After leaving the hospital, Maka’la took me back to my apartment. He gave me the first lomi-lomi treatment. The next day when he gave the second treatment, I was pain free. No drugs, no pain medication.
For those of you unfamiliar with this traditional Hawaiian healing modality you can check out Dr. Yates’ website: https://www.manalomi.com/about.html
I was without a car. When I visited the wreckage at the body shop, I was shocked. There was not much left of my mini van. The mechanic looked a the car and then at me and said, “You mean to tell me that you walked away from this?’
Over whelming gratitude filled me. It was not my day to die.
I was very attached to my little Mitsubishi, I could load a whole show of my paintings in it, and it had served me well.
The silver living appeared when the insurance payment on the car amounted to $6,000.
I searched the classified ads for for a replacement. After a few discouraging days, I noticed an a for a Mitsubishi minivan. The cost was $6,000. It was a year newer than my wrecked car and had fewer miles. I bought it remembering that I always seem to have what I need when I really need it.
Every time I thought all was lost and I was about to fall off the edge of the world, I had a remarkable verification of faith, trust and support. .
I stayed several more years in Ashland, moving a few more times, appreciating being close to family, enjoying the friendships of the artists in the gallery that I help start.
Ashland Oregon;
“Home to the world-famous Oregon Shakespeare Festival and ranked in the top 10 of “The 100 Best Small Art Towns in America,” Ashland is a cultural hot spot, with award-winning galleries, theaters and restaurants bursting from its seams. Nestled at the base of the Siskiyou and Cascade mountain ranges, Ashland has a reputation for great outdoor recreation in the city limits and beyond. And with the famous Mt. Ashland Ski Area nearby, fun stays in Ashland year-round.”
Yes there were lovely galleries, but ours was not a financial success and some of the artists grumbled about how I was setting up the monthly displays. I was the only one who had had professional art gallery experience. Egos got involved.
This backbiting became overwhelming to me and I stepped down as the president and director,. The remaining artists took charge and discovered the challenges of the art galley business. Even though we had been voted the most friendly and popular gallery in town, the new owners decided to change the name, (big mistake in my opinion) and they closed within a year or two.
In the meantime, a fantastic artist and friend who had been the vice-president in the gallery and I decided to open our own small art space across the street.
It was lovely. Her work was amazing and I felt proud of the quality of our exhibits.
It wasn’t long after we opened the doors she found that she had a malignant tumor in her breast.
My precious friend went though all the treatments and surgery and lived several years longer; long enough to attend her daughter’s wedding. Of course, we closed our art space, but to this day my heart is filled with love for her.
My monthly social security check didn’t cover the rent of my apartment let alone food and utilities, I tried everything I could think of to create a cash flow. I taught portrait painting at southern Oregon University and Art Marketing, but sales of my paintings had almost stopped since I moved to Ashland Oregon six years before. The two galleries that I helped open and direct ended up costing me more money than they brought in. I had been an artist all my life, but my art was not supporting me. It was time to get a paying job.
When I saw an ad in the local paper, I thought , ”Here is something I can do and bring all my creative talents to this job.”
During my interview at the Emporium, the battle of my nerves and ego caused sweat to dampen my crisp white linen blouse. Just hire me, I thought. I am perfect for this position.
The owner of the store, Pat, said, “This is an impressive resume, Ezshwan. With your design and art experience, and the gourmet vegetarian cooing classes you’ve taught, I can see that the Emporium can use your talents We are planning a major remodeling soon and will be adding another floor of merchandise. We can use your skills.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Now reassured I could still get a creative job. I was excited that I would be getting a regular paycheck. My monthly salary plus social security would cover the rent and utilities. Not much more, but I was satisfied.
Pat continued, “I’ll call Dave, my husband. He is my business partner and he’ll want to meet you.”
Dave bent low to fit his gangly six foot ten inch frame through the low doorway of the temporary cramped office. Maybe it was his height that created his perpetual slumped posture. When he sat down, his long skinny legs stretched across half of the small room.
My mind wandered. I had never personally met anyone that tall. What’s life like for such a tall person? I mentally questioned things about the problems he might have with beds, chairs and clothing. My reverie was interrupter when Dave said, “Please to meet you, Ezshwan. Pat told me that she was impressd with your resume and your professional presentation.”
I congratulated myself. I was used to assembling an artist portfolio and I had added a little of that panache to my resume folder.
“We can offer you ten dollars and hours to start. After six months, we will give you a review and increase your salary.”
I felt that with all my business and life experience, I could be an active and creative part of the store. I looked forward to working with the public again, using my skills to add to the popularity of the business. Before I was hired, I had sometimes shopped at this store. It seemed to have a a warm friendly, family atmosphere. It was a bastion of Ashland congeniality. The building was a hundred-years old with old photographs of it’s varied history displayed on the back wall of the first floor. The creaking wooden floors, antique lighting and a cornucopia of merchandise added to the romance of old Ashland.
