Butternut Woolens

Yesterday I put on my happy red coat and with my new shopping bag stuffed with numbers, I drove to Portland to see if I could save the farm.

Carol the Financial Wizard and Dan Dan the Mortgage Man unpacked the bag. If they can't do it, nobody can.

There was no place to hang my coat.

In Montessori preschool, the first thing the children learn is how to hang up their own coats. I watched a three year old boy work for 20 minutes to get his coat laid out just so on the floor. Other children hung up their coats and flowed around him, shaking the hand of their teacher Mr. T, who sat cross-legged on the floor. Classical music was playing softly. The boy selected a hanger and put it in the shoulders of his coat. He matched up the sides of the zipper. The zipper wouldn't cooperate. The boy kept at it, working slowly and carefully while the children and teacher conversed about things they had noticed that morning, waiting for him. I could feel myself tensing up. It was taking SO LONG. Maybe I should help him? But the Montessori way is to let children work at their own pace, to not interrupt their concentration and to help only when they ask for it. He didn't need or want help. He was fine. I was the one with the problem. I took a deep breath and caught Mr. T's eye. He was smiling and nodded as if to say, 'Yes, it is us adults with the unruly minds, not the children'.

At our house we have mastered the hanging up of the coat.

It was only a matter of time, considering the stress level in my life, before I caught the cold circulating in this part of the world. My friend Corrine described it quite accurately: fever, joint pain and coughing up bits of lung. Thanks Corrine.

Judy and Marjorie, your orders will go out tomorrow.

I came home from town yesterday and this care package from Cassie was waiting for me. Rowan! A beautiful little bird! Hand creme! and Yarn. Ooooohhh, cashmere.

The yarn is hand-dyed 100% cashmere from Posh in the UK, and it is amazing. I kept petting it. Cassie made the Cream of Spinach scarf from Larissa Brown's blog and I think they are both right on. A little lacy scarf is just the thing.

I couldn't wait, so I wore it uncooked.

Thanks, Cassie!

The process of divorce is invasive. Having to give my lawyer bank statements irritates me. I can't help but think this is just a wee bit too much snooping. Of course, it isn't snooping, it's simply the process of professionals helping me identify how much money I have, where it is being spent and what my choices are. Still, there's a little voice in the back of my head justifying every purchase I make and pointing snottily to what look like selfish purchases X2B has made.

I don't want to live like that. I forgive him and me. The truth is, I don't know very much about money, I'm kind of afraid of it (OK-I'm a lot afraid of it), and I feel like I don't have control of it very often. I also feel like I don't have, or might not have, enough. Consequently, I hate looking at numbers with this sign $ in front of them. I find it depressing and frightening. I get chest pains and asthma. I avoid it.

For the past 6 years, I've been making less than $0.50/hr, as best I can figure. It's horrifying and not horrifying. Horrifying that I can represent myself as a businesswoman and yet go so long making decisions that are not benefiting the bottom line, and not horrifying because so the hell what, I love doing what I do.

I've recently come to realize that I don't like working for money. I never have. If I don't like the work, no amount of money will make me happier about it, but if I love the work, I don't really care that I don't make any money from it. Does anyone else feel this way? I feel like I'm the only one.

I remember my first geology job out of graduate school. So exciting. I moved from Pocatello, Idaho, to Seattle. I bought a wardrobe that included navy blue wool slacks. I bought a used Subaru. The first morning, traffic was stopped miles from the exit to the office in Bellevue. I thought, "Wow there must be a bad accident." I hoped no one was hurt. The next day, the cars were all stopped again at about the same place. I thought, "Someone should do something about the dangerous road conditions. There must be some problem with the engineering to make accidents happen right there." It took until Friday of the first week to figure out there were no accidents.

The work, however, was fun and I couldn't believe I was getting paid for it. I told a friend it was "mystery money" that just showed up in my in box every other Friday morning. Wow!

This type of relationship I have with money is useful for mothering, farming, writing, and making art. These are activities that take a lot of time and you're just not going to be paid for all of it and so what? I'm perfectly OK with that.

Divorce professionals are definitely not OK with it. They look at my numbers and raise their collective eyebrows. They bite their tongues. They sigh and lean back in their chairs with their hands locked behind their heads and they look at me. Then the chair springs forward and they lean heavily on their desks, hands clasped and look at me over the tops of their glasses. "Ms. Whitman, you need a job." And they don't mean they want some indigo socks.