that blooms in the garden,
with a bad back that won't lead to a stay in a mental institution.
No, I'll ice my back and put on my own shoes and,
remembering my Saturday mornings watching TV in Iowa,
when Buffalo Bob asked, "Kids, what time is it?!"
I'll answer, "It's Howdy Doody time!!"
And I'll spend a day in South America with a pale white moon
hanging in a piece of bright blue sky
between the branches of my neighbor's mango tree.


Other treasures I discovered as I sorted: a screenplay my brother, Alan, wrote at College of Marin, a story my daughter wrote in college about his death when she was a freshman in college, the obituary my husband wrote for the newspaper. In it he mentioned that someone at Alan's funeral called him the gift giver and his son called him "the man who loved to laugh." Members of the softball team he managed said he brought them from the basement to the playoffs and insisted they have a team song: Finniculi Finnicula.

I'm working with a client in Sausalito now who lives minutes from the industrial building overlooking the water where Alan lived and I drove by the other day just to look up at his window and imagine him there. He got free rent in exchange for being night watchman and he and his son lived in a tiny space together. He was 42, on his way across the Golden Gate Bridge on his blue Kawasaki motorcycle when he hit a pothole and lost control on dangerous Doyle Drive. It was one of his favorite routes because it brought him through the Presidio and I remember driving it one time when we were visiting him. He told us his brakes were going but he thought they'd be okay. That was so Alan. He was optimistic no matter what the circumstances. He made jewelry, silver and copper bracelets, and sold them on the street in San Francisco.

Among the photos, I found some of him when he was a baby, three years younger than me. There he was rosy-cheeked in a high chair; wearing a coonskin cap; dressed in full costume as Rusty in Rin Tin Tin; sitting barefoot on the grass with two of our neighbors from across the street.

I'll put some of the pictures in albums, some back in the envelopes and then into a box to be looked at another day. Some things you just can't part with.