So if I'm inside your head, don't believe what you might have read, you'll see what I might have said,
to hear it. Come waste your time with me, come waste your time with me.
-Phish
Not so long ago I was asked if I knew what I wanted in life. My answer was an absolute yes. I have since read a book that suggests people say they know what they want, but in fact, they do not really know what they want. People have a fantasy of what a great job or house or relationship may look like, but when they get it, seems that’s not really it; witness Heidi Klum and Seal, who saw that coming? People often think “if I just get that job then everything will fall into place” or “if I could just get that gold band on my left hand then my life will be better”. People so often look outwardly to fill the inner void, and it just doesn’t work. That leads to constant meandering around in life and not committing to anything, more on that later though. I pondered for quite some time, do I really know what I want?
Also, not so long ago in a galaxy close, close at hand, I had dinner at that same friends house. I was surprised to find that my friend was serving me Pillsbury biscuits, you know the kind from your childhood? They come in a tube? It kind of cracked me up a little, but you know what? They were good. They were, in fact, very good. I’m not proud, I’ll say it. They were pretty damn yummy. We watched t.v. while we ate dinner, something I have always deemed as verboten in my life. What next, t.v. trays? I think not. No t.v. while dining. If you had asked me prior to that night, and before reading that we don’t want what we think we want, I would have thought a night of watching t.v. and ingesting biscuits from a tube sounded like the kind of suburban shenanigans I did not want in my life. I have to say though, the book was right and I am wrong. You heard it folks, I said “I AM WRONG”. You may want to earmark this as I am not always willing to say such words. I was wrong. I watched t.v. while dining. I ate biscuits from a tube . . . happily.
The next day I wondered aloud to a different friend what life is really like in relationships. She is in a serious relationship, I am not in a relationship at all, and I wanted her take on biscuits and t.v. Turns out she loves biscuits in a tube. I’ve been unmarried for a good many years and when I was married my spouse worked late quite regularly, leaving me with a lot of alone time. While I have had relationships during these past years, some of which were serious and long term, it has been many years since I have completely shared my life and living space. I am not a “liver-together-er”, if you want to live with me then put a ring on it, otherwise you can wash your own damn socks. (A completely unrelated aside, when you do put a ring on it; ask the dad, and take the knee for the proposal. I have had terrible proposals, which just may be why I didn’t marry any of them). So, what really happens? In my “Yes, I know what I want” world, did I account for the everyday? What happens when it’s just a plain ol’ Tuesday and there are no crucial conversations to be had and life is just, ya know . . . life. It’s not always reading classic books by classic authors and discussing the finer points of said books, or eating decadent foods, or even looking nice. There are times when I pad about my house wearing a robe and a face mask of cinnamon and honey dripping down my chin, this is decidedly not pretty. This is what it takes to stay pretty, but not pretty in the moment. And how about those times you have the stomach flu? People, you know what I’m talking about, those times when your body is just disgusting . . . I won’t elaborate, you get the picture. You can’t just ask your spouse to leave for three days until your stomach lining stays in its place and your sphincter decides to stop tormenting you. Again I must ask, what do I really want? I want cellulite free thighs, emancipation from stomach flu, and several million dollars, but in the real world, I like the idea of biscuits and t.v. and a person who sticks around throughout everything, up to and including stomach flu.
And here’s why, because in a very twisted sense those moments are special. As gross as it is, you don’t share your stomach flu misery with just anybody, you share it with your special somebody. Lucky for that guy, eh? But really, it’s true. When you’re sick, when you’ve done something dumb, when you’ve done something you don’t want to share with the world, when you’re walking around in a robe and a homemade face mask, you share it with your special someone. Remember that movie “Babel”? Brad Pitt is married to Cate Blanchett, she is shot randomly on a bus. While they are waiting for help to arrive he’s holding her hand and she says “I have to pee”. He laughs and tells her to go ahead, who cares, she’s got a bullet in her for cryin’ out loud. Eventually she does, she just pisses herself because, why not, she’s got a bullet in her for cryin’ out loud. They both laugh through tears at the sheer ridiculousness of it and, unless you’ve seen the movie and/or been this close to someone in your life, I can’t really explain what a loving, shared moment it is. She pees herself, he loves her and he kisses her. These are two people who can share the more mundane moments of life, and still feel special, just by not doing these mundane things with anyone else. And thus, the mundane becomes special, sacred even. The everyday nothingness of life is bonding.
It’s relatively easy to have a great time during those initial days of wine and roses, it’s the frailties that build relationships. When you’re first getting to know someone you’re behind the wall of politeness, you dress your best, you don’t burp, you curb the cursing. These rituals are time honored and should continue to be honored. Eventually though, as you let people in on the real you, some less than stellar moments are going to arise. There will come a time when you lose your temper, when you have to pee out in the middle of nowhere, when you have to admit just how many pairs of shoes you really own, when you get a zit, or God forbid
. . . the stomach flu, and you let your special someone in a little closer. When they peer into your life more and more and say “Yeah, that’s ok, I’m not going anywhere”, ah bliss. Then you have someone with whom you can just be yourself, entirely; someone with whom you can lay around on the couch, watching mindless sitcoms and eating pre-packaged foods. There are boundaries of course and you need to know yours. For instance, no matter how sick I get, sweat pants with elastic around the ankles will never find their way into my wardrobe. Ick. Unless of course they become very trendy, then I’ll purchase several pairs of them. But no cellophane wrapped orange cheese slices . . . ever.
So getting that new job, or buying that house, or finding that special someone are all great things, and not at all bad to want them. You should want them, aim high and aspire to personal greatness, but also be mindful that while these things are awesome, if something inside is eating at you, attaining these outside things will not feed it. An inside void cannot be filled with extraneous matter. It’s my plan to write more about this next month, about loving yourself, but I can only solve one mystery at a time peeps. I hope these words are, in some way, relieving to you. Relieving to know that your life is probably pretty damn great right now, without the left hand gold band or the house or the new job and when you do get those things . . . super bonus on the gravy train!
So, do I know what I want? Yes. Yes I do. Oh hell yes I do.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Bobbie
In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.
I have spent my life seeking all that's still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.
In the book of love's own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.
In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
-Grateful Dead
As you know, my stories are written from personal experience. They strangely brew from a silly occurrence in my life, they reach an apex, I have some sort of epiphany, and I spew it out to you in the belief that we all share experiences and that maybe unfolding the origami of myself to you will, in some way, help you all in your troubled times, or at the very least give you a good laugh from mine.
This story, however, has no beginning. This story has no end. There is no denouement. This story is about my mother, and it is a living, breathing organism of fire and warmth and growth and soothing spring rains and love and the smell of Rose Milk Lotion.
Quite some time ago my friend, Michele, asked me why I hadn’t written about my mother. I told her that I had indeed written about mothers. She said “Yes, I know. I’m talking about your mother . . . your experience.” I believe I went breathless for a second, possibly even a slightly audible gasp before I regained inner composure. Why? Why indeed? Why had I not written about my mother? Because it’s hard. Because it’s not static. Because there is no end. How can I ever say enough? The story is never over. Even in the forty years since she transcended from this life to the next, my story with my mother grows. Every minute that I and my four siblings are alive, she is alive. She created us and in turn, what we create is of her. My great nieces will never know their great grandmother, but she lives in them.
I’ll tell you my story. My mother was not an especially great cook. But I wonder, could she have been? Would she have been someday? Her goal in cooking was to feed five children, a husband, and herself on a meager household budget. Getting fancy and experimental was not something to be embraced in the Texas and Louisiana of my youth. She made this horrible, horrible concoction, Tater Tot Casserole. Awful, just awful. Lord God I hated Tater Tot Casserole night. We had hamburgers, we had black eyed peas with corn bread, we had spaghetti and that spaghetti was festooned with fake parmesan flakes from a green can. Bleck. But I imagine trying to get seven people, five of them under the age of 15, to all eat the same thing without complaining was a bit of a culinary challenge. Did she yearn to try something different? I’ll never know. Did she even know there was the possibility of anything different? I don’t know. My mother was married when she was 18. She never rode in a plane. I imagine the list of things she never did is much longer than the list of things she did do; but not to me. She may never have flown, or eaten oysters on the half shell in a chic restaurant, or worn a scandalous and decidedly expensive dress and shoes and matching handbag in a deep shade of bordeaux, but I’ll tell you what she did do . . .
She hugged me every day of my life. She told me she loved me every day of my life. She ensured that I was able to read before starting school. She instilled the love of reading and learning in a small tribe of five kids. She tried to expand our youthful minds with trips to the library, by volunteering at the museum, by taking us to plays and taking my sister and I to see the ballet. Do you know what the ballet is like in Midland, Texas in the 1960’s? Not what my little girl mind had dreamed at all. Nowhere near as pink and frilly as I had wanted, but we went.
Every year my sister and I got new Easter dresses and shoes. We wore the same gloves every year and we had the same Easter Sunday purses and hats, but new dresses and shoes were de rigueur. Some things, like college and Easter dresses, are budgeted; maybe back off the tater tots for a week to be sure the shoes were also purchased. The dresses were white, duh, and the shoes were white patent, always. White patent, no options, because they were to serve as our GOOD SUNDAY SHOES all summer. Not navy, not yellow, and dear Lord, clutch the pearls, never red. These shoes had to be worn every Sunday, they had to match all the summer dresses we had, which may have amounted to about five for each of us. The Rockefellers we were not. One year, as this particular rite of spring was being practiced, I spotted pink shoes. I had to have them. I begged. I pleaded, I pouted, I cried. None of you is surprised by this, I’m sure. I’ll still employ such tactics if necessary. Pink shoes were at stake people, you can see my cause was just. And lo, as I was beginning to fear my arsenal was empty and I was going to have to go home with white shoes, the clouds parted. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know if my petulance paid off or my final laying down of arms and acceptance of white shoes was just too pathetic, or if my mothers enormous and girlish heart finally won out, but she let me have the pink shoes. I’ll never forget them, as long as I live. I wore them home from the store. I wore them all afternoon at home, I ran to meet daddy in them when he came home from work and leapt up in his arms to show him my beautiful new pink shoes. What could make a little girl happier? What could make a grown woman happier? How did she feel in that moment? I’ll never know. I should let you know here that I tried that whole “throwing a shoe fit” thing again when I wanted red boots, it did NOT work a second time. I got white boots that day. I have red boots now and will never be without red boots in my closet until the day I move from this life to the next.
My mother didn’t go to college. My mother didn’t have a job outside the home. My mother was the Queen of Webster Parish and I believe that may have been her 15 minutes of fame. My mother cooked and cleaned and did laundry and sewed and baked birthday cakes and made sure we went to Sunday school and volunteered at our schools and tried to keep a nice figure and wore house dresses and rose early every day to get breakfast on the table and look pretty at said table. She mended our wounds with band aids and hugs, she cut peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in half, she made pancakes shaped like kittens. My mother was not an exotic woman, but my mother was beautiful, to me, and to my dad. In some circles that is considered to be enough. To be loved by your family ‘til death do you part, is a bounty that I would wish for us all.
