WHIMSY CITY

THE HERMIT

2012-01-10T08:52:00.000-08:00

North of the city of Solothurn Switzerland, in the tranquility of the Verena gorge, lives a hermit. The gorge is luscious with ferns and moss blanketing the majestic boulders ... and in the winter, blanketed in quiet snow.

A mountain stream cuts through the landscape, and a secluded path leads you toward caves and coves that make it possible for you to believe in fairies. Although, this isn’t really a stretch. You have believed in fairies since the age of four—but this magical spot emphasizes your belief like an exclamation point.

You fantasize about becoming a hermit yourself someday. However, this isn’t a stretch either. Ever since you heard the news about Martha Stewart going to prison, you have imagined jail as some sort of dreamy, far-away refuge meant only for the most privileged. In prison, you imagine ... you would have simplicity: One bed. One book. One pen. You would have uninterrupted time to think, and write and dream. You would have hours of solitude. Nobody would expect anything from you, because you would be in prison. Social obligations? No longer an issue—not when you are behind bars. You would be left alone.

However, now that you have seen prison reality shows, you have changed your tune. One show featured a female inmate fashioning a maxi-pad across her eyes like a sleep mask ... “Because they never turn the lights off on the inside,” she said. And Rod Blagojevich’s fifteen-year separation from his family doesn’t exactly seem like the stuff dreams are made of. Plus, now that you know ‘hermit’ is a viable option—all the better.

In order to be a hermit in Solothurn Switzerland, you must first endure a rigorous application process. The potential hermit must have some sort of resume that highlights qualifications for hermitage. You wonder what these requirements are.

“Does not play well with others,” or “Likes to spend long hours prostrate in prayer,” are likely traits.

Certainly a girl who repeatedly got, “She’s a good student but she talks too much," on her report card would be disqualified. Especially since the last Solothurn hermit was chastised by the townspeople for, “Having too many visitors.”

Word has it that the Solothurn hermit must have a skill, craft or trade ... something he or she can do to help pay room and board. This skill must be useful, like candle-making, yet it cannot involve too much human interaction. The town’s current hermit is the first-ever female. You are proud of her ... “GIRL POWER” and all that. She makes soap and sells it at a shop in town. You suppose an online business would be too robust according to the rigid, Swiss townspeople. You also suppose the hermit doesn’t have wireless. Heck. She may not even have electricity. Maybe this hermit thing isn’t so terrific after all.

You know, deep down, that if you were better about clearing the clutter out of your life ... and about setting boundaries ... and about not over-booking, over-planning and over-cramming ... you wouldn’t feel the need for prison, or hermitage or any other sort of enforced solitude. If you reserved more time for yourself to simply think, sit, meditate, dream, write, and create ... you would be freer on the outside, where you belong.

“There is no need to go to India or anywhere else to find peace. You will find that deep place of silence right in your room.”

- Elizabeth Kübler Ross

THE DOODKI

2011-09-28T10:07:00.000-07:00

No, this really isn’t a Doodki. This is the poor, abandoned albino sea lion they rescued from under some logs on a Russian beach. I can’t get over how cute he is. I also can’t get over the fact that if you weren’t told what kind of animal this is, you may not know what to call him. For all we know, he might be the Paddle-Footed Flibbity-Flab of Indonesia. Or, the Brown-Crested Sea Cow indigenous to Madagascar. But no, he is simply a sea lion—albeit albino. Undeniably handsome. Unmistakably Seussian. And yet, would a sea lion by any other name still be a sea lion?

For instance, see how closely he resembles this character.

This is Clementine, our miniature dachshund. What she doesn’t have in stature, she makes up for in attitude. But who decided dachshunds should be called dachshunds? Not that dachshund is a bad name for a dog breed. There are worse. The Xoloitzcuintli, for one. The animal I feel sorriest for though is called the Scrod. Talk about having a tough time making a good first impression. “Well hello ladies. I am Scrod.” (Fish scatter.) Scrod trolls the ocean floor in search of love …

But getting back to the Doodki: This is not an animal at all, but instead scarier and fiercer than any animal could ever be—including the Great White Shark, the King Cobra and the Komodo Dragon. The Doodki (or Dhudki, Or Duedki?) was an ominous spanking device my parents kept locked in the kitchen cabinet while my brother, sister and I were growing up. This beast had a long wooden handle with black leather straps riveted to the top. The scariest fact about the Doodki is, my grandpa made it.

Yes. My grandpa. Made it. For my mom and dad. To beat us. Or whip us. Or threaten us—which is mostly what it ended up being—because the mere mention of the word Doodki was all the punishment we ever needed.

Mom would scowl at us and say through gritted teeth, “Do you want me to go get the Doodki?” We’d cower and whimper and run off to our rooms until the danger passed. The question was funny though. “Do you want me to go get the Doodki?!” What did she think we’d say, “Why yes, Mother. Please go get the Doodki … and then go bananas on our behinds, would you?”

I was talking with co-workers recently—really great-natured co-workers—who changed my entire paradigm about this medieval spanking device. We were eating sushi, and laughing so hard at stories about our childhood, our stomachs hurt (not from the sushi, from the laughing). When I mentioned the Doodki, one of the sly ones said, “Wait a minute … that probably wasn’t for you guys at all. Your parents probably just told you it was for spankings after you found it.”

The other clever co-worker asked if the Doodki happened to come with spandex or a mouth gag.

I can’t go there! That is worse than the actual Doodki!

It was for spankings all right. Our spankings. And it was a Doodki made by my grandpa to discipline his grandchildren during the “Spare the rod and spoil the child” era of the 1970s.

Talking about the Doodki as an adult, with other adults, got me wondering. So after lunch, I rushed back to my computer to Google the words: Doodki/Dhudki/Duedki. But nothing came up. Next, I tried to help the Google by adding the word “Spankings,” to my search, and the Google rewarded me by sending me email messages from folks like Bambi and Candy who, “Like it rough.”

EW. There wasn't anything we ever liked about the Doodki. While we were growing up, the Doodki would occasionally make its way out of the cabinet. Mom or dad would snap it in the air, making the leather straps whoosh past us like a bull whip. My sister admitted recently that she would piddle her pants a little at the mere mention of the word. Doodki.

I once got a spanking for eating cinnamon bread. Living in the woods, we didn’t have many neighbors, so when Lynn Trout asked me to play after school, I begged my mom until she caved.

Lynn Trout was one of those kids who always had a ring of dirt around her neck. She was the only girl in a pack of brothers. Rough brothers. Wild-eyed brothers who were always causing trouble around town … breaking into gas stations … throwing beer cans on the sides of the roads … knocking over mail boxes with baseball bats. We never knew for certain who’d done any of it. But my dad was as sure as he needed to be. “It was those Trout boys,” he’d say, narrowing his eyes.

My play date with Lynn Trout began with a warning from my mom. “Make sure you don’t eat anything over there,” she told me sternly. I nodded, but asked why. “You’ll spoil your dinner,” she added.

“Okay. I promise I won’t eat anything,” I said, taking off on my bike.

But I wasn’t prepared for what I'd find inside the Trout’s home. The second I walked in the door, I was overcome by the glorious smell of fresh baked bread. I’d never smelled anything like that in anyone’s home before, and it was as close to heaven as any Wonderbread-eating-girl could imagine.

Mrs. Trout even wore a gingham apron. I’d never seen a mom who wasn’t on TV wear one of those. She carried the steaming loaf over to the counter where its scent continued to tantalize my nose. “Would you like a piece of fresh baked bread?” she asked, cutting it out of the pan to cool. “No thank you,” I replied.

“Really?” she asked. “I’m fixing Lynn a piece right now.”

My head said no, but my mouth was drooling.

“I’m putting butter and cinnamon on hers. Have you ever had fresh baked bread with butter and cinnamon on it?” she asked?

Tears of restraint streamed out of my eyes. “My mom told me not to eat anything,” I said.

“That’s silly,” replied the ever-so-reasonable Mrs. Trout. “Why would she say that?”

“Because I’ll spoil my dinner?” But my voice had cracked. Mrs. Trout sensed my weakness as she delivered Lynn’s warm bread on a clear, crystal plate. “Are you sure?” she asked again. “One piece wouldn’t hurt!”

Well, she was right. One piece wouldn’t hurt. I was a good eater. I could have a taste of cinnamon bread and then certainly muster up the appetite to wolf down enough dinner to convince my parents that I hadn’t eaten a snack. Plus, I would hurt Mrs. Trout’s feelings if I didn’t just have one taste of the fresh baked bread, and I really wouldn't want to do that.

I took a longing look at the gooey butter, cinnamon and sugar melting into the top of Lynn’s steaming bread and nodded okay.

I devoured that cinnamon bread in gulps and asked for seconds. And then thirds. I licked my fingers after each delirious bite. I’d never tasted anything so miraculous. I couldn’t believe life was this good. There was a real-live kitchen with a real-live mom who made real-live, homemade bread and then encouraged kids to eat it before dinner?

One of Lynn’s wild-eyed brothers walked in and gulped milk right out of the glass jug in the fridge. Mrs. Trout swiped at him with her dishrag. He scooted away from her in a playful way that told me he wasn’t really afraid of her.

Then, I thought about our kitchen, and the Doodki that would certainly be waiting for me there. My mom's words rattled around in my sugar-soaked brain. “Don’t eat anything, or you’ll spoil your dinner.” she had said. The last bite of cinnamon bread got caught in my dry, tight throat.

My ride home felt long and slow. I walked into the door of our house like I had lead in my shoes, only to find my dad waiting in the kitchen with accusing eyes. Mom stood over a boiling pot on the stove. “Did you eat anything at the Trout home?” he asked, his eyes on fire.

“No,” I said, my voice rising to falsetto.

My dad bent down. “Let me smell your breath.” He said, squeezing my cheeks, puffing out my mouth so he could take a sniff.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he said.

“No I don’t.”

“You’re lying. You ate cinnamon when you were there.”

“No I didn’t.”

“There’s nothing I hate worse than a liar,” he said, “And if I find out you’re lying to me, you’ll get a spanking.”

He walked over to the phone. “I’m going to call Mrs. Trout and ask.” He said, picking up the receiver. “And if she tells me you ate something-“

“-Okay. Okay. I ate cinnamon bread.” I said, beginning to sob.

“Why did you lie to me?” he asked.

“She made me do it,” I said, through choking hiccups. “I didn’t want to but she forced me to have some.” I knew this was a lie too, but I figured I could soften the blow by putting some of the blame on Mrs. Trout. She’s the one who lured me in with those wafting smells, after all.

Instead of the Doodki, I got a swift hand across the back of my bare leg from my dad. And when I walked over to get sympathy from my mom, she gave me her usual, “Don’t come crying to me.”

My parents told me later that the reason they didn’t want me to eat anything at the Trout’s house was because they thought the Trouts were weird. They didn’t trust the Trouts to the point where they even suspected they might lace the food with some kind of poison.

But at the age of seven, how was I supposed to understand the nuance of that? My mom said I wasn’t supposed to know … I was just supposed to listen to her. If it were a Hostess Twinkie, Ding-Dong or Ho Ho, I might have listened. Or even apples and cheese, I could have resisted. But to stand up to the siren call of fresh-baked cinnamon bread in a warm, safe kitchen--a kitchen without a Doodki? Impossible.

- Dedicated to Bob and Jenny.
- Sea lion photography by Anatoly Strakhov

GROWING UP MONKEY

2011-08-26T08:23:00.001-07:00

Let me start by saying this: My parents were very young when they had me. And, although they didn’t always make the best choices, they did make the best choices they could with what they knew at the time. Let me also say that in 1965, parents didn’t have the information that is available to them today. There was no Internet. There were no online parenting groups or chat rooms. There was only an AM radio and a small, black and white television set. So, when my parents had the idea to go to Wild Kingdom, the exotic animal store in Berwyn Illinois, and purchase a spider monkey—nothing stopped them.

My parents had just gotten married. They were so broke, they only had one piece of furniture—a bright orange, hand-me-down couch. They couldn’t afford food, so they “shopped” in my grandmother’s kitchen … sneaking out cans of tuna and green beans with the stealth of bank robbers in broad daylight. Despite their tough economic times, they were still able to scrape together the one hundred dollars or so it took to buy the monkey. My mom was six months pregnant with me at the time.

“The monkey died a horrible death,” my mom admitted to me recently.

ME: (Jaw agape) “You and dad had another monkey before you had Oliver?” (Yes, I was raised with a monkey.)

MOM: “Oliver was our second monkey. Our first monkey died before you were born, and oh, was it awful!”

ME: (Eyes widening)

MOM: “It bled from its lungs, and I was the one who found it. I cried and cried, and told dad it was a bad omen that meant the baby would die too.”

ME: (The baby didn’t die, I’m happy to report) “But, how did the first monkey die?”

MOM: “It had tuberculosis. Dad had it too. He caught it from the monkey. So he needed to get these really painful shots that were hard on his liver.”

ME: “So … then you got a second monkey?” (Are you beginning to see my point about the choices?)

Oliver Pee was the size and look of a Rhesus Monkey, although mom tells me she was not a Rhesus Monkey, but instead a breed that looked like a Rhesus, although she doesn't remember exactly what type.

When I was four, we moved with Oliver Pee into a log cabin in the woods. Oliver Pee got her name because she peed everywhere. My parents put diapers on her to avoid accidents. They would carry her around the house or let Oliver ride on their shoulders. She would sit on my dad’s chest in the mornings and groom him as she would another monkey in her natural habitat. My mom would cut up fresh fruits and vegetables, and hand-feed Oliver bananas, carrots, apples and grapes. The monkey would sit on the counter, watching my mom cut up her food, and either use her tiny fingers to take the banana from my mom, or open her mouth wide, and squawk to be fed like a baby bird.

Don’t get me wrong, my mom and dad took care of me too. My mom would make me Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes, and my dad would read to me every night before bed. But I still found myself feeling crazy-jealous of their affections for this monkey.

Oliver seemed to have it out for me, too. If I got near my dad or mom during one of Oliver’s grooming or feeding frenzies, she’d open her mouth and yowl at me, or jump toward my face with her claws outstretched, undoubtedly aiming for my eyes.

When I would poke inside her cage to get her attention, she would pull my long braids so hard my head would smash against the bars. I’d scream for help, because what Oliver didn’t have in size, she made up for in strength—and she’d rip my hair so hard, my scalp would bleed.

When my mom heard my calls, instead of racing to my rescue, she would scold me from other room, “Were you teasing the monkey again, Lisa?”

Okay. I WAS teasing the monkey again. But this was bogus. Instead of sharing my home with a flesh-and-blood brother or sister, I had a demented, diaper-wearing beast with super-human strength reeking havoc on my life.

Oliver’s cage was in our basement. My art table was in our basement. Oliver’s cage was six feet high and spanned the length of the picture window that overlooked the lake in our backyard. My art table was relegated to the windowless back corner by the laundry room. I didn’t mind though, because my art table was everything to me. I owned every color of acrylic paint, exotic papers from Japan, inks and expensive brushes. My mom was an artist too, so she spared no expense for art supplies.

I spent hours of my youth down in that basement, quietly painting or drawing at my art table. If my mom was busy upstairs, she’d put Oliver in her cage and tell me to, “Watch her” while I worked.

Oliver would sulk in her cage and fling carrot discs or potato nubs at the back of my head. She’d make threatening noises … e-e-eee’s and o-o-ohhhh’s … with screaching and shrieking mixed in. She was always flashing her sharp teeth at me and shaking her fists in a fury. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one experiencing sibling rivalry.

One night when we were all in bed, and Oliver was allegedly downstairs in her cage “sleeping,” she had instead been busy with something else entirely.

My art table.

In the morning when I stumbled downstairs and discovered what had happened, horror spread throughout every cell of my being. There, in the basement … where my art table used to be, was D-i-s-a-s-t-e-r with a capital “D.”

