The Abundance of Now

staycation

2011-10-10T09:03:00.000-07:00

We went sailing in the kitchen sink
atop a bar of soap
the foamy waves were crowned with suds
and as a telescope
We snatched a noodle floating by
and what did we behold
a silver stainless landscape
flecked with bits of rusty gold.

The sun above was hazy
though the headwinds they were light,
but as we got to paddling
something seemed unright.
It appeared a swirling circling
had overcome our course
At first the spin was gradual
But then it grew in force.

And as we sat in puzzlement
with water rushing round
Our ears attuned themselves
to a dismaying sucking sound.
A veritable maelstrom
soon overtook the sink
Partnered with a grinding growl
that made it hard to think.

Faster spun our bar of soap
The vortex held us fast
As celery sticks, and Cheerios,
and cracker crumbs whirled past.
We huddled close together and
Our destiny seemed bleak,
But then my love discovered
our salvation with a shriek.

The handle of the pot scrubber
protruded from the ledge;
and with a hopeful new resolve
we seized a lemon wedge
and pegged it toward the handle
which temporarily tipped
toward our melting, melon-scented raft
which bobbed, and twirled, and dipped.

And as the drain inhaled our boat
We scrambled up and out
And collapsed upon the countertop
With a weary, grateful shout.

We still enjoy adventuring,
without much reservation
But with each near miss, we oft dismiss
precarious locations.
These days we're more than likely
To be cautious (just a smidge):
We water-ski in coffee mugs
And hang-glide from the fridge.

persona non grata

2011-10-09T08:15:00.000-07:00

I've always had this thing about actors. I mean, playing make-believe is one thing. We all do it as children, and it seems to come almost naturally as we try on the various hats and suitcoats, high heels and fancy feather boas of adulthood. But the ability to suffuse, to figuratively saturate one's own skin with the motivations, insecurities, mannerisms, metaphysical bruises and quirks of a fictionalized stranger -- or at best, another real-life human being -- on the basis of a handshake and a handful of incisive script reviews, impresses me to the point of awe. And maybe just a little bit of trepidation, too.

I once heard Tyne Daly, the Emmy-winning contemporary stage thespian (and, to those of us of a certain age, Detective Mary Beth Lacey on the '80s network crime drama "Cagney and Lacey") share a thought-provoking insight. While being interviewed by the inimitable Charlie Rose, she was asked what drove her to keep making plays and movies. And she chuckled and paused a bit before she answered "Well, it has to do with the euphoria of getting away with a lie." She went on to explain that a skilled, truly gifted actor can actually convince an audience that they are actually seeing, knowing, even walking alongside the character in front of them -- as opposed to the actor who's portraying that character.

And I can certainly concur with that. A gifted actor has an ability to iron away the seams. Sure, on some suppressed level you may recognize that the face in front of you is really Brad Pitt. But everything about this person so wholly embodies another being that you temporarily forget -- honest-to-God forget -- about the puppet-master pulling the strings at the heart of the performance.

Which is why I struggle with the concept of "celebrity" vs. the concept of "actor" (or "musician," or any other type of creative artist). Yes, okay. These people are in the business of making us feel things. In a less generous sense, it might be argued that they use their formidable skills to manipulate our feelings. And sure, we sign up willingly, because who doesn't like to be shaken and stirred by a great performance? But I think the problem starts when we begin to confuse empathy for the character with an understanding of the artist as a true individual.

What bothers me about our culture is not necessarily the height of our pedestals, but the objects of our adoration. There's a saying that suggests we humans never fully forget how someone makes us feel. I think, unfortunately, that we've carried this to new extremes. One actor might give us a glimpse into the life of an injured war veteran. Another might show us the ongoing terror and angst of an abuse victim. A third might show us what it's like to make a living as a firefighter, charging into burning buildings and saving innocent kids. A fourth might embody a guy who's had his heart utterly and maliciously broken, only to push forward to new plateaus of achievement.

And oh, how we feel. We laugh and cry, we applaud and shout, we stand and cheer, and we feel so strongly that we tell ourselves we truly know these artists. We chase them down the street with video cameras. We assault them on movie sets to sign our belongings, to hold our children, to pose for cell phone pictures, to be assaulted with our adulation, so we can tell our friends and family that OMIGOSH we were RIGHT UP CLOSE to so-and-so and s/he is SO AMAZINGLY AWESOME in real life!

That is, if throwing ourselves around an uncomfortable stranger surrounded by an edgy entourage on a crowded city street qualifies as "real life."

And so what about the characters these strangers portray? What about the victims of major illness, the single mothers of three who lose their hair and chase down the bus and keep forcing themselves to work day after day, to keep the insurance, the keep the paycheck, to keep affording the groceries? What about soldiers in Afghanistan who willingly jump on grenades and lose both legs so their comrades can live to see their families again? What about the 8-year-old who gets beaten everyday by the parents she loves, only to go to school and graduate, to grow up and nurse the scars, to tell herself over and over that she's not a worthless mistake?

We idolize the artists who make us feel for characters like these; emotive performers who let us stand in a stranger's shoes for a nice, neat 120 minutes. But every single day, we pass the genuine article on the street. We walk shoulder-to-shoulder with the scared, the scarred, the brave, and the broken, a veritable ticker-tape parade of faces who are doing a better job of acting than almost anyone seated at the Academy Awards. And do we stop them in their tracks to tell them how they've inspired us? Do we pose with them for pictures so we can tell our loved ones what it feels like to shake the hand of a true hero, a real-life poet, a bona fide survivor?

Rarely, perhaps never. Because it's easier to relate to an artist's persona. It's more exciting to hug the person who's ascended from a mere individual to a national treasure, a flawless airbrushed face in a magazine, a cultural icon. They're brighter than a supernova. They're larger than life. It feels like they belong to everyone.

And the people fighting the true battles? Putting their lives on the line for real? Living with crippling pain and stifling guilt and grappling for minimum wage? Well, they're just so easy to dismiss, to ignore, to overlook.