There were racks of shapeless, (in my opinion,) drab colored clothing, practical woolen hats, scarves, hand lotions, soaps and lots of lavender toilet water, Shakespeare souvenirs - pens, books, music, hats, notebooks, pins and mountains of sweatshirts proliferated.
Ashland presents the largest Shakespeare festival outside of Stratford-on Avon, and it is big business. Kitchen supplies, dishes and Oregon food specials filled the top floor of the store.
I had tried everything I could think of to make a success of my life int his charming town. The job was he last attempt to ease my financial challenges and stay in Ashland close to my daughter Grace, her husband and their two boys.
After my saving disappeared, I was just surviving one unpromising day after another. This experience certainly taught me what it was like living one pay check to another.
If I believed the programming of the U.S. society, my life was over. I was invisible at the age of 67.
I refused to give in the the loneliness and uselessness of old age. I didn’t see myself like that. In fact I felt vlibrant and enthusiastic. Now the job was my ray of hope. I wasn’t to be considered too old to be of value to anyone. I was still a whole, vital person.
Dave said, “Bring your social security card tomorrow, Ezshwan.”
“Good grief, I haven’t seen that card in years. Can Just give you my number?”
“No, that won’t work. I have to have an official document.”
I brought in my driver’s license. The license not only had my social security number, it revealed my date of birth.
The next dayPat said, “Dave was shocked at how old your are!” He wasn’t the only one who was surprised that a 67 year old woman still had a flexible, healthy body and a creative mind and spirit.
My age quickly became the news of the day. Brandi, the office manager quizzed everyone who who worked there, “Guess how old Ezshwan is? Guess! Just guess!. Everyone who was in the offie turned around and looked me up and down. I stood there feeling like a spectacle in a carnival side show.
“I’d guess about 56.”
Brandi said, “No can your believe it? She is 67 years old!”
It was only a couple of weeks on the job when I began to realize that I was not going to be the bright and shining star of the Emporium. I felt a growing resentment directed at me from both Pat and Dave. The chilly indifference set the tone of the next two years.
“O.K., Ezshwan, “ I told myself, “You’re no longer the star’s beloved wife. Your life of glamour and romance is over. You aren’t a boss anymore either. You’re an employee; ten dollars an hour is ten dollars an hour. You’ll do it their way.”
I waited for my six-month review. It never came.
Instead of being given the creative jobs where I could excel, I stayed at my post, unpacking giant cartons of clothes that had to be checked in, priced and hung on the racks, I noticed that most of the clothing was beige, tan, brown or black. I missed color. I felt everything was colorless in Ashland. Most of the houses in were painted the same bland colors of the leaden skies. I imagined the downtown buildings as an English Tudor movie façade. I was probably projecting how I felt about my life onto Ashland. But this is Oregon. Not England. I’m beginning to feel taupe and lifeless.
The charm of Ashland was wearing thin.
The months of working at the Emporium became two years. I gave up hope of getting a review or using my talents and experience.
In fall, I spent what seemed like hundreds of hours taping price tags on tiny Christmas ornaments. Of course this mindless chore had to be done. This store was well known as ornament heaven. I was given one special job. I got to glue all the broken ornaments and curios.
I was stationed downstairs in the basement one morning and was looking forward to the next shift so I could go back to the first floor. Just about the time my replacement was due, I poked my head upstairs, calling to April at the front desk. “Is the afternoon shift here yet?”
Dave must have been pushed beyond his breaking point, by something unknown to me, because after hearing me he ran downstairs, threw aside my paperwork and screamed at me, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”
I said, “Just a minute. I am in the middle of checking in this order.”
“Just get out of my sight!”
Startled and shaking, I went upstairs to my usual post and waited for an apology, thinking, what the hell is going on? I know I am not his favorite person, but this is crazy!
I foolishly thought Dave would apologize to me. For the next couple of days, whenever he saw me, he spun on his heels and went in the other direction. The tension was building and I was feeling more and more diminished and insulted.
Finally, I had enough of the anger that was growing inside of me and I decided to confront him. I waited until he was alone in the office.
“Dave. I want to speak to you.”
By all means, Ezshwan, come in and take a seat.”
My hands were shaking and my head throbbed. I closed the door of the office.
“I have expected an apology from you, but it seems that you don’t think that is necessary. No one has ever spoken to me like that. I won’t accept that treatment. If working here includes being used as target for your rage I want no part of it. I’m not stupid or uneducated. If you don’t want me here any more, fire me!”
“Oh, no, Ezshwan, we don’t want you to leave. I had a lot of other things on my mind that day.”
“That’s no excuse! I did nothing to deserve your acrimonious attack.”
“OK. I apologize and I hope I’ll be in as good a shape as you are when I reach your age.” Age agin.
Now what that had to do with the apology I don’t know, but I was still tense when I reached over and patted one of his long, skinny legs and said, ”You won’t if you don’t start standing up straight.
Every day I practiced positive affirmations on the way to work, hoping I could maintain a smile and my peace of mind in what I saw as a deteriorating working environment.
