Author: Lauren

I'm a reader, over-thinker, idealistic cynic, and hopeless knowledge seeker living in the wilds of Seattle, Washington. I write, but am not sure I'm a writer yet. I'm blind. I was an activist in my former life for the LGBTQIA etc community and still love reading about and discussing sexuality, queer issues, and living an out and authentic life... plus the constraints our society places on allowing us to exercise that right. I write about what it's like having a disability (I'm blind, you dig?), things I love about Seattle, and my hopeless addiction to all things culinary. Also, I'm on the bus a lot, so I write about that too.

This post is NOT for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach. I warned you.

My dog is a world-class scavenger. I say this with no other dog experience and no credentials whatsoever, except for my two years observing her snatch garbage indiscriminately off whatever surface is within reach, though she seems partial to gutters and the depths of the most manky tangles of weeds. I remember when I was training with her at dog school, and when they were reading the stats on Kiva’s puppyhood, they slipped in this innocuous little biographical nugget: “May scavenge if given the opportunity.”

Kiva had done many things up to that point, including practically knocking me over when she saw another dog, flinging her paws on my shoulders when I got out of bed in the morning, and sprawling out all her doggy parts on the floor during lectures in the hopes of a belly rub. (Complete with groaning.) But scavenging she had not done, and I sent up a fervent little prayer to the dog heavens that I would not have this little habit to deal with when I returned home.

Somehow, under the scrutiny of all her trainers, Kiva kept her head up and her nose to the sky. When we got home, her gaze shifted downward and the ground became magical.

She has had an adventurous summer. She ate a nearly whole bar of soap when I was visiting Seattle. This reappeared as a puddling, white foam on the floor of my dear friend’s condo, where I will probably never be allowed to stay again.

While I was in Madison for the weekend, Kiva ate all her extra food, (which I packed in case for some reason I ran out and discovered that they don’t actually sell dog food in Madison, I guess), and the plastic scoop I use to transfer the food to her bowl. Thankfully, the plastic shards waited until I returned home to reappear on the floor of MY studio, where I’m guessing I would no longer be allowed to live if my building manager had any idea of the unspeakable things that sluice from my dog’s stomach at any given time. (Incidentally, it’s much harder for me to find the damage when I’m alone. If I had any mechanical ability whatsoever, I’d invent a dog vomit sensor that would bring the accessible devices market to its knees. Introducing the dog vomit sensor, no need to get your feet wet ever again, blindies! But I digress.)

This time, I’m visiting my folks in Iowa, and like a hippie weirdo, I brought my own food. (It’s much more polite than demanding my parents buy things like barley and chana dahl.) I carelessly left said food within puppy nose reach, and came back to discover that she had chewed open both the quinoa and lentil bags. Lentils littered the floor, but no quinoa was to be found. Which, I’m just being honest here but if you ask me, is terrifying. The only thing worse than a sly, sneaky scavenger dog is a sly, sneaky scavenger dog that is so bizarrely tidy about it.

Gentle reader, this next part is really gross. There, I double warned you. This morning, all the lentils reappeared, in the grass, in the pouring rain. Whole and perfectly intact.

This is why, when I bring Kiva to people’s houses for the first time, (and sometimes the second and third), I often will leave her on leash or keep her very close to my side. No matter how cute she looks, she is a slick, savvy scavenger deep in her dark, doggy soul. She will bewitch you with smiles and kisses and side flops and then she will shred all the Kleenex and paper towels in your house while you’re busy gushing about how well-behaved she is. Or she will traumatize your cat. Or break your water glasses. Or eat your cat’s food. Actually, I’m surprised ANYBODY still invites me back to their house, and equally not surprised about all the houses I’ve never been invited back to a second time. It’s ok, really.

In conclusion, I hope no one was exceptionally hungry before reading this post.

Going Green

For the past few years, University Avenue has been jumping, shaking, and rumbling under an earthquake of construction for a new light rail corridor between Minneapolis and St.  Paul, hereafter referred to as the “green line.” With our train system prior to only providing rides to the most important parts of the Twin Cities (the Mall of America and Target Field, in case you were unaware what those were), the connection into St.  Paul has been a while coming.