After all, they look just like you and me.

bumble

2010-09-02T12:31:00.000-07:00

Dust motes swirled lazily and the rusty old file drawer squawked in protest as I pushed it shut with a clang. It was a beautiful late-summer Tuesday afternoon, and here I stood catching up on overdue office projects instead of lounging outside during lunch. The tiny file room was hot, musty and dim; tucked as it was behind an old, unused staircase. It creaked and settled with age, suffused with the antique smell of long-forgotten papers moldering away in cramped, gloomy corners.

I was just turning to leave when I heard a low, furtive buzzing to my left. I glanced toward the sound and noticed a tiny shadow flitting randomly between the swaying window blinds. A bumble bee, drawn to the slivers of brightness. It bumped and thumped repeatedly against the glass, and I wondered how long it had been there. As I watched, it continued to crawl searchingly across the pane; seemingly quite conscious of where it wanted to go, yet incapable of perceiving the thing that blocked its way.

I walked back to my desk, called a few vendors, attended a flurry of meetings. And for whatever reason, the bee never strayed from my thoughts. Even as I drifted to sleep that night, I pictured it toiling away in muted moonlight, a hair’s-width from freedom but held firmly at bay. I considered the irony, that such a massively solid barrier would – from such a close distance – remain wholly, completely unseen.

The next afternoon when I peeked into the file room, the buzzing had ceased entirely. Likewise, there was no shadowy movement by the window. As my fingers sifted carefully across the blinds, I half-expected a sudden, furious sting. But instead I spied a small yellow smudge perched feebly on the sill. The wings twitched weakly when I bent to inspect it.

We stood that way for who knows how long, just the bee and me, regarding each other in silence. My nostrils vaguely registered the mingled scents of mildew and moldering paper. Finally I picked up an unused file folder and a cracked, discarded pencil cup. “Will you let me help you?” I whispered.

Moments later, I leaned out the back door and lifted the inverted cup. The bee sat pensively for a moment on the flat manila surface, amidst the familiar summer sounds of cicadas and chattering sparrows. And then, just like that, it lifted off and up and away.

I pondered the shock of being thrust into brightness after spending so long in the dark. Wondered if, perhaps, such trivialities were rendered insubstantial in the bliss of the brightness itself. And walked back inside thinking about paths unexplored, obstacles unaccounted for, and the mystery of hands unseen.

passenger

2010-07-22T07:04:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon, fourth grade. Middle of winter break, snowflakes the size of fluffy half dollars. Sledding down the toboggan hill with my long-ago childhood friend, Jason. Letting him do the steering. Big Mistake number one.

Growing up, Jason was what other parents might tactfully term “inquisitive.” He was the kind of kid who, even as a toddler, would scale the backyard fence in his Pampers training pants to make mudpies among the neighbor’s prize-winning geraniums. The type of child who would take prolonged, restfully oblivious naps inside duffel bags, behind basement bookshelves, and underneath kitchen sinks, while his frenzied parents mobilized various branches of the National Guard. It was possible to leave the house with Jason, thinking that you were on your way to buy sodas at the 7-11; and to somehow find yourself in the soggy field behind the local grade school, white socks and sneakers squelching in warm soupy mud, catching frogs and toads and turtles. After such outings, I would inevitably wind up grounded for a week and a half. The frogs and toads and turtles would inevitably wind up in the bathtub with “Aquaman Jason,” where they would inevitably hurl themselves out of the sudsy water at inopportune moments to scare the bejesus out of his chronically sleep-deprived mother.

And so, as we careened down the toboggan hill on that long-ago Saturday afternoon, I was dismayed yet only mildly surprised to find Jason aiming our sled toward a dense-looking thicket of trees. At first I felt sure that we’d definitely stop in time, but the hard-packed snow and the high-speed winds caused the opposite effect. As we leveled out at the bottom of the hill, we just kept right on going.

The trees began to loom taller and taller as I jabbed Jason repeatedly on the shoulder of his overstuffed hand-me-down parka. “Hey,” I mumbled around my grandma’s handmade scarf, to no avail whatsoever. Jason’s mischievous cackle wafted back as we sped impossibly faster. Gosh those trees looked awfully close together.

Finally I managed to spit my scarf out of my mouth and really holler. “JASON YOU BIG STUPID JERK, STOP SCREWING AROUND!” He answered with a few gleeful whoops, punctuated by several rapid-fire fist-pumps. I began to kick his leg repeatedly, violently hard, hoping to knock us over, push us off-course, anything to avoid the brutal collision I knew was headed our way. And at last, when the trees were almost upon us, I hunched down behind him, averted my head, squeezed my eyes shut in sheer terror and screamed.

After what felt like a wind-whipped eternity, I found myself lying face-up in the snow, Jason beside me and laughing hysterically. I sat up and slugged him in the arm. Twice. I was winding up for an unprecedented third slug when Jason, still snorting and snickering, pointed to the trees now a short distance behind us. My torn red pom-pom hat dangled idly from one curving branch. Low to the ground, so low that you couldn’t even see it from more than a few feet away, was a shallow, hollowed-out tunnel that had been carefully cleared of sharp twigs and underbrush. I slumped in relief, looked back at my smirking companion. “I hope you laughed so hard you wet your pants.”

Many years later, I’m still learning to accept the fact that life can just be like that. If we peer too far into the distance, the path seems unclear and the obstacles suffocatingly close together. Sometimes, we just have to trust that when the threat is fully upon us, when the moment of impact arrives, a passage will somehow appear. It may not be a straight path, or an easy one, and it may cost us things we love dearly -- but it will materialize, when the time is right, in measured steps before us. There’s no way to plan in advance. All we can do is hang on tight and try to enjoy the ride.

So Jason, if you’re reading this from wherever life’s current has carried you, I want to thank you sincerely for that long-ago, left-handed lesson. I want to apologize for punching you in your pitching arm. And I want to remind you (you big stupid jerk) that you owe me a red pom-pom hat.

kiddieland

2010-06-29T15:00:00.000-07:00

Normally in life, childhood kind of melts away in stages, like ice cream on a summer afternoon. Little by little, playgrounds and birthday parties lead to homework and summer jobs; which gradually give way to lawncare and daycare and taxes and business travel until one day, we look up and wonder where the time could have possibly gone. But once in awhile, something happens that sends an entire era crashing down definitively. For me, one of those somethings was the recent demolition of Kiddieland.