Tubes of paint were flattened and crushed, after being squirted all over the walls. My papers and drawings were ripped, slashed and chewed to shreds. The inks were smashed on the floor, their glass containers shattered, their dark contents oozing across the tiles like wayward Rorschach tests.

Oliver stood on top of the metal art table she’d overturned, and was squealing triumphantly. Her fists were raised high in the air, Rocky-style. One hand held an empty tube of paint. Blue. My favorite color.

Months passed and I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d retaliate. All I knew was … I would retaliate. But living in the middle of the woods didn’t give me the luxury of many friends. So, as much as I hated Ms-Monkey-Face, she was a companion, my only companion , at the time. We’d run through the sprinkler together in the back yard … climb trees together ... play dolls together. Even settle in front of the black and white television and watch cartoons together. From outward appearances, one might think we got along fine … just a girl and her monkey … not a care in the world. But the memory of what she’d done to my art table was haunting. And even though we fixed up the table, replaced the paint, put cinder blocks and master locks on her cage so she couldn’t escape any more, a deep discontent for all-things-monkey still simmered inside me.

One day after school I was eating a pear in the kitchen. It was a perfect pear, tart and sweet. Firm, not mealy.

“Give Oliver a bite of your pear, Lisa.” My mom directed. Oliver was sitting next to my mom on the counter, “Looking so cute,” and watching me eat. Her little hand was outstretched in anticipation of what I might share, and she held her mouth wide open, waiting for her treat.

“No,” I said, making even more smacking sounds than I had before, mostly to show her how delicious the pear was--the pear she wasn't going to taste.

Oliver raised her eyebrows at my mom and looked painfully wounded.

My mom cooed at her in a soft, baby voice. “Oh … your mean sister isn’t sharing with you, is she?”

Oliver nodded as if she understood all this, and jumped into my mom’s arms for comfort. There, the monkey whimpered while my mom stroked her gently on the head and told her, “We’ll just have a bite of the pear when she’s done then.”

What started as a happy-after-school-snack in my kitchen quickly became a spiteful-snack-of-revenge.

I ate that pear like it was my last meal, sucking down every morsel of pulp and juice. I would leave nothing. Not the core. Not the seeds. Not the stem. That pear was MINE.

As the pear disappeared, the monkey’s eyes widened in horror. My mom tsk-tsked me and told me I was a selfish.

This only made me eat more gleefully. And, after choking down the woody core, I smiled, belched and rubbed my belly. “That was delicious,” I said, before my mom sent me upstairs to my room to, "Think about what I’d done."

I knew what I’d done. I’d been selfish and gluttonous. Stubborn and defiant. Mean and unyielding—and I was glad for it.

The next day when I came home from school, I found my mom standing at the sink, crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, frightened. I’d never really seen either of my parents cry before and I knew something must be very wrong for this to be happening. “Where’s Oliver?” I asked, suddenly noticing the lack of my mom’s menacing, little shadow.

“In her cage,” she answered, sobbing louder.

I walked over to Oliver’s portable cage—the one my mom used to take her outside so she could get fresh air and sunshine.

“Why isn’t she moving?” I asked, staring at the stiff monkey body lying at the bottom of the cage. “Is Oliver sleeping?”

“She’s dead!” wailed my mom in a cry so mournful she sounded like she was being tortured.

Dead fluttered the sails of my small mind. “What’s dead?”

“Dead is … dead is …” Each time my mom tried to explain, she broke down even more. There were no words she could gather at the apex of her grief to make my five-year-old-brain understand the concept of death.

I poked my finger inside Oliver's cage. "Wake up,” I said. “I'll give you a pear.” If only I could make that monkey move, my mom would stop crying. "Wake up," I said, rattling her cage, hoping to stir her out of her sleep.

“She’s gone,” my mom said, blowing her nose into a tissue.

“As in not coming back?”

My mom nodded and sunk to the floor.

The news of gone shifted my sails. Dead means gone, I finally put together, and I hugged my mom, wishing I were a better kid.

I think about that day a lot. I wonder if I had trouble concealing the utter joy I felt booming inside my chest at the news of our dead monkey.

I often worried that Oliver died because I hadn’t shared my pear. Although, my mom told me later that she’d been stung by a bee in our yard. I guess she didn't have the immunities she needed to fight off that sting.

Today, I realize how painful it must have been for my parents to lose Oliver Pee. I’ve since lost my own share of people I’ve loved, and animals I've loved more than people. But to lose an animal so eerily similar to a human baby, must have been devastating. Especially since now I know my mom struggled to have children for years. Especially since now I know how deeply a creature--regardless of its moments of undesirable behavior--can burrow inside your heart and make it feel like home.

CALM

2011-07-11T15:56:00.001-07:00

So, I started seeing a chiropractor/acupuncturist after a mean fiddle accident. I know. Sounds weird. But I was playing fiddle one Saturday without a care in the world, and suddenly something snapped from my neck down my shoulder, and cascaded with blinding pain into my arm and across back. After MRIs and CAT scans, I learned I have degenerative disc disease, which, at 40+ is a sad thing to deal with—however, on the sadness scale—there are certainly much more tragic maladies, so I still consider myself lucky.

Dr. C practices in Wilmette, a rarified town that feels like stepping back in time and space. The town still has a family-owned jewelry store—the old fashioned kind that once appeared in many towns across America, until monstrous bargain stores and online shopping venues rendered them useless. The chiropractic storefront is next to a Belgium chocolate shop. When I walk to my appointment, the clouds seem to part, and the birds seem to sing louder and more melodiously.

I’m the picture of calm, wearing sweat pants and flip flops on my day off work venturing outside of the gritty, hard-edged city. That is, until, Dr. C gets out the needles.

The first needle he pierces into my right shoulder sends shooting pains down into my legs in a way I didn’t know was possible. I avoid screaming so Dr. C doesn’t think me a wimp, but I do eek out “Ouch,” in a timid voice that leads him to say, “It may hurt, but it doesn’t mean it’s hurting you. It’s good for you,” he adds. I ponder this for a moment until my right leg stops twitching. “But I feel it down into my feet,” I protest, wondering if this is “normal” for anyone else who’s ever had acupuncture.

“That’s just your Chi,” he says, calmly.

I know Chi is the Chinese word for vital life force, but as he inserts the rest of the needles and then connects them to something electric called, “Stim,” I begin to panic. The electric stimulation makes my calves contract. My legs twitch up into the air and I yell out, “Make it stop!”

“It’s only set on three,” he says, smoothly.

“I don’t care,” I tell him. “I hate it.”

“It goes up to 60,” he says, smugly. He’s not mean about this, exactly. Just calm and amused. Like he’s conducting an experiment and getting a kick out of the fact that his subject (me) is responding—violently—to the placebo effect.

Once the needles are removed and the panic dies down, he massages my shoulders in a way that makes me drool. I drift into a dreamy sleep that feels deeper and more relaxed than I ever feel in my own bed—and this 25 minutes of bliss is what makes me return. Again. And again. And again.

On the third visit, I have learned to withstand the initial impact of the needles. The only one that really hurts is the needle he stabs between my thumb and pointer finger. Dr. C calls this, "A powerful meridian point." He says it hurts worse than the other points because I’m most blocked here. We’ve mutually agreed to not use any more electrical stimulation, and I feel glad for this. If not slightly defeated, like, “If I were tougher and stronger, I could have handled the stim … but because I’m as Jello-y as a Sea Cucumber, stim is too much for me.

It’s okay with me though. At the end of needle time, I still get my 25 minute massage, and I’ve discovered that the Belgium Chocolate store has the best Champaign Truffles I’ve ever tasted—which has become my weekly post-puncture treat. Life is balance, I rationalize. And perhaps my Chi is hungry.

One day, Dr. C. proposes I start a magnesium supplement called CALM. He says it helps your muscles relax. He tells me to mix it with hot water and take it before bedtime. He’d like me to start with a ½ teaspoon and work my way up to 2 teaspoons a day.

I try the supplement and like it. I notice that I DO sleep calmer and feel more relaxed. My muscles don’t tense up so much in the middle of the night and I wake up feeling more refreshed. This goes smoothly until I up my dose to one teaspoon.

You know that feeling when you’re in public and you’re suddenly stricken with the immediate urge to defecate, yet there are no bathrooms in sight? Well, apparently, CALM relaxes the sphincter muscles in a way that Dr. C neglected to mention, and I find myself in the Jewel grocery store bathroom stall, after making it there by the skin of my white pants … hunched over and letting loose … praying to any god that will listen.

Outside the door, a hobbit of a woman peers into my stall through a wide gap on the hinge side. “I need the toilet,” she insists.

“Use the one next to me,” I say, glaring at her with all my might in hopes she’ll look away.

“I tried that one. It’s too tall for me,” she complains, without averting her eyes.

CALM? I think. There is nothing calm about this … having a stranger stare you down while you are taking a frantic crap … all while remembering how Dr. C waxed on about how this supplement was so phenomenal, he recommended it to Iraq soldiers.

I imagine a slew of soiled camouflage pants and cringe. If this is calm, I’ll keep my chaos, thank you very much. At least I know my pants will be clean and I can trust my Chi to lead to the best chocolates and jewelry around.

A REAL GIRL

2011-06-27T07:27:00.000-07:00

When D was six years old, we took her to see Disney’s Pocahontas. As we filed out of the cavernous theater and into the crowded lobby, we noticed that D was crying. John and I were holding her hands—one on each side—in an effort to cushion her against the tide of people swarming in to see the next round of shows. D’s lip quivered and tears poured down her cheeks as we gently pulled her to the side, knelt down beside her and asked what was wrong.

“I’ll never be as pretty as Pocahontas,” she said.

What? My mouth dropped.

“Pocahontas is so beautiful,” she continued. “I’ll never look like her.”

Her proportions are not anatomically correct! She is hyper-sexualized for marketing purposes, I wanted to scream. But D is only a small girl. She wouldn’t understand that.

“She’s a cartoon,” I told her. “She’s not real.”

D continued to sob.

“You’re real. And you’re beautiful,” I insisted.

But it was too late. D had already set her beauty bar impossibly high. She would aim for a look that only a cartoon character could achieve … a look that would require surgical alteration or the absence of a rib cage for a normal, human girl.

As I picked up D, held her in my arms and told her how much we loved HER … how she would always be more beautiful to us than anyone else in the world …the primal animal that paces inside my heart was howling, “WHAT ARE WE DOING TO OUR GIRLS?” And, more importantly, albeit in a whisper because the animal is exhausted and panting from her own fight against this machine, “How do we stop it?”

As I sit inside Victoria’s Secret with D while she picks out bras—in the same mall where we’d seen Pocahontas years earlier—I feel like I’ve entered a foreign land. This is a world I’ve avoided my entire adult life. Pounding dance music pulses in my ears. Candy-colored bras line the walls … floor-to-ceiling billboards of half-dressed women gaze down at me sexily. The thing I find most shocking is not how much skin they are exposing, but instead how confidently they are raising their arms and revealing their arm pits.

This part under my arms is my greatest shame. Instead of hollows that cave in like a normal woman, I have arm mounds that poof out in a monstrous way … a John Merrick, I-am-not-an-animal way.

I’ve been told, by the first doctor who examined me … after he gasped and then laughed … and then brought in his colleagues to observe … that I have two extra breasts, one under each arm pit … “You’re lucky you don’t have nipples, too.” He told me.

“Nipples?!”

“Yes, nipples,” the breast expert at Northwestern Memorial Hospital continued. Some women even have rows of breasts, with nipples, up and down their chests like animals. I think about the nursing kittens, pigs and puppies I've seen in my life and cringe. No, I don’t want that. Who would? “But what can I do about this?” I asked, trying to restrain the panic in my voice.

“Well, I could remove them,” he said, but chances are I’d upset nerves and surrounding tissue in the process. If so, you’d have numbness and tingling down your arms and into your fingers. Troubles with swelling could occur, too. This could last for years. I consider my options. Surgical alteration. Maybe they can take out a few ribs while they’re at it.

I think about the first time a co-worker had seen one of my arm mountains. It happened by accident. I’d been wearing a shirt with short sleeves. I’ve always been hyper-conscious about this … never wearing sleeveless or strapless anything. … always making sure the material on my shirt hangs down low enough to cover the whole top of my arm. I always keep my arms down, too. I don’t ever point at something overhead. But on this sunny day, I’d lost myself. We were standing outside on break when a small plane flew overhead. Behind it was a banner … “Becky, will you marry me?” I’d pointed up in the sky to show my friend. But instead of looking up, he looked down into my sleeve. He was starring at my arm mound inside my shirt sleeve. I heard him gasp, and then watched him point at it. “What is that?” he asked, before I could lower my arm. He acted like the very words of the question repulsed his tongue.

I explained about the breasts under my arms and watched him cringe. “Ick,” he said. Yes, “Ick,” I agreed. Ick indeed.

The sales woman at Victoria’s Secret makes me move. I’m blocking the drawers of bras she’d like to show a customer. I notice this customer is twice my size, and she’s patiently listening to the sales woman about cup size verses inches. “And here are our matching thongs,” says the sales woman, opening a drawer to reveal rows of strappy ridiculousness. The customer smiles. I shake my head to shut off my brain, because I’ve simultaneously pictured the customer in a thong, the sales woman in a thong and me in a thong. Gross! Gross! Gross! The self-loathing-warning alarm sounds in my head. But why doesn’t the customer see it this way? Why is she seriously considering the thong and holding up the thready nonsense like it is a pot of gold?

D comes out of the fitting room with two bras she loves. An electric pink lacy number with underwire and soft padding, and an animal print with black, satin accents. Both are beautiful. I hold them up to D’s skin and can tell they will each look lovely on her.

D has grown up to have proportions even Pocahontas might kill for. She is curvy and narrow in all the right places. Her arms and legs are solid and shapely from obsessive work outs. There isn’t one odd, out of place, awkward or ugly body part on her. Unfortunately, D doesn’t see it this way.

She looks at herself in the mirror with the same über-judgemental eyes that I’ve used all my life. The same eyes that caused me to grab my stomach and call myself fat as a size 4. The same eyes that many of us girls use that never allow us to see a skinny girl, a pretty girl no matter what is standing before us in the mirror. These eyes focus on the flaws: the pimples, the wrinkles, the flabby overhangs, the hips, the butts and the arm pits to show us what we aren’t.

For some reason, I think of Pinocchio, the Disney movie I saw as a kid. “I want to be a real boy,” says the wooden puppet to Gepetto. I think about his desire, and realize my own desire to feel like, “A real girl.” I think about how I don’t wear bras, but instead wrap myself up in tight sports tanks, like girls in movies who try to pose as boys. I think about D who complains about her thighs; my mom who comments every time she eats something sweet that it is going to her hips; a friend who claims she has, “Man hands,” and another friend who won’t wear open-toed shoes because she has convinced herself that she has ugly feet. I think about the Victoria's Secret model looming over my head, mocking me with her impossible, air-brushed perfection. Inside, she might be feeling like a monster … but outside, she’s showing the entire world what it’s like to be a “real girl.”

EVERYTHING AND NOTHING

2011-06-06T11:47:00.000-07:00

D came home from college steeped in atheism. Although this didn’t entirely surprise me, her conviction, and the way she seemed to hold fast to her dis-belief, rattled me to my core. When we’ve talked to D about religion in the past … when we’ve tried to delve into what she thinks or believes, she has admitted that she is likely agnostic (not quite sure what she believes) rather than atheist (a total conviction that there is no God).

Atheism fills me with a sadness I can’t quite explain. John tells me, “Don’t worry about it. I was an atheist in college, too. Most everyone I know was. When you start studying other religions and philosophy and psychology, you can’t help but be an atheist.”

“I wasn’t,” I balk. And I think back to my cloistered college days when I actually DID believe … back to when I went to church every Sunday without question. We had this campus priest we called Father B. He was of the Jesuit faith and therefore (or perhaps, in spite of) a jovial man who warmly welcomed students of any religion. Father B preached acceptance. He talked about how hard it was to be a college student and how he knew about the many challenges we faced. He didn’t mention hell or damnation. He was a loving guide, a confidant. He was one of us.