As I have grown older I have found that I miss her in ways for which I was not prepared. A teenage girl needs her mother. It’s a confusing and, in moments, painful time. And while I cannot fathom fighting with my mother I suppose, had we reached those years together, there would have been some arguments. (I can be a stinker sometimes. What?!) Still, I would have needed her. I needed her when I was married and I found that I didn’t know what that meant. I needed her the first time I was sick away from home. I needed her the last time I was sick. I need her when I can’t decide whether to wear a wrap to an afternoon wedding or not. I need her for guidance and solace and understanding. I need her every day of my life.
The beauty though, of mama, is I have her every day of my life. She is my divining rod. At times I have utterly ignored her voice within me and begged her to look away as I do something of which I know she would not approve. Other times I wonder “Is she giggling at my nonsensical behavior because she would have loved to have done the same”? There are so many facets of her I don’t know. A number of years ago I found a diary of hers. My eyes grew big, I was so excited. This is it, I thought, I’m going to open the door of her soul and know her now. But all the pages were empty, except one, and it said only this; “Ironed today . . . again”. It shattered my heart. Not because I hadn’t learned some long unknown detail of her hopes and aspirations, but because it sounded so sad. Was she sad? Did she long to fly to Paris and stay up all night dancing? What did she want? If she were here now could I give it to her? I’ll never know.
I know this story has been rambling and self indulgent and if you’ve made it this far, God love ya. This story has no point. There is no epiphany. There is no beginning, there is no end. This story will never end because Bobbie Sula Boggs Rogers lives in my heart and my soul and in my throwing of fits and in my manners and in my good dinner china and crystal and in my ability to find beauty and grace in the plainest of plain and my ability to tear you limb from limb if you hurt someone I love and my ability to correct your potty mouth with merely a withering glance and my ability to giggle at your potty mouth if you know there is a time and place for everything. My mother is my hero. My mother spent the shortest amount of time in my life and yet, has influenced me more than anyone. If I do anything good I owe it to her, if I fail I know she loves me as I am.
So, how to end a story with no end? No matter where I end, there will always be more. As I struggle to finish this story I think of my dear friend whose mother is in hospice. When her time comes what will I say to him that can be of comfort? There is nothing, but I have found that silence in the worst of times is better by far than some moron blathering on like they know how you feel. This story is meant to be sad. This story is meant to be happy. This story is meant to be real and this story . . . this much too short and yet ever growing story, is meant to be a testament to my mother.
There has never been anyone like her. Being her daughter is my deepest and most profound honor.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.
I have spent my life seeking all that's still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.
In the book of love's own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.
In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
-Grateful Dead
As you know, my stories are written from personal experience. They strangely brew from a silly occurrence in my life, they reach an apex, I have some sort of epiphany, and I spew it out to you in the belief that we all share experiences and that maybe unfolding the origami of myself to you will, in some way, help you all in your troubled times, or at the very least give you a good laugh from mine.
This story, however, has no beginning. This story has no end. There is no denouement. This story is about my mother, and it is a living, breathing organism of fire and warmth and growth and soothing spring rains and love and the smell of Rose Milk Lotion.
Quite some time ago my friend, Michele, asked me why I hadn’t written about my mother. I told her that I had indeed written about mothers. She said “Yes, I know. I’m talking about your mother . . . your experience.” I believe I went breathless for a second, possibly even a slightly audible gasp before I regained inner composure. Why? Why indeed? Why had I not written about my mother? Because it’s hard. Because it’s not static. Because there is no end. How can I ever say enough? The story is never over. Even in the forty years since she transcended from this life to the next, my story with my mother grows. Every minute that I and my four siblings are alive, she is alive. She created us and in turn, what we create is of her. My great nieces will never know their great grandmother, but she lives in them.
I’ll tell you my story. My mother was not an especially great cook. But I wonder, could she have been? Would she have been someday? Her goal in cooking was to feed five children, a husband, and herself on a meager household budget. Getting fancy and experimental was not something to be embraced in the Texas and Louisiana of my youth. She made this horrible, horrible concoction, Tater Tot Casserole. Awful, just awful. Lord God I hated Tater Tot Casserole night. We had hamburgers, we had black eyed peas with corn bread, we had spaghetti and that spaghetti was festooned with fake parmesan flakes from a green can. Bleck. But I imagine trying to get seven people, five of them under the age of 15, to all eat the same thing without complaining was a bit of a culinary challenge. Did she yearn to try something different? I’ll never know. Did she even know there was the possibility of anything different? I don’t know. My mother was married when she was 18. She never rode in a plane. I imagine the list of things she never did is much longer than the list of things she did do; but not to me. She may never have flown, or eaten oysters on the half shell in a chic restaurant, or worn a scandalous and decidedly expensive dress and shoes and matching handbag in a deep shade of bordeaux, but I’ll tell you what she did do . . .
She hugged me every day of my life. She told me she loved me every day of my life. She ensured that I was able to read before starting school. She instilled the love of reading and learning in a small tribe of five kids. She tried to expand our youthful minds with trips to the library, by volunteering at the museum, by taking us to plays and taking my sister and I to see the ballet. Do you know what the ballet is like in Midland, Texas in the 1960’s? Not what my little girl mind had dreamed at all. Nowhere near as pink and frilly as I had wanted, but we went.
Every year my sister and I got new Easter dresses and shoes. We wore the same gloves every year and we had the same Easter Sunday purses and hats, but new dresses and shoes were de rigueur. Some things, like college and Easter dresses, are budgeted; maybe back off the tater tots for a week to be sure the shoes were also purchased. The dresses were white, duh, and the shoes were white patent, always. White patent, no options, because they were to serve as our GOOD SUNDAY SHOES all summer. Not navy, not yellow, and dear Lord, clutch the pearls, never red. These shoes had to be worn every Sunday, they had to match all the summer dresses we had, which may have amounted to about five for each of us. The Rockefellers we were not. One year, as this particular rite of spring was being practiced, I spotted pink shoes. I had to have them. I begged. I pleaded, I pouted, I cried. None of you is surprised by this, I’m sure. I’ll still employ such tactics if necessary. Pink shoes were at stake people, you can see my cause was just. And lo, as I was beginning to fear my arsenal was empty and I was going to have to go home with white shoes, the clouds parted. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know if my petulance paid off or my final laying down of arms and acceptance of white shoes was just too pathetic, or if my mothers enormous and girlish heart finally won out, but she let me have the pink shoes. I’ll never forget them, as long as I live. I wore them home from the store. I wore them all afternoon at home, I ran to meet daddy in them when he came home from work and leapt up in his arms to show him my beautiful new pink shoes. What could make a little girl happier? What could make a grown woman happier? How did she feel in that moment? I’ll never know. I should let you know here that I tried that whole “throwing a shoe fit” thing again when I wanted red boots, it did NOT work a second time. I got white boots that day. I have red boots now and will never be without red boots in my closet until the day I move from this life to the next.
My mother didn’t go to college. My mother didn’t have a job outside the home. My mother was the Queen of Webster Parish and I believe that may have been her 15 minutes of fame. My mother cooked and cleaned and did laundry and sewed and baked birthday cakes and made sure we went to Sunday school and volunteered at our schools and tried to keep a nice figure and wore house dresses and rose early every day to get breakfast on the table and look pretty at said table. She mended our wounds with band aids and hugs, she cut peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in half, she made pancakes shaped like kittens. My mother was not an exotic woman, but my mother was beautiful, to me, and to my dad. In some circles that is considered to be enough. To be loved by your family ‘til death do you part, is a bounty that I would wish for us all.
As I have grown older I have found that I miss her in ways for which I was not prepared. A teenage girl needs her mother. It’s a confusing and, in moments, painful time. And while I cannot fathom fighting with my mother I suppose, had we reached those years together, there would have been some arguments. (I can be a stinker sometimes. What?!) Still, I would have needed her. I needed her when I was married and I found that I didn’t know what that meant. I needed her the first time I was sick away from home. I needed her the last time I was sick. I need her when I can’t decide whether to wear a wrap to an afternoon wedding or not. I need her for guidance and solace and understanding. I need her every day of my life.
The beauty though, of mama, is I have her every day of my life. She is my divining rod. At times I have utterly ignored her voice within me and begged her to look away as I do something of which I know she would not approve. Other times I wonder “Is she giggling at my nonsensical behavior because she would have loved to have done the same”? There are so many facets of her I don’t know. A number of years ago I found a diary of hers. My eyes grew big, I was so excited. This is it, I thought, I’m going to open the door of her soul and know her now. But all the pages were empty, except one, and it said only this; “Ironed today . . . again”. It shattered my heart. Not because I hadn’t learned some long unknown detail of her hopes and aspirations, but because it sounded so sad. Was she sad? Did she long to fly to Paris and stay up all night dancing? What did she want? If she were here now could I give it to her? I’ll never know.
I know this story has been rambling and self indulgent and if you’ve made it this far, God love ya. This story has no point. There is no epiphany. There is no beginning, there is no end. This story will never end because Bobbie Sula Boggs Rogers lives in my heart and my soul and in my throwing of fits and in my manners and in my good dinner china and crystal and in my ability to find beauty and grace in the plainest of plain and my ability to tear you limb from limb if you hurt someone I love and my ability to correct your potty mouth with merely a withering glance and my ability to giggle at your potty mouth if you know there is a time and place for everything. My mother is my hero. My mother spent the shortest amount of time in my life and yet, has influenced me more than anyone. If I do anything good I owe it to her, if I fail I know she loves me as I am.
So, how to end a story with no end? No matter where I end, there will always be more. As I struggle to finish this story I think of my dear friend whose mother is in hospice. When her time comes what will I say to him that can be of comfort? There is nothing, but I have found that silence in the worst of times is better by far than some moron blathering on like they know how you feel. This story is meant to be sad. This story is meant to be happy. This story is meant to be real and this story . . . this much too short and yet ever growing story, is meant to be a testament to my mother.
There has never been anyone like her. Being her daughter is my deepest and most profound honor.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Suck It Mayan Calendar, I'm Here To Stay
I'll be here awhile, ain't goin' nowhere
-311
The first hour or so of 2012 was absolutely lovely for me, and then with rapier like speed and precision it sliced me to ribbons. Sometimes people will slam you with something so seemingly out of nowhere, it feels like being hit by a truck and left for dead. Sadly though, you’re not dead. You’re just sitting there filled with truck shrapnel wishing you were dead. And your aggressor? Gone. Happy and free from the weight of the lead they’ve just unloaded on you.
You know what I do when this happens? I call Maura, I call Laura, and I cry. When life diabolically gives me lemons, these pillars of strength give me love, hugs, words of comfort, and margaritas . . . several strong margaritas. They drop what they’re doing, leave their own loved ones, and come to my aid. You know what else I do when receiving one of life’s tart, citrusy blows? I look at my life, I look at myself, and I take stock of all the beauty that surrounds and is, indeed, inside me. My life is a wondrous fractal of imperfection, as am I.
My initial intent for this blog was to write about the Mayan calendar, all the information I have gathered on the phenomenon of Winter Solstice 2012, and what this could symbolically say about the world in which we all live. After my rocky start to this freshly born year, what I really want to say is “SUCK IT 2012” but I’m not going to say that. (See how cleverly I actually did say that)? I really don’t think that though, well . . . I did, but only briefly. On New Years Eve I got zero sleep and on New Years Day I got somewhat greased with tequila; with severe sleep deprivation and mild tequila lubrication comes a glimpse of the hoary netherworld of nasty feelings and negativity. Not a pretty place, and not the place for me because really, I’m a pretty happy girl, despite being filled with truck shrapnel. I won’t condemn the driver, I’ll pick out the shards and move forward.