To all the pint-sized people who grew up in my neck of the woods, Kiddieland was our personal version of Club Med: a crayon-colored, candy-scented nirvana set to merry-go-round music, populated by acres of carnival rides built expressly for kids. We could hardly believe it – spinning teacups and Ferris wheels, bumper cars and rock-o-planes as far as the eye could see, all with specially scaled-down seats that couldn’t even fit the average parental rear end. There was a midway made up of swaggering clowns and men on stilts waving licorice and lollipops and pink cotton candy; and up and down its length lolled fat, smiling stuffed animals alongside friendly barkers who shouted that for only 25 cents and the right amount of skill, you could win a real live goldfish in a bowl. Yet as if all this weren’t enough, there were also the buddy rides, which permitted a parent to ride along with you. My favorite of these was the centerpiece of the park itself: an imposing white wooden roller coaster named The Little Dipper. The Dipper – as it was known for short – let us four-to-nine-year-olds scream our little kid heads off, while the protective arm of mom or dad stayed securely draped across our shoulders from the first drop to the final dizzying helix.

I can still remember sitting buckled into the backseat of our family sedan, red canvas Keds stuck straight out in front of me, craning my neck to see those flying circus flags begin to peak over the horizon. It’s funny how we adults require mantras that remind us repeatedly to live in the moment. I’m not sure when this becomes necessary. Because back in the day, as soon as I spied those flags, my entire existence was overtaken by the same giddy thought looping over and over and over: We’re going to Kiddieland!

Some time after his death, I found an old photo of me and my father as we crested the very top of the Dipper’s first hill. There I was in my old brown striped jacket, front teeth missing and mouth open wide in a silent shriek of elated anticipation. And there was my dad with his arm tight around me, sitting tall in his familiar white Hanes tee shirt, trying not to grin and failing miserably. The photo was weathered and yellowed, dusty and creased. The hill was a great deal smaller than it had ever seemed at the time. But my memory of simple trust and joy in that captured moment, as we sat poised together at the very top of the world, remains as bright and substantial as yesterday.

I couldn’t attend the demolition. After all, I’m a grown-up now with a job to hold down, a family to care for, bills to pay. But deep down, I know there’s more to it than that. Because in truth, I just couldn’t muster the courage to watch someone take my dear old friend off life support. And because that little girl, in the years since those flags proudly flew, has grown so troublingly subdued.

I’m afraid, you see, that my old friend might not have recognized me. And I’d rather we remember each other just the way we used to be.

on the way home

2010-04-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

“I always thought of myself as a house. I was always what I lived in. It didn't need to be big. It didn't even need to be beautiful. It just needed to be mine.”
~ George Monroe, Life as a House

Recently, my husband and I received an interesting lesson in the power of shifting perspectives.

What happened was, we put our house on the market and we almost bought another. Actually, the first property fell through; but then we found a second house we liked. Both shared so many features nearly every homeowner dreams about: gorgeous wraparound staircase, huge master suite, big backyard, extra bedrooms. So we surprised ourselves just a little when we ended up opting to stay in our two-bedroom condo.

It’s not that our humble little abode has everything we’ve always wanted. In fact, by certain legitimate standards it’s somewhat short on space, and there’s no backyard for our dogs. But as we waded through the process of trying to sell, it gradually occurred to us that for now, the house is simply ... enough. The place I’d noncommittally referred to as “my husband’s townhome” when we first got married has somehow become a reassuring refuge for us all. And for the time being, that’s more than sufficient.

I wondered how we’d come to this realization. I think it had to do with the time spent trying to sell to some anonymous stranger. We cleaned all the closets. We scrubbed all the floors. We positioned scented candles in the bedrooms. We did laundry and dishes, and polished the faucets, and vacuumed the carpets each day. And then we began to make our list of all the things that made it special. The list grew, and it grew, and it grew. And in the end, we simply sold ourselves.

Some years ago, a missionary from my church spent time with the people of Africa. He brought back startling pictures of houses built with hardened clay blocks atop crumbling rubble foundations. The floors were dirt, the doors were cardboard and the roofs were made of straw. He stayed with extended families of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, all of whom slept and ate and lived in a single room. And yet in nearly every photograph, those people were inexplicably peaceful, even occasionally laughing. Despite their poverty, in the face of constant hunger and hardship, they had somehow mastered the art of simple gratitude for each new day. And here we sit, one of the wealthiest nations on the planet, with rates of depression and suicide that constantly top the charts.

The night after we’d taken down the realtor sign, I brought home a DVD. My husband popped a bowl of popcorn and we sat together on the couch and watched. The dogs assumed their usual posts – Maizy in my husband’s lap; Grant on the sofa gazing out his window, the self-appointed family scout with his well-gnawed bone between his paws. It was a cozy, comfortable evening, unexciting by almost anyone’s standards. Springtime leaves were just beginning to blossom on the trees out back, and the little French door to our deck stood open. We’d had our dinner, the dishes were done, the breeze wafted quietly through the room, and we were all together.

That’s when we knew we were home.

reflections

2010-04-14T11:50:00.000-07:00

Gray sky, open field, white mist, dark water. Canadian geese lifting off, reflected in measured pairs of two by two by two. I stand in the dormant grass with my hands in my pockets, and watch them disappear into the fog. I wonder where they’re headed and if it’s a place I’ve ever been.

I think about friendship and love; childhood and adulthood; and how the seasons of life aren’t nearly as different as they seem. Children, for instance, grow into adults who –- deep down -– really just want someone to kiss them goodnight, hold their hand, make them laugh, reassure them in the dark. Someone to turn to the world and say, simply yet reverently, “this is the one.”

Geese ascend, reflected in the pond, two by two by two. I think about the news I just received from an old dear friend, news that someone she cares about is leaving town. Her voice is measured and even as she mentions his decision was apparently abrupt and unavoidable; that he’ll be half a country away in just a couple of days. Poised in the air between us, like a waiting breath suspended, half-formed hopes seem to hover and dissipate. I think of migratory birds seeking somewhere safe to land. Her tone remains neutral when she remarks that this someone dropped off a parting gift.