When the green line was first being constructed, and my commuting hours were spent trying to figure out what in the name of crappy public transit the new routes for all the University Avenue buses were, I bitterly lamented that by the time the green line opened and theoretically restored things to some sort of normalcy, I’d be all moved out of the Twin Cities.  (I have been trying to do this since I graduated from college, so I’m not sure why I actually believed this.  And, as has been the case for six years, I’m still here, and the green line is also here, so I can now write about it.)

The line opened in mid June.  I started taking it immediately.  I work in St.  Paul, and rather than the buses being restored to their pre-green line construction glory, my main route to St.  Paul was eliminated and the second best one was changed so that it no longer goes where I need it to go.  I’ve never taken the light rail very much prior to now.  Because many of the tracks are open, and the raised lines that are supposed to be enough to let one know if they are getting close to stepping onto said tracks are often covered with snow, I’ve been hesitant about overly committing to light rail travel.  Though I often tell a joke that goes something like, “I’m convinced someday I’m going to die by being flattened by the light rail, hahahaha, aren’t I morbidly hilarious and so sophisticatedly macabre? May I have another drink before I continue to wow you with my wit?”, I kind of actually believe it a little bit.  (The getting run over part, not the wit part.)

All this to say, it’s not been without a little heart pounding and deep breathing that I’ve switched transit modes.  The first week, I flinched every time a train whooshed past me, even though I knew my feet were firmly safe and sound on the platform.  Many of the light rail stops require that you walk into the street, cross the tracks, and turn onto the platform, in one theoretically seamless super-hero swoop.  The first few weeks, I strode into the street with fake bravado, then waffled around trying to figure out which platform of the two side-by-side ones I should turn onto, while also avoiding bumbling onto the tracks.  It’s getting easier, and having Kiva has been a huge advantage.  For some reason I will likely never know, she LOVES the train, and wags her dancing way onto the platform like a pro while I fret behind her.  I’m hopeful that if I ever end up on the tracks in front of an oncoming train, she will have enough self preservation to pull both of us to safety.

As much as I preach flexibility, and being able to change and evolve in order to promote progress, this has been a slow process for me.  I never thought I’d say I miss the bus, but sometimes I do.  I miss having contact with the driver, asking for directions if I need to.  I miss the way different drivers call stops, from the reluctant mumble to the aspiring DJ whose microphone is their oyster.  As much as the bus “community” often annoys me, on the train there is a certain aloofness.  I like that no one has yet asked me if “you’ve just lost your vision, or were you born that way?” when I’m buried in a book minding my own business as they do on the bus.  On the other hand, I miss the conversation around me, and the perfect opportunity I have to eavesdrop and then make fun of people.  (I’m just keeping it real, y’all.)

Like everything, I’ll get used to it.  And, in so far as the green line is a step in bringing more accessible and progressive transportation to the Twin Cities, I’m very thankful.  I’ll find somewhere new to eavesdrop.

Cooking Lessons

I have a useless knack for remembering arbitrary dates. It is rather silly, but sometimes I like tying my life together in tiny bursts of memory: nine years since I planted my first herbs (which languished in my tiny Augsburg apartment with not enough sun and too much humidity), seven years since I interned in Ecuador, (and got spoiled by fresh fruit juice every day), six years (six!) since I graduated from college. And ten years since I learned how to cook.

Hummus is like peanut butter now in its popularity, but in 2004 I’d never even heard of it. I took a trip to Washington D.C. to participate in a march with some folks from my freshman year of college student activism group. The professor charged with accompanying us was a vegetarian. She brought crunchy salty sesame sticks, morsel-sized sweet strawberries, and a thick garlicky puree of hummus with enough baby carrots to feed a rabbit army. I ate so much hummus as we crossed long stretches of highway and listened to Queen and the Indigo Girls and talked about things like slam poetry and what it was like to be a LGBT person in a tiny Iowa town. Every college kid has their “moment of truth”, and that was mine. I found my people. They were crunchy, kind, snarky, compassionate. And damn, that hummus was good.

I transferred from that college at the end of the year, but I still thought about hummus. I moved back to my hometown, and thought about hummus. I rented my first apartment with my high school best friend, and I thought about hummus. We set up our kitchen, and I made hummus.

