STUCK

Is this life?

A semblance of one, perhaps...but these days even that seems like a stretch. The phrase "going through the motions" has never resonated so strongly with me in all my (almost) four decades.

I want

• to wake up refreshed instead of exhausted
• to smile at the thought of a new day ahead
• to remember dreams, rather than nightmares, from the night before
• to make plans for the future that might actually happen
• to feel I'm growing and making progress, not regressing and fading away
• to know that my love and I are safe and free

That's all I want. And it seems totally impossible to achieve.

Why have I chosen life outside the U.S.?

In case anyone was wondering why I've chosen to make my life hard, in many ways, by living in Central America, this story gives a pretty good explanation why.

When we were in the U.S., I enquired several times with different financial institutions about the possibility of adding E. either as a co-owner or beneficiary of an account. Nothing doing. Even less possible to have her on record as co-owner of our condominium. Numerous stories about lesbian and gay partners (defacto spouses) being denied hospital visitation rights--not to mention decision-making ability--gave me nightmares.

I ask again: just whom would it hurt for us to have these rights???

Thanks, mom!

This is going to seem like a ridiculously trivial subject to write about after more than three months away...But you've gotta start somewhere.

At the moment, adding to the varied collection of jobs I've held (no standard-issue CV for me, no sirree!), I am working as a temporary administrative assistant for a Danish/Indian firm that's overseeing the installation of 11 wind turbines on the road between Rivas and the Costa Rican border. So far, going into week 2, I am being vastly under-used, but I'm not complaining because a job is a job is a job!

This morning my boss asked if I could go into town to pick up some supplies. No problem, I said--I just need a vehicle. This being a construction site, essentially, almost all of my co-workers are driving pickup trucks. Very new, relatively fancy pickup trucks of course. How happy I was to be able to hop into the truck and go, without a second thought except for the fact that I'm still not quite as comfortable driving large vehicles as I am small ones.

In one of those random moments that highlight differences between U.S. and European habits, I realized that my boss hadn't even asked if I could drive a manual transmission car; he just assumed. And I thought, thanks, Mom! For insisting on teaching us how to drive a stick-shift, on the theory that it was better to be prepared in an emergency situation to drive whatever was available. It's been a very long and sinuous road since that time of creeping down Vermont Avenue in the old rusty-red Chevette...but with this and many other skills my parents imparted, I rarely hesitate to keep moving, even when it's not clear what lies around the next corner. So I'm feeling grateful on this fine sunny morning in southern Nicaragua.