As I pick out the shards I know I have way more living to do than just a scant twelve months; good thing because we’re probably not all going to perish in a cold nuclear winter. In my research of the Mayans and their calendar ending ways I have learned much. Mostly, folks far more schooled than I, in areas of astrology, astronomy, history, and theology, agree the world is not going to physically end, but the world as we know it will. What a relief, eh? Maybe not quite so grandiose as, say, the final moments of “Fight Club”, but perhaps similar in feeling. I use the 2012 theory to my advantage when I have spent too much money or I’ve done something flat out ignorant. I tell myself, “Oh what the hell, I’ve only got until the end of the year anyway. Yes, I’ll take those boots and for heaven’s sake, charge them!” With any luck the end of the world will be like the end of “Fight Club” and all the credit card companies will get blown to bits, we can all have a level playing field, and just start over. But I digress, whether from a scientific approach or a more celestial approach, a large contingency of smart folk all seem to agree we are currently in one of the darkest ages ever on this centuries old planet of ours, and with the folding of Fall 2012, as it ushers in the Winter of 2012, the world will begin it’s comforting time of renewal, to turn itself back to enlightenment, love, and beauty. It’s a theoretical end of the world and believe me, I’ll take it. No one is saying you’ll wake up on 12-22-12 with a clean slate, a barter system replacing our current economies, and every Miss America’s dream of world peace come true, but a change indeed. Is it so off the mark? The world certainly does seem to be imploding, every country is broke, people are out of work and that’s not getting any better, going to college to better ones self is outrageously expensive, the rich keep getting richer while the poor get poorer and the middle class, along with their middle class dreams of a tract home and a backyard grill, are disappearing (thanks a lot republicans, you can still suck it).
I often find myself thinking in terms of the future only. I think “my life will be so different a year from now”, or “in six months this sub zero temperature and scraping ice off my car nonsense will give way to my blessed heat and sun and the wearing of pretty sundresses”. This past year I did a lot more living in the present and finding the joy in my life in the here and now, otherwise I feel that I’m just chasing an idea of perfection rather than seeing the wonder in my wonderfully flawed and silly life. My life is beautiful NOW, shrapnel and all. My life is full of escapades that I would not change and due to these merry jaunts into frivolity I feel uniquely poised to pass on a few notions of mine. For the year 2012, to which I will not say suck it, I share the following insights . . . I hope you find them useful in your life as well.
1. It is perfectly acceptable to put your head down on a bar IF a) the sun is up AND, b) you are drinking a bloody mary. At no other time and with no other beverage is this acceptable.
2. If this is the last year on the planet make it good; charge up all your credit cards and fall in love.
3. Ok, I’m kidding, don’t charge up all your credit cards. Make wise financial decisions and give yourself treats when you can. Still fall in love though, not kidding about that.
4. Say “I love you” to all living things in your house three times at a day . . . at least.
5. The human body makes a lot of noises. They’re not all pretty but they’re all hilarious if you just decide to let them be.
6. You can get used to almost anything in time so if you sleep with a snorer, try to resist the urge to smother him or her with a pillow. If you’re sharing your bed with this person, chances are you really like this person.
7. When your friend is in the hospital and she asks you to do her a favor DO IT. This may involve humiliating yourself by having to buy her husband a nudie magazine, but still . . . DO IT.
8. If you love something set it free . . . no, wait . . . that’s stupid crap from a 70’s black light poster. If you love something take care of it. When you love someone, care for them and let them be who they are, just as they are. Honor what and whom you love.
9. Everyone deserves a second chance.
10. My friend, Robyn, once asked me (due to my love of yogurt) “If God is love, and God is in everything, and you love yogurt, is God in your yogurt?” The answer is yes, a most emphatic yes.
So, “Suck It 2012” was good to say all day New Years Day as my friends purged at least some of the sad out of me by getting me sauced, and as we shared the various woes in each of our lives we toasted 2012 and decided to move on. We pinky swore to make 2012 a fantastic year. Really, you can’t do much better than a pinky swear with friends and margaritas . . . unless you’re also wearing rockin’ boots, and hey, guess what, I was . . . so SUCK IT MAYAN CALENDAR, MAMA’S GOT FRIENDS AND FRYES AND LOTS MORE LIFE AHEAD!
Happy New Year my friends.
1. I love you.
2. I love you.
3. I love you.
-311
The first hour or so of 2012 was absolutely lovely for me, and then with rapier like speed and precision it sliced me to ribbons. Sometimes people will slam you with something so seemingly out of nowhere, it feels like being hit by a truck and left for dead. Sadly though, you’re not dead. You’re just sitting there filled with truck shrapnel wishing you were dead. And your aggressor? Gone. Happy and free from the weight of the lead they’ve just unloaded on you.
You know what I do when this happens? I call Maura, I call Laura, and I cry. When life diabolically gives me lemons, these pillars of strength give me love, hugs, words of comfort, and margaritas . . . several strong margaritas. They drop what they’re doing, leave their own loved ones, and come to my aid. You know what else I do when receiving one of life’s tart, citrusy blows? I look at my life, I look at myself, and I take stock of all the beauty that surrounds and is, indeed, inside me. My life is a wondrous fractal of imperfection, as am I.
My initial intent for this blog was to write about the Mayan calendar, all the information I have gathered on the phenomenon of Winter Solstice 2012, and what this could symbolically say about the world in which we all live. After my rocky start to this freshly born year, what I really want to say is “SUCK IT 2012” but I’m not going to say that. (See how cleverly I actually did say that)? I really don’t think that though, well . . . I did, but only briefly. On New Years Eve I got zero sleep and on New Years Day I got somewhat greased with tequila; with severe sleep deprivation and mild tequila lubrication comes a glimpse of the hoary netherworld of nasty feelings and negativity. Not a pretty place, and not the place for me because really, I’m a pretty happy girl, despite being filled with truck shrapnel. I won’t condemn the driver, I’ll pick out the shards and move forward.
As I pick out the shards I know I have way more living to do than just a scant twelve months; good thing because we’re probably not all going to perish in a cold nuclear winter. In my research of the Mayans and their calendar ending ways I have learned much. Mostly, folks far more schooled than I, in areas of astrology, astronomy, history, and theology, agree the world is not going to physically end, but the world as we know it will. What a relief, eh? Maybe not quite so grandiose as, say, the final moments of “Fight Club”, but perhaps similar in feeling. I use the 2012 theory to my advantage when I have spent too much money or I’ve done something flat out ignorant. I tell myself, “Oh what the hell, I’ve only got until the end of the year anyway. Yes, I’ll take those boots and for heaven’s sake, charge them!” With any luck the end of the world will be like the end of “Fight Club” and all the credit card companies will get blown to bits, we can all have a level playing field, and just start over. But I digress, whether from a scientific approach or a more celestial approach, a large contingency of smart folk all seem to agree we are currently in one of the darkest ages ever on this centuries old planet of ours, and with the folding of Fall 2012, as it ushers in the Winter of 2012, the world will begin it’s comforting time of renewal, to turn itself back to enlightenment, love, and beauty. It’s a theoretical end of the world and believe me, I’ll take it. No one is saying you’ll wake up on 12-22-12 with a clean slate, a barter system replacing our current economies, and every Miss America’s dream of world peace come true, but a change indeed. Is it so off the mark? The world certainly does seem to be imploding, every country is broke, people are out of work and that’s not getting any better, going to college to better ones self is outrageously expensive, the rich keep getting richer while the poor get poorer and the middle class, along with their middle class dreams of a tract home and a backyard grill, are disappearing (thanks a lot republicans, you can still suck it).
I often find myself thinking in terms of the future only. I think “my life will be so different a year from now”, or “in six months this sub zero temperature and scraping ice off my car nonsense will give way to my blessed heat and sun and the wearing of pretty sundresses”. This past year I did a lot more living in the present and finding the joy in my life in the here and now, otherwise I feel that I’m just chasing an idea of perfection rather than seeing the wonder in my wonderfully flawed and silly life. My life is beautiful NOW, shrapnel and all. My life is full of escapades that I would not change and due to these merry jaunts into frivolity I feel uniquely poised to pass on a few notions of mine. For the year 2012, to which I will not say suck it, I share the following insights . . . I hope you find them useful in your life as well.
1. It is perfectly acceptable to put your head down on a bar IF a) the sun is up AND, b) you are drinking a bloody mary. At no other time and with no other beverage is this acceptable.
2. If this is the last year on the planet make it good; charge up all your credit cards and fall in love.
3. Ok, I’m kidding, don’t charge up all your credit cards. Make wise financial decisions and give yourself treats when you can. Still fall in love though, not kidding about that.
4. Say “I love you” to all living things in your house three times at a day . . . at least.
5. The human body makes a lot of noises. They’re not all pretty but they’re all hilarious if you just decide to let them be.
6. You can get used to almost anything in time so if you sleep with a snorer, try to resist the urge to smother him or her with a pillow. If you’re sharing your bed with this person, chances are you really like this person.
7. When your friend is in the hospital and she asks you to do her a favor DO IT. This may involve humiliating yourself by having to buy her husband a nudie magazine, but still . . . DO IT.
8. If you love something set it free . . . no, wait . . . that’s stupid crap from a 70’s black light poster. If you love something take care of it. When you love someone, care for them and let them be who they are, just as they are. Honor what and whom you love.
9. Everyone deserves a second chance.
10. My friend, Robyn, once asked me (due to my love of yogurt) “If God is love, and God is in everything, and you love yogurt, is God in your yogurt?” The answer is yes, a most emphatic yes.
So, “Suck It 2012” was good to say all day New Years Day as my friends purged at least some of the sad out of me by getting me sauced, and as we shared the various woes in each of our lives we toasted 2012 and decided to move on. We pinky swore to make 2012 a fantastic year. Really, you can’t do much better than a pinky swear with friends and margaritas . . . unless you’re also wearing rockin’ boots, and hey, guess what, I was . . . so SUCK IT MAYAN CALENDAR, MAMA’S GOT FRIENDS AND FRYES AND LOTS MORE LIFE AHEAD!
Happy New Year my friends.
1. I love you.
2. I love you.
3. I love you.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Texting Blows
Don’t think me unkind, words are hard to find, they’re only checks I’ve left unsigned, from the banks of chaos in my mind. When eloquence escapes me . . .
The Police
I hate texting. I hate it for so many reasons, not the least of which is the inability to have a real, meaningful, communication with a text. Texting has its place, it’s great for sending a quick message to say “Are you here yet? I’m upstairs.” Other than that, too much room for mishaps and misinterpretations.
That being said . . .