I hadn’t cooked much of anything prior to this. I made toast and hot pockets and boiled eggs. I operated under my main high school assumption, which was, “I have friends/family who’ll do that for me.” I’m not proud of it, but at least I grew out of it. The allure of the hummus helped.

Of course, everyone thought I was nuts. What was this pureed chickpea thing? And what, pray tell, was tahini? “It’s sesame paste,” I said, parroting what Google had told me. This explanation didn’t help. Nobody knew what sesame paste was either.

Despite this, I made hummus in an old, rickety blender. I can still remember the exact recipe and cookbook I made it from: The Vegetarian Meat and Potatoes Cookbook by Robin Robertson. It was the only vegetarian cookbook I had access to in Braille then. I ate it with sliced cucumber and pita. The hardest parts were finding the pita and tahini, which my roommate patiently scoured the grocery store for, with me complaining the whole time, “You can see, why can’t you find it?”

Still, I think it was worth it. I actually credit said roommate and high school bff with helping me learn how to cook. She did explain some basics to me, but more than that, she let me figure things out for myself, which was what I really needed. And she was my taste tester and helped me eat all the leftovers. She helped me make my first loaf of bread, a cranberry-orange made with all white flour, canned cranberry sauce, and orange juice concentrate. It made our kitchen smell like Christmas in July.

I think I always had this idea that cooking was difficult, that at the very least I’d need to be able to see to accomplish anything more major than boiling pasta.  But, I’ve mostly proven myself wrong.  When a cookbook says to toast nuts until brown I hover around the oven and let my nose tease out the telltale golden notes signaling they are ready to come out.  When cooking eggs until the yolks no longer “look runny”, I rely on a slowing in the sizzling of the eggs and a very gentle poke with a spatula.  And, for those pesky “cook until heated through” instructions, I have been known to thrust my hand right into the pan for a (hopefully) hot second.  In the end, sometimes you can’t have something delicious without a few battle scars.

Summer is always my favorite time to cook and the time I have the most energy for it.  I could spend hours (and often do) on a Sunday churning ice cream, coaxing tight pea clusters from their pods, and stripping herbs from their fragrant branches.  My next goal, when I’m able, is to learn how to garden.  You never know: maybe someday blindie gardeners will grow the world.

People always say that Christmas is a holiday most exciting for children, and that it’s always better with a child in the house. That may be, but I think that summer is the season for children.

I always feel nostalgic at the beginning of summer, especially during the years I’ve worked and watched as schools let out, as the world becomes more frenzied with kids chasing one another across my path and packs of out-for-the-summer revelers behind me in an ice cream line. Sometimes, I feel a jealousy so overwhelming that I want to turn around, brandish something fierce-looking for emphasis, and demand that they enjoy their damn summer vacation, because all too soon they’ll have bills to pay. This would be way more convincing if I were wizened and gray-haired, though it’s all just a matter of time.

For me, childhood summers have become some sort of golden age in my mind. There were the summers I always spent at blind camp, which usually took place over my birthday. We had great celebrations of cake and everyone would be forced to sit still and watch me open my packages from home. In hindsight, this must have been miserable for them. Everyone would make me Braille cards. There was the year of the surprise party, which was not a surprise because my camp BFF spilled the beans the night before, when I was wallowing in the melodrama that no one would actually REMEMBER my birthday. Everyone always did, or at least the grown-ups made sure they did, but I was nevertheless overly concerned anyway.

There were the summers where I felt I was too old for camp, right after we moved houses at the dawn of my teenage years. I would swing in the backyard, with my earphones blaring bad Top 40 or whatever weird alternative stuff I thought was cool at the time. I’d pretend I was someone else. Lost in the music and the wind making a tangle of my hair (always unnecessarily long then), I’d picture myself winning awards, or asking out all my crushes, or else just acting really cool in front of them so they’d ask me out. I’d be somewhere else, not in my parents’ house. I determined I would go back to school in the fall looking totally different, and no one would recognize me. I’d go from nerdy blind to super cool blind in one hot, rollicking second of one summer.