I was raised Catholic. And Catholicism, outside of my blissful college years, has mostly terrified me. As a kid in Catholic classes (CCD), there was a mean girl named Cathy Sullivan who threatened to beat me up every time she saw me. My mom would drop me off in front of the church hall and I’d stand there in the dark with a God-sized pit in my stomach, willing my feet to move me inside. Cathy Sullivan seemed larger than God. She was perpetually surrounded by a gang of other bullies who lived in Winfield and hated girls from West Chicago. Since I was the only girl there from West Chicago, I was a wimp, a nerd, a geek, a creep and their sole target. My anxiety about CCD grew so great that my mom finally agreed to allow me to finish my classes privately with a priest.

This brought on a whole other set of horrors. No, he didn’t molest me. He was simply a menacing presence I dreaded with the force of a thousand suns. Father Menace would sit behind his huge mahogany desk staring at me through thick glasses that made his eyes look like globes. His sparse hair was combed over his enormous head and plastered down with some sort of greasy gel. The office smelled of mildewed books, and we were surrounded by sculptures of Jesus dying on the cross: Blood seeping down Jesus’ agonized face. Nails plunged through his feet and hands. This was back in the time of “mortal sin” … a sin that could never be forgiven. These were sins of rape and murder. Sins that would warrant an eternity filled with hell-flames, gnashing of teeth and torture by demons.

When I did my first guided meditation with a healer named Susan, I saw an entity inside me named Henry. When I met him, I began to weep, uncontrollably, because I realized that Henry was the part of me who’d carried all my guilt and shame. He was heavy, soggy and swollen like a drowned body found at the bottom of a river. As Susan and I worked to release the shame and guilt that filled Henry like sludge, I realized that these two emotions are the densest, darkest things you can carry. Together, Susan and I pulled Henry from the trenches. We thanked him for the duty he served and told him he could now be released. He’d done his job, and a good one at that. We opened him up and spilled out all the dark energy into the earth. Susan told me that the earth could handle this for us. She would help hold the weight of all our pain and suffering. Earth would purify and transmute the energy with the help of whomever we called upon—angels, spirit guides, God, mother God and more. As we emptied Henry of his bulky remorse, we started to fill him with light. And, I immediately felt the light and love enter my being, too. It felt like a miracle to release this burden I didn’t even know I had. It felt like the confession Catholics are always talking about … only, I didn’t need a priest to forgive me of my sins. Instead, I was forgiving myself.

When I began to study other religions in college, instead of believing in nothing, I began to believe in EVERYTHING. I learned about Taoism, and believed … Buddhism, and believed. I traveled to China and couldn’t believe that Christianity could be the only valid choice. There were millions upon millions of people in Asia who had never heard of Christianity, let alone would believe in it. Would a Christian/Catholic God really leave these people behind? Ban them for their lack of belief just because they hadn’t been exposed to Christianity?

I briefly had a rabidly Christian friend who argued with me about this. He staunchly believed that all those people were going to hell unless they converted. He reminded me of the short time in high school when I belonged to a Christian group called SALT Company. This group was lead by students at Wheaton College—a place known for its rigid, born-again mentality. The college leaders taught us that it was our duty to convert everyone we met. They were on an actual crusade for conversion—and they acted like it was life or death if we didn’t, “Share our faith with every soul who crossed our path.” They claimed that knowing about Christianity and not sharing it was one of the biggest sins around. This proselytizing approach made me feel anxious. Jittery. Each week, they would call to check in … to see “How many souls I’d converted … how many lives I’d saved.” I avoided their calls like the plague and soon dropped out of the group, trying to ignore their threats that this choice would somehow mar my soul forever.

As I wrote my first children’s book about fairies, and experienced the miracle of how this book seemed to come through me, and not from me … how, during this time, I started to write music to accompany the book, even though I didn’t know how to read notes. I truly felt like I was channeling some powerful force outside of myself in order to capture the essence of the story and make it come to life. During this time, I started to believe in fairies, too. Why couldn’t they exist? Why wouldn’t they be like smaller versions of angels? I started reading books outside the boundaries of religion. Instead, they were books of spirit. They spoke of love and past lives. God and angels. Miracles and karma. I read Doreen Virtue, a PhD who considers herself an expert on angels and fairies. I read Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s books on death and dying, and learned you can ask to meet your spirit guide. I did. I read books that were told through channeling … where humans acted as portals for divine masters to come through. Why couldn’t I believe this? I had “channeled” a book myself.

One of my dearest (and aptly-named friends) Grace believes we must move away from our dualistic structures of judging things as, “right and wrong/bad and good.” She feels we are all ONE, and this includes being one with the earth. It is more important than ever to pray for the earth … to thank her for all she’s done … to pray for people in power to make the highest possible choices … to pray for us all to move away from darkness and to accept and hold within us more light. I believe this more than I ever believed the Catholics I heard sitting around the dinner table, surrounded by Madonna heads, preaching about how they hated gays and blacks. Hearing that as a child made me feel heavy and sick-hearted. It was the absence of love and light. It was the farthest away from ONE that you could be.

U2 frontman Bono describes ONE as,
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters
Brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other
Carry each other

Attending a U2 concert is a spiritual awakening unlike any I’ve ever experienced in a church or temple. Therefore, along with fairies and spirit guides, I also believe in the spirit of music … and any other spirit-filled creative act along the way.

And in my journey to believe in everything, I’ve somehow lost D to nothing. I wonder how I could have failed her this much.

John asks me what I’m worried about, and I say, “Well, I think it’s just that her heart won’t be open to light.”

He says, “But she has a good heart. She loves animals and us. She is considerate and thoughtful. She may not know what to call it, but isn’t that enough?”

I think about how my desire to make D see things my way … to get her to “believe” in something, anything … is just as irrational as my own parents believing that my soul will be condemned because I’m not a practicing Catholic. It’s also as crazy as the SALT Company fanatics who tried to “convert” everyone, or the Catholics who claimed piety yet espoused hatred.

I may not know exactly who or what God is … I may believe in too many things instead of holding fast to one, solid belief … but when it comes down to it, I know this …

There’s so much beauty in a peony flower, that its head can hardly hold it.

When a starch-shirted Jehovah’s Witness shows up at my front door, I cringe and hide.

My blind, deaf dog Abbie opens my heart in a million different ways.

When oil spills into the Gulf, I grieve for the way we have murdered our sea life.

When D laughs, my entire world fills with joy.

For me, God is in all of this. In the lovers and the haters … in Father B and the hypocrites. Even in Cathy Sullivan. Perhaps, especially in Cathy Sullivan.

Maybe when we open our hearts and look for God, He/She will be there waiting for us. Whether we call God Buddha or the Tao or Catholic or Jewish is beside the point. Perhaps we simply call God Love.

The Piñata Story

2011-05-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

All right. In honor of Cinco de Mayo, I’ll tell the piñata story. I have to warn you. It isn’t pretty. There was bloodshed. There was lost hair. There were even tears. Some of them were mine.

It all started innocently enough. My white, sheltered, idealist self decided to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with the middle-grade students in my after-school theatre class by bringing a piñata.

It was a colorful animal of indeterminate origin. It looked like a donkey or maybe a giraffe, but it had a horn or two sticking up out of its head like a unicorn or a bull. Made out of paper mache and jewel-toned tissue paper, it had all the makings of festivity and celebration.

I’d taken the time to fill the beast with candies of all shapes and sizes. Not the cheap stuff you get at the dollar store either. No. I was going all out for Hershey’s kisses, mini Butter Finger bars and foil-wrapped Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. In case there were non-chocolate eaters (or nut allergy sufferers) in the crowd, I also bought a supply of Laffy Taffy, Sweet Tarts, Nerds and Smarties, so when the candy spilled out onto the church basement floor, and all the children were aflutter with delight, there would be a little something in there for everyone.

As further preparation, I took the time to research Cinco de Mayo. I made handouts with definitions, and included information about historical origins and cultural photographs I’d found online; so the children would have an educational opportunity in addition to sweet, sugary goodness. I’d lord the promise of the piñata over their heads, using it as shameless bribery. “If you sit still and pay attention, later we’ll do the piñata,” I told them.

As I blathered on about the celebration of Mexican heritage and pride, the other teacher hoisted the animal up over a rafter and secured it with rope.

Within minutes, the room started to unravel. My carefully designed handouts quickly became paper airplanes and then spit balls. To say that the kids were antsy and restless was an understatement. Hours had passed since school let out. They’d done their time of lectures and learning. They were ravenous. Tired. Edgy.

You may have already guessed the “bad-idea” portion of this story. Hm. Let’s see. Perhaps taking a room full of squirrelly middle-schoolers who live in an underprivileged neighborhood and telling them they can have candy … but first they have to listen to a boring lecture in a hot room about some culture they know nothing about … and then they are going to be given a blindfold and a baseball bat so they can take turns beating a colorful, paper animal until it bursts open and spills out delicious candy. This has BAD IDEA written all over it.

What you don’t know is, I was full of bad ideas for these kids. The trouble was, no matter how hard I tried, my limited, white-lady brain could never, ever-EVER anticipate the problems that would arise in my class.

For instance, one week I brought in costumes that consisted of various articles of vintage clothing—hats, coats, gloves, scarves, etc. There was a mink coat in the mix—something my mother-in-law had given me. It was white and size 4 or zero or something so ridiculous it would barely fit a Barbie doll. One of the smaller boys beelined for the coat. Before I knew it, he was sporting a fedora, and strutting arm-in-arm with one of the younger girls. When I asked him what he was pretending to be, he replied, “A pimp.”

There was also the time I brought in a Scrabble game so the kids could practice spelling. We were having a grand old time until a 9-year-old girl spelled out “Courvoisier.” Hey, that’s 28 points. Good job.

Later, during a Christmas celebration, this same girl had begged me for a baby doll. The teachers in the program had each selected one child for whom they would purchase a modest gift. I signed up for Little Miss Courvoisier, knowing I would splurge and buy the girl the baby doll she wanted. Miss Courvoisier had specified that she wanted a black baby with “real” hair, and she wanted one that pooped and peed. I scoured Target and Toys R Us until I found a suitable, real-enough-looking baby doll who was wearing a diaper. It would be easier to pretend about the poop and pee if the baby had a diaper, I’d reasoned.

As Ms. Courvoisier unwrapped her gift, I watched in anticipation. She would love it. She would hold it, feed it and hug it. She would change its diapers and carry it around in a blanket, and—

At the sight of the baby doll, Ms. Courvoisier squealed with delight. Apparently, it was exactly what she had wanted. I was thrilled as I watched the other girls crowd around her. MC ripped open the packaging and tore that baby out of its plastic wrap faster than I could blink. Before I knew it, MC had the baby’s diaper down, and she was beating it hard, saying, “I’m gonna give you a whopping.” The violence didn’t stop there. Each girl took a quick turn with the baby doll, beating and scolding it for imaginary crimes. I watched in awe, unable to process the Lord of the Flies scene that was unfolding before me. This was more than mere punishment, it was retribution. And there was going to be plenty of it.

As I coaxed the baby doll away from the girls, and held it gently in my arms, rocking it and talking softly to it, I mistakenly thought I could teach the girls by example. Here, I would teach them how to nurture, how to protect, how to be gentle. They only raised their clever eyebrows in unison. “Stupid white lady,” their faces said.

On some level, I knew the source of their pain. I knew the reality of their world. I’d seen it and heard about it and sometimes even witnessed it. But this was a world I could walk away from at my whim. I could dip my toe into their reality if I felt like it, and then go home to my organic vegetables with a balsamic reduction sauce and my 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

What they were facing on a day-to-day basis … what they saw and what they experienced was unfathomable to me. I’d recently gone through a shock when I learned that one of the boys in my program—Michael, a quiet, creative 12-year-old—had been walking to school with his best friend Darone. When a gangster car drove by and shot Darone, Michael ran to get help. He knocked on neighbors’ doors but nobody answered, or, when they did, they saw he was only a young kid so they didn’t pay any attention. Defeated, Michael returned to Darone, who was bleeding out onto the side walk, and all he could do was kneel down and hold Darone in his arms while the boy slowly died.

Michael had come to class that week. He had stood in the back, hiding inside his hoodie, refusing to participate in the theatrical games I’d planned for the day. I remember being angry at him … I remember thinking he had a bad attitude … I remember having the nasty thought, “Why am I putting all this time and energy into planning lessons for the kids when they don’t even care or appreciate it?” This was all before I found out the truth of what he’d suffered. And when I did find out, I couldn’t believe he’d actually come to class. But what else was he going to do? See his non-existent grief counselor? Play outside? This was a safe place for him to land. It wasn’t his fault I was entirely ill-equipped to handle it.

So this is the magnitude of what these kids were dealing with. They weren’t sad because their parents wouldn’t buy them the latest Game Boy or PS3. No, they were dodging bullets on their way to school and watching their friends die in their arms.

And now, the piñata.

I gave up on my crummy hand-outs and silly beliefs that I could teach these kids anything about anything. I wanted them to have the candy. They deserved it.

Tyquanne took the bat. Mary, the other teacher fastened the red bandana around his face. “Can you see?” we asked him. “No,” he replied. “Good,” we said.

He walked up in front of the line and took a swing. Whiff. The bat passed through the air, missing the piñata entirely. After a few more swings, the kids behind him wanted in on the action. We let a girl named Diamond up to bat. She tried a few times, and nothing. Now the kids were chanting. They wanted candy, and they wanted it now. A boy named Anthony was up next. He was taller than the others, and looked stronger. I knew this boy would get the job done. He swung once and strike. The piñata suffered a brutal blow. The kids cheered. But the donkey-giraffe-bull-devil only swung in the air, wounded, refusing to give up its loot.

Anthony whipped off the blindfold and got down to business. Swing after angry swing, the piñata lost a head, then a foot, and then its body had a gash in it, yet still no candy had emerged. Anthony tossed aside the bat and rushed toward the wounded animal, tackling it, with all of the other kids piling on top of him. He tore it asunder with both hands, shredding the piñata into miniscule pieces.

“There’s no candy,” howled the kids. But there was. There had to be. I’d filled the stupid thing myself the night before.

Then it happened. Diamond had hold of a leg. She had it tucked under her arm like a football and was running across the church basement floor in a panic. One of the kids hollered, “The candy’s in the leg!” The crowd shifted gears and tore after Diamond like a herd of wild animals. They pounced on her, crushing her with their collective weight. There was hair-pulling, tearing of clothing, scratching, beating, and weeping. It was a feeding frenzy of epic proportion. Kids were clawing at each other to get to the sweets, gouging at each other’s eyes and biting bare skin to get one kid or another to surrender the candy.

Once all of the candy was shoved and jammed into various pockets, backpacks and book bags, only then did the dust settle so I could survey the aftermath.

Some girls were hunched on the floor, holding each other and sobbing. A few boys asked if they could go to the drinking fountain to wash off the blood that was trickling down their faces and necks. One girl was limping. Another’s shirt was torn open. Hiroshima had nothing on us.

This was the exact moment I decided I could no longer continue my program. This was the exact moment I realized that no matter how hard I tried or prepared or dreamed I would never, ever, ever know enough or be enough to offer anything of use to these children. I’d tried. I’d failed. End of story.

This isn’t about me though. It wasn’t about what I tried to do but couldn’t. I know enough to realize, I must have made some positive impact during the five years I’d run the program. I’d started it in October, 2001—just weeks after 9/11. This was a time when the whole world needed hope—not only these underserved kids. I’m sure there was a small ripple of good that happened somewhere along the line as a result of my theatre program … some whisper of positivity among the blood, chaos, candy wrappers and shredded piñata. Sometimes, this is all we can do. Sometimes, it's the best we can hope for.

PLEASE DON'T EAT THE CHILDREN!