I messed up . . . in a fairly colossal manner. Go big, right? Not really. There was a misunderstanding, I sat around and let myself stew about it, let a few other minor catastrophes affect my personal marinade, and then, here comes the brilliant part, I decided to drink . . . excessively. I am not blaming the alcohol, it was me, all me, no one but me. I take full responsibility, drink or no drink. However, as the night went on, and I turned into a cat like princess, I had not yet taken any amount of responsibility. The next morning, however, ugh. As I went over the previous nights events in my head I slowly began to come around, and with every minute that passed my initial glimmer of “I may have been unreasonable” turned into a blinding comet of utter shock at my atrocious behavior. When I discovered that the whole reason I was upset in the first place (a text message that went unanswered) was not even correct (turns out the message failed and was never sent and, therefore, never received, who knew?) I began the desperate search for the nearest sharp object to plunge into my jugular. Failing the location of said shiv, I called my innocent victim, got voice mail (which I expected, I’d have let me go to voice mail hell too) and began my sincere, rambling, act of contrition. I admitted I was wrong, that I acted like a tool, and for reasons I would like to explain (the unanswered but, oooops, never actually sent text), got myself all worked up and that I am so sorry, so very, very sorry. I failed. In every possible way I failed. Because I am human, I am fallible, I falter, and I failed.
With each passing hour, as the requested return call did not occur, I felt more and more sad. I was so un-kind to someone who has been nothing but kind to me. Every time the phone rang I raced to see who it was, but it wasn’t my friend. I kept the phone strapped to me all day, until I began to realize, there will be no phone call. There are a lot of thoughts that come to mind. I had very sincerely apologized, and wanted to do all that I could to make my wrong right, but without communication I was banned. And it was a lack of good communication that got me all worked up in the first place. I began to think about the art of forgiveness. There’s only so long you can spend in the pout house before you need to think about letting the other person off the hook, because eventually they will unhook themselves and no longer be tethered by bad feelings. The punishment has to be equal to the crime or after a while the offender will leave the contrite feelings behind and start thinking “Enough is enough, let’s move on”.
I’ve been on both sides of this fence, the grass isn’t green on either side. The grass is dead and prickly and there’s no swing set in the yard, I hate both sides of this fence, it’s in a crappy neighborhood. Forgiveness can be a tough one. We want to make people pay, and sometimes it just doesn’t feel like enough. My ex-husband once told me I was a world class grudge holder. The horrible, horrible thing about this is that at that time, many years ago, I found that to be a badge of honor. He, of course, didn’t mean it as a compliment, but I wanted people to know when they had wronged me and to never forget. How stupid is this?! But it took me a long time and a lot of experience with others failing me and me, in turn, failing others. I really don’t know what I expected to gain, but back then I didn’t know how to communicate well. I think being a “see you next Tuesday” (you know what I’m sayin’) was my way of pretending to be tough and hoping to ensure that at least that particular person didn’t put me in an uncomfortable position again, a position where I might have to have an uncomfortable conversation.
Again, failure to communicate well, i.e., texting when I should have just called, why didn’t I just call? Because it was during work hours and I don’t like to bug people at work if I can help it.
Being an Astro Creep, though, doesn’t show you’re tough at all, it just shows you can’t be more human than human. All relationships require communication; relationships with friends, with co-workers, with significant others, with your family, and with the checker at the grocery store. Many years ago I had to take a long look at some of the ways I had acted and I saw that people I ousted from my life, or kept in my life just to make sure they were still paying that debt, moved on and led happy lives, free of the crappy feelings I harbored. Oh the humanity, oh the indignity, so incredulous. I found it so hard to forgive then. It felt like it showed weakness in me. Silly, eh? Forgiveness takes an amazing amount of strength and resilience, far more than being unforgiving. Forgiveness requires opening your heart while simultaneously saying “What you did is not ok, but we can talk about it and establish some boundaries and move forward”. You have to walk that knife edge of not accepting poor behavior and still showing love and compassion. You know how this is best done? Say it with me, COMMUNICATION. When you’re the one who has been the jackass (I’m raising my hand right now) you have to be able to hear that, and it’s hard. I’ve had many, many opportunities to experience this and it’s still hard every time. You’d think I’d get used to it by now. I once told The Black Dogs Dad that people should come with warning labels. I was, of course, being accusatory, but I really should have a label myself. It would say something like “98% lovely, but look out for the other 2%”.
We all need forgiveness sometimes. Sometimes it takes a while, that’s ok. Sometimes you have to sit with a thing for while and think about that thing and then walk away from that thing a bit and maybe then go back and look at that thing and decide you’re ready and then maybe not and then you try again tomorrow and then you finally get there, with that thing. It’s not always instant. But like the building of any muscle, the more it’s done, the stronger it becomes and the easier it is to put to use. Forgiveness releases everybody. Not just the transgressor, but the transgressed upon as well. You’re free to leave it in the past, exercise your inner Taoist and be the water flowing over the rock, leaving it in your path, rather than banging your head against the rock for a million or so years before you even begin to make a dent in it. If you flow over the rock, then a million or so years from now you won’t even remember it. Leave it, let it go, be forgiving . . . when you can.
Forgiveness also shuts everyone else up. There can be no speculation when there is communication and forgiveness. When you don’t talk, then you can only guess and that usually makes it all even worse. Trust me, that’s how I got myself here in the first place. Did I mention it’s my fault? It’s my fault. Many years ago when Hugh Grant made his gargantuan error of having a liaison with a prostitute it was all over the news. He was supposed to appear on Jay Leno’s show that night and, naturally, the whole world assumed he would cancel his engagement after this embarrassing gaffe. But, he did not. He manned up and made his appearance. He was remarkably humbled, but he went through with it. When Jay Leno said “I gotta ask, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!” his response was “When you reach a certain age, you know the difference between right and wrong. What I did was wrong. I have no one to blame.” Not only did he man up and show up, he ‘fessed up and made no excuses. His already bright star went super nova right then. The world forgave him and the salivating tabloids had the wind taken out of their sails. What can you say now? Nothing, except “What a stand up guy”, tabloids don’t love that. No gossip, no speculation, and no need to hold a grudge. The story was old news in no time and no one even thinks of it anymore.
We all mess up sometimes, every single one of us, and here and there, we all mess up in a Herculean way. It’s not just me (although it’s me a lot), it’s everyone. The next time you are faced with the opportunity of forgiving someone try to remember a time when you asked for forgiveness. If you can’t grant it right away, that’s ok, at least try to talk about. At least let the other person know you need a bit of time. And if, in the end, you just can’t get past it, then have a talk about that too and try to part ways diplomatically. Easier said than done, I know, but at least think about it. You’ll feel better about it later, you really will. And, ya know, glass houses, stones, all that cliché rot. Additionally, when you have said your mea culpa’s and you’re waiting for the forgiveness train to come your way, let it go. You never know why some people take a while, or maybe even never come around. Maybe what you did brought up issues from someone else, you can’t help that. Maybe they have other mental bits and pieces going on, maybe their heads are full of things like “Should I become a chef or an astronaut”? Maybe their shoes are just too tight, you never know. Give your heartfelt apology, but then move on, don’t sit around just waiting. You’ve got a life to live too.
The events that inspired this story were totally avoidable. My behavior was inexcusable, yet I am asking to be excused, and here, before God and everybody, I can say “I was wrong. I am sorry.” This story is likely not even going to be read by the person to whom I am apologizing, but that’s ok, it still needs to be said and I feel good about it.
To err is human, to forgive; divine. Yeah, it’s cheese-y, but whatever, it’s true.
The Police
I hate texting. I hate it for so many reasons, not the least of which is the inability to have a real, meaningful, communication with a text. Texting has its place, it’s great for sending a quick message to say “Are you here yet? I’m upstairs.” Other than that, too much room for mishaps and misinterpretations.
That being said . . .
I messed up . . . in a fairly colossal manner. Go big, right? Not really. There was a misunderstanding, I sat around and let myself stew about it, let a few other minor catastrophes affect my personal marinade, and then, here comes the brilliant part, I decided to drink . . . excessively. I am not blaming the alcohol, it was me, all me, no one but me. I take full responsibility, drink or no drink. However, as the night went on, and I turned into a cat like princess, I had not yet taken any amount of responsibility. The next morning, however, ugh. As I went over the previous nights events in my head I slowly began to come around, and with every minute that passed my initial glimmer of “I may have been unreasonable” turned into a blinding comet of utter shock at my atrocious behavior. When I discovered that the whole reason I was upset in the first place (a text message that went unanswered) was not even correct (turns out the message failed and was never sent and, therefore, never received, who knew?) I began the desperate search for the nearest sharp object to plunge into my jugular. Failing the location of said shiv, I called my innocent victim, got voice mail (which I expected, I’d have let me go to voice mail hell too) and began my sincere, rambling, act of contrition. I admitted I was wrong, that I acted like a tool, and for reasons I would like to explain (the unanswered but, oooops, never actually sent text), got myself all worked up and that I am so sorry, so very, very sorry. I failed. In every possible way I failed. Because I am human, I am fallible, I falter, and I failed.
With each passing hour, as the requested return call did not occur, I felt more and more sad. I was so un-kind to someone who has been nothing but kind to me. Every time the phone rang I raced to see who it was, but it wasn’t my friend. I kept the phone strapped to me all day, until I began to realize, there will be no phone call. There are a lot of thoughts that come to mind. I had very sincerely apologized, and wanted to do all that I could to make my wrong right, but without communication I was banned. And it was a lack of good communication that got me all worked up in the first place. I began to think about the art of forgiveness. There’s only so long you can spend in the pout house before you need to think about letting the other person off the hook, because eventually they will unhook themselves and no longer be tethered by bad feelings. The punishment has to be equal to the crime or after a while the offender will leave the contrite feelings behind and start thinking “Enough is enough, let’s move on”.
I’ve been on both sides of this fence, the grass isn’t green on either side. The grass is dead and prickly and there’s no swing set in the yard, I hate both sides of this fence, it’s in a crappy neighborhood. Forgiveness can be a tough one. We want to make people pay, and sometimes it just doesn’t feel like enough. My ex-husband once told me I was a world class grudge holder. The horrible, horrible thing about this is that at that time, many years ago, I found that to be a badge of honor. He, of course, didn’t mean it as a compliment, but I wanted people to know when they had wronged me and to never forget. How stupid is this?! But it took me a long time and a lot of experience with others failing me and me, in turn, failing others. I really don’t know what I expected to gain, but back then I didn’t know how to communicate well. I think being a “see you next Tuesday” (you know what I’m sayin’) was my way of pretending to be tough and hoping to ensure that at least that particular person didn’t put me in an uncomfortable position again, a position where I might have to have an uncomfortable conversation.
Again, failure to communicate well, i.e., texting when I should have just called, why didn’t I just call? Because it was during work hours and I don’t like to bug people at work if I can help it.
Being an Astro Creep, though, doesn’t show you’re tough at all, it just shows you can’t be more human than human. All relationships require communication; relationships with friends, with co-workers, with significant others, with your family, and with the checker at the grocery store. Many years ago I had to take a long look at some of the ways I had acted and I saw that people I ousted from my life, or kept in my life just to make sure they were still paying that debt, moved on and led happy lives, free of the crappy feelings I harbored. Oh the humanity, oh the indignity, so incredulous. I found it so hard to forgive then. It felt like it showed weakness in me. Silly, eh? Forgiveness takes an amazing amount of strength and resilience, far more than being unforgiving. Forgiveness requires opening your heart while simultaneously saying “What you did is not ok, but we can talk about it and establish some boundaries and move forward”. You have to walk that knife edge of not accepting poor behavior and still showing love and compassion. You know how this is best done? Say it with me, COMMUNICATION. When you’re the one who has been the jackass (I’m raising my hand right now) you have to be able to hear that, and it’s hard. I’ve had many, many opportunities to experience this and it’s still hard every time. You’d think I’d get used to it by now. I once told The Black Dogs Dad that people should come with warning labels. I was, of course, being accusatory, but I really should have a label myself. It would say something like “98% lovely, but look out for the other 2%”.