A gift? I say. What sort of gift?

Geese in flight, gliding in a perfect letter “V,” defying gravity. Every movement so precise, synchronized, flowing, like a graceful ballroom dance. How do creatures such as this –- creatures who will walk, even stand, directly in front of a moving car –- achieve such effortless airborne unity? So many times, I remember looking into a cherished loved one’s eyes. Seeing only myself reflected there, isolated and uncertain. Realizing that a lifting off has occurred, but not in the same direction.

A mirror, she says. He brought over one of his mirrors. He said it reminded him of me.

Gray sky, open field, white mist, dark water. Geese angle upward, disappearing into the distance, two by two by two. Prompted by some unspoken accord, some tacit yet shared understanding, to explore destinations I can only begin to imagine. I stand in the dormant grass while an impassive silver lake reflects the shifting clouds, the changing seasons, and landscapes left behind.

seeing stars

2010-03-30T14:30:00.000-07:00

Life is an unusually difficult teacher. It gives the test first, and the lesson later.
~ Anonymous

Oh, Kate Gosselin. Whoever would have thought that you and I would have anything in common? After all, I am an everyday, pseudo-anonymous suburban observer; while you are an emerging Hollywood starlet, published author, noted hair extension aficionado and part-time mother of eight (which, in my reality, is a fairly substantial contradiction in terms).

What you are not – apparently – is the most easygoing and chill of octo-motherly souls, based upon the Yahoo! News headline that graced my screen early this morning:

Uber Control-Freak Kate Spars With Yet Another Double-Timing Male

Aside from the impressively snarky reference to the persistently public dating fiascos of your ex, Jon “Reliving-My-Early-Adolescence-With-a-Panic-Stricken-Vengeance” Gosselin, what really caught my attention was the part about control. That, and the hotlinked video footage that showed you reaming Dancing with the Stars partner Tony Dovolani a proverbial new one for his allegedly deficient instructional techniques.

"It's like you're telling me how to teach you how to dance,” spluttered the usually-serene Tony, shortly before ripping off his microphone and jump-jiving his way right out the studio door, “yet that's what I do for a living."

And dear Kate, your exasperated response reminded me so much of someone I greet in the mirror each day: “I'm not qualified to teach, but I am qualified to know how it is that I want something shown to me.”

Now let’s think about that for a minute. Are you really? Because if that “uber control-freak” reference should hint at anything, it’s that the people watching you are detecting a not-so-subtle pattern. And to be fair when it comes to myself (and possibly certain folks reading this), how many times has life tried to teach me an especially difficult lesson, only to have me balk because things aren’t being presented according to my own perceived needs and preferences?

I’m not sure if you’re working on this tendency, Kate. I certainly am, and boy do I struggle. But I understand how time-consuming things can be as a burgeoning Hollywood celeb. That’s why I’m guessing it’s more likely you’ve assigned an entourage to work on it for you, according to your own exacting specifications. Should that be the case, a humble invitation: If these assigned staffers would ever like to trade tips and pointers, please have them give me a call. After all, we the middle-class fans could use all the added support we can get. We don’t have quite the same cadre of resources at our fingertips -- though I notice that life isn’t necessarily backing off on us as a result.

Also, I’d be grateful if your helpers could offer some hair advice. You know, I’ve been thinking about extensions, but I can’t get access to your brand and stylist unless we trade in the family car …

the voice of experience

2010-03-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

The fourth law of foodservice thermodynamics:
Whenever a waitperson says, “Please be careful, this plate is extremely hot,” an indiscernible force compels the patron to reach out and grasp the plate. This compulsion increases in direct proportion to the number of syllables the server chooses to insert into the word “ex-tr-e-e-e-e-ee-muh-ly.”

Looking back over your day today, were you the waitperson ... or the patron?

wanderings (an homage)

2010-03-05T14:30:00.000-08:00

Life is sometimes what you wander into.
~ Joe Bednar

Got into the car this morning and fired up my trusty iPod. Just like that, up comes the title track off Steely Dan’s third studio album, Pretzel Logic. The tour supporting this album was once termed the “tour of disillusionment.” I forget who coined the phrase; and I’m not sure if he or she was referring to the audience –- who were somewhat befuddled by the more complex nature of this new material –- or to the band itself. Probably both. Either way, lukewarm tour reception prompted Walter Becker and Donald Fagen to retreat into the studio and abandon live touring for decades.

I would love to tour the southland, in a traveling minstrel show
Yes I'd love to tour the southland, in a traveling minstrel show ...

Something I read recently stirred up nostalgia for my old college days -- when, ironically, I was into lots of classic rock tunes like this one. The “something” was a very poignant, thought-provoking blog post by Joe, an old college friend of my husband’s. The memory that it conjured up was that of my own freshman year on a different campus. Specifically, the day –- no, the actual moment –- I suddenly felt at home ... at college, in school, in my own skin. I was walking toward my dorm at dusk, backpack slung over one shoulder, hand in my pocket, crossing the business quad. Everything about that instant stands out vividly: the angle of the light, the scent of the honeysuckle, the clothes I was wearing. I had the simple thought, this is going to be okay. It just clicked comfortably into my head, the way a phonograph needle settles into the groove of a familiar old 45. My life stretched out before me like a bright white six-lane highway.

I have never met Napoleon, but I plan to find the time
I have never met Napoleon, but I plan to find the time ...

In his blog, Joe describes a college friendship that was, and then it wasn’t, before eventually coming around again. He alludes to the fears and plans of his own teenage self; the companions that came alongside him for the first leg of the trip; the unexpected and occasionally unwelcome turns that occurred down the road. Many of us might recognize in his description a person we ourselves haven’t seen in the mirror for some time: a hesitant, hopeful, headstrong version of the grown-up skin we somehow wandered into; an increasingly pragmatic, pensive traveler who’s navigated that ever-narrowing highway across the years and into the jurisdiction of the lives we lead today.

And what would happen if we introduced those two selves right here and now? How much would they still have to talk about, to compare, to admire in one another?