Summer was for reading everything I didn’t get to during my over achiever school years. It was for sleepovers in the house, the backyard, and, when I was little, the playhouse my dad built. I remember the summer I discovered snow cones sold out of a little trailor resurrected down the street from the just-moved-into house. It was called Rainbow Snow. My favorite was a boring old cherry French vanilla combo, although I mostly ordered some citrusy over-sweet thing called “Tiger’s Blood”, because it made me feel more badass. I was always more bad-ass in my head than out in public. Some things never change.

There was the summer when I was 6 or so, and my dad showed me the skeletons of dead bees and butterflies (as a learning experience, I’m sure, not as a sadistic nightmare conjuring experience). I became so fascinated that I collected dead leaves, grass, sand, and all matter of shrubbery to cobble in a shoe box, which I called my “nature box.” The time I shoehorned a live beetle in there, It started wrustling among all the flora from where it sat on my dresser. From my bed, it sounded like the footfalls of some night creature coming to get me. There was much howling for my parents after that, who rescued me from my bed and the beetle from its shoe box prison. Nightmare conjuring accomplished.

Summer is a busy time for my mind, a time where I feel like I have some small permission to let my whimsy off its winter leash. I feel more playful, and that my playfulness is more acceptable. I like to listen to music and read books of summer’s past. (Every summer I reread Seventeenth Summer, even though it’s dreadfully slow-paced and nothing seems to happen, but I keenly know the turbulent world of Angie’s angst bubbling just below the surface). This summer, I’ll probably also make my way through the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants books again, to relive those breathless summers of beaches, boys, and best friends. I can’t help myself. “Coming of age” in summer seems like such a fleeting thing, a heartbeat and then it’s gone, but it holds so much promise and expectation.

I’m Wishing you all summers full of spontaneity and discovery. Tell me your summer memories too!

I want to talk a little about un-validating. (I think the actual correct word for this is “invalidating”, but “un” is the prefix that makes the most sense to me in this context. More on that in a minute.

I started thinking about this because of a Facebook status from a friend. I’ll try not to be too specific, since I didn’t get her permission to disclose the specifics of her situation. But, the jyst is that she was feeling very vulnerable in a particular situation, specifically based on the fact that she is a blind woman. Her status was very expressive and eloquent, and I related to her concerns, as a blind woman myself. I commented and said as such, but noticed other comments to the tune of, “This isn’t just a problem for blind people; as a woman, I deal with this every day” and “I support whatever you have to do to feel comfortable”, with the underlying tone that my friend was overreacting.

Thing is, I also related to the way it feels to receive those well-intentioned comments. As much as sometimes it feels nice to know that you’re not alone, other times being told that feels like the well-meaning person is trying to minimize my feelings. That’s where the “un” comes in. The other person is taking a completely valid feeling, in this case vulnerability and fear, and trying to make it not valid by minimizing it into just one of those things we all have to deal with sometimes. (There’s a “don’t you worry your pretty little head” and a cheek pat in here somewhere.)

Thing is, feeling vulnerable because of my disability IS a very real thing. Yes, women can relate to me because I am also a woman, but no, sighted women cannot relate to me in a very specific way, because I am blind. I’m not exactly saying I have it worse, or campaigning for pity, but I do think that minimizing blind people’s concerns about safety does a disservice.

A personal example for me is when I sometimes complain about how much attention people give Kiva when we are working. Absolutely lovely, well-meaning people will say, “Well, if it makes you feel better, people are just as obnoxious with other dogs too.” While it’s nice to know there are other frustrated dog owners, there is also an element to my concern that is safety related. I rely on Kiva to keep me safe. When she’s distracted by other people making fools of themselves trying to impress her, that puts my safety on the line. Even if it’s as minimal as she misses a curb and we trip unceremoniously into the street because someone is making kissy faces at her, those lapses in Kiva’s concentration are not ok for us as a team. Next time it might not be as inoccuous as just a curb.

Of course, there is no easy or “right” solution to this un-validating. It just comes down to consideration. For example, maybe rather than trying to make someone feel better by saying how everyone feels that way, perhaps validating the feelings and offering support or just an open space for dialogue is a better solution. Trust me, that can make all the difference.