We all need forgiveness sometimes. Sometimes it takes a while, that’s ok. Sometimes you have to sit with a thing for while and think about that thing and then walk away from that thing a bit and maybe then go back and look at that thing and decide you’re ready and then maybe not and then you try again tomorrow and then you finally get there, with that thing. It’s not always instant. But like the building of any muscle, the more it’s done, the stronger it becomes and the easier it is to put to use. Forgiveness releases everybody. Not just the transgressor, but the transgressed upon as well. You’re free to leave it in the past, exercise your inner Taoist and be the water flowing over the rock, leaving it in your path, rather than banging your head against the rock for a million or so years before you even begin to make a dent in it. If you flow over the rock, then a million or so years from now you won’t even remember it. Leave it, let it go, be forgiving . . . when you can.
Forgiveness also shuts everyone else up. There can be no speculation when there is communication and forgiveness. When you don’t talk, then you can only guess and that usually makes it all even worse. Trust me, that’s how I got myself here in the first place. Did I mention it’s my fault? It’s my fault. Many years ago when Hugh Grant made his gargantuan error of having a liaison with a prostitute it was all over the news. He was supposed to appear on Jay Leno’s show that night and, naturally, the whole world assumed he would cancel his engagement after this embarrassing gaffe. But, he did not. He manned up and made his appearance. He was remarkably humbled, but he went through with it. When Jay Leno said “I gotta ask, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!” his response was “When you reach a certain age, you know the difference between right and wrong. What I did was wrong. I have no one to blame.” Not only did he man up and show up, he ‘fessed up and made no excuses. His already bright star went super nova right then. The world forgave him and the salivating tabloids had the wind taken out of their sails. What can you say now? Nothing, except “What a stand up guy”, tabloids don’t love that. No gossip, no speculation, and no need to hold a grudge. The story was old news in no time and no one even thinks of it anymore.
We all mess up sometimes, every single one of us, and here and there, we all mess up in a Herculean way. It’s not just me (although it’s me a lot), it’s everyone. The next time you are faced with the opportunity of forgiving someone try to remember a time when you asked for forgiveness. If you can’t grant it right away, that’s ok, at least try to talk about. At least let the other person know you need a bit of time. And if, in the end, you just can’t get past it, then have a talk about that too and try to part ways diplomatically. Easier said than done, I know, but at least think about it. You’ll feel better about it later, you really will. And, ya know, glass houses, stones, all that cliché rot. Additionally, when you have said your mea culpa’s and you’re waiting for the forgiveness train to come your way, let it go. You never know why some people take a while, or maybe even never come around. Maybe what you did brought up issues from someone else, you can’t help that. Maybe they have other mental bits and pieces going on, maybe their heads are full of things like “Should I become a chef or an astronaut”? Maybe their shoes are just too tight, you never know. Give your heartfelt apology, but then move on, don’t sit around just waiting. You’ve got a life to live too.
The events that inspired this story were totally avoidable. My behavior was inexcusable, yet I am asking to be excused, and here, before God and everybody, I can say “I was wrong. I am sorry.” This story is likely not even going to be read by the person to whom I am apologizing, but that’s ok, it still needs to be said and I feel good about it.
To err is human, to forgive; divine. Yeah, it’s cheese-y, but whatever, it’s true.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Symbols, signs, omens and stuff
. . . and it was Jane who spoke, she said "It's true, your cousin's not a Christian, but we love trees, we love the snow, the friends we have, the world we share and you find magic from your God and we find magic everywhere.
-Dar Williams
This entry started out as a look at the rituals people observe, be they catholic, protestant, pagan, or otherwise. As I look at the word “ritual” however, I see how extensive it can be. Much like Elvis, ritual is everywhere.
I have a client I see semi-regularly. She came in a while back and seemed determined to keep herself in a state of fear and misery while simultaneously questing for grounded-ness, connected-ness, and general happy-ness. She has complained to me of various maladies that are physical, emotional, and spiritual. If you’re thinking “No kidding Laura Ellen, you’re a massage therapist, that’s kinda what you do”, then you’re right. I began to wonder, though, how much do we reinforce our negative attitudes while searching for a more positive life? My client told me she has a regular therapist back home in Kansas, I am her regular therapist when she is in Denver, she has an acupuncturist, a chiropractor, and an herbalist. She told me she brought her spiritual guides in the room with her, she asked me to sage the room, she told me she was in dire need of either Cranial Sacral work or Reiki, she wishes she had brought her new crystals with her, she has been journaling, she feels her chakras are out of alignment and this is exacerbating her irritable bowel syndrome. Are you snickering? You shouldn’t be. We all do these things, it’s just that some of us use rosaries and liturgies and altars. Now, I want to let you know it is absolutely not ok for me to talk about clients and their issues outside of work. If you think you know who this is, I promise you, you don’t. I would NEVER name a client, nor would I ever discuss a client in a way that could reveal their identity. Furthermore, this writing is not about my client, this writing is about the different symbols we all need and how we may make fun of someone for choosing to use crystals, but then many of us feel the need to show up in a church, of which we are not active members, at least for Christmas or Easter . . . or light a menorah at Hanukkah and yet never honor Shabbat , or claim Paganism but have no idea what solstice is all about.
We tend to think of rituals as relating only to religion and spiritual derivations thereof. But as I look around me I see rituals expand into so many areas of our lives. People like to scoff at ritual and its frivolity, accusing such behavior as meaningless and worthless. But then, money is worthless too, it’s just paper. It’s not literally worth the amount it represents but, that’s what’s important, what it represents. The more zeros the better, the more of absolutely nothing printed behind a measly little number one, you’ve really got something . . . on paper. Move all those null sets in front of your measly little number one, and you’ve got my bank account. But it means something to us. Money, and what it represents, is important to us. Try to eat without it, you’ll be wishing on your crystals and rosaries and menorahs as well.
A ritual is indeed, initially, defined in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language as a rite in a religion or spiritual practice. It is, secondarily, described as any regular practice that one follows. Coffee is a ritual. I do not drink caffeine and, believe me, the world is a better place for it. However, I absolutely love my morning coffee. I drink two cups of decaf every single day of my life. I get the coffee maker all set up the night before, a ritual, so that in the morning all I have to do it hit the mighty “on” button. It’s truly one of the most delightful moments of my day. Some mornings, while battling the urge to just roll over and sleep another three or four hours, a light comes on in my head and says to me “Laura Ellen, my love, coffee is ready to go. Just get up and hit the button. All will be well.” I love that light in my head. This morning ritual of coffee follows me everywhere, to any state, on any trip, camping or in a five star hotel, coffee is an integral part of my morning. I mention coffee very specifically because when people find out I drink decaf, only the feeble (of which there are many), will raise an eyebrow and numbly ask “what’s the point?” True coffee lovers never ask this, by the way. The point is this, aside from being warm and tasty, it’s comforting. Coffee makes the house smell good. Coffee is the signal to my synapses that’s it’s time to wake up and start firing. Coffee time is also quiet time. Coffee=morning ritual.
Walking your dog every morning when you could just as easily send his or her furry self out to the back yard is a ritual. Hugging your spouse after a long day of work is a ritual. Going on dates, watching fireworks on the 4th of July, sitting on Santa’s lap, putting a pulled tooth under your pillow for the tooth fairy, watching football every Sunday in the fall, are all ritual; our lives are fraught with, seemingly, meaningless ritual. But, much like cheap paper money, the perceived value of ritual means so much and adds to our lives. Freud wrote to his wife, Martha, the following:
“Tables and chairs, beds, mirrors, a clock to remind the happy couple of the passage of time, an armchair for an hour’s pleasant daydreaming, carpets to help the housewife keep the floors clean, linen tied with pretty ribbons in the cupboard and dresses of the latest fashion and hats with artificial flowers, pictures on the wall, glasses for everyday and others for wine and festive occasions . . . are we to hang our heart on such little things? Yes, and without hesitation.”
Yes, hang your hearts on such little things, they have unfathomed value.
I think in the more conservative world people are scared that having trinkets and shrines and crystals is the belief that these totems become actual deities rather than symbols connecting us to our higher self, our God; that some people pray to their sage sticks and eagle feathers as though these non living objects house the power of the universe. And yet, the dichotomy is that more conservative people rely even more heavily on their dogma. God forbid homosexuals get married or heterosexuals have a child out of the ritual of wedlock. Still, people have their beliefs and I shouldn’t really say anything crappy about it; but oh look, I did, and here’s my opportunity to delete it . . . annnnnnnnd the moment has passed. Look at Wilson in the movie “Castaway”. Tom Hanks really needed that ball. Did he ever lose his marbles to the point that he thought it was animate? I doubt it, but the need to connect is great, so he found a ball with a name on it and a connection was born. It kept him from going 100% batty. Remember how he screamed “Wilson” when the connection was broken, literally, in the water? It was anguish. Wilson represented some semblance of normalcy, of humanity, and gave him hope. Rituals give us hope.
I have a stuffed blue dog named Ol’ Blue because, duh, he’s blue, so I couldn’t very well name him Ol’ Yeller. Blue has just about no stuffing left in him and the years have worn his material hide quite thin. When I was little I believed he could fly. I would frequently tie string around his neck and twirl him about to prove my point. Ol’ Blue still sits in my room. Need I remind you I am approaching 48 years on this planet? Still, Ol’ Blue is out in my room, not shoved in a box or rotting a land fill. Ol’ Blue is a symbol in my life. He reminds me of a time when my life revolved around my mama and flying blue dogs and peanut butter & jelly sandwiches on soft white bread with the crusts cut off. Ol’ Blue has been with me my entire life. Ol’ Blue is a touchstone for me. He knows everything about me, and loves me still. He has lived with me in Texas and Oklahoma and California and Georgia and New York and my beloved Colorado. Having something tangible can help us mere mortals to feel connected to our sense of spirit. God doesn’t care if you see him in a church or while you’re snowboarding and I don’t think he cares if you find him in a rosary or roast beef sandwich or a no longer stuffed, stuffed dog. Additionally, given the many names he has I don’t believe he cares if you call him God or not; you can call him The Universe, The Great Beyond, He Who Is Super Awesome, or Chet if it suits you. Whatev’s, He’s flexi.
So let’s get back to my unnamed client. As I mentioned, despite all her rituals she seemed quite determined to tell herself she is sick and needs help . . . lots of help. There are those who poo poo all things spiritual as being cults and giving people crutches to lean on. I don’t agree with all religions being cults, but that’s ok, I’m not opposed to others thinking that. I certainly can see why religion and spirituality is accused of being a crutch; it is for some. Some people are determined to remain unhappy. Maybe this is their ritual, I don’t know. Still, saying spirituality is bad 100% of the time fosters the same level of ignorance as those who say religion is the only way to know God. God is everywhere. I’m certain he’s in my coffee and that’s why it’s so tasty. It’s worrisome though, to see this reinforcement of things negative built into things that are meant to be positive. Book stores are full of titles telling us how to get what we want, how to stop falling in love a crazy people, how to keep a balanced life, and so on. All these books focus and feed on people’s need, under the pretense of being positive. If you get everything you want, never love someone crazy, and have a totally balanced life then what have you learned in life and when, oh when, have you ever had any fun? For cryin’ out loud, go eat a corn dog and immediately after, ride a roller coaster, live a little.