“Friends,” observed Stephen King in Stand By Me, “can come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant.” So it is, I find. And maybe, in the end, the real ones are meant to do more than help us navigate our own detours and disillusionments. Maybe they’re meant to bear witness; to preserve continuity; to help us stay true to the best and brightest and most worthwhile parts of the person we are and the person we’d once hoped to be. Even when those days are gone forever , over a long time ago.

Oh yeah.

All that is gold does not glitter,
not all those who wander are lost;
the old that is strong does not wither,
deep roots are not reached by the frost.
~ J.R.R. Tolkien

laughing matters

2010-03-04T06:46:00.000-08:00

Did you ever try to hold in laughter? I mean, hold it in so hard that your eyes water and it looks like the Egg McMuffin you had for breakfast is disagreeing with you? I find that, as I get older, I don’t laugh nearly as often, as loud, or as long as I once did -- or as I probably should. But in the days of my comparative youth, solemn events sometimes gave me the giggles.

Now okay, I know how atrocious this sounds. I’m ashamed to admit it myself. I want to stress that I’ve never been the kind of person to feel bona fide amusement in serious circumstances; but I’ve come to develop a theory. My theory is that this, uh, tendency was due to what my great-uncle Joe termed “can’t-scratch-your-nose” syndrome. You know what I’m talking about: the conundrum that occurs when –- for whatever reason –- your hands are restrained, or you can’t reach your face, or you’re not allowed to fidget. Perhaps you’re carrying a grand piano; or a big scowling nun is sitting next to you in church; or you’re floating around repairing the NASA space station. Suddenly, you realize you’re unable to scratch your nose. It’s not that you have to scratch your nose – it’s just that you’re abruptly struck with the awareness that –- should your nose begin to tickle, even just slightly –- you would be completely powerless to do anything about it. And so, if you’re like me, you focus on this restriction and your nose starts to itch like mad.

Accordingly, in true “can’t-scratch-your-nose” spirit, the most horrendous laughter-gaffe of my youth occurred when I was a junior in high school. It happened during an awards ceremony for my 96-year-old next-door neighbor. I forget what he was being congratulated for, exactly –- possibly just the ability to sit up unassisted for the duration of the two-hour program –- but that’s not what I want to emphasize. What I want to emphasize is that I was absolutely, 100% composed until someone invited the bagpipers up front to play an interpretive rendition of “Man in Motion” from St. Elmo's Fire (remember, this was the 80s). I also want to emphasize that I began my stern internal pep-talk of STAY SERIOUS STAY SERIOUS STAY SERIOUS immediately, and didn’t feel a single chuckle-churning whatsoever until they were well into the chorus. That’s when I hit the proverbial floor, as in crouching for cover and fleeing in a low, frenzied fashion straight to the restroom.

Now of course, in a more forgiving world my chosen restroom would have been vacant. And of course our world is anything but, and so this one was packed with unsuspecting middle-aged women. Unfortunately, once I was safely sequestered inside the stall, roughly 35psi of previously-suppressed air pressure exploded through my nostrils in a sound that approximated an amplified duck whistle. Within a single beat of time, the restroom became abruptly, utterly silent. So in my desperation to cover this mortifying outburst I flushed the toilet, which made me begin to cackle outright; a sound I, in turn, attempted to muffle with several more rapid-fire toilet flushings. I’m not sure how the casual observer might have interpreted all this whooping and whooshing, but I will say I’ve never heard so many feet shuffling so frantically toward an exit door in my life.

Ah, misty watercolor memories. So is there a moral to this uncomfortable little episode? Well, I suppose you might take it as a pointed reminder that somebody, somewhere, is always having a day worse than yours. As for myself, I guess, it just helps to remember that once, it really was just that easy to conjure up a big, boisterous belly laugh ... no matter how inappropriate the situation. Because –- don’t get me wrong –- laughing out of turn is never a good thing.

But as Uncle Joe would tell you, it’s better than losing your sense of humor altogether.

chew on this

2010-02-26T13:46:00.000-08:00

I don’t remember eating a whole lot of fresh vegetables when I was a kid. In fact, I don’t recall consuming too much of anything green, unless you count my annual Shamrock Shake at McDonald’s. Well, no, I take that back. I’d also have to count the little “tree” that always seemed to be sitting next to my cheeseburger at restaurants. For years I would simply shove it to the side of the plate -- a safe distance away from my fries, of course -- and be done with it. Once, when I got really bored with the grown-up conversation, I gathered everyone’s “trees” and made a miniature forest on my placemat. I was just getting around to adding a few “hills” of mashed potatoes and “lakes” of mustard and ketchup, when the parental units put a quick stop to that landscaping project.

So what a rite of passage it was when, out of the blue one day, I began to consider this shrub-like thing as a food. I poked it around with my fork. What would happen to me if I actually ate it? I reasoned that, after all, it had been touching my main course for years. That was almost the same as putting it near my tongue, right? Just to be on the safe side, I checked with mom to get the all-clear, then dug in. Hmm, not too horrible – crunchy, kind of chewy and bitter, but that went away pretty quick if I dipped it in the bleu cheese dressing. Yes! Mission accomplished. I felt pretty good about myself.

Flash forward a bunch of decades and man, it turns out life can sure make you chew on some pretty bitter stuff. Sometimes there’s not even a friendly getting-to-know-you period, like there was with my parsley. You’re just sitting there one day, minding your own business, and BAM -- your plate is full of something you didn’t order and don’t recognize. It looks extremely yucky, and you can’t find a waiter to send it back for you.

So if you’re anything like me, you start to get overwhelmed with the fear of what will happen if you actually start to swallow any of this. I think part of becoming a real live adult – the true rite of passage, so to speak – is realizing that, holy cow, that’s the meal on my menu right now. I can’t swap lunchboxes with somebody else. I can’t hide it under a big pile of applesauce. I can’t cover my eyes and count to twelve and make it disappear. It’s right there, staring me in the face, ugly and intimidating and unappetizing, and I can either sit here and dread it or just dig in.

I don’t know that starting to chew really makes the entree any easier to stomach. But I have come to believe that poking at it with our forks, over and over and over, sort of paralyzes our ability to move forward -- without making the present situation seem any more appealing.