The chaos on the bus this week has been multiplied by April snow and the constant, stubborn 40-something temperatures. People are restless and cranky, and I place myself squarely there as well.

To cheer themselves up, people have been especially vocal about Kiva this week. I usually sit in the front of the bus, since it provides the quickest entrance and exit, so everyone who gets on the bus walks past me on the way to their seats. When Kiva is laying down, sometimes people miss her. On certain buses, I can tuck her snuggly under the seat between my feet, so no one can step on her but she can still stare at their shoes if she’s so inclined. This week, though, with the winter-dirty bus floors, I’ve been keeping her sitting up by my side, within view of the masses. Here is what the menagerie has sounded like on a typical day this week:
“Nice-looking dog.”
“Boy or girl?”
“What’s your dog’s name? Eva? Oh, Sheeva? That’s a nice name, Sheva, you’re just so cute aren’t you?”
“I think your dog wants to lay down. She looks tired.”
“Your dog looks sad.”
“How old is your dog? … She’s too small to be a full-grown lab, she must be a mix. … Well I used to train dogs so I know these things.”
“Your dog is shivering, is she scared? Oh, is she cold? She shouldn’t be out in this wind… I’m sorry, I just love animals so much and I can’t help wanting to protect them. It’s just my nature.”
And then, the comments that don’t even make it to me, that are merely directed at Kiva:

“Oh, you’re such a pretty dog!”
“I wish I could pet you, but I can’t I guess …”
“You take care of your Mommy, ok?”
I have no idea how to respond to these comments that are not actually directed at me, so I usually don’t respond. I can’t figure out if it’s more awkward to draw attention to myself or pretend like I can’t hear them talking to kiva. It’s an extremely strange phenomenon.

A few days ago I was travling downtown in a wet, one-third rain, one-third sleet, one-third snow storm. My hair was all over the place, straggly and wet, I’d spilled a generous amount of coffee down my jacket (but hey, at least it was warm for about 30 seconds), and in reality I probably looked pretty frazzled and Madam Crabbypants-y. (Trust me, this undoubtedly stunning image will come back into play in just a few minutes.)

I was near my stop, and a couple were standing in front of me, waiting to get off the bus. I, in turn, was sitting, because standing on a bus for me results in falling on a bus.

The man and woman in front of me started asking the same old Kiva questions. I answered them, politely (hopefully), but with not added explanation or opening to continue the conversation.

“You look so pretty in purple,” the woman said, right out of the blue, while her companion continued to call Kiva by name and make cutesie faces at her.

“Oh, thank you,” I said back.

“It’s very nice,” she continued, “you’re a very pretty woman.”

I tried not to giggle, as I always do when someone referes to me as a “woman.” Will that ever feel right to me? I wondered, but then realized that before I could allow my mind to go meandering on a philosophical scavenger hunt as to why words like “woman” and “lady” make me feel terribly uncomfortable when they’re applied to me, I realized there was a gaping silence wherin I was supposed to respond to her compliments.

“Thank you,” I said again, and either because or in spite of the awkwardness I felt I added, “that’s nice of you. Everyone’s always talking to me about my dog, and how pretty she is, I mean, she is pretty but… you know… I appreciate your saying that I am.”

“Yeah, I could tell, that’s why I said it,” she replied.

Intuitive though she was, that last statement seemed rather TOO honest. Then her companion apologized and we all awkwardly said good-bye.

I relate that story only to tell you this one: this morning I got on the bus, sat down, and realized that Kiva kept turning her head to look back behind her. I could not get her focus, which usually means there is something particularly fascinating in her view. I realized what it was when people started exiting the bus, and I suddenly felt the nose of another dog against my palm, trying to get to Kiva. Kiva, in turn, strained her head to greet her long-lost friend, and for one split second, even before I informed the other blind person with a service dog that I had one too and that was why hers was pulling her towards me, I… wanted… to… pet… him. She said his name, Logan, and it was all I could do to not reach out my hand and scratch the fuzzy chin under that wandering little nose, to touch the soft ears and ask all the same over-and-over questions I get asked, “How long have you had him? Does he like playing tug? Can he read traffic lights?” Ha, just kidding, not that last one!