Rituals, signs, omens, hearing just the right song on the radio at just the right time, these things speak to us. If I were to lose Ol’ Blue I would feel genuine anguish, just like Tom Hanks losing Wilson. I have many such totems, an old beat up jacket that belonged to my dad, mama’s recipe box, a letter from a friend who died, a stone from another friend, they all mean something to me. They all connect me in my heart to people I love and love is a divine feeling, it is our reminder there is something greater than us all that binds us all.
Without ritual what gives our life meaning? If we do not pray or love or hug or become emotionally attached to stuffed animals or drink coffee then what is there?
Enjoy it. Eat a corn dog and ride a roller coaster.
-Dar Williams
This entry started out as a look at the rituals people observe, be they catholic, protestant, pagan, or otherwise. As I look at the word “ritual” however, I see how extensive it can be. Much like Elvis, ritual is everywhere.
I have a client I see semi-regularly. She came in a while back and seemed determined to keep herself in a state of fear and misery while simultaneously questing for grounded-ness, connected-ness, and general happy-ness. She has complained to me of various maladies that are physical, emotional, and spiritual. If you’re thinking “No kidding Laura Ellen, you’re a massage therapist, that’s kinda what you do”, then you’re right. I began to wonder, though, how much do we reinforce our negative attitudes while searching for a more positive life? My client told me she has a regular therapist back home in Kansas, I am her regular therapist when she is in Denver, she has an acupuncturist, a chiropractor, and an herbalist. She told me she brought her spiritual guides in the room with her, she asked me to sage the room, she told me she was in dire need of either Cranial Sacral work or Reiki, she wishes she had brought her new crystals with her, she has been journaling, she feels her chakras are out of alignment and this is exacerbating her irritable bowel syndrome. Are you snickering? You shouldn’t be. We all do these things, it’s just that some of us use rosaries and liturgies and altars. Now, I want to let you know it is absolutely not ok for me to talk about clients and their issues outside of work. If you think you know who this is, I promise you, you don’t. I would NEVER name a client, nor would I ever discuss a client in a way that could reveal their identity. Furthermore, this writing is not about my client, this writing is about the different symbols we all need and how we may make fun of someone for choosing to use crystals, but then many of us feel the need to show up in a church, of which we are not active members, at least for Christmas or Easter . . . or light a menorah at Hanukkah and yet never honor Shabbat , or claim Paganism but have no idea what solstice is all about.
We tend to think of rituals as relating only to religion and spiritual derivations thereof. But as I look around me I see rituals expand into so many areas of our lives. People like to scoff at ritual and its frivolity, accusing such behavior as meaningless and worthless. But then, money is worthless too, it’s just paper. It’s not literally worth the amount it represents but, that’s what’s important, what it represents. The more zeros the better, the more of absolutely nothing printed behind a measly little number one, you’ve really got something . . . on paper. Move all those null sets in front of your measly little number one, and you’ve got my bank account. But it means something to us. Money, and what it represents, is important to us. Try to eat without it, you’ll be wishing on your crystals and rosaries and menorahs as well.
A ritual is indeed, initially, defined in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language as a rite in a religion or spiritual practice. It is, secondarily, described as any regular practice that one follows. Coffee is a ritual. I do not drink caffeine and, believe me, the world is a better place for it. However, I absolutely love my morning coffee. I drink two cups of decaf every single day of my life. I get the coffee maker all set up the night before, a ritual, so that in the morning all I have to do it hit the mighty “on” button. It’s truly one of the most delightful moments of my day. Some mornings, while battling the urge to just roll over and sleep another three or four hours, a light comes on in my head and says to me “Laura Ellen, my love, coffee is ready to go. Just get up and hit the button. All will be well.” I love that light in my head. This morning ritual of coffee follows me everywhere, to any state, on any trip, camping or in a five star hotel, coffee is an integral part of my morning. I mention coffee very specifically because when people find out I drink decaf, only the feeble (of which there are many), will raise an eyebrow and numbly ask “what’s the point?” True coffee lovers never ask this, by the way. The point is this, aside from being warm and tasty, it’s comforting. Coffee makes the house smell good. Coffee is the signal to my synapses that’s it’s time to wake up and start firing. Coffee time is also quiet time. Coffee=morning ritual.
Walking your dog every morning when you could just as easily send his or her furry self out to the back yard is a ritual. Hugging your spouse after a long day of work is a ritual. Going on dates, watching fireworks on the 4th of July, sitting on Santa’s lap, putting a pulled tooth under your pillow for the tooth fairy, watching football every Sunday in the fall, are all ritual; our lives are fraught with, seemingly, meaningless ritual. But, much like cheap paper money, the perceived value of ritual means so much and adds to our lives. Freud wrote to his wife, Martha, the following:
“Tables and chairs, beds, mirrors, a clock to remind the happy couple of the passage of time, an armchair for an hour’s pleasant daydreaming, carpets to help the housewife keep the floors clean, linen tied with pretty ribbons in the cupboard and dresses of the latest fashion and hats with artificial flowers, pictures on the wall, glasses for everyday and others for wine and festive occasions . . . are we to hang our heart on such little things? Yes, and without hesitation.”
Yes, hang your hearts on such little things, they have unfathomed value.
I think in the more conservative world people are scared that having trinkets and shrines and crystals is the belief that these totems become actual deities rather than symbols connecting us to our higher self, our God; that some people pray to their sage sticks and eagle feathers as though these non living objects house the power of the universe. And yet, the dichotomy is that more conservative people rely even more heavily on their dogma. God forbid homosexuals get married or heterosexuals have a child out of the ritual of wedlock. Still, people have their beliefs and I shouldn’t really say anything crappy about it; but oh look, I did, and here’s my opportunity to delete it . . . annnnnnnnd the moment has passed. Look at Wilson in the movie “Castaway”. Tom Hanks really needed that ball. Did he ever lose his marbles to the point that he thought it was animate? I doubt it, but the need to connect is great, so he found a ball with a name on it and a connection was born. It kept him from going 100% batty. Remember how he screamed “Wilson” when the connection was broken, literally, in the water? It was anguish. Wilson represented some semblance of normalcy, of humanity, and gave him hope. Rituals give us hope.
I have a stuffed blue dog named Ol’ Blue because, duh, he’s blue, so I couldn’t very well name him Ol’ Yeller. Blue has just about no stuffing left in him and the years have worn his material hide quite thin. When I was little I believed he could fly. I would frequently tie string around his neck and twirl him about to prove my point. Ol’ Blue still sits in my room. Need I remind you I am approaching 48 years on this planet? Still, Ol’ Blue is out in my room, not shoved in a box or rotting a land fill. Ol’ Blue is a symbol in my life. He reminds me of a time when my life revolved around my mama and flying blue dogs and peanut butter & jelly sandwiches on soft white bread with the crusts cut off. Ol’ Blue has been with me my entire life. Ol’ Blue is a touchstone for me. He knows everything about me, and loves me still. He has lived with me in Texas and Oklahoma and California and Georgia and New York and my beloved Colorado. Having something tangible can help us mere mortals to feel connected to our sense of spirit. God doesn’t care if you see him in a church or while you’re snowboarding and I don’t think he cares if you find him in a rosary or roast beef sandwich or a no longer stuffed, stuffed dog. Additionally, given the many names he has I don’t believe he cares if you call him God or not; you can call him The Universe, The Great Beyond, He Who Is Super Awesome, or Chet if it suits you. Whatev’s, He’s flexi.
So let’s get back to my unnamed client. As I mentioned, despite all her rituals she seemed quite determined to tell herself she is sick and needs help . . . lots of help. There are those who poo poo all things spiritual as being cults and giving people crutches to lean on. I don’t agree with all religions being cults, but that’s ok, I’m not opposed to others thinking that. I certainly can see why religion and spirituality is accused of being a crutch; it is for some. Some people are determined to remain unhappy. Maybe this is their ritual, I don’t know. Still, saying spirituality is bad 100% of the time fosters the same level of ignorance as those who say religion is the only way to know God. God is everywhere. I’m certain he’s in my coffee and that’s why it’s so tasty. It’s worrisome though, to see this reinforcement of things negative built into things that are meant to be positive. Book stores are full of titles telling us how to get what we want, how to stop falling in love a crazy people, how to keep a balanced life, and so on. All these books focus and feed on people’s need, under the pretense of being positive. If you get everything you want, never love someone crazy, and have a totally balanced life then what have you learned in life and when, oh when, have you ever had any fun? For cryin’ out loud, go eat a corn dog and immediately after, ride a roller coaster, live a little.
Rituals, signs, omens, hearing just the right song on the radio at just the right time, these things speak to us. If I were to lose Ol’ Blue I would feel genuine anguish, just like Tom Hanks losing Wilson. I have many such totems, an old beat up jacket that belonged to my dad, mama’s recipe box, a letter from a friend who died, a stone from another friend, they all mean something to me. They all connect me in my heart to people I love and love is a divine feeling, it is our reminder there is something greater than us all that binds us all.
Without ritual what gives our life meaning? If we do not pray or love or hug or become emotionally attached to stuffed animals or drink coffee then what is there?
Enjoy it. Eat a corn dog and ride a roller coaster.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
THE LAST TIME YOU BROKE MY HEART
It was still warm outside at night. We were at a poetry reading and in her poem she spoke of an event that in the past would have held a secret shared moment between us. In the past we would have surreptitiously caught each other’s eye and oh so discreetly smiled. A knowing moment of times gone by would have passed between us in a room filled with people, and only we would be aware. But not tonight, not this time. I look at you and I see you purposely avoiding my eye. I see how stiff you hold your neck, how rigidly you stare above my head, how purposeful you are in your ignorance of me. YOU WILL NOT LOOK AT ME NO MATTER WHAT . . . and then I know. All my suspicions of the past several weeks are confirmed in that moment. Before then I could pretend that I was just imagining things, but not now . . . now I know. Soon I will dream of you and I will be wearing exactly what I am wearing tonight, but I don’t know that now. All I know now is everything has changed, and you didn’t even bother to tell me.
Fall sets in, the air gets cool. I wait for you to tell me the truth, but you won’t, you don’t. A few weeks later, it is no longer warm outside at night, you invite me to spend your birthday with you and I wonder “was I wrong”? But I call you the morning of your birthday and you do not answer, I know I’m not wrong. She is there and you will call me when she leaves. You call me later, I come over and see the evidence that you have not hidden well enough. I say “I’m going to have a cigarette”, I step outside on the front porch . . . and cry quietly. It’s your birthday, I can’t say anything on your birthday and it’s really not my business anymore . . . but I did think we were closer than this. You ask me to send a card to your mother and I’m sad for the girl who was here just a few hours before. She is not spending your birthday with you or sending a card to your mother. She doesn’t know what’s in store for her, but I do, and I hurt for her.