When I was growing up, dessert was never an automatic reward for those who cleaned their plates. Sometimes there would be a piece of chocolate cake waiting with your name on it, and sometimes there wouldn’t. You never really knew for sure. But there was only one way to find out.

So um, I'd really appreciate it if someone could please pass the bleu cheese.

past present

2010-02-03T14:51:00.000-08:00

There is a beautiful old French saying that goes something like this:

“The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.”

It sounds much better in French, though I forget who said it exactly. But based upon personal life experience, I’d like to offer this somewhat less eloquent, Americanized variation:

“The entertainment value of the receiving experience can be worth WAY more than the gift, the manner of giving, your car payment, and the national debt combined, depending upon who’s currently President.”

This might sound a lot better in French too, or maybe even Portuguese, but I digress.

My point is this, and perhaps you can relate: I have had some decidedly wacky gift-getting experiences. As I get older, I realize that I’m losing my ability to remember the actual gifts themselves, but the ordeal of receiving remains uncomfortably vivid.

Exhibit A: my mother, who for years worked in the customer service department of a major department store. Combine mom’s employee discount with her God-given ability to sniff out bargains, and you’ve got the recipe for some amazingly good deals. So good, in fact, that our beloved matriarch developed a habit of screaming out the purchase price as the gift was being opened. It was almost like pulling the string on my old Chatty Cathy doll. Rrrrip goes the paper. “TWO DOLLARS!” Rrrrip goes the paper. “A BUCK EIGHTY-NINE!” Bridal showers, memorials, you name it, didn’t matter. No occasion was too solemn for what we eventually termed MMMT, Mom’s Markdown-Motivated Tourette’s. At some point, you’d realize everyone in the room had begun silently calculating your personal discount quotient in their head.

Moving on to my 23rd birthday. It started out as a nice enough occasion: family, cake, double-helpings of Lou Malnati’s pizza. I’m not sure whose idea it was to hire the surprise entertainment, but I do know that’s not where the real problem started. The real problem started when the agency sent my perfectly appropriate G-rated birthday clown to the bachelorette party, and the bachelorette party stripper to me. Things got worse when this individual, a burly fellow named Basil with what can only be described as deeply impaired powers of observation, launched into his act with such unrestrained gusto that he failed to note the preponderance of 5-year-olds in the room. What ensued looked like a tame version of Godzilla vs. Mothra, with clothes flying, kids and parents screaming, food splattering and furniture smashing as every last guest fled the area. There was even the brief threat of blood as my boyfriend at the time, probably more shocked than anyone, actually picked up Basil and tried to deck him in mid-act. But ironically, and fortunately for his face, Basil had at least opted to keep his glasses on.

And then there’s that time-honored practice of re-gifting. Once, when I still lived in my tiny efficiency apartment, a neighbor presented me with a marginally-used canister of blue crystal bath salts. This was intended as a get-well present following surgery. Yes, Harbor Mist – I remember the name and the scent to this day. There were only two real problems:

1) My doctor had prohibited actual bathing for two weeks; and
2) My bathroom was only equipped with a shower stall.

I gazed at my well-meaning friend as she beamed at me over the giant utility container -- the fragrant aroma of Harbor Mist suffusing our nostrils -- struggling to formulate just the right words of gratitude. I envisioned myself running in small circles around my cramped shower enclosure, stitched up like Raggedy Ann, tossing handfuls of Harbor Mist bath salts in the air so they would stick to my damp skin like kitty litter.

Fortunately, the reason for her unusual gift selection soon became fairly obvious as she sneezed mightily, then sneezed again, and again, spraying half the container contents all over the room.

Price of the actual gift: Free, minus the cost of professional carpet cleaning. Memory of the look on both our faces: Priceless. And I guess that part is truly the gift that keeps on giving.

counterintuitive

2010-02-02T18:41:00.000-08:00

Thought for the day: "Within dedicated commitment lies incredible freedom."
~ Author Unknown

our own beds

2010-01-22T06:12:00.000-08:00

True story: While running some errands the other day, I spot a middle-aged couple casually strolling across the four-lane highway. They’re deep in animated conversation, walking against the signal with oncoming traffic swirling around them.

These two continue chatting away as they amble right in front of my car, which forces me to a complete stop as I approach the right-hand turn lane. Eyebrows suspended, I wait maybe half a beat before tapping the horn and gesturing at the green light dangling 20 feet yonder.

The guy flinches as if I’d pulled up and beeped in his bathroom, then shares a couple creative gestures of his own. Next he starts hollering something about the sidewalks being blocked with snow, and where else are they supposed to walk. Okay, can’t argue there. Except that he’s making this perfectly valid point while standing smack in front of my idling two-ton CRV -- which still has the green, mind you -- with honking vehicles hurtling just inches from his waving arms. His companion finally runs back and drags him to the curb.

True story: Three powerful Pacific storms pound California with heavy rain and snow in January, forcing hundreds of evacuations; flooding major interstates; unleashing lightning strikes on two commercial jets; and spawning multiple killer tornadoes.

Despite urgent pleas from authorities, some residents simply refuse to heed evacuation orders. One couple puts their faith in a 2-foot-high wall of sandbags surrounding their home.

“Look at our house,” says the wife. “We’re well-fortified here. If any rain or mud or anything comes down, it’ll be blocked by our barricades and we’re stocked with food and water.” Police deputies ask the couple to sign actual forms stating they’ve been advised of the danger. They also warn them against pleading for rescue later, recounting the post-Katrina chaos of New Orleans.

Despite these painstaking efforts, officials report only about a 40 percent compliance rate by residents throughout the region. “We’re not going through all this because your carpet is going to get wet,” laments one exasperated sheriff. “We’re doing it because your flipping life is at stake, and other lives will be jeopardized trying to save you later.”

True story: Jet-setting White House party crashers the Salahis invoke their Fifth Amendment right repeatedly during a preliminary House hearing; so many times, in fact, that one aggravated committee member finally asks whether the couple is actually in the room. The couple’s lawyer reiterates his clients’ belief that they were entitled to be at the dinner, neglecting to mention the reality TV cameras that have followed them around for months.