But, even though I had my own dog at my feet, I wanted to make friends with the other one. I didn’t, which is the only thing I did right in either of these stories. I restrained myself. I knew better. But I wanted to, and that realization taught me a little bit about humility, and made me resolve to treat strangers with a little more grace.

There won’t be much to see here today except a varitable love fest for my darling puppy (who’s not a puppy any more). Two years ago on April 9, 2012, I met Kiva for the first time, which makes today our two-year anniversary.

I have a picture of our first meeting. They unloaded her from a van of six dogs, five of which went to my class companions. Kiva was the last one to be unloaded, and we met on neutral ground, in the lounge of the Oregon campus dorm. It was maybe 10 steps from my room. Walking there seemed to take forever, and when I got there, one of the instructors said, “Ok, we’re bringing in Kiva now. Um, so, she might be a little excited.”

During her “little excited” phase was when the director of the class snapped the picture, of my little labby exuberantly and unabashedly licking my face; me smiling and happy but also very taken aback. Somehow, I wasn’t prepared for this big bundle of joy who thought she was still little enough to crawl into my lap and cover me with kisses. Knowing what I know now, I should have made her sit right away; now, I would have known how to calm her, kindly but effectively. Then I didn’t know, and I had no idea what to do with the gift of Kiva. One of the first things my instructor told me, as Kiva pranced and panted and generally acted like a fool was, “She just doesn’t know what to do, so give her something to do. Tell her to sit.”

I can’t count the number of times I’ve relied on this advice over the last two years. When Kiva starts acting squirrely, I give her a task. As much as she loves to play, she loves to work, and I can see that. I’ve defended my choice to have a companion animal to countless (mostly) strangers on the street who have questioned the ethics of my having a dog who “works for me.” When Kiva has something to do, she’s happy, and I’m happy.

And that lesson works in my own life, too. When I am scattered, flitting around from idea to idea, disoriented and confused, I give myself something to do. I sit and be quiet. I make a cup of tea, and pay attention to its warmth and scent while it steeps, keeping my mind only on the task. I make risotto or something else that requires stirring and attention. I write. I think everyone could benefit from the “give yourself something to do” advice, so this entry is as much about the gratitude I still feel for my instructors and for the GDB staff as it is for Kiva.

It’s no giant leap to assume that Kiva has forever changed the pattern of my life. I understand the responsibility of having someone who depends on me for their livelihood. In turn, I give some of the responsibility of my livelihood back to her. We co-exist, we are interdependent on one another. She listens for my voice when she waits for me at pole, or while I run to the kitchen at work. I listen for her wagging tail and clacking toenails on my return. I wouldn’t be who I am without her. I don’t take that lightly.

One of the most challenging and rewarding things about having Kiva in my life is learning about trust. I struggled mightily at the beginning of our time together with trusting her. I was used to doing things my way, and I assumed that every time she stopped or tried to detour, she was distracted by a leaf or a dog or another human who had maybe just petted a dog. I learned through trial and error that mostly when she stops, it’s because there is a pole or a trash can or something else obstructing my path. There is a flight of stairs. There is a hybrid car, sleek and silent. Giving up a little bit of my control, and instead turning it into trust for Kiva to guide me safely, is what continues to strengthen our bond and what will strengthen it in the many years we have left.

I have no idea how to express my gratitude; pets and praise don’t seem enough, but somehow, for Kiva, they are. She loves them and treats each “good girl” like it’s the first time I’ve ever said it. In that way and many more, I aspire to be like her. I’m so excited for the many more adventures we have in store.

I wanted to first thank everyone who responded to my shameless plea for e-mail followers. Y’all made my day. And as I said, if there’s anything I can follow or promote in return, I’m your girl. Hit me up, as the kids say… Ok, I don’t think they say that any more.

I have a tale of almost so much insignificance that I hesitated to write about it. Yet here I am, and here it is.

The other day I stopped at the co-op on my way home from work. This is a fairly regular occurrence if I want fresh bread for dinner, or, on too many occasions, a cupcake or espresso chocolate cookie for dessert. They also have really good coconut soft serve ice cream… But I digress.