Many weeks later I am at your house for dinner. It has not been warm outside at night for a long time. I see the evidence again and I think “It must be hard to tell me, I will help him”. I ask you about it, giving you an opportunity to get it out so we can have openness and honesty. You pretend not to hear me. I have a moment to renege on my question. I can drop it right here and not hear the truth, and in my nanosecond of hesitation I have unwittingly given you time to dream up your lie. And lie you do. I ask again, I will not be daunted, and you look at me . . . . and lie to me. You look your friend in the eye and spew a river of bile. You tell me more than I had asked, always a sign of lying, and your lie is so outrageous it’s insulting. If I hadn’t been so stunned and hurt I would have laughed at the sheer audacity and stupidity of it. I let you have your lie, what else can I do? I lost my friend weeks ago. It is snowing and cold outside now, but I lost my friend when it was still warm outside at night. I have clawed on to my friendship with you, looking away, ignoring what I see and hoping it will all go away . . . and it does. It goes away, but not in the way I had hoped.It will take several more weeks for what remains of our friendship it to die its slow painful death but it began in summer, when it was still warm outside at night.
And now, many years later I watch your duplicitous nature with someone else. I watch you lie to her. It has been summer, fall, winter, spring, and then summer again many times since that first time . . . when it was summer, when it was still warm outside at night.
Fall sets in, the air gets cool. I wait for you to tell me the truth, but you won’t, you don’t. A few weeks later, it is no longer warm outside at night, you invite me to spend your birthday with you and I wonder “was I wrong”? But I call you the morning of your birthday and you do not answer, I know I’m not wrong. She is there and you will call me when she leaves. You call me later, I come over and see the evidence that you have not hidden well enough. I say “I’m going to have a cigarette”, I step outside on the front porch . . . and cry quietly. It’s your birthday, I can’t say anything on your birthday and it’s really not my business anymore . . . but I did think we were closer than this. You ask me to send a card to your mother and I’m sad for the girl who was here just a few hours before. She is not spending your birthday with you or sending a card to your mother. She doesn’t know what’s in store for her, but I do, and I hurt for her.
Many weeks later I am at your house for dinner. It has not been warm outside at night for a long time. I see the evidence again and I think “It must be hard to tell me, I will help him”. I ask you about it, giving you an opportunity to get it out so we can have openness and honesty. You pretend not to hear me. I have a moment to renege on my question. I can drop it right here and not hear the truth, and in my nanosecond of hesitation I have unwittingly given you time to dream up your lie. And lie you do. I ask again, I will not be daunted, and you look at me . . . . and lie to me. You look your friend in the eye and spew a river of bile. You tell me more than I had asked, always a sign of lying, and your lie is so outrageous it’s insulting. If I hadn’t been so stunned and hurt I would have laughed at the sheer audacity and stupidity of it. I let you have your lie, what else can I do? I lost my friend weeks ago. It is snowing and cold outside now, but I lost my friend when it was still warm outside at night. I have clawed on to my friendship with you, looking away, ignoring what I see and hoping it will all go away . . . and it does. It goes away, but not in the way I had hoped.It will take several more weeks for what remains of our friendship it to die its slow painful death but it began in summer, when it was still warm outside at night.
And now, many years later I watch your duplicitous nature with someone else. I watch you lie to her. It has been summer, fall, winter, spring, and then summer again many times since that first time . . . when it was summer, when it was still warm outside at night.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Day The Earth Stood Still. The Day The Music Died.
It’s 5:00 and I’m driving home again, it’s hard to believe it’s my last time. The man on the wireless cries again “It’s over, it’s over”. Dancing with tears in my eyes.
- Ultravox
I wasn’t going to write about September 11, 2001 and the 10th anniversary. It seemed obvious, purposely dramatic, maybe a bit flippant, and possibly cheesey; writing about tragedy just to elicit a response, so distasteful. But as it draws near and the stories of loss and gain and love and heroism unfold, I find I am compelled to write about it and it seems that to let it pass by blithely would be disrespectful.
When I was very young people knew exactly where they were, what they were doing, and with whom when President Kennedy was shot. The world seemingly stopped in November 1963. I had three weeks left in the womb, that’s where I was. Now, though, everyone knows where they were, what they doing, and with whom on that God awful morning of September 11th, 2001. The world stopped again, and has not spun the same since. Loss and gain in the same moment, a man quietly leaps out a building to his death while another wins a Pulitzer for his haunting photo of the flight downward to earth. Thousands of families are torn apart while a few people find love in the face tragedy.
There is silence, and then there is deafening silence. There is the kind of silence when you ask a question and the person hesitates, you know what’s coming . . . they are about to lie, to break up with you, to not break up with you when they should, to say something uncomfortable. It’s a silence we all know, it makes us roll our internal eyes and think “Spit it out, get on with it”. But then, there is that most peculiar silence that signals you something is wrong . . . very, very wrong. That silence is horrific, terrifying, and in that moment you wonder “Do I want to know what’s coming? I only have a nano-second of blissful ignorance before the terror comes out”. That was the silence of that day. My dearest friend, Therese, was living with me then. She was embattled with her own life changes and as a result slept on my couch for several months. We went through many tragedies together during that time and have come to see it as fortuitous and divine that we were led to be roommates during those months.
That particular morning the phone rang early, back then plain ol’ push button house phones were still the norm. Ours was black, rang loudly, and sat right by T’s head. It woke me up that morning, but it must have really jarred her. We were both asleep still. I heard her early morning, confused voice, the not quite focused voice, and then I heard something odd . . . the t.v. She turned the t.v. on. It seemed strange, but I was rolling over to go back to sleep and didn’t think too much about it, then I heard it . . . the nothing. The void. The absence of anything. Utter shock. The deafening silence. It crept down the hall from the front room and filled my room. It filled my mind. It filled my heart. I was scared. Something had happened, someone must have died. I have a choice, if I don’t go in the front room then time will stop right here and I won’t have to know and it never will have happened. If I don’t move, then it never happened . . . but then I’ve abandoned my dearest friend in a dark time, whatever it may be. I would never do that. I get out of bed, I pad down the hall, and I see it. I see her horror. Her indescribable look of horror. She has no words. She is stripped of her normal eloquence and inhumanly large vocabulary. Some pieces of that day are blurry now. Did she just point at the t.v. screen and utter a caveman like “ugh”? Did she say anything even remotely cohesive? I don’t remember. I only remember being on the couch, watching in horror and just as we are beginning to wrap our brains around the fact that this is real, this is not some sort of epic “War of The Worlds” hoax, one of the towers really has been attacked by terrorists, just as we are getting that . . . it happened again . . . and we saw it. Right before our very eyes, we saw it. We huddle together on the couch crying, helpless, watching people choose to jump out of buildings rather than being burned to death. People are dying, Pulitzers will be awarded. The symbiosis of life and death.
The horror continues. A plane crashes in Pennsylvania, the Pentagon is bombed, what would be next? Who is safe? And then, wait, back up, the Pentagon? THE PENTAGON?! MY BROTHER AND HIS WIFE ARE THERE! OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, LEE AND SARAH ARE THERE! DEAR GOD GET THEM OUT, GET THEM OUT! I DEMAND IT, I AM NOT EVEN ASKING I AM TELLING YOU FIRMLY AND RESOLUTELY, GET THEM THE FUCK OUT . . . NOW. I cannot reach my brothers house, phone lines are down, or crammed full or God only knows what but I cannot reach my brother and his wife. Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY? JESUS FUCKING H. CHRIST ON A BIKE WHERE ARE THEY?!!!! Ten years ago I did not have a home computer. Why would I? I had one at work and who the hell wants to be on a computer on your free time? Oh how times change. I know that I need to go to the office and at least try to reach them via email. I have no intention of working and if I had any means of reaching them at home I would, but I need that computer and it’s in my office.
I get in the car, turn the key, and the radio comes on. I notice that whatever cacophonous, possibly base, and revolting morning show would normally be offending my ears right now has become a whole other animal indeed. I am grateful and happily surprised to hear that even the loudest and most ridiculous of radio on air hosts are professional broadcast journalists today. Today they deliver the news with dignity and compassion. I am proud, but I beg for life to go back to normal. I want to hear Lewis & Floorwax make off color jokes about human anatomy and peanut butter. It’s degrading and vile, but it will mean the world is normal again. I drive to work. The streets are barren. The entire world is stricken. We have been sucker punched. There are a few people at work, but no one is working. Everyone is glassy eyed and wondering around aimlessly, like zombies. One man I work with is retired from the Army. I see the look of despair and helplessness in his eyes. He is fighting tears. I see that he feels a type of pressure and separation I can’t know. He is trained to serve his country, but here he is in a mortgage office. He feels there is something he should do, but what? Why is he even here? And then I know, he feels a sense of duty. It doesn’t matter if it’s serving his country or being a good employee, he is a dutiful person. We are all broken today, but duty and honor are still intact.
I search my email, no word. I send emails and wait for a response. I get nothing. I finally am connected with another brother, Eddie. Did he call home and get Therese? Did he email me? Did I reach him at work? I don’t remember, I only know he told me Lee and Sarah are safe. Lee and Sarah are safe. Lee and Sarah are safe. Lee and Sarah are safe. Have you ever heard more melodic words in your life? Those words are a song, a hymn, an anthem. Lee and Sarah are safe. Do you feel the calm those words bring? This is my story. This is my world. My little world is ok. The big world is suffering. An email arrives, it’s my boss telling us all to go home, my Army co-worker races out the door with nary a goodbye. I laugh at the message and wonder, “Did you really think anyone would stay?” Still, it was the right thing to do. Today isn’t a day to pick on my boss. We’re all lost today, and besides, Lee and Sarah are safe.
I go back home. Finally I am able to talk to Sarah on the phone. I collapse. I break down at the sound of her voice. Fears I didn’t even realize I’ve had these past few hours come tumbling out. I am terrified in my own home. I am miles and miles from my family and I am not safe in my own home. For the first time in my life, my country is not hallowed ground. What will be next? Where? Who? Are they flying over head right now? Will my little house be bombed too? I don’t feel safe in my home. I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life. This is not an embellishment for the sake of interesting story telling, I’ve never felt so unsafe and vulnerable in my own home in my life. I have no control over what happens to me. Anyone can walk in my door right now and kill me. Planes are going down everywhere, people are leaping to their deaths, Lewis & Floorwax are acting like adults, my world is not safe. And then my sister in law, Sarah, exudes grace under fire. She calmly, firmly, reproaches me. She is likely wagging her finger at me as she tells me “Don’t you dare feel that way today. That is mental guerilla warfare and that is how they want you to feel. If you feel scared today then they have won. You are safe. You are safer now than you were this morning and don’t you give in to them, it’s unpatriotic.” She is right, and she gives me hope. I did not vote for President Bush, but he was the President on that day and I am an American on any day, I will be sure of that every day of my life, no matter who is President. I am safe. Lee and Sarah are safe.
Lee was indeed in the Pentagon, but unharmed and he was out performing his duty as a former officer and always a gentleman by driving people home who could not get there otherwise. He was out driving the streets of D.C., where God only knows what could still happen, to make sure his co-workers got home. Lee and Sarah are safe, and now others are safe at home somewhere in the D.C. area, where they should be, because Lee took them there. He is a hero.