2010-11-16T14:18:00.000-08:00

As a freelance writer, I’m always on the look-out for a good freelance writing opportunity … which is exactly how I found myself scouring Craig’s List one grey morning this November and reading the following want ad:

“WANTED! CHICKEN OR SANTA? Dress as our Chickie Mascot and wave at cars. (Act foolish). Santa needed for season (Have necessary outfits—and padding.) Park Ridge, IL. $9.00 per hour.”

Next, I found myself wondering—who is qualified for such a job? Sure, I can act as foolish as the next guy—no special skill sets required for that. But then, one must also:
a) Own a chicken or Santa suit
b) Wear it while waving at cars and acting foolish (without getting run over)
c) Live in or near Park Ridge, IL
d) Decide you don’t care what people think—you love chickens and Santa
e) Hope you live in a fair universe, where next time around, you get to be the king, the president or, at the very least, a wealthy dignitary who travels the world and does nothing more than count his gold bullion—while someone else has to be the chicken.

How many of us aren’t feeling a little desperate these days? How many of us wouldn’t be willing to do anything—ANYTHING—to provide for our families, save our homes from foreclosure, maintain a certain amount of dignity and integrity at the end of each day so we can sleep a few uninterrupted hours each night? How many of us wouldn’t, when it came down to it, be the chicken or the Santa?

This fall, I was lucky enough to travel to northern California where I visited areas I’ve never before seen-Berkeley, Carmel, Pacific Grove, Monterey, Big Sur—all these places were bigger and better than I could have ever imagined.

First of all—in Berkeley—weird is the new black. When I say weird, I mean WEIRD. As a first-class weirdo myself, I’m not usually one to judge. And still, I’m not exactly judging, because I AM a firm believer in, “To each his own” and all that … However, when, on my second day in Berkeley, a woman talks about eating her own children … I have to admit, I raised my eyebrows. And then there was the farmers’ market … with its beautiful peaches bigger than my head and more juicy and delicious than I’d ever tasted … the mix of patchouli, incense and raw body odor in the air … and zither music and dancing and flowing skirts made from hand-dyed, organic cotton … and people of every color, size, shape and religion wearing bindis, burkas, tattoos and piercings—all of it a delicious potpourri for the heart, soul and imagination.

In Berkeley, my dear friend “Caroline” was kind enough to put me up in her cozy guest bedroom with her “elderly cat who throws up a lot” a newt and the chickens. Yes, chickens. Although the chickens weren’t permanent residents, they were in the guest bedroom when I arrived because Caroline’s husband is allergic; their mail-order hutch had yet to be delivered; and Caroline had been in Carmel all weekend with her young children and her mom.

Upon my arrival, I laughed secretly … because, like Caroline’s husband, I’m allergic to everything chicken—the feathers, chicken meat, even the eggs. In fact, I am SO allergic to feathers, that I usually call ahead to any hotel in which I stay and beg them to remove all the down bedding. I’m usually a freak about it, too. When I first arrive somewhere, I’ll stalk around, feeling all the pillows and blankets for quills in the padding. Because I’ve found out the hard way that the people in charge of removing down bedding, usually aren’t anywhere near as fastidious as I am. They also probably haven’t ended up in an emergency room on a breathing apparatus at the end of a vacation where a down pillow had been innocently tucked away in one of the bedroom closets. On that dreaded vacation, I proceeded to get sicker by the day … until finally, I was completely unable to breathe. So, imagine my chagrin when I ended up at my friend Caroline’s house and found not only feathers—but FULL-BLOWN CHICKENS. Oh, the universe is so very funny.

We cleared the chickens out of the bedroom, leaving Chicken Hawk, Eagle Fluff and Golden Wing in a giant, plastic storage bin in the dining room. I talked myself out of becoming hysterical by constantly reminding myself that I’d vowed not to be “THAT house guest” the one who complains about every last thing … the one who never “goes with the flow” ... the one who is never EVER asked to return.

Everyone in Berkeley has chickens. It’s a beautiful thing, really. Not only is the decision to own chickens environmentally- and economically-friendly, but it is also the pinnacle of sustainable living … the growing-your-own-food, living-off-the-land, using-everything, wasting-nothing mind-set.

I get this. For all its weirdness, Berkeley is a lovely place. It is a place where your neighbor knocks on your screen door and offers you organic figs she grew in her garden, or a fresh baked, sprouted-wheat bread still warm from her fire-burning stove. Berkeley is a place where you compost, walk or ride a bike to work. In Berkeley, your carbon footprint is so small; it could have been left by the hoof of a young, graceful deer. Which is why the following conversation surprised me:

Berkeley Woman: When we had chickens, and they died, I always thought we should eat them …

(Blank stares all around.)

Berkeley Woman: … But my husband wouldn’t let us, because he’s a pussy.

Naïve Midwesterner: He’s a pussy because he wouldn’t eat his pets?

Berkeley Woman: Yeah. In fact, I always said if my children died, I would eat them, too.

(More blank stares. Rapidly beating hearts. Vomit building in the back of throats.)

Naïve Midwesterner: (sotto voce) Please stop talking.

I realized something in that moment: Pacifism can be as brutal as war if handled with that amount of self-righteousness. When someone—anyone—is forcing their beliefs in such an indignant manor, it can feel just as violating—whether they are serving up some sort of tea party paranoia or a half-cocked liberal agenda. When we are pushing the wooden spoon down the backs of each others’ throats, we are the chef and the goose in the making of our own political, psychological and spiritual foie gras. And, when we engage in this unhealthy dance—the forced-feeding and the eating—we are all wrong.

The rest of the trip was less eye-opening but no less awe-inspiring. There is a place near Big Sur called Nepenthe. It’s an artist’s destination—high above the ocean, under the red woods. The story goes; a couple bought this spot of land and decided it was so delicious, it needed to be shared … so they opened it up to the public … Which leads me to believe … there are FAR BETTER people in this world than me. If I had this land, I wouldn’t have the strength to share it. Instead, I would covet it each day … sitting on the wooden ledge and watching the puffy clouds part to reveal the pure magic of the magnificent ocean below.

Carmel is like a sacred ground ... especially the place where the Carmel River meets the Pacific Ocean …

... and a little inland, in the valley of Clint Eastwood’s ranch, lazy sheep graze on the rolling hillside.

The colors here are nothing short of a Monet sunrise.

These places tell me that mere words are not enough. No-thing, no language at least, is capable of describing their collective beauty … the way the slow hike up the misty hill at Point Lobos National Park reveals a sugar sand beach cupping a crystal, turquoise cove …

... Or how the signature Cypress tree at Pebble Beach reaches its eager limbs toward the roiling ocean … or how the seaside air—a sublime elixir of Cypress, Eucalyptus, red wood and lavender-awakens every cell in your body, relaxing your mind and enlightening your spirit.

Here, nothing else matters but B-E-I-N-G. The chicken and the Santa … the liberal and the conservative … even the Berkeley woman who would eat her own children. Here, we are nothing more than insignificant blips on the radar screen of awe dwarfed by the grandeur of this great earth.

DAMAGED GOODS

2010-04-01T08:37:00.001-07:00

I'm learning a thing or two about psychology from the Chicago Post Office. For instance, you’ve heard of “Learned Helplessness,” right? The psychiatric condition that resembles clinical depression discovered by Seligman and Maier? These researchers conducted some rather extreme experiments in the 1960s where they put dogs into three test groups in which they were given a series of electrical shocks. In test group A, the dogs received no shocks, and so, they were fine. In test group B, the dogs were given shocks that stopped when they pressed a lever, therefore, they learned that in pressing the lever, they could stop the shocks. This group, even though it had suffered shocks, was still in essence, fine. Test group C is where things started to go haywire. In this group, the shocks were administered randomly, therefore, it didn’t matter if the dogs pressed the lever or not, the shocks would keep coming. These dogs learned that there was nothing they could do to help themselves, so, they simply lay down passively and whined. Their spirits had not only been broken, but also smashed, crushed and demolished ...

... Exactly what I'm experiencing with the Chicago Post Office. Sometimes we get our New Yorker magazine, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we get our packages, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes, when we get our packages, they are mangled beyond belief. Please see Exhibit A.

This box marked FRAGILE, contained a delicate, one-of-a-kind piece of art I’d purchased for a friend. It arrived on my doorstep looking, well ... damaged. Inside, I unwrapped the artwork that had been carefully bound in bubble wrap and cushioned in foam, to find Exhibit B.

I imagine that the Chicago postal workers saw the word FRAGILE as a challenge. Fragile? You think you’re fragile, do you? Well, let’s see how fragile you are when I toss you out of a moving vehicle! Or pounce on you like a trampoline! Or, ride you like a cowgirl rides a mechanical bull in a Texas bar! I’ll show you, fragile.

Needless to say, my beautiful red-petal-flower-girl, arrived at my house like she’d had a tough night out ... perhaps drinking with the other flower girls ... one too many Jägermeister shots. Who knows?! All I know is, I’m giving up on the Chicago Post Office. That’s it. I’m officially lying down on the floor with my tail between my legs and whining.

What you don’t know is: This is the SECOND time red-flower-girl was broken in transit. The artist had already fixed her the FIRST time she arrived damaged. The artist also stated that of all the transactions she does on Ebay, she’s NEVER experienced this type of shipping problem anywhere else in the country.

This trouble has been going on for a long time. When John and I got married about 100 years ago, I painstakingly wrote 100 thank you notes to the guests who attended and bestowed us with gifts. I purchased pretty bridal-design stamps to mail them, and happily loaded them into the mouth of a blue postal box in Chicago.

Nobody received them.

A few months later, I decided to try again. These guests had gone out of their way to support us. They’d traveled across country by plane and car. They’d taken time and energy to select just the right gifts for us. They deserved thank you notes—crummy post office or not.

My second set of hand-calligraphied, gold embossed thank you notes were mailed and ... nothing. They never arrived. Nobody received a note.

A year later, my Aunt in California called to tell me that she’d finally received my first thank you note. She was laughing. “You’ll never believe what kind of shape it’s in,” she said. “It has dirty footprints—track marks from actual work boots—as well as grease, coffee stains, smears, rumples and tears.”

Imagine my surprise when just a week later a story broke reporting that Chicago mail had been found in dumpsters all over the city. Shock! Horror! Panic! Whatever.

Recently, my dear friend in Colorado who knows I love green chilies, purchased them for me at a farmers market in Denver. She took the time to clean the chilies, slice them, de-seed them, and wrap them in individual servings so I could freeze and use them throughout the year. She also bought a cooler from King Soopers, packed them in dry ice and sent them 2-Day Express mail (at the cost of $45). For the next week, she called me, “Did you get your surprise? Did you get your surprise?”

Six weeks later, I got my surprise: A disheveled cooler ... inside, a soupy, smelly, moldy mess. All her hard work, time, effort, good thoughts and energy ruined. And why? Because of the Chicago-stinkin'-Post Office.

The other day I received an interesting letter in the mail. It was from the Chicago Post Office. They were requesting that I fill out a survey. “How are we doing?” asked the survey. The form had 20 or more questions, such as, “Rate our performance. How is our service? Have your experiences with the Chicago Post Office been positive?”

I ripped up the letter and threw it away. I figured I’d save them the trouble.

If you’re interested in seeing more beautiful artwork like the red-flower-petal girl, contact Marybeth Longstreth http://myworld.ebay.com/marybethlongstreth/

And if you live in Chicago, I recommend paying extra for FedEx or UPS.

The Healing Tool

2010-02-24T00:45:00.000-08:00

I've decided that as I age, in lieu of radical facial alterations ... Botox, Restylane, Collagen or the surgeon's knife ... I will instead learn Photoshop.

In Photoshop, there is a magnificent tool called a Healing Brush. This device allows users to go into a photograph, select a portion they want "healed" ... wave the magic wand over the area and voila! Wrinkles, gone. Freckles. Gone. Sunspots, dark circles, blood shot eyes. Gone. The person who invented this tool should win a Nobel Peace Prize--and I'm sure many women who have graced the pages of fashion magazines with slimmer thighs, narrower waists and whiter teeth, would agree.

Because, I really don't care what I look like in real life. I don't need to see myself as I go through my day, too busy to stop and take a gander in the mirror. But photos are different. Permanent. You've got that picture in front of you as hard-core evidence that you aren't as young as you think. And, no matter how old you think you look in that photo--in the next one--you will be even older.

My Photoshop proficiency is that of a moderately-well-trained ape, so I will be immortalized in this picture with disturbingly white eyes. But my wrinkles are gone. And the dark circles under my eyes, less dark. I even used the healing tool to pick off pieces of lint from my sweatshirt. You may be thinking that all this vanity will get me nowhere.

Well, wouldn't it be nice if we could use such a healing tool in life? If we could wave that magic wand over the blips, bumps and bad parts and make them new again?

I would use this tool to go back to the time when my sister was five years old. She'd asked me to French braid her hair for a school pageant, and I'd scoffed, saying I was too busy. I was in high school at the time, and the world revolved around ME. I couldn't be bothered with such things as sisters, or helping.

I would use this tool to go back to the time when my beloved, childhood cat was dying. I was 20 years old and the vet had asked if I wanted to hold her while they put her to sleep. "HOLD HER?" I'd balked. People did that? I couldn't. Bambi died alone.

I would use this tool to go back to the Valentine's Dance at my grandma's nursing home, where the sorry band played moribund oldies while the residents who could dance, did. So many shrunken women with walkers, canes and wheel chairs. Only two men. We were served red Jello in Styrofoam cups--a little too much reality for my taste. I fled to the parking lot and sobbed for the next few hours.

With the healing tool, it can't be about regret. It can only be about doing better next time ... going wedding dress shopping with my sister, no matter how many bridal shops she wants to visit ... or being present for the life and death of each one of our animals. Holding them. Loving them. Releasing them with gratitude and peace.

Some moments are impossible to heal in any direct way. The last of my grandparents passed away two years ago in January. But I can still spend time with someone elderly. I could even ask her to dance. (Although she might reply, "Get away from me, crazy person.") But still. I could try.

Erase. Replace. Heal.

See? All better.

MISSING

2010-02-18T19:11:00.000-08:00

My husband has been away for nine hours and already I feel like the warden has entrusted the mental patient with the keys to the institution.

I stumble downstairs after a long nap to discover half-eaten poop on the kitchen floor along with spilled garbage and chewed up dish towels. I find Abbie, our blind and deaf dachshund, sitting in her bed on the dining room floor. Her bottom end is soaked and I know she’s been sleeping that way, in her own urine. This is something she wouldn’t do if John were home.

John brings with him, in all his seriousness, a practical and necessary sense of order. Without him, we are rudderless; and collectively, the dachshunds know—they can take me.

It’s not enough that I’m recovering from the flu. But I decide today will be the day to make radical changes to my diet. Today, I will shed my chocolate-habit. No more breads, cakes or cookies either. In fact, I’ll eliminate all processed foods, and eat only organic steamed vegetables that I buy at Whole Foods, spending 1/3 of the of money I have in my checking account.

John would say, “That’s not very smart … spending all your money. You should save it.”

“Pah.” I would say.

“You won’t get paid again for another two weeks, maybe three,” he’d remind me.

“Pah.” I would tell him.

“What are you going to do when you want to order Thai in the middle of the week or go to brunch next Sunday and you don’t have the money to do it?”

“Pah.” I would say again, waving him away from my brimming shopping cart, telling him how I won’t need other food because I’ll be eating my delicious, homemade, organic vegetable broth.

I love filling up my cart with organic parsnips, red kale, butternut squash and the like. I keep thinking about how good it’s going to be … this vegetable broth, which needs to simmer on the stove for 3-4 hours for the most robust flavor. At least this is what my friend Jenny tells me. Then, you scoop out all of the vegetables and throw them away, eating only the broth which will have all the nutrients.

“Isn’t that a waste?” John would ask.

And if he were here, I would tell him, “No.”

This is the recipe Andrew Weil recommends. If you drink it every day, you can cleanse your liver and digestive tract. Your skin will look younger. In fact, it will glow from the inside out because of all the vitamins you are getting. And without the veggies themselves, you don’t need to be bothered with chewing.