When I go shopping, I first stop at the customer service desk to ask for shopping assistance. Unlike at other stores in the area, I’ve never felt awkward doing this. I don’t ever feel like I’m taking someone’s precious time, or like I’m over-working someone already over-worked. There’s also never been that awkward fumbling while an employee tries to figure out who to find to “take care” of the situation. Many of the people I shop with I now know by name and kind of wish I could have a beer with, all professionalism aside. Many of them patiently read me all the different types of olive oil (there are many, believe me), all the flavors of Greek yogurt, and cheerfully test avocado ripeness with me, although sometimes neither of us knows quite what we’re feeling for.

After I’m done buying all the hippie-dippy, organic, non-genetically-modified, local, green, raw, crunchy, sustainably raised super foods I can cram into a week’s worth of kitchen dabbling, the person I’m shopping with usually walks me to a check out line. They help me bag everything up, and usually walk outside with me. Most of them say it’s a good excuse to feel fresh air and see the sun, (or, in the case of the last five months, get snowed on and realize they liked it better inside). All through this time, the shopping, the checking out, the bagging, the walking outside, I’m talking and interacting with someone. Which is why I actually have to be in the “mood” to go to the grocery store. If I’m feeling particularly introvert-y one day, it’s best I wait until the next, because it does require some amount of social energy. And as much as I adore my co-op and the people there, I often entertain a fantasy of walking into a grocery store, grabbing a cart, and doing it all myself, not saying a word to anyone.

The other day, I got a little taste of that. The person I was shopping with said thank you to me at the check-out counter and left. I completed my transaction with the person at the register, someone helped me bag up my groceries, and then left them at the end of the counter. No one asked if I wanted assistance to the door, or made any comments about the opportunity to go outside. So, I checked out with minimal smalltalk, walked to the end of the counter, picked up my bag (as opposed to someone handing it to me, or insisting on carrying it until I reached the door), and walked out of the store myself. I said good-bye to no one. I smiled at no one. I thanked no one, because there was no one there, and seriously, it felt awesome. I felt invisible and I loved it.

That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the help and consideration. The people at my co-op are great. But sometimes cherishing moments of being alone, walking long blocks all by myself, drinking coffee in a crowded café surrounded by people but only as an observer, are things that I look forward to and try to create as often as I can. As much as I love and thrive on interaction and interdependence, the introvert in me loves the moments when I don’t have to be “on” and no one notices me as the blind person in the room.

As much as I enjoy my co-op conversations and the people that I have them with, I enjoyed leaving quietly just as much.

Minnesota is melting, and so am I. Maybe. On both counts.

Now, There are shimmery patches of ice on my walks around the cities that hide tricky, gushy puddles underneath. I step gingerly on the ice, concentrating on preserving my footing, and instead lift a foot dripping with water that was once ice that was once snow. It’s dirty. Probably filthy, and I imagine the streets are cloaked in gray, brown and murky streams of water and mud. I don’t have a particularly favorable view of my city’s aesthetics, currently.

Nor, apparently, does Kiva, who will stamp her way wagging through a snowbank, slide gleefully over ice, but who stops dead at the beginning of a puddle. She seems to be rooted in sheer stubbornness and will, because she is nearly impossible to move forward. More often than not, I end up sloshing through the puddle and dragging her on the leash behind me, after which she snuffles indignantly and shakes herself in the most vigorous, disgruntled manner. Apparently, my little Lab is afraid of swimming.

I’m also trying to melt my over-wintered insides. I’ve had a few months of depression and lethargy, probably due to the season. I didn’t want to eat, couldn’t sleep, felt like crying all the time. When I found myself churning ice cream and baking bread in the last two weeks, I realized that, hopefully, those feelings of hopelessness are evading. I’m starting to think about grad school (again), which I’m hopeful I can see through this time, instead of shutting it down with the fear of added debt, academic challenge, and possible unfulfillment.

A friend took me rock climbing for the first time a few weeks ago (is it still called rock climbing if it’s inside and the rocks are manmade?). I got the same exhilaration I get from pole, of being off the ground, of feeling the muscles in my body, and of reaching for something challenging but totally within my grasp. I loved it and felt rejuvenated by it.