Defending our right to our position is a big deal in this country. I guess that’s what being “free” is all about. But does anybody else feel like we increasingly invoke principle at the expense of common sense? Does it even matter anymore what gets compromised, or who becomes inconvenienced – even incapacitated – so long as we get what we want? Do we stop to think about the bigger impact … which, all too often, comes back to haunt us as well? Case in point: today’s headline about growing disenchantment with the ongoing economic stimulus effort, positioned right next to a headline about homeowners continuing to walk away from outsized mortgages.

My great-aunt Florence used to have a saying: “If God didn’t want us to use our brains, he would have stuffed our heads with ricotta cheese.” I’m starting to wonder if maybe he didn’t, and so he did. Buy hey, you know, I guess that's just not my problem.

vital signs

2010-01-19T14:16:00.000-08:00

“They’re right: I have lost something. I'm not exactly sure what it is; but I know I didn't always feel this... sedated.”
~ Lester Burnham, in American Beauty

Have you ever seen the movie Fight Club? I guess you’d call it a coming-of-age story about an unremarkable everyman who feels compromised, confused and disconnected from his life; and about where those feelings lead him.

The film’s director once gave an interview which, in my opinion, summed things up very nicely: “We humans are designed to be hunters, and we find ourselves in a society of shopping and consumerism. There's nothing to kill anymore -- nothing to conquer or overcome in our daily reality. We’re not even really necessary to a lot of what's going on. It's already been built; it just needs to run now.” What results, I suppose, is perhaps the ultimate form of emasculation … and the hands-on-violence-seeking members of Fight Club explore one way to recapture that connection.

It surprised me to find I was most affected by an earlier part of the film’s setup, wherein the protagonist (if that’s what you’d call him) attends a disjointed series of support group meetings to encounter individuals “with real problems.” And even though the film spends limited time with these people, to me that’s where the bona fide fighting occurs. A more quietly desperate kind of fighting, maybe, but no less brutal and bloody than the battles depicted later in the film.

I’m not sure if I’d have noticed this distinction even a decade ago. But in the intervening years, I’ve had the gift –- oddly uncomfortable term, but yes, the gift -- of climbing into the ring with people who have not been granted the luxury of disconnection. Maybe, like me, they existed for a time in that predictable, sanitized sameness that many come to occupy –- commuting back and forth to work, watching TV, folding laundry, wondering what’s for dinner. And then one day, maybe without any warning at all, they were jolted to the realization that they live on a fault line.

For some, that fault line might be an addiction; for others, a loss; for still others, a threatening health condition. But no matter how you label that fault line, there’s one consistent truth: It forces its inhabitants to redefine everything they know. They become exceedingly, even excruciatingly aware of a certain ... volatility. And those who summon the courage to exist in that space, those who muster the resolve to push back, are irrevocably, electrically awake.

You have to look very closely. Because outwardly, this awakening often fails to resemble the kind of thing a caffeine-charged society might expect. It may show itself as nothing more than an awareness of moments, a tone of quiet thoughtfulness, even a tendency toward stillness. But inside, the gloves are off as an old reality shatters, pretext evaporates, pride and vanity clatter to the ground like some gilded shield discarded.

The rest of society –- the ones Fight Club was meant to reach, I imagine -– often consider these people fragile, broken, weak. Interesting. Because I’ve noticed that as they struggle and thrash to get up, and get up, and get up, they frequently manage to lift others with them.

"When I was little, my cousin had a pregnant dog, just a mutt, who was due to have her puppies in about a week. She was out in the yard one day and got in the way of the lawnmower, and her two hind legs got cut off. The vet said, "I can sew her up, or you can put her to sleep if you want, but the puppies are okay. She'll be able to deliver the puppies."

My cousin said to keep her alive.

So the vet sewed her backside and over the next week the dog learned to walk. She didn't spend any time worrying, she just learned to take two steps in front and flip up her backside, then take two steps and flip up her backside again. She gave birth to six little puppies, all in perfect health. And when they learned to walk, they all walked just like her."
~ Gilda Radner (1946 – 1989)

in the cards

2010-01-10T13:53:00.000-08:00

Before my grandmother suffered the stroke that would eventually debilitate her, she'd apparently meant to give me something. I learned this weeks after we moved her cross-country from an urgent care ward to a round-the-clock nursing facility, when my mother was going through her belongings. In Grandma's purse was an old mass card wrapped in wrinkled paper. On the paper, written in my grandmother's wispy-thin penmanship, was my first name and the beginnings of a sentence. It's not clear what the sentence was destined to mean; my grandmother was evidently interrupted while she was writing. But it is clear that she wanted me to have the mass card. Looking back, she'd actually mentioned it over the phone once, the very last time I heard her voice.

My grandmother was always the kind of grandmother who loved with such stifling ferocity that, as a child, it instilled actual fear in my heart. When I developed a case of winter bronchitis, she'd be on the phone letting me have it for leaving my coat unzipped at recess. She'd follow that up with advice for such complicated vitamin concoctions that I had to pass the receiver to my mother for interpretation. Later, when I'd suffer breakups and dating fiascos in high school, each hapless young man would become the unassuming target of Grandma's wrath -- whether he deserved it or not. "You tell Eddie," wheezed my grandmother, whose asthma was no match for her hair-trigger Italian temper, "that if I ever see his mother on the street, I'm going to ask her how she could manage to raise a SON who apparently has NO CONSIDERATION WHATSOEVER for the upstanding young women the GOOD LORD has sent into his UNDESERVING LIFE." Her ire whipped into a frenzied, irrevocable crescendo, Grandma would then typically launch into a string of old-country curse words with such vigor and gusto that she'd ultimately break off into a series of rattling coughs, forgetting to hang up the phone altogether.

Over time, age and a string of health challenges managed to mellow my grandmother oh-so-slightly. She still dispensed her hard-won wisdom with refreshingly feisty candor. She still believed, deep in her heart of hearts, that massive quantities of garlic would alleviate just about anything. But Grandma's overbearing passion gradually softened from the fiery mama-wolverine variety into a fiercely supportive loyalty. Always, her pointed words of encouragement were grounded in her devout Catholic upbringing, emphasizing the importance of faith and the enduring love of God. And somehow, nothing could make me feel more secure and protected than that familiar, wizened old voice.