So, I try it, peeling vegetables I can’t even name. Their skins and leaves and scraps are piled up in my sink. I dream of starting a compost bin. All of that nutrient-rich byproduct becoming something that goes back into the earth … nourishes the soil. I think of what John would say (Worms in the kitchen? No way! Are you crazy!?) and put it out of my mind. Like many of my fanciful ideas, that one doesn’t even deserve to live on paper.

The veggies go into a giant vat of boiling water. I add the exotic sea salt—that can only be found in the Himalayas. (Or at Whole Foods, in their spice aisle.)
John would ask, “How can sea salt come from mountains? Shouldn’t sea salt be from an ocean, or, at least from the sea?

But John is not here, so I can spend $13 on a small vile of salt and not worry about such formalities as origin. I’m sure there is a reason, of course, why these mountains were once at sea level before they were pushed up by some shift in a tectonic plate or whatever. It’s the salt Jenny uses for her broth, so I will use it, too.

Jenny is right. The broth IS delicious. Jenny recommends staying away from vegetables with high sugar content—so, of course, I go right for the sweetest ones: a sweet potato, and something called a candy onion—anything I can think of to get the broth to taste as close to Hostess as possible.

At Whole Foods, which, John affectionately calls, Whole Paycheck, I also decide that I will buy beets—both gold and red—to have something to munch on while I wait for my soup. There is also this new health drink that is fancy and comes in a glass bottle. It’s fermented for days, until the drink contains the right combination of “culture.”

“Isn’t that mold?” John would ask. But alas, he is not here … and my new friend Nancy swears by it. She is young and beautiful and thin, so I must try it, too, not even considering the possibility that she may be young and beautiful and thin for other reasons besides the health drink.

At home, I toast a slice of my wheat-free, gluten-free, sprouted grain-load bread, pour a glass of my nutritious, fermented health drink and boil my beets. When the beets are soft and cooked, I discover that they are more glorious than I could have ever imagined. I’ve never seen anything like the gold ones. They come straight from California, and are so loaded with vibrancy; it looks like the sunshine is packed right inside of them. I think of Native Americans who must have, somewhere along the line, used beets for coloration—maybe cave drawings—or to dye skins or furs. I imagine that I will bypass Paas this Easter and suggest using beet water to dye our eggs. Then, I remember who I am married to.

The health drink is tasty but pungent. It makes my nose run, and I’m starting to get a headache. In the short time that John has been away, I have both fantasized that he is dead, and imagined that I was never married. When I think of him not coming back, I panic. That fermented drink is really starting to make my forehead tingle. Or, maybe it’s the cold medicine, or the fact that I’ve been without sugar for more than a few hours. But that doesn’t explain the hives. Yes. Hives on my belly and under my left arm. It could be the new health drink or the beets or the sprouted bread or the fact that I probably have a fever because I have the flu and I’m not drinking enough water.

When I am sick, John is the one who reminds me to drink. “You have to force enough fluids till you are peeing every 1o minutes.”

I think about the last time I peed, but can’t remember when. Maybe this morning? Before deliriously dropping him off at the airport in my sinus-filled haze? That was hours ago—nine hours to be exact. And now, I am fuzzy with a headache so strong it pounds in the back of my head and behind my eyes. Damned fermented health drink. Damned cold medicine. Damned sugar-free, organic vegetable broth.

It’s 7:08pm, and already I’m drizzling honey on my brick-hard-sprout-grain-toast and thinking about ordering Thai food.

But you don’t have the money! Shouts a familiar voice—a voice that doesn’t belong to my husband, but it’s been so long since I’ve heard it, I hardly recognize whose it is. Ah yes, that’s my voice I’m hearing. And it’s speaking to me too—it’s saying, Chicken Pad Thai, Beef Lad Na, Shrimp Spring Rolls!

Shut up! Shut up! I can’t take it any longer … the hives are spreading, the dachshunds are bouncing off my legs begging for dinner … I’m sick of veggie broth, weak from hunger, my fingers are stained with beet juice, and I have a sink full of soggy, pale vegetables that could have been compost, or better yet—dinner.

Honey, please come home soon.

Abbie and the Scotch Tape

2009-11-23T12:21:00.000-08:00

Each morning when John and I awaken, our dachshunds go crazy: Running around the house, grabbing squeakie toys, tossing them into the air and bounding after them. This morning, it was business as usual, when our blind, deaf dachshund, Abbie, decided to join in the fun. She was bouncing with the others, oblivious to the fact that she can neither see nor hear, yet, she can smell and sense, and she knew that excitement was in the air. When the others grabbed their toys, Abbie stumbled upon the closest "toy" to her ... the Scotch Tape I'd left on the ground while wrapping Christmas presents. There was something so sweet and heartbreaking about that. The way she played alone, thinking she had a toy, too. In fact, she was so perfectly happy with her "toy," it made me wonder, "Why should I feel sad?" Who am I to judge her enjoyment?

My friend Barb says that her toddler Sam is happier playing with empty shampoo bottles than he is using the hundreds of Seasame Street action figures she has for him in the bathtub. Who is to say which is more fun?

Do you remember being a kid and making a fort out of nothing more than couch cushions? Or, making a car with blocks? When I was little, the moss on the forest floor was my carpet, and the trees, my roof. I would play in my makeshift, outdoorsy home all afternoon, bringing out sandwiches and reading books. A towel on my head became a hat. That same towel over my shoulders became a cape.

Later, in college, Psych 101, I learned about, "Overcoming functional fixedness." As if this were something to strive for ... the innovation of using one tool for some other purpose. Didn't we already master that in kindergarten?

A long time ago, a brilliant sketch on Saturday Night Live showed the young Gilda Radner playing a child who was taken to a child psychologist by her sparring parents. She was a nervous wreck. Shaking and tremoring. The parents were loudly arguing behind her, all while saying, "We don't know what's wrong with her!? She's always been like this!" As the therapist tried to assess the situation, she asked Gilda to pick out a toy on the shelf that reminded her most of her. After examining all of the beautiful dolls and teddy bears, she went straight to the therapist's desk and picked up the Scotch Tape. THAT was what she thought of herself. And again, I judged it as sad. And funny. And touching. And really, how far was I from the truth?

My 75-Year-Old Boyfriend

2009-10-19T19:16:00.000-07:00

In an effort to impress my 75-year-old boyfriend, I signed up for fiddle lessons at the Old Town School of Folk Music, in Lincoln Square. You could say that my boyfriend’s taste in music, not to mention his sex appeal, have truly inspired me. Not only is he the most poetic lyricist I know—one who taps into deep sadness and pure joy with a single, nuanced note—but he also has the creamiest, most sultry voice I’ve ever heard. When he speaks, I feel it in my underpants … and when he sings, oh lord when he sings … it’s hard to believe that angels aren’t right there singing with him, or through him, or inside him … and however else those divine powers work in his tower of song.

When I registered for fiddle class, I learned that the violin and fiddle are the same instrument. The difference is in how you play it. If you play classical music, you call it a violin. If you play folk music, you call your violin a fiddle. I’m embarrassed to admit that my musical experience up until this point was limited, at best.

Sure, I took a few, half-hearted piano lessons as a kid … practiced my scales, and, at the pinnacle of my music career, could bang out “Für Elise,” “Chopsticks” and “Send in the Clowns.”

With piano, I suffered through mandatory practice hours under the unyielding tick of the metronome.

But now, I yearn to master my string instrument … to hold its curved body between my chin and chest, and gently glide the soft horsehair bow over the cool, metal strings. I get lost in this sound. My only metronome is my heart, and the music, my wings … my bird on a wire.

The fiddle speaks to me with a siren call, making me feel delirious and desirous, like all the dark, cramped crevices deep inside me—the forgotten masses—have been awakened, bathed in sunlight and reborn.

I know that my 75-year-old boyfriend understands this feeling. His golden voice has the same affect on audiences all over the world—men and women in equal measure.

Sure, it would have been terrific to meet him in the 1970s, when he was young, virile and gallivanting with musicians and groupies around the world. I would have loved to spend the night with him at the Chelsea Hotel. I would have loved to share a midnight swim with him off the coast of Hydra in the phosphorus-lit sea. I would love for him to play my fiddle … to cradle it gently under his chin. I wouldn’t even care if he called it a violin.

Afterward, we would snuggle on the couch and watch Madmen, munching on popcorn and sipping Chablis. During commercials, he would sing softly in my ear … and kiss my neck … and … and …

… It wouldn’t really be fair for me to hoard him … his butter-rich voice … his brilliant, bittersweet words … his gifts are too important not to be shared.

But when he’s singing me to sleep at night through my headphones and it’s just the two of us, I know the truth about everything. I know that I belong to him. I know that all things happen in perfect timing. I know that the world is made up of love and joy and longing.

So, I will settle for the fiddle at my neck, and my iPod pumping Hallelujah through my soul. And, those of us lucky enough to be at the Rosemont Theatre on October 29th at 8PM, will get to see my 75-year-old boyfriend, also known as Leonard Cohen, in his full, glorious form.

Blessings

2009-09-22T00:26:00.000-07:00

In Cambodia, before the children play, the musicians give pause while blessing the instruments. Here, music is sacred. Incense burns. Prayers soothe throats and minds. These children have been rescued out of slavery and are now living in an orphanage in Phnom Penh called Goutte d'Eau. Many are blind because deformaties earn more money on the streets. But now these kids have a second chance--they are clothed, fed, educated and given opportunities for vocational training, recreation and artistic expression.

Lia Valerio runs a company Malia Designs: http://www.maliadesigns.com/. She is cool. Her company is amazing. It was created to give women (and families) in Cambodia economic opportunity that extends beyond human trade. Check out what she does, and consider buying holiday gifts from Lia this year. Not only do the proceeds support her important cause, but Lia also donates a percentage of her profits directly to the orphanage.

This Saturday, September 26, 2009, we're having a fundraiser for Goutte d'Eau @ Intuit Gallery, 756 North Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago. 8-11PM. If you'd like to attend or make a donation, please visit www.giveforward.com/StopTraffick.

DOGMA

2009-02-01T18:45:00.000-08:00

My mom is a talented watercolor artist (Barbara Holmes) who lives on Grand Cayman for 3/4's of the year painting and selling her artwork. She recently completed this series of island dog portraits after seeing an article in the local paper about all of the homeless dogs that end up in the island's shelter. She decided to paint each one that was pictured in the paper in order to further honor their lives and promote their adoption. Sadly, the dog pictured second from the top was the only one who wasn't adopted by a family after the Pound's PR effort. This portrait was also the only painting in the series that wasn't selected for display at a local gallery. The intensity in this guy's eyes is too much for us. He's too aware ... of his fate and future that doesn't include a happily-ever-after.

Until the island dogs are caught by the pound, they roam freely, mostly on the beaches. Many are friendly. But they are also bony with worms and their fur is gnarled and infested with sand fleas. (However, if I were a homeless dog, I would prefer to live on a tropical island over some arctic tundra like, let's say, Chicago.)

Our own dog, Abbie, is going back to Purdue Small Animal Hospital tomorrow for a bladder scope. She's an older girl, a pound rescue, and we think she was probably a puppy mill mom, forced to live her whole life in a cage and birth litters of puppies. When we first got her, she'd gingerly lift her feet off the lawn, and we could tell by her reaction that she'd most likely never walked on grass. She also wet her own bed, which dogs are never supposed to do--unless they've lived a confined life--eating, drinking, pooping, peeing and sleeping in a small area. The other thing that saddened us was that if we so much as waved a book or a newspaper near her head she would duck and cower. This dog was obviously not treated well from wherever she came from. She's no more than five inches high--many blades of grass are taller than our beloved miniature dachshund Abbie--yet some "human" most likely beat her.

Never mind that now. We can only move forward. Abbie will certainly have a happy ending. She's a breast cancer survivor. Yes. Dogs get breast cancer. Especially when they've had litters of puppies. She also has kidney and bladder stones. But, we're monitoring them with a special prescription diet, and ultrasounds twice a year, and tomorrow, a scope. Each time we go to Purdue, John and I don't have anywhere to hang out during Abbie's procedures. The last one took nine hours, and we found ourselves wandering homeless around Purdue's campus, ultimately crashing on the couches in the student lounge. Tomorrow we are hoping that they won't find cancer. However, until this point, we haven't been able to diagnose why she continues to urinate blood. She is, of course, my favorite dog, although we're not supposed to call favorites--parents and dog companions often do. Whether we say it out loud or not. I'm saying it aloud b/c I find it funny that she is the dog I would walk in front of a bus for if it meant saving her life, and yet she eats our other dogs' poop or cat vomit whenever she can. This is a non-discerning pup, but she is lovely and lovable in a way that only a rescue dog can be. She doesn't have the sense of entitlement our other two dogs have. She is nothing but grateful for every kibble or bit of praise or walk or cuddle she gets. We had to teach her how to play. We get the feeling she'd never seen a dog toy before. And now she plays in a way that breaks my heart in a million ways. She tosses the toy for herself, taking it into her bed and chewing it. The other dogs play fetch, bringing their squeakies back and forth, interacting with us and each other. Abbie plays alone, wagging her tail and getting all excited. It's not quite right, yet it's all she knows. And, it is fun to her, so that counts for something.

Two weeks ago at Purdue, we were waiting in the lobby of the animal hospital to pick up Abbie. A man came hobbling in from a rattle-trap, two-door truck, telling the front desk worker that he had an injured puppy outside who wasn't worth the money to fix. He asked the price of euthanasia. It took everything in my power not to run up to that man and scream, "We'll take that pup. Give her to us!" But we had Abbie there and we didn't even know how we could take care of her, let alone our other five animals with various needs (one of our elderly cats has chronic asthma) so our hands are full. But I wanted to call someone or do something and I was rendered helpless. Our veternarians said that this happens all the time, and they end up putting most of these animals to sleep when the people refuse to pay for them.

When I told my friend MT about the situation at the animal hospital, she helped me not feel like a gigantic failure. She said that she believes we are doing good things for our animals every day and she did something else, too. She went on the website http://www.orphansofthestorm.org where she'd adopted two of her dogs a few years back, and made a donation in the name of that unnamed puppy at Purdue.

Years ago, John and I helped care for a Chihuaha dog who'd been beaten by its owner. Little Joe weighed 3 pounds at the most, and his back legs were paralized after the beating. Little Joe's owner helped him swim in the bathtub every day for back therapy. She also found him a chiropractor who was willing to do treatments on the dog three times a week. Within a year, Little Joe's spine had almost healed, and he was able to run around and play with the other dogs in his family.

Everyone's idea of how to take care of animals is different. Some might feel that going to extremes like our friend did for Little Joe, or we are doing for Abbie, is foolish. However, we can likely all agree that abuse and abandonment aren't acceptable. If you have the interest or the means, you may want to consider helping a helpless animal today.

Thank You, Mr. President

2008-11-11T22:09:00.000-08:00

Is it truth we seek ...
or just imagination?
Can one man hold
the world's hope
in his humble hands?

Divided. Disillusioned.
Our sorrow runs deep.
Injustice costs more
than we can pay.
Left for dead
crows and flies circling our eyes.

Yet ...

His voice rings soft in our hearts

yes we can

It mollifies our brows and bones
and somehow we recognize our call

Yes We Can

Distant yet distinct.
Our broken parts begin
knitting together with
tears and tongues and DNA.

For we are not one, but all

YES WE CAN

awaken our souls
and like Lazarus we stand.

YES WE CAN.
YES WE CAN.
YES WE CAN.

CHANGE IN LIFE AND DEATH

2008-11-04T13:27:00.000-08:00

While talking to a friend this weekend, she mentioned how saddened she is about losing her father. Not only is she devastated to not have him around, but she also wishes her dad could see how happy she is with her new husband.