I’m taking a writing class for the first time ever. It’s funny to think about how I’ve always written, how I’ve said over and over again that I need to write to be ok, but I never thought of it as a viable option for a career or part of a career. I’m starting to think that way now, especially since during both my current and previous job, I’ve found myself thinking again and again, “I don’t have enough time to write everything any more. I wish I could just write.” I’ve been scared of the impracticality of it, and of how embarrassed I feel just saying, “I want to write” aloud when people ask me if I’ve figured out what the heck I want to do with my life already. Most of that embarrassment comes from their reactions, or my fear of their reactions. I started reading a book called Art & Fear, recommended by the teacher of my writing class. It’s helping. Just knowing I’m not alone, that other creative people (though I hesitate to call myself that) are also afraid, is a huge relief. It makes me feel brave.

So, melting. We’re all doing it, hopefully, and making room for new experiences and a new spring. I wish you all a happy, fun, and fruitful one, whatever sort of fruit suits you best.

Originally posted on May 8, 2012
As well as forever changing the rhythm of my life, Kiva has also made me reconsider
and change the way I travel. My normal travel tactics tend to be ones of whimsy;
once I learned the basic layout of Minneapolis I delighted in getting lost in unfamiliar
places and working myself out of them, finding interesting sites along the way. It
was a challenge for me, and a way to pass long afternoons when I’m not working or
otherwise occupied.
Kiva puts a bit of a wrench in my lackadaisical free-footedness. She is a serious,
alert worker and learns quickly, which is all I can ask for. The other side of this
means that, because of her quick mind, she consequently learns all of my bad habits
as well as my good ones. The first day of our return to the Twin Cities, I took her
to my co-op about four blocks from my apartment. It is a fairly straight route and
easy to work with Kiva. The co-op itself, however, has an entrance and an exit door,
and I am in the habit of dilly-dallying around both of them until I figure out which
one is which. Sometimes, I get impatient and hard-headed (“these silly little entering
and exiting rules don’t apply to me, I’ll just bust through whichever door I please”),
and I do just that. With Kiva I can’t. As I discovered, if she and I go barreling
through the exit doors, there’s a good chance they will rebel and whap her in the
face. (Don’t ask how I discovered this, just trust me.) However, she seems altogether
undeterred by the fact that I may or may not have caused her exit door bodily harm,
and every time we have gone to the co-op since, she tries to take me to the exit
doors. I’ve tried showing her the entrance doors and coaxing her with the likes of
food, tummy scratches, and the promise of an eventual specially designed dog tag
from Tiffany, but no, only the exit doors will do for her. I can only blame myself.
I taught her the wrong thing, and it stuck.
Consequently, I am much more careful about developing and teaching routes to Kiva.
I still use my cane in certain circumstances. For instance, if I’m teaching her to
find a specific door (to a coffee shop, the library, etc), I will “work” her (ask
her to guide me) until I reach the block where the door is located. Then, I use my
cane and “heel” her (hold only the leash, not the harness, and walk with her at my
left side), until I locate the door with my cane. When I’ve found it, I act as though
it was all her idea, give her lots of praise, and repeat the exercise a few more
times until she seems to understand or grows bored. (Though with my Oscar-worthy
performance, I don’t see how she could possibly be the latter.)
There is definitely something to be said for this new, precise way of traveling.
It helps me think about where I’m going. It forces me to be more assertive with people
over the phone in asking for directions. (For years, I have struggled with the concept
of asking for “too much” assistance, despite my supposed belief in interdependence.)
Spontaneity may come once Kiva and I spend more time together, but now I am happy
with the new directions my traveling life is going.
Kiva also moves quickly. I can cover distances in half the time it would take me
as a cane traveler. She makes me notice things; when she is bouncy and alert, I may
observe the tingle of the air against my cheeks, the scent of wet grass and lilacs
and car exhaust, the sound and rhythm of my feet mixed with the click of Kiva’s.
I’m definitely not slowing down, but I’m noticing things more. I’m more engaged with
the part of the environment that is not tactile, which is new for me and which I
like very much.
I’m sure I will have many more traveling observations (and Kiva observations) to
come. Count on it, and plan your reading (or not reading) accordingly.