Toward the end of my employment, my mood began to match the damp, chilly days that typify Oregon in winter. One dreary Sunday as I approached the employees’ entrance, I saw that I was the first to arrive. Damn! That meant that I had to get in fast and de-activate the alarm. Of course it was no great mental or physical challenge, but after working there for a couple of years, I felt incapable of doing anything right.
All my management skills and experience had seemed to evaporate. I made errors counting during inventory. The PCs in the office were foreign to me. I’ve always used a Mac, and I had a terrible time with the computer orders and price tags that I used for my bath department. I didn’t make my sales quota. The tenser I became, the more mistakes I made.
Sunday has always been special to me. Ever since I was a little girl, I looked forward to that special Sunday feeling of a slower time – time to be with family and friends.
When my husband was alive, we celebrated every “Happy Sunday” with a champagne toast. Working on Sundays was especially cheerless for me, but it was part of the job, and it was part of the bargain in exchange for a small paycheck.
The one chore I liked to do before opening the store was tending the flowers outside the front windows. I adopted the flowers as my own and I carefully watered and pruned them. I tried staying outside long enough so that I didn’t have to be the one to re-count the money from the previous night and get the computers and registers started.
I usually managed to extend my stay outside by taking extra time to sweep away the evidence of the revelry of Saturday night – beer bottles and cigarette butts jammed in the precious flowers.
Sneaking glances into the store, hidden by the displays in the window, I managed to linger until I saw someone opening the downstairs register. Then I could saunter in and begin to vacuum the carpet.
Sunday mornings at the store started slowly. The Emporium opened earlier than other places, and eventually the spaces between the displays were filled with browsers killing time while waiting for the sleepy town to come to life.
The day was painfully long for me as I watched the parade of relaxed shoppers try on the long, reversible print chiffon skirts, test fragrances, pick up samples, stick fingers into the jars of hand creams and read the books. I looked forward to my escape - eating lunch in my car and listening to public radio for 45 minutes.
I have a minor case of dyslexia – only with numbers. I mentioned this to my employers when I was hired. I’ve found that many artists have this same challenge. Consequently, I dreaded closing the register at night even more than opening it in the morning. A sinking sense of trepidation accompanied by the tightening of my solar plexus was my prelude to closing the register. I would rather perform the nightly tasks of cleaning the toilet and washing the floor of the public washroom than balancing the register and printing the daily reports.
One Sunday night, there was no one else to close the register. I had to do it. While I was counting the cash, making stacks of bills in one-hundred-dollar piles, Dave returned to the store. We were alone when he stepped behind the counter, grabbed all the piles of bills and scornfully accused me of counting the money incorrectly. He proceeded to bunch the bills together and rapidly count them, saying, “This is how to do it. What is your problem?”
I exclaimed, “ That’s not the way I can do it. And what difference does it make, as long as everything is counted?
“You really are an artist!” he snarled, as if that were some kind of depravity.
“Yes, I am an artist”
What was I doing here?
In spite of the humiliation I experienced, I felt sorry for Dave. His real passion was music and I sensed his anger and disappointment was because he gave up his art to help his wife run her successful business. Maybe he was as unfulfilled and discouraged as I was.
I left the store that Sunday night frustrated and embarrassed, and walked to the nearby-darkened Lithia Park. The park is an oasis of beauty in the center of town. Streams cascade down over rocks and fallen trees flowing into the creeks plummeting through the park. I sat on a bench watching the churning waters and felt some peace. My brain was reeling. I fought back tears. Feeling discouraged and restricted, I searched for the light to carry me through the last years of my life. I had to admit that I was selling my soul for a paycheck and unless I made a change I was doomed to a continuing bleak existence.
“I want to feel passion again – the passion of inspiration and creativity.
Addressing the darkness that folded around me, I said, “It’s not going to change. Pat and Dave don’t want me there. The rumor was Pat never fires anyone because she doesn’t want to pay unemployment. Perhaps they think that if they make my life miserable enough, I’ll quit.
If I don’t make drastic changes I’ll become just another drone, singing Peggy Lee’s song, “It That All There Is?” How depressing.
I drove home from the park, kicked off my shoes and massaged my throbbing feet. While having a glass of wine I asked myself, “What happened to the woman I used to be – the real me? How many insults and attacks will I swallow?
I felt an artistic numbing and had begun to think that my art was as worthless as I was to the Emporium. I nursed my glass of wine and looked at my art lining the walls. I picked up a book of reviews and read the glowing reports of my talent and successful exhibitions.
“Damn it. If I don’t believe in myself, what good is living?”
I turned in my resignation the next day. Pat cooed in her squeaky little girl voice, “Oh, Ezshwan, we are going to miss you.”
Somehow I didn’t believe that.
What a gift that rotten job turned out t be. If working for the Emporium hadn’t become so difficult and limited, I might still be there. That job was a perfect mirror of my chosen position of complacency and fear. Reaching that emotional dead end forced me to take the steps to pursue the joy that I had stifled for so long. I left the odious path that was familiar, for the richness of knowing that when I was ready to trust, all doors would open.
Here is the the happy old lady I am now, teaching another encaustic workshop