In my inadequate attempt to console her, I mentioned that I believe her dad does know how happy she is because he’s still with her … in the way that souls we love are always with us once they pass. And, although it’s not the same as hearing his voice on the other end of the phone or being able to give him a hug … it can be comforting to know he is still there. As I was talking, I couldn’t stop feeling like a phony. I’ve never lost my mom or dad—how could I really know what it will feel like? How can I really know what I will believe then?

When I learned of Barack Obama’s grandmother’s death the night before the election … my immediate thought was, “That’s so unfair! She’s the primary reason he’s achieved what he’s achieved … it is because of her that he is the amazing man he is today. How can she die one day before seeing him become president?!”

I grappled with my hypocrisy and knew somewhere deep down that she would know of his ultimate presidency … she would be with him in spirit … but my belief, at the time, seemed shallow … until I received a phone call from my wise friend Barb who opened my eyes, mind and heart to a more infinite possibility.

Barb lost her father and has since had a child, and of course she’d love her dad to be alive so that he could share in their daily joy. However, she also believes the following: “I feel that because my dad has passed on, he’s actually able to share my joy more than he would if he were living down the street. I feel his presence with me and my baby all of the time now, whereas, if he were living his life, he would only be with me part of the time.” Then she continued … “Maybe, because Barack Obama’s grandmother died she will now be with him on election night—I mean, really with him!”

My feeble brain pieced together these thoughts. Maybe because Madelyn Dunham, 86, shed her aged, cancer-broken body, she can now be free to join him on the stage in Chicago, in Grant Park, to fully share in his honor and accomplishment. Perhaps, this apparent tragedy is also a triumph. Perhaps this truly is a change we can believe in.

Really Cool Pumpkin and Other Election News ...

2008-10-28T21:58:00.000-07:00

This beautiful Barack Obama was carved by my friend's talented, wise and wonderful 12-year-old daughter, Ellis Aune, in Denver, CO.

Whether you're voting early or on November 4th, PLEASE vote carefully!

My friend in Chicago reported that it took three times for her presidential vote to register. Each time she went to finalize her vote on the electronic ballot, it erased her entry for president. If she hadn't been paying attention, she may have finalized her ballot without her vote for president.

Also, in three locations, electronic voting machines have been reported for "vote-switching." When people enter Barack Obama, the vote switches over to McCain. Unfortuantely, in these instances, the people are being told that their votes can't be corrected. "It's too late. It's already in the system," say the voting judges.

I've also heard that if something goes wrong with an electronic voting machine during the election and they need to be rebooted, all the previously-recorded votes may be erased.

An old-fashioned paper ballot is probably the best way to go. But if that's not an option in your area ... please keep a watchful eye on every step of the electronic voting process and don't finalize your vote until you are sure ALL categories are as you want them.

Oh, woe ... these bad guys will stop at nothing.

Here's to HOPE!

YOUR LIFE IS AN OCCASION ...

2008-10-05T15:14:00.000-07:00

... RISE TO IT.

Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium may not be the most thought-provoking movie in the world, but it certainly does one thing: When Dustin Hoffman delivers his line, “Your life is an occasion, rise to it,” the film ceases to exist as pure entertainment and transforms itself into a story that delivers true inspiration.

“Your life is an occasion—rise to it,” is one bite-sized nugget reminding us all of the true potential, utter joy and infinite beauty we can discover within ourselves.

Then, in case I wasn’t paying attention the first time … this deliriously eloquent message slipped into my life in another, slightly different form. That of an email: “Every single moment, we are either adding to the Light of the world or to the shadows depending on what we are empowering with the focus of our attention.”-- Patricia Diane Cota-Robles © 2008

We’ve all heard how powerful our thoughts can be .. and then we are consumed by our day-to-day activities that somehow vaporize our time and lose us in the shuffle.

When my step-daughter was six years old, I made the conscious decision to stop what I’m doing and acknowledge her every single time she walked into a room. This wasn’t an easy thing to do—because there was always something I was doing that seemed important at the time … paying bills or feeding the dogs or reading the paper or listening to a program on TV. But I’d treated her dismissively before and noticed how it seemed to shrink her spirit. She’d bound in with some piece of news or adventure she was on … her spirit-light large and soaring … and I’d “shhhhhhh” her and tell her to wait or come back later. I’d watch her whole little-girl-self shrivel like a deflated balloon. When this happened, I noticed that I got smaller too. My heart felt tighter in my chest, like the Grinch—before he loved Christmas.

Once I recognized what I was creating, I couldn’t go back—I had to change the way I interacted with this precious girl I loved.

The tiny shift in my behavior benefited us both in ways I’d never be able to describe with mere words. It was really nothing more than being present … living fully and completely in the moment. Connecting. Looking into her eyes. Asking her. Listening to her answer. Telling her the truth. Noticing her light and loving it.

Your life is an occasion, rise to it challenges us all to do better, because an occasion is meant to be celebrated … life can mean more than survival … it can mean “thrival.” Rise to the occasion that is your life and celebrate it now.

Photo credit: Sarah Peters, Flickr, 2008.

Deregulation and Other Bad Ideas

2008-09-28T09:40:00.000-07:00

Telling corporations that they can regulate themselves is like leaving your three-year-old home alone and telling him not to touch anything. He’s going to touch something. It’s inevitable. Hopefully, that “something” won’t be dangerous like an electrical socket or the hot chocolate chip cookies you left on the counter to cool—just within his reach. These cookies will most likely be your toddler’s first target (they smell delicious, after all) and with any luck, they won’t scald the roof of his mouth or contain milk products you purchased from China.

The Sanlu Group in China decided that it would be such a good idea to use melamine to boost protein levels … even after the pet food scandal where Xuzhou Anying Biologic was caught doing the same thing. Apparently, according to these companies—babies (and puppies and kittens) are disposable. Chinese businessmen made the decision to fool the system … to cut corners, save money, poison lives … all for financial gain. Hmmm. But this is China, we say. We’re Americans! We’d never do anything like this here … on our soil … to our children and puppies and kittens.

When I talk about deregulation being a bad idea, I’m not even discussing it within the realm of Republican or Democrat … I’m talking about basic, human nature. We have a chance to profit and we are tempted. A few people may get hurt along the way, we risk it. Case in point—the housing crisis.

“How can we increase our profit margins?” ponders Financial Institution A.

“I know! Let’s cast a wider net! Instead of giving loans only to people who can afford it … let’s extend these loans to people who can’t afford it!” exclaims Star-Employee at Financial Institution A.

“That’s brilliant!” says Already-Billionaire-CEO at Financial Institution A. “With this system, we’ll sell the American Dream to millions of struggling people … offering them subprime and adjustable rate mortgages they won’t be able to honor. But before anyone discovers this, we’ll unload these loans and become even richer!”

“Wait!” warns Soon-To-Be-Fired-Devil’s-Advocate Employee at Financial Institution A. “Don’t people of lower economic means believe that they don’t earn enough money to buy a house?”

YES!” says Star-Employee, practically squealing with delight.

“Then how will we do this?” asks Devil’s-Advocate.

“We’ll trick them into thinking they can!” says Billionaire-CEO, leaning back in his chair, satisfied by a successful day at the office.

You might be saying … This is only one instance! Not all corporations are like this! The financial institutions are THE BAD KIDS, manufacturers are good!

Are they?

When I was fresh out of college, I worked in the marketing department for a big, “voluntary” safety testing and certification organization that shall remain nameless. Although, if you look at the cord on your toaster, you will probably figure out whom I’m talking about. During their annual meeting, I listened in on a board of manufacturers who made electrical products: hair dryers, lamps, TVs and electric blankets. Their topic of discussion? EMC’s (Electrical Magnetic Currents). These manufacturers were bantering about the amount of electrical currents their products emitted and whether or not they caused cancer. For the most part, the talk was innocuous … until we got to the guys who made electric blankets. Here, they admitted out loud … that YES there is significant evidence that electrical blankets carry enough EMCs to be harmful … but NO, it’s not significant enough to make public. When the other manufacturers voiced alarm at hearing such news, one brazen, electric blanket manufacturing guy spoke up, “Let me put it this way,” he explained, “I’m not going to tell the public of my findings, but I’m also not going to let my mom or wife or daughter or son use an electric blanket.”

I was only 22 at the time—the only woman sitting in a room with older, experienced men—and I was thinking: Did I hear him right?! Is this what adults do? Is this how business is run? I love my electric blanket like the next person. It’s soft and cuddly and warm! However, I went home that night and threw mine away. I got on the phone and told my mom, my sister and my friends what I’d heard. Some were skeptical, refusing to believe it, saying, “How can this be? Manufacturers wouldn’t give people products that hurt them. There are regulations in place to protect us. Aren’t there?!”

When I was growing up in West Chicago, IL, I was lucky enough to be surrounded by forest preserve. In the woods near our home was an abandoned shed. It looked like it had caught fire at one time … the edges were burned charcoal. But there were antique colored bottles left behind … and soft shavings on the floor that felt like sawdust. My best friend and I played house in the shed whenever we could … we’d bring books and sit on the shavings, reading … we’d carry our cats along and pretend like they were our children. It was an idyllic scene, sort of.

Until the night a bunch of men showed up wearing Hazmat suits. We saw their flashlights and my dad went out to investigate. These men were from Kerr-McGee, an energy company, and they were cleaning up one of their dumpsites—our little shed. Those shavings we sat on (because they were soft and comfy) were actually filled with raffinate, a toxic sludge with radioactive elements like radium, thorium and uranium. At the time (and unbeknownst to us), Kerr-McGee—whose manufacturing plant was located across the street from the West Chicago High School—was producing 7.8 million gallons of raffinate each year. We also recently learned that Kerr-McGee had been dumping this toxic waste in and around West Chicago for more than 40 years.

Of course we didn’t know any of this then … back in a time before Internet and Google. I suppose somebody could have researched it if they’d taken the time to do so … like Karen Silkwood investigated Kerr-McGee when she, and others, were poisoned in Oklahoma; or Erin Brokovich blew the whistle on the Pacific Gas & Electric Company for contaminating drinking water with hexavalent chromium.

We found out much, much later that not only was our little play-shed one of Kerr–Mcgee’s primary toxic waste dumpsites, but their other two largest sites were/are the location of important community centers: The West Chicago Jr. High School and Reed-Keppler Park. Yes, a park … where my brother went to day-camp during the summer … where thousands of children play in the grass on top of toxic waste. Sure, there was clean-up before construction … but it was self-regulated. How do you think that went?

In 2005, Dick Durbin (D-IL) and Barack Obama (D-IL) issued a warning with the EPA stating that there is significant data to prove Illinois contains 11 sites where people are at risk for exposure to hazardous contaminates—three of these sites are in West Chicago.

My brother and I—who both grew up in West Chicago—both had cancer well under the age of 40. Almost every family on our street has had at least one person with cancer. We’ve been told that our statistics aren’t significant. There’s cancer everywhere—our area isn’t special.

With these few examples … can’t we see that deregulation might not be the panacea business people have built it up to be since its inception? I haven’t even mentioned the pharmaceutical companies who cherry-pick their clinical trial results to show the best possible efficacy rates and the lowest possible side-effects. (And these are the regulated. Ever heard of a little government organization called the FDA?) Has anyone not seen the movie Constant Gardener? Sure, it’s only a film, but it’s based on a true story.

With nothing in place to guide us—and our companies—toward greater public safety and ethical choices that protect us and our environment … what do we have?

After the poisonous lead found on painted toys …

Or the cell phones that may-or-may-not cause brain tumors …

Or NutraSweet which may-or-may-not cause hemorrhaging …

Or, or …

Doesn’t any of this prove that perhaps our moral compass isn't strong enough to guide our business choices?

Isn’t it possible that in the face of deregulation, the people who run our companies—us—have moral compasses that can be swayed by the magnetic force of profit potential? Remember those chocolate chip cookies?

However, if it’s not happening to you … to your children … in your back yard … why should you care? We go about our lives believing our unregulated, corporate advice … praying that America won’t be “run by Socialists” … wondering who’s going to win the next season of Project Runway … and hoping that somebody, somewhere, will do something.

Change We Can Believe In

2008-09-22T16:16:00.000-07:00

Well, here we are--the idealists.

Attending a fundraising party in a backyard on Chicago's northside. The neighbors throwing this impressive affair have even shaved their blind dog in honor of our hopeful president.

We truly are hopeful ... even the neighbor who bills herself as a disgruntled Hillary supporter. Even the party-goer who stumbled off to get her bicycle to ride home after bucketloads of sangria. When we warned her that perhaps she should wait awhile before embarking on her journey, she said, "Do YOU want to drive me home?" My husband and I glanced at each other sideways. No. We didn't. We'd walked here and were glad not to have to fight with traffic for one night. I suggested she call a cab. Angry, she sauntered away from us yelling, "Well, then have fun reading about me in tomorrow's paper!"

Yes. Change.

So, where does it begin? In increments? With a whisper? Inside?

The night Barack Obama got elected to Senate, I had the opportunity to meet him face-to-face. He was standing in the Andersonville bookstore, Women & Children First. It was a rainy night and nobody else was around. Not secret service. Not a line of people waiting to shake Barack's hand. Nobody, but me.

I'd come in to buy a desk organizer. The inclement weather matched my mood, and when I saw Barack Obama shaking the bookstore owner's hand, I froze. Barack's aura was magnificent. I'd never seen anything like it. Despite the rain, there was an energy around him that glistened like the sun. I felt a goodness radiating out from him, warming me.

What did I do? The only logical thing--I hid behind the bookshelves.

Why? It's hard to know. But when I thought about it later, I realized that there was something inside me so small and bitter, I felt that I didn't deserve his light. I'm a pretty high-functioning individual. If you saw me at a party smiling, you might not believe that I'm capable of such cowardice. But it's there--buried inside. And suddenly, when faced with Barack Obama's light, my bleakness, my darkness was exposed. I'm not talking about race, of course. I'm talking about that rotten inner voice we all have that whispers in our consciousness. You will never be good enough, it says. You will never BE enough, it says. This voice is so stealthy, so covert, I didn't even realize it was there until that moment. I could have chosen light. Instead, I remained in pitch-dark.

In that one moment, my collection of childhood failures washed over me .... how I was always the last picked for kickball ... how I'd been ridiculed for not holding a fork properly ... how the boys who lived across the street told me my bike looked like it came from a junkyard. These moments only scratch the surface.

Seeing Barack's shining light made me also see the shriveled soul of a broken girl deep inside me. For the first time, I knew that the moments that form us don't go away. They become part of us, like nesting dolls, adding, collecting and storing experiences ... hiding inside our being ... an unnerving, aggregate of shame.

Recognizing this helps us see how the solution for healing our country--for healing ourselves--will not come from one man alone, Barack Obama.

It really is true when Barack says, "The person you have been waiting for, is you."

He is wise enough to know this.
He is humble enough to empower us.
He is earnest enough to hope for change--our change--all of us.

Our healing. Beginning now.

Doing the Right Thing

2008-09-13T12:13:00.000-07:00

Indiana Farmland, 2008

I "received" this letter today and wanted to share it. Please pass it on if it resonates with your heart.

Trying to Do the Right Thing
I’m a 34-year-old mother of three boys who lives and works in what I guess you could call middle of America. Not that 20 miles outside of Indianapolis is a thriving hub or anything, but we’re near enough to a big city to not feel like complete hicks … and we’re close enough to cornfields to feel somewhat attached to the Midwest farming community—many of our closest friends.

My husband manages a large discount retailer in the area, and, in order to avoid conflict, I won’t mention any names. I stay at home to raise my kids who are 3, 5 and 12.

Here’s the thing … In the next couple months, we’re going to be asked to vote on the future president and vice-president of the United States. This is a huge deal. I want to do the right thing. However, I’m feeling overwhelmed about what that is. I know everyone in this country will need to determine what is right for him or herself. And everyone’s “right” is always different in varying degrees.

My husband would tell me to vote Republican, no matter who the candidate is. He feels that no matter what, a Republican will look after our best interests and won’t raise taxes so we can better protect our hard-earned money. A Republican will be more invested in protecting our borders. He or she (in this case) will “put our country first.”