On the t.v. the world continues it’s twisted, tormented decline. Lives are changed forever. It’s become unimaginable. Back then I hadn’t met my friend Maura, or her brother David. As I write this I wonder how Maura felt that day. Did she know her brothers were on the scene, saving lives? How scared and proud she must have felt. David was with the NY Fire Department. There are people in the world who are willing to save you, to save me, to save every one of us and they have never even met us. There are hero’s who will rush into a fire to drag you and your pet out and bring you to safety. David is one of those people. David has lung issues now, the ramifications of one day, of one minute in one day, can be so far reaching. David is a hero. He should wear a cape . . . every day. There are so many who should. In my world Lee and Sarah are safe. In the worlds of others how many people are able to count their loved ones among those who are safe because David was there? Another of her brothers owns a bar, 80 blocks away from the site. People covered in dust and debris walk in and he gives them water, an oasis in the middle of their long march home. Another hero. What a welcome sight his bar must have been.
I think back on the Pulitzer prize winning photo. It’s beautiful, quiet, serene, not at all a scene of horror. The man in the photo is not flailing wildly about, it’s as though we are watching his last moment of prayer and resignation and acceptance, he is going to meet his maker and, quite possibly, is already there in his heart. It’s one of the most peaceful moments I’ve ever seen, almost intrusive, watching this mans final, personal atonement. And below him, thousands are shrieking . . . and thousands are being hushed forever. It is said there are no atheists in fox holes. I wonder if the same holds true for burning buildings. The three men I admire most, the Father, Son, and The Holy Ghost, they caught the last train for the coast . . . the day the music died.
Tomorrow marks ten years. Tomorrow is the first Sunday of the football season, a day normally filled with immense joy for me. I do love my football Sunday’s don’tcha know. Life goes on because it must, and at times life stands still because it must. So tomorrow, when the National Football League poses the question “Are you ready for some football”, my answer will be “Yes, but after a time of quiet, reverence and reflection”.
It’s a tough day. Do whatever it is you need to do. Blessings to each of you.
- Ultravox
I wasn’t going to write about September 11, 2001 and the 10th anniversary. It seemed obvious, purposely dramatic, maybe a bit flippant, and possibly cheesey; writing about tragedy just to elicit a response, so distasteful. But as it draws near and the stories of loss and gain and love and heroism unfold, I find I am compelled to write about it and it seems that to let it pass by blithely would be disrespectful.
When I was very young people knew exactly where they were, what they were doing, and with whom when President Kennedy was shot. The world seemingly stopped in November 1963. I had three weeks left in the womb, that’s where I was. Now, though, everyone knows where they were, what they doing, and with whom on that God awful morning of September 11th, 2001. The world stopped again, and has not spun the same since. Loss and gain in the same moment, a man quietly leaps out a building to his death while another wins a Pulitzer for his haunting photo of the flight downward to earth. Thousands of families are torn apart while a few people find love in the face tragedy.
There is silence, and then there is deafening silence. There is the kind of silence when you ask a question and the person hesitates, you know what’s coming . . . they are about to lie, to break up with you, to not break up with you when they should, to say something uncomfortable. It’s a silence we all know, it makes us roll our internal eyes and think “Spit it out, get on with it”. But then, there is that most peculiar silence that signals you something is wrong . . . very, very wrong. That silence is horrific, terrifying, and in that moment you wonder “Do I want to know what’s coming? I only have a nano-second of blissful ignorance before the terror comes out”. That was the silence of that day. My dearest friend, Therese, was living with me then. She was embattled with her own life changes and as a result slept on my couch for several months. We went through many tragedies together during that time and have come to see it as fortuitous and divine that we were led to be roommates during those months.
That particular morning the phone rang early, back then plain ol’ push button house phones were still the norm. Ours was black, rang loudly, and sat right by T’s head. It woke me up that morning, but it must have really jarred her. We were both asleep still. I heard her early morning, confused voice, the not quite focused voice, and then I heard something odd . . . the t.v. She turned the t.v. on. It seemed strange, but I was rolling over to go back to sleep and didn’t think too much about it, then I heard it . . . the nothing. The void. The absence of anything. Utter shock. The deafening silence. It crept down the hall from the front room and filled my room. It filled my mind. It filled my heart. I was scared. Something had happened, someone must have died. I have a choice, if I don’t go in the front room then time will stop right here and I won’t have to know and it never will have happened. If I don’t move, then it never happened . . . but then I’ve abandoned my dearest friend in a dark time, whatever it may be. I would never do that. I get out of bed, I pad down the hall, and I see it. I see her horror. Her indescribable look of horror. She has no words. She is stripped of her normal eloquence and inhumanly large vocabulary. Some pieces of that day are blurry now. Did she just point at the t.v. screen and utter a caveman like “ugh”? Did she say anything even remotely cohesive? I don’t remember. I only remember being on the couch, watching in horror and just as we are beginning to wrap our brains around the fact that this is real, this is not some sort of epic “War of The Worlds” hoax, one of the towers really has been attacked by terrorists, just as we are getting that . . . it happened again . . . and we saw it. Right before our very eyes, we saw it. We huddle together on the couch crying, helpless, watching people choose to jump out of buildings rather than being burned to death. People are dying, Pulitzers will be awarded. The symbiosis of life and death.
The horror continues. A plane crashes in Pennsylvania, the Pentagon is bombed, what would be next? Who is safe? And then, wait, back up, the Pentagon? THE PENTAGON?! MY BROTHER AND HIS WIFE ARE THERE! OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, LEE AND SARAH ARE THERE! DEAR GOD GET THEM OUT, GET THEM OUT! I DEMAND IT, I AM NOT EVEN ASKING I AM TELLING YOU FIRMLY AND RESOLUTELY, GET THEM THE FUCK OUT . . . NOW. I cannot reach my brothers house, phone lines are down, or crammed full or God only knows what but I cannot reach my brother and his wife. Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY? JESUS FUCKING H. CHRIST ON A BIKE WHERE ARE THEY?!!!! Ten years ago I did not have a home computer. Why would I? I had one at work and who the hell wants to be on a computer on your free time? Oh how times change. I know that I need to go to the office and at least try to reach them via email. I have no intention of working and if I had any means of reaching them at home I would, but I need that computer and it’s in my office.
I get in the car, turn the key, and the radio comes on. I notice that whatever cacophonous, possibly base, and revolting morning show would normally be offending my ears right now has become a whole other animal indeed. I am grateful and happily surprised to hear that even the loudest and most ridiculous of radio on air hosts are professional broadcast journalists today. Today they deliver the news with dignity and compassion. I am proud, but I beg for life to go back to normal. I want to hear Lewis & Floorwax make off color jokes about human anatomy and peanut butter. It’s degrading and vile, but it will mean the world is normal again. I drive to work. The streets are barren. The entire world is stricken. We have been sucker punched. There are a few people at work, but no one is working. Everyone is glassy eyed and wondering around aimlessly, like zombies. One man I work with is retired from the Army. I see the look of despair and helplessness in his eyes. He is fighting tears. I see that he feels a type of pressure and separation I can’t know. He is trained to serve his country, but here he is in a mortgage office. He feels there is something he should do, but what? Why is he even here? And then I know, he feels a sense of duty. It doesn’t matter if it’s serving his country or being a good employee, he is a dutiful person. We are all broken today, but duty and honor are still intact.
I search my email, no word. I send emails and wait for a response. I get nothing. I finally am connected with another brother, Eddie. Did he call home and get Therese? Did he email me? Did I reach him at work? I don’t remember, I only know he told me Lee and Sarah are safe. Lee and Sarah are safe. Lee and Sarah are safe. Lee and Sarah are safe. Have you ever heard more melodic words in your life? Those words are a song, a hymn, an anthem. Lee and Sarah are safe. Do you feel the calm those words bring? This is my story. This is my world. My little world is ok. The big world is suffering. An email arrives, it’s my boss telling us all to go home, my Army co-worker races out the door with nary a goodbye. I laugh at the message and wonder, “Did you really think anyone would stay?” Still, it was the right thing to do. Today isn’t a day to pick on my boss. We’re all lost today, and besides, Lee and Sarah are safe.
I go back home. Finally I am able to talk to Sarah on the phone. I collapse. I break down at the sound of her voice. Fears I didn’t even realize I’ve had these past few hours come tumbling out. I am terrified in my own home. I am miles and miles from my family and I am not safe in my own home. For the first time in my life, my country is not hallowed ground. What will be next? Where? Who? Are they flying over head right now? Will my little house be bombed too? I don’t feel safe in my home. I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life. This is not an embellishment for the sake of interesting story telling, I’ve never felt so unsafe and vulnerable in my own home in my life. I have no control over what happens to me. Anyone can walk in my door right now and kill me. Planes are going down everywhere, people are leaping to their deaths, Lewis & Floorwax are acting like adults, my world is not safe. And then my sister in law, Sarah, exudes grace under fire. She calmly, firmly, reproaches me. She is likely wagging her finger at me as she tells me “Don’t you dare feel that way today. That is mental guerilla warfare and that is how they want you to feel. If you feel scared today then they have won. You are safe. You are safer now than you were this morning and don’t you give in to them, it’s unpatriotic.” She is right, and she gives me hope. I did not vote for President Bush, but he was the President on that day and I am an American on any day, I will be sure of that every day of my life, no matter who is President. I am safe. Lee and Sarah are safe.
Lee was indeed in the Pentagon, but unharmed and he was out performing his duty as a former officer and always a gentleman by driving people home who could not get there otherwise. He was out driving the streets of D.C., where God only knows what could still happen, to make sure his co-workers got home. Lee and Sarah are safe, and now others are safe at home somewhere in the D.C. area, where they should be, because Lee took them there. He is a hero.
On the t.v. the world continues it’s twisted, tormented decline. Lives are changed forever. It’s become unimaginable. Back then I hadn’t met my friend Maura, or her brother David. As I write this I wonder how Maura felt that day. Did she know her brothers were on the scene, saving lives? How scared and proud she must have felt. David was with the NY Fire Department. There are people in the world who are willing to save you, to save me, to save every one of us and they have never even met us. There are hero’s who will rush into a fire to drag you and your pet out and bring you to safety. David is one of those people. David has lung issues now, the ramifications of one day, of one minute in one day, can be so far reaching. David is a hero. He should wear a cape . . . every day. There are so many who should. In my world Lee and Sarah are safe. In the worlds of others how many people are able to count their loved ones among those who are safe because David was there? Another of her brothers owns a bar, 80 blocks away from the site. People covered in dust and debris walk in and he gives them water, an oasis in the middle of their long march home. Another hero. What a welcome sight his bar must have been.
I think back on the Pulitzer prize winning photo. It’s beautiful, quiet, serene, not at all a scene of horror. The man in the photo is not flailing wildly about, it’s as though we are watching his last moment of prayer and resignation and acceptance, he is going to meet his maker and, quite possibly, is already there in his heart. It’s one of the most peaceful moments I’ve ever seen, almost intrusive, watching this mans final, personal atonement. And below him, thousands are shrieking . . . and thousands are being hushed forever. It is said there are no atheists in fox holes. I wonder if the same holds true for burning buildings. The three men I admire most, the Father, Son, and The Holy Ghost, they caught the last train for the coast . . . the day the music died.
Tomorrow marks ten years. Tomorrow is the first Sunday of the football season, a day normally filled with immense joy for me. I do love my football Sunday’s don’tcha know. Life goes on because it must, and at times life stands still because it must. So tomorrow, when the National Football League poses the question “Are you ready for some football”, my answer will be “Yes, but after a time of quiet, reverence and reflection”.
It’s a tough day. Do whatever it is you need to do. Blessings to each of you.
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