But I’ve seen Republicans in action for the last eight years. I’ve seen what the Republican Party has done to our country … to my neighbors … and to our family. I have eyes and ears and despite what my church bulletin tells me, or my husband, I need to judge for myself.

So, in order to make the best decision I can--for me and for my family--I decided to do some research. I didn’t need to search very far in order to learn about the current state of the economy. Today, on my Yahoo homepage, the news is grim: “Jobless rate jumps to a 5-year high of 6.1 percent with 9.4 Million unemployed Americans. This is worse than economists predicted. Only a year ago, unemployment was at 7.1 percent.” --Leading Economist, Associated Press, Sept. 5, 2008.

Here’s a little-known fact I found on a website called alternet.org. “Since launching the ‘global war on terror,’ the Bush administration has funneled billions of public dollars to private contractors and more than doubled the size of the occupation with these hired guns. If you think the U.S. has only 160,000 troops in Iraq, think again. With almost no congressional oversight and even less public awareness, the Bush administration has more than doubled the size of the U.S. occupation through the use of private war companies. There are now almost 200,000 private contractors deployed in Iraq by Washington. This means that U.S. military forces in Iraq are now outsized by a coalition of billing corporations whose actions go largely unmonitored and whose crimes are virtually unpunished. In essence, the Bush administration has created a shadow army that can be used to wage wars unpopular with the American public but extremely profitable for a few unaccountable private companies.”

Now, I’m not sure if the source, alternet.org runs left or right, but I DO know that learning about this infuriates me. Because here’s what it means to me: Only a few very greedy men are lining their pockets with revenues they gain from the war. My husband would argue that because of “Trickle down economics,” the whole country is benefiting from the riches of these few. However, when I look at my friends who can hardly make enough money to keep their farms running … or when I need to decide between gas for our truck or lunch money for our kids, I’m not exactly seeing anything trickling down. What this means is, if the war is still going on when my sons get old enough to work (God forbid) … they could go to one of those private corporations that support the war and get a job offer to work and live in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever the war happens to be at the time. Maybe they have a 3-year contract … perhaps they have a high salary of $70,000 a year or more … But is this the life we want for our sons? Or our daughters?

Alternet.org isn’t the only news source reporting this … Business Pundit calls the war a “cash cow.” They cite Halliburton, Veritas Capital Group/Dynacorp and Washington Group International as some of the largest offenders. I get that America is built on capitalism … I understand the idea of looking for ways to build a better life. I know the people who work at these companies are only trying to help themselves and their families … However, where do we draw the line? We are essentially invading another country for nothing more than an oil source and then profiting from building them back up after we’ve destroyed them. How is this right? How is this ethical? How is this Christian? How does this support our economy as a whole? How does this protect our borders? How does this provide jobs for the 9.4 million unemployed? How can I possibly tell my sons that this is what I’ve chosen for them and they should feel glad for it?

How am I going to vote come election day? The only way I can—for the candidate who promises and can deliver change. Some of my more liberal friends tell me, “Sure, Obama talks a good game, but can he really stand by all his big talk?” I have to tell you, I think he already has. He’s motivated our young people to become passionate about politics again. He’s not accepting campaign money from lobbyists and special interest groups. He’s proposing solutions for tax cuts that are even greater than what McCain promises. He cares about building schools that support our children. He’d rather spend our tax money right here in the US—building up instead of destroying—investing in programs to run our nation instead of in weapons and war efforts that destroy other nations.

I don’t understand how Republicans can tell me that they don’t want “big government” to rule our nation. They say this while the Bush administration passes a bill allowing government to spy on the very people it claims to protect. Thanks to Bush, our government is allowed to read our emails and listen in on our phone calls. Our “privacy” is violated in ways it never was before—not for a “free” nation like ours. And is it any better to have corporations rule our nation than government? When big corporations steer government toward decisions that impact everyone on earth—like the companies that are making money from keeping this war going—or the oil companies who are making more money now than ever before—how can we trust that?

Do we want 4 more years of the party who is motivated by financial gain? Do we want 4 more years of the party who supports a select few billionaires while the majority of us—once solidly rooted in the ‘middle class’—are now sliding into financial ruin?

I don’t want my sons to grow up only to fight in a war that John McCain can see lasting for 100 years or more.

I don’t want to vote for a candidate who picks a running mate only because she is female. Sarah Palin is a good person, I’m sure … and she’s a mother like me, so I admire that about her … however, she doesn’t have any more experience running this country than I would. And it is arrogant to assume women will embrace her in the same way they embraced Hillary. I’m not a Hillary supporter myself … but at least she had the experience of being in the White House for 8 years … she proposed national healthcare reforms … she’s met with government leaders all over the world. She’s a highly-trained lawyer … she ran the state of New York.

I think it is important for all of us to remember that we aren’t voting for a contestant on American Idol … Sarah Palin isn’t a bachelorette preparing for a rose ceremony. We can think she’s likable and attractive, yes, but the vice president is someone who needs to be able to run our nation in the event that something happens to our president—bottom line.

I’m trying really hard to look at these issues from all sides. I feel the extra burden of making the right decision—not only for me, but for my three beautiful boys. For the kids in their classes … for my sister’s kids in California … for my brother's kids in New Hampshire … for the future of America, and yes, even the world. This is one of the most important decisions we can make. I urge each of you to carefully weigh your thoughts … to research facts … to open your minds to the possibility of change. Thank you for listening.

-Flustered Housewife, mother of 3, middle of Indiana

Invisible Strings

2008-09-09T18:10:00.000-07:00

Today, as I drove up to my violin teacher's house for my weekly lesson, Sam Choi was not the demure Korean gentleman sitting in his dimly-lit living room furnished with religious placards, a velvet settee, a music stand and a piano. Instead, he stood knee-deep in the middle of his lawn, swinging a weed whacker across it like a golf club. Sweat poured down his back. He appeared shorter than I remembered, more slight. In fact, it even crossed my mind that the man standing there may not be Sam at all, but instead, some sort of hired help. I'd never seen anyone cut their grass so machete-like. It looked jagged and lopsided, as if a small child had gotten ahold of his mother's sewing scissors and cut his own hair.

"How was your vacation?" he asked as I approached. "Did you go somewhere alone?"

"No," I answered. "I rented a house in Michigan with my husband, step-daughter, mom, dad, sister and her boyfriend."

"Your husband?" He asked with strangled surprise in his throat.

"Yes," I answered, quickly running through the history of our lessons in my head in an effort to grasp whether I'd said or done anything to give him another, different, idea.

"I had the distinct impression that you were single," he added, not bothering to hide his sharp edge of disapproval.

I flushed as if I'd done something wrong.

Single? I'd worn my not-so-subtle wedding ring every week. Last week on the phone, I told him I couldn't have a lesson on Friday because we were taking my step-daughter to visit colleges. Our anwering machince says, "John, Lisa and Danielle can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, we'll call you back." Who did he think these other people were?

When you're getting to know a person, it's interesting how information about them seems to unfurl. Slowly, at first, like those fiddlehead ferns, releasing their centers at the last possible moment.

Throughout the weeks of our lessons, I'd wondered more than once about the state of Sam's social life. Not because I was interested in having him be anything more than my violin teacher, but because I was simply curious.

Upon my first visit to his home, I found him alone in his dark Georgian. Shades drawn. Extreme quiet. I felt calm there. He helped himself to a tall glass of ice water during our two-minute break. Yes, two minutes ... but that's another story. He offered me a glass of water, too, but because I was still at the point where I'd gone to this strange man's house for a lesson, and I wasn't entirely sure I wouldn't end up choppped into small pieces, thrown into his basement and covered in lime, I didn't accept it. When he brought his glass out into the living room, I noticed that he'd cut narrow slivers of lime into his water ... just the way I liked to drink mine, and I instantly regreted my choice. But there was still a chance I could end up in his basement, chopped up into pieces covered in limes. He was a stranger, after all, and I was alone in his house hoping for the best.

When I arrived for my second lesson, I noticed a few pairs of women's shoes in the front hallway. "Oh good, he's married," I thought. And I felt glad for him because I'd otherwise pictured him lonely. Not because single people are automatically lonely--I don't believe this at all--but instead because he seemed lonely inside his dark house. There was a sadness about him. A longing. But now that I saw the shoes, I imagined a young wife. Possibly one or two small children. My imagination went as far as to picture his wedding. Modest. Perhaps taking place in a church basement on a Sunday afternoon with his bride wearing a white tea-length dress, gloves and a pill box hat. Maybe they served vanilla cake and coffee ... or some sort of Korean delicacy.

The women's shoes at the door told me a lot about his life, I thought. Besides the embellished, fictionalized meaning I'd placed upon them, I also took my cue that I should remove my own shoes. I asked him if bare feet were okay since I hadn't brought any slippers, and he told me I could wear his sister's.

Immediately, that one word, sister, shifted everything inside my head--the entire scenario I'd created about his life sounded like a phonograph needle yanked across a record player. My relief of having him married with children, was replaced by the image of a hermit-like man living out his days with an aging, possibly ill, older sister. He hadn't said any of this, but my head filled in the details, as it had tried to do before ... as his must have done, too, once he discovered I was married.

During the course of our lessons, Sam remained professional, friendly and focused on teaching me everything he knew about the violin. For the first three lessons, I was only allowed to hold the bow. He informed me that you can tell everything about a person by the way he or she works the bow. He said that other violinists can look at another's bowing style and identify their school of study--French School, Odessa Method or Suzuki. You can tell if the violinist smokes ... if he or she exercises ... what type of diet a musician eats.

I marvelled at this information, and he continued to tell me about how whenever we learn something new, there is part of us that wants to grow and evolve, while another part of us remains stuck in our old, narrow ways. "Look," he said, pointing to the awkward, declawed-cat way I was holding my bow in the air. (A poor attempt at the Odessa Method.) "See how some of the muscles in your hand are cooperating, and others are resisting?"

"Yes," I said. I did see that. My arm quivered from the weight of the bow as he'd instructed me to hold it straight out in front of me during our entire hour-long lesson. I could see that the muscles between my third and fourth fingers were relaxed while the muscles between my second finger and thumb were arched and stiff. I understood how I could carry his wisdom through to the rest of my life, too. As a writer, there is part of me who believes I can do it and another part who procrastinates and won't write at all, or when I do write, I'll judge it harshly and over-edit. In fact, no matter who you are or what you do, this lesson can apply. People who struggle to give up over-eating or smoking will quit cold-turkey and then find themselves binging or buying new cigarettes a week later. I get it.

"You must overcome it," he instructed. "Don't let it win."

Good lesson.

The first time Sam Choi told me he was leaving, we were only four lessons into our time together. He was finally allowing me to hold the violin under my chin, the fingers of my left hand stretching over the neck to reach the strings. Everything about the violin hurt. The way it dug into my clavicle. The way my wrists felt twisted and fatigued after only a few minutes of holding this unrelenting instrument in the proper "nominal" position.

"I'm going off to Cambridge to work on a PhD in physics," he said as he raised the neck of the violin and showed me how to drop my shoulder, holding the instrument at eye level. "Violin's not my first thing," he continued, "physics is."

Huh, I thought. Even though he was now offering me details about his life so I wouldn't need to fictionalize them, they felt sketchy, at best. I struggled to comprehend why communication between us felt so stilted. Was it the cultural difference? Or, perhaps shyness on his part, or simply the professionalism that's expected between student and teacher? All of the above?

The following week I arrived at Sam's house to see a For Sale sign on his lawn. I went in with a million questions ... Are you moving? Are you going to Cambridge? How long will you be there? Not to mention the myriad of unexpressed thoughts floating around in my head, first and foremost: How can you leave me when you haven't even taught me to play a note?!

Sam didn't answer. Instead he tenderly took my rented violin and checked the bridge to see if it had shifted during the week. This made it clear to me that question-time was over. I'd need to rely on my imagination to fill in the blanks.

I found it so funny that after my first lesson, I showed up the following week for a second, and he asked me to remind him of my name. He'd remembered the exact position of my bridge, though. And during that first lesson, he told me, "There is a brightness about your spirit. It cannot be denied. How do you do it?" he'd queried. "How do you stay so bright?"

I laughed and told him, "Drugs." (prescription of course.)

Either he didn't understand or he didn't appreciate the joke. He told me he would go through moods ... his soul would be consumed with moments of darkness he couldn't avoid.

I looked at his easy, smiling face. The way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed a little too hard at his own jokes. I couldn't imagine any darkness there. But I suppose when someone tells you exactly who they are, it's important for you to listen.

The following week, the For Sale sign was gone.

"You're staying!" I squealed, bursting into his home, carefully taking off my shoes and leaving them at the door. By now we were becoming a little easier with each other, despite my insecurity surrounding the realm of anything musicial and his awkward social skills.

"You move your bow like a 27-year-old," he exclaimed. I'd been practicing the bow exercises he taught me, moving it around in a circle, clockwise, then counter-clockwise, in counts of fifty according to the unrelenting metronome. "You have the stamina of an 18-year-old," he added. I basked in his praise, gaining confidence, never putting down my bow, never resting. He'd lecture and I would swing the bow out and around my body, slowly, stiffly. As he'd talk, I'd find myself wanting to rest my bow arm, but he'd raise it again and hold it out--like a soldier standing at attention during roll call.

"Do you sing in a church choir?" he asked.

"Noooo," I answered slowly. I felt caught off-guard by this ... not sure why he needed to know and especially not sure how it related to the violin. But a lot of questions he asked were like this: Did I work out? If so, how often? When I told him I walk three times a week, he said, "I suggest you increase that to five times."

Before I could feel indignant, he'd save himself with something like, "It's important for violinists to be in top physical form."

"O-kay," I thought. That's valid enough. But still.

During one lesson, Sam asked me to sing outloud as he pressed out accompanying notes on the piano. I'd never sung outloud in front of anyone besides my husband and my voice hadn't been received with anything other than a laugh and some comment about how I was tone deaf.

"You have perfect pitch!" raved Sam.

I looked at him skeptically. I wanted to laugh. He must be kidding. But I searched his face for some sign of sarcasm and saw nothing but earnestness and delight.

Of course all of this praise came before the second-to-last lesson ... when I told him I was married and he turned cold. Disdainful.

Then, the stuff we didn't say to each other screamed louder than anything we could have said outloud.

-You were only complimenting me because you thought I was available?
- I'm going to war.
- I only wanted to learn violin.
- My family completely emasculates me with their domineering plans for my life ... their rigid religious beliefs ... their rules and demands for utter obedience.
- You treated me like I had real promise. Was that all a lie? For what? Attraction?
- War is my only way out. My freedom.

On vacation, my family had teased me. I'd forgotten to pack my violin. Sam had requested I bring it and practice my "invisible strings" for fifty minutes each day. Invisible strings is an exercise Sam told me about after he'd asked me to play my first note--an A. The sound that escaped from that first attempt could only be described as cats dying and witches nails screeching down a chalkboard--and this was being generous.

Upon hearing that note, Sam looked at me cheerily and said, "Okay, now we're going to do a new exercise."

"What is it?" I asked eagerly.

"Invisible strings," he said.

"What are invisible strings?" I asked, guilessly.

"It's an exercise where you hold your bow over the strings of the violin and pretend to play the notes." He proceeded to show me how it was done. I practiced and practiced. Playing first the invisible A, then the invisible D ... Next the invisible G ... and finally, the invisible E. With each new note, I held perfect form ... extending my bow perpendicularly across the strings, safely hovering above them so as not to make a sound. Each note required a slightly different bow position. We worked in long counts of fifty ... going up bow then down bow as if I were playing.

So, when I "forgot" my violin on vacation, my dad found a long stick on the beach. He gave it to me and said, "Here's your bow! Now you can practice your invisible strings on your invisible violin." My whole family laughed uproariously. I laughed too. And I practiced, sort of, in an invisible way ... for a minute or two a day.

Upon my return from vacation ... the day Sam was brutally chopping his grass and I showed up at his house unpracticed, flustered and minutes late ... the lesson continued to unravel like a car crash.

-You never told me you were married.
- I didn't think I had to. I was only learning violin.

"I'm leaving," he said, brusquely.

At the time, my hand was shaking. I was holding the bow in the wrong spot on the bridge, having not touched my actual bow and violin for the past ten days ... all while trying to maintain the appearance of ease. Sure, I practiced.

"How often did you practice while you were away?"

"Three times," I half-lied. I had practiced at least three times, although I didn't tell him it was with an invisible violin for mere seconds at a time.

"As you know," said Sam, abruptly moving my bow hand and placing it in the proper position over the bridge, "a violinist bows here."

Okay, so I didn't practice. But come on ... how much do I really need to practice invisible notes?!

As I showed him how I could do it ... stay in position for each note and pretend-play for fifty counts, he only said, "You're rusty at best."

- Okay, true. But are you saying that because you found out I have a husband? Or do you see through my flimsy facade that I practiced? Or both?

"My job is requiring me to leave," he said. "I will be going out-of-state. Then out of the country."

"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice shaking. Are you punishing me because I'm married? Are you really leaving or do you just not want to teach me anymore? "Are you going to Cambridge?" I continued.

"Texas," he answered.

"Oh," I said, still confused about what all this really meant.

"I'm going to be working with the military."

"Oh," I said again, dumbfounded.

"You can try playing real notes today," he said. "Even though you didn't pass my invisible strings test."

The thought of playing actual notes excited me despite the tension in the air, but only for a moment. Sam suddenly yanked the violin and bow out of my hands and said, "Watch this. I think you will be able to play it."

I watched with my mouth hanging open as he proceeded to play a melody so perfectly lovely and tinged with pain, that tears sprang to my eyes. The music moved me so deeply and completely. I'd never heard anything so elegant, poetic and beautiful. It was as if angels had come straight down from heaven and channeled God's voice through Sam Choi and my rented violin. It was a love song and a hate song. It bound me and undid me. I couldn't stop weeping.

"There," he said, hotly, when he finished. "Simple. Now you try it." He handed me the instrument and glared at me in a way that told me everything I needed to know. He wanted that to hurt. And it did. I could feel it in every cell of my being. He knew I couldn't play that with three years of practice or thirty. He had a gift ... one he had never shown me, fully. One I would never see, or hear, again. In that song, I knew why lovers would die to save each other and why countries were fought for and won. I felt like I had melted into him ... merged with the music ... and I could finally expire, knowing I had fully lived.

"What was that?" I asked through choked tears.

"The German alphabet," he said, smugly.

We laughed together as two people do who have just shared dizzyingly gratifying sex.

"Mozart composed it," he added. As if that explained what had happened ... the genius of Mozart ... the pure channel of Sam Choi.

During the next (and what would become the final) lesson, I played my first song. "Lightly Row." It sounded stratchy and stilted at best. Sam told me to relax. He was back to his old self again. At peace with the demons, and angels, that had plagued him the week before.

"I'm going to basic training and then to Afghanistan. This will be our last lesson."

My heart sank. I envisioned his beautiful bow hand carrassing my rented violin ... I remembered the magical sound he created that filled my heart and fed my soul.

"You enlisted?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"Yes," he said, hanging his head."My family doesn't know."

"You should tell them!" I squawked ... the mother in me rising up in protective defense. I couldn't picture Danielle suddenly going off to war after telling us she took a job in another state. I couldn't imagine not having the chance to talk her out of it, or to properly say goodbye.

"All my life," he said, "I've done what they want. I've played by their rules. Gone to their church. Gone to college nearby to stay with them. Now it's my turn."

"Ok-ay," I said, "but I'm worried about you."

"It's something I need to do for myself," he said. "To let me know that I'm a man."

I gave Sam a medallion of an angel that says "Guardian," and another of a musical note that says, "Listen," and another of a bird that says, "Freedom." I figured if he's joining one of the most rigid organizations on earth to fight in a war he can't escape, only to remove himself from the confines of his family, "freedom" is something he'll need.

Sam gave me three photocopied song sheets written in English and Korean, and he left me with this final lesson:

"Musicians don't feel joy because they play beautiful music," he said.

"They don't?" I asked, confused about where he might be going with this line of thought.

"They feel joy in embracing exactly what sound comes out of them, beautiful or not."

Good metaphor, I thought, for just about oh, EVERYTHING!

So ... I can love playing violin even when it sounds bad? And I can embrace my writing that's sloppy and needs editing? And I can enjoy exactly where I am instead of longing to be somewhere I may never go?!

"Playing the violin is like loving a naughty, messy child. No matter what happens, you still love him," he said, and then he proceeded to offer me a piece of raspberry cheesecake.

"No thank you," I said, admittedly ill-at-ease about whether or not I should accept food from him. There was still that basement thing ... and with him going off to Afghanistan, or Cambridge or staying right at home for all I knew ... I wouldn't risk it.

"Good," he said. "You should continue to lose weight."

Lose WHAT? Who said I was trying? I felt anger rising before he continued ... "It is important for a violinist to stay in shape," he added, and I somehow felt satisfied with that.

At the door, I slipped into my shoes and he gave me a watery handshake as a farewell.

"Take good care of yourself," I told him. "Stay safe."

He thanked me and we parted with promises of staying in touch through email, as people often do when they know they'll never see each other again.

"I'll send you pictures," he said.

"I'll let you read this essay," I said, as our brief but powerful student-teacher relationship ended with a smile and a goodbye ...

... While our invisible strings play on.

Embrace Your Inner Nine-Year-Old

2008-07-31T08:32:00.001-07:00

Recently, I found my scrapbook that I started when I was only nine years old. In it, there was an entry I had covered up with tape in junior high. Beside this entry, I'd cast my awful judgement -DUMB-I'd said.

As a forty-something redescovering this, I struggled to read what my fourteen-year-old-self had deemed so shameful. Luckily, the tape I'd used, which was once opaque, is now worn away with time. Here's what I wrote:

On Monday, October 1974 I had a geese ceremony. I took two red leaves and put them together with a stone and then threw them into the water and prayed.

Upon reading this, my adult heart broke for that sweet, sensitive young girl. I realized that her true spirit is something I've tried to hide, bury and cover up my whole life. The fact that my teenage-self felt so much shame for something I'd written as a child that I vandalized my own scrapbook, is tragic.

What is it about life that teaches us to feel embarrassed about our true selves? Especially since, these little-selves are the very essence of who we are.

Inside each of us is a loving, innocent and vulnerable core-one which we continually struggle to deny. In fact, throughout the course of our lives, we work so hard to cover up our true selves that we often don't find them again. What's worse is, we may not even know to look.

I am so happy that I saved this scrapbook to remind me of who I once was ... who I still am, deep inside ... and who I can be again, with a lot of uncovering.

We can all do this, and we may even find that the more "tape" we peel away ... the closer we'll get to our nine-year-old-selves, and the happier we will be.

What beautiful, loving child do you keep buried deep within you? Perhaps it's time to bring her out into the light.

I LIKE WHAT YOU DO

2008-07-27T10:25:00.000-07:00

I recently ordered this lovely piece of folk art from ebay. The painting is done by an artist named Papa Lee. He lives in Utah and uses "tramp canvases"-whatever he can find around his town-anything from old, oil can lids (shown) to pieces of discarded wood or fabric. As an untrained artist, he draws upon his natural environment for inspiration, often capturing scenes of mountains, stallions overlooking magnificent vistas and ominous, black crows guarding their red rock environs.

I was drawn to this piece because of its unique "canvas" along with its idylic scene. Last year, I worked in Colorado for five months and fell in love with mountains in a way I never thought possible for a self-proclaimed beach girl. I also spent most of my childhood years in a log cabin house, so this reminds me of home.

When the landscape arrived in its oversized Fed-Ex package, I tore it open. Inside, I found the artwork I had ordered, only it was even better than I'd imagined. The details that were difficult/near impossible to recognize in the smallish ebay photograph were: richness of color-vibrant blues, reds and greens-along with small touches like dappling in the grass and even glitter highlights. Papa Lee's artwork was, and is, exquisite.

Inside the package, I found a tiny, handwritten note from Papa Lee. On it he wrote, "I hope you like what I do."

As I considered the magnitude of this phrase, I began to think about everything we create as creatures in this world, and how we ALL hope to be liked, recognized and acknowledged. This desire runs deep within us-at the core of our beings.

It begins when we are potty-training toddlers (probably long before that.) When we successfully use the potty, we show our moms and dads our poop. We are then rewarded with a "Good job." These simple words make us well up with pride. Yes. I did that. I made what is in that bowl.

You've all sat beside a swimming pool and watched a kid jump off its side, calling out to a parent, "Mom, watch this," or, "Dad, check out my canonball." The child is making a literal splash in the world, and it must not go unnoticed. If we are unobserved, how is there evidence that we have been?

One of the greatest things we can do for each other as human beings is bear witness. When we are born and baptized, friends and family share in this joy. As we marry and give birth, we gather to celebrate. As we delve into the world and explore our talents and missions, we share our news, joys, accomplishments, even defeats. And, as we leave this world, others are present to assure us that our lives had meaning.

What more can humans ever ask?

"I HOPE YOU LIKE WHAT I DO."

Yes, Papa Lee. I like what you do. In fact, I love it. You, as an artist, have shared yourself in such a raw and beautiful way. You have created a piece of art that speaks to my heart with simplicity beyond words. You have captured, with your imagery, what it feels like for me to "be home." You have struck a chord that resonates in my soul and lets me know I belong.

"After I hung up my sweet mountain landscape in a place of honor in our home, I took the time to write Papa Lee a note of appreciation. He wrote me back right away and told me, "You made me feel so good."

Take the time today to tell someone, "I like what you do." With your simple acknowledgement, you will affirm the worth of another human being.

Poop Vomit and Fenceposts

2008-07-23T21:23:00.000-07:00

My friend Linda says, "Some days you're the bird, and some days you're the fencepost."

Today, I was filling up my gas tank at the BP (all $84-worth, thank you very much, Mr. President-War-For-Oil) ... and a giant bird pooped on my back windshield. Unfortunately, the dropping splattered off my car and all over me. Truthfully, I don't know if the bird was "giant" or not because it was hidden by the overhead beams. However, I DO know that it takes an awfully big bird to make a dump the size of a basketball. (I mean really, what could that thing be eating?!) So, this kindly man shared his new paper towels with me-fresh out of their Walgreens bag. We had a good laugh over it, too, and he even told me an improptu bird joke, which I'm still trying to figure out.

"What kind of birds do Man Birds like?"

"I don't know, what?"

"Ladybirds."

"What kind of birds do Ladybirds like?"

"I don't know, what?"

"Seagulls."

Huh?!

On the way home from the gas station ... heading up Lakeshore Drive ... it was a beautiful morning, sunny, 80s, windows down, I looked at this guy who was riding in the car in front of me. It was a BMW and he was in the passenger side, flopping his head out the side window like a golden retriever. His buddy, the driver of the vehicle, was swerving in the lane. I wasn't really paying close attention, maybe I was still pondering the bird joke ... maybe I just had my head in the clouds, but stuff started flying at me from their car to mine ... covering the grill, my front windshield. Hm. Odd. What were those flecks? They looked like gallons of chopped up apples. They looked like yellow chunks. EW. God, it was vomit. I mean, talk about projectile! We were going at least 45 mph. Maybe faster.

This could prompt one to ask, "What's next?" I know something for sure-It's not gonna be pretty.

Tonight, J and I were walking our mini dachshunds when a giant, white dog bounded toward them. They went ballistic, as mini-dachshunds often do (think Napoleon Complex). I stuck out my foot in the air to block the collosal dog and keep him away from our panicked, little teeth-barring monsters when, the owner of this beast (not to mention a second beast galloping behind the first one), yelled, "Don't kick him!"

I replied, "I would never kick him!" Because I wouldn't. I wouldn't have kicked that dog if it were tearing the flesh out of my legs. I might run. I might scream. But I would never, ever kick.

He went on ranting at me about how his dog was "friendly" and didn't deserve "violence."

I WASN'T KICKING!

His dogs-the giant goofballs-are off-leash, which is illegal in the city of Chicago, and I'm the bad guy?!? How does that work?

As I tried to drag my snarling fools away from the man's area of the sidewalk, I said, "I'm sorry. My dogs AREN'T friendly."

"Yeah. I can see that," he retorted, looking us up and down in a bitchy way that said we were all ill-bred.

My dad recently complimented me on how "calmly" I'm able to react during stressful situations. He said he admired this about me, even envied it.

Well, right at that moment, I imagined myself kicking him-yes, KICKING THE MAN, NOT HIS DOG). And I didn't want to stop there. I wanted to gouge out his eyes. I wanted to run him over with my poop & vomit covered truck.

Maybe it was the accumulation of poop and vomit. Maybe, it was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe that guy was just a giant asshole. But today, I was definitely the fencepost.

WAITING

2008-07-22T22:02:00.000-07:00

Chicago bus stop.

5:45PM.

June.

Wrapped up in summer.

His waiting never ends.

The destination a moving target

to nowhere.

FALLEN

2008-07-21T19:48:00.000-07:00

Toronto at 5pm.

A winged siren waiting.

For redemption or something like it.

Slung low on her hips like a thong.

Silence Really IS Golden

2008-07-19T17:32:00.000-07:00

With J visiting his parents, I am pretending to be single, and Zen, like Leonard Cohen. No TV all weekend. No phone either. Although, I do find myself conversing, albeit one-sided, with our three mini dachshunds. Blogging, to me, smacks of navel-gazing. However, Tricia, my niece may have changed my opinion on the matter during her recent visit. We stayed up all night like teenagers, reading each other our latest fiction. Hers, fantasy/sci-fi. She's 20 years old and although she barely made it through high school (school's not really her thing) her stories are epic and professional. They read like someone twice her age (and education) has written them. Here I am, the aunt (literally twice her age) who is ready to give this green writer a few, sage words of advice about the writing world. HA! As she read, I was rendered speechless. And, at the end, all I could mutter was, "Tricia, when you finish that book, I will introduce you to my agent." Here, I've been honing my craft for 10+ years ... with nothing more to show for it than a fat folder of rejection letters.

My friend Alice says there are 28 words that Eskimos use for love (or was it snow?) When I asked my friend Lauren about her recent rejection from Chronicle Books, I was truly curious. "What kind of rejection was it?" There are different types:
1) Flat out, "No thank you" form letters that come in a business envelope (incidentally, I've determined that nothing positive can ever come in the form of a business envelope!)
2) A generic letter with a small, somewhat encouraging hand-written note at the bottom of the page. "No thank you, but keep trying."
3) An entire, heart-felt missive from an editor who loves the story .. would like to see future work ... but is deciding to pass at this particular moment.

You get the idea.

Lauren simply answered, "Rejection is rejection. Do you need to know more than that?"

To say that we are jaded is an understatement. We are road-weary writing warriors with screenplays, stageplays, fiction, poems, sketches, articles and essays sent out into the universe like directionless balloons ... floating ... somewhere ... following only the wind ... and waiting for a safe place to land.

I think I could live much of my life in silence. When Martha Stewart was in prison, I found myself fantasizing about how blissful it would be to live in a cell. No visitors, no distractions ... nothing more than a journal, a pen and books-beloved books. I would refuse contact with the outside world. I would bask in the silence of my solitary confinement. However, the shower rapes and exercise yard wars might become slightly annoying, but a girl can dream, no?!

It should be mandatory that husbands go away for long weekends once every business quarter. I don't consider myself a misanthrope, exactly, but I absolutely do not want to talk to anyone this weekend. I'm not even leaving my house to buy catfood. If I so much as speak with a Target checkout person or a Starbucks barista, I may lose what's left of my already flimsy sanity. The world can be so loud, cluttered and of course, filled with rejection.

In silence, lies truth.