As I wade through my own challenges today -- some so troubling that I'm virtually paralyzed at the thought of their outcome -- I find myself pining to hear that voice once again. Yet I know its time is expired. Grandma now sits in her wheelchair, her whispers unintelligible, laughing at everything, smiling at nothing, sealed away from the world's trials and triumphs and tears. And as she nods benevolently I clutch that final mass card like a talisman; the one wrapped in that wrinkled, coffee-stained scrap of paper, the one that bears my name. I turn it over and over and look at it, like some obscure baton that's been passed, straining to remember the echo of fiercely reassuring words that will never come again no matter what the future might hold.

The sentence scribbled at the bottom begins "I will always" before trailing off into nowhere.

picture this

2009-11-11T07:44:00.000-08:00

When I was younger, somebody (okay, an old flame) once told me that I didn’t inspire a lot of “Kodak moments.” It was during a breakup – the final parting shot, actually – and let me tell you, it scored a direct hit on the nerve it was targeting. I have always been somewhat solitary and reserved, a bit of a loner, and a chronic worrier to boot. You can imagine how this could potentially suck the life out of any wild parties waiting to happen.

So I did what any sane, dejected, mortally insulted person would do: I took it to heart with a vengeance. In fact, over the next several years, you could say that being crowned the Kodak Poster Girl became my mission in life. I hung out with musicians, tattoo artists, celebratory divorced people, and other spur-of-the-moment types. I became nuanced in the art of club-hopping and buying complimentary rounds of shots; carrying on futile conversations with my victims who, once propped securely yet contentedly against the bar, insisted on calling me “Marge” or “Amy” or “Sharon” in slurred and raspy voices. I took cruises and road trips and vacations to party-friendly places like Cancun and New Orleans, sleeping on hard-backed chairs or piano benches in those frequent instances when inert, bleary-eyed revelers had claimed every other square inch of surface area. And of course, I took pictures of every single slice in time.

Recently, I came across this mammoth box of photographs which, as you might imagine, had grown to approximate the size of the Berlin Wall. I flipped through hundreds of images showing that blithe, carefree person –- here in a sombrero, there dancing on a picnic table. She looked like an incredibly fun, energetic gal to hang around with. Exhausting, really. I felt kind of winded just looking at her. I also felt a strange sense of detachment. Because as I thought back over that entire span of time, so help me, I couldn’t remember a single moment when I’d felt truly connected to life.

And then I began to muse over more recent, more difficult years; remembering hardships, tears of worry, even fear. But I also recalled watching our dogs romp through a meadow. Adorning our fridge with the faces of sponsored orphans in Africa. Cutting my grandmother’s hair as she sat in her wheelchair, regarding her withered hands. Walking arm-in-arm with my husband, talking and dreaming. Feeling amazement and absolute awe at the unconditional love all around. And as I thought over these images, I realized each one was clear and vibrant and sharp -- both heartening and heartbreaking at once. Because life is a balancing act, and we fall down and get up repeatedly as the balance continues to shift.

And those Kodak moments? I think it’s possible to make such a frantic, driven rush toward something that you actually hurry right past it. Because the real Kodak moments are constantly there for the taking. And the best ones don’t require a camera.

lessons of the fall

2009-10-02T11:45:00.000-07:00

When I was young, I hated fall. Short, chilly days. Slate grey skies. Stubby staccato shadows on the sidewalk. And that awful, omnipresent smell of leaf-burning -- a dark, smoky stench that lingered in your clothes and whispered, “Summer’s dead and gone.” To me, fall smelled exactly the way it felt: deflated, defeated, cut off from sunny warmth and reassurance. If summer was the pinnacle of the year, autumn was the plunge down a steep and craggy ravine.

Which is why, driving down the street the other day, I was surprised to catch myself admiring an autumn tree. It really wasn’t much of a tree, just sitting there by its lonesome on someone’s front lawn. But its leaves were its crowning glory: a rich, radiant mix of golds, rusts and reds that burnished to bronze when the light hit them, swirling down to the sidewalk in a lazy confetti spiral that formed a vibrant carpet across the grass.

And as I sat watching this striking display of slow-motion fireworks, it occurred to me that I could identify with that tree. That maybe I could finally appreciate its beauty because I understood that the days of warmth and radiance were mostly behind it. The abundant green foliage had faded away. It stood huddled in the chill; thinking of the winds to come; waiting for the certainty of dark snowy days, frost, freezing rain that would steal away whatever remaining softness and beauty it had.

But there it stood regardless. It stood straight and proud. And it shook down its final adornments in a dazzling firestorm, a gilded and glittering grand finale that rivaled anything the memory of summer could muster. Or the coming of winter could diminish.

I drove away slowly. Cracked the window just slightly. And breathed in the sustaining aroma of that sweet, smoky air.

a story with teeth

2009-08-28T11:15:00.000-07:00

Recently, in an effort to see what all the fuss was about, I picked up the book Twilight. For those of you who have been deported and may not recognize the title, Twilight is about the star-crossed love affair between a young teenage girl named Bella and a bloodsucking fiend with a heart of gold named Edward. I ended up reading all 498 pages over the span of a couple lunch breaks. This is less a testament to my reading skill than it is a commentary on the writing. As weighty as cotton candy; yet sweeter and stickier. Good lord, do teenage girls really think this way? I can’t remember. But around page 12, I started fighting off an urge to doodle little hearts and flowers in the margins.

I’m guessing the working title of this book was Ode to the Adjective. The author piles on so many that they start to obliterate the point of each sentence -- shrewdly distracting readers from the fact that the plot isn’t exactly hustling along. I’d plow through maybe 65 pages of angst-laden musings on alabaster cheekbones and gleaming white teeth, and then realize that -- during this actual span of time -- the characters had made a bowl of cereal.

Now don’t get me wrong. On paper, at least, a physically dazzling figure like Edward can certainly get the average female heart fluttering. But ladies of the 21st century, let’s think about this for a minute. Here’s a guy who follows you around in his car. He shows up in your room unannounced. He picks you up and carries you places. He stares at you while you’re trying to watch a good movie. He hangs around while you talk in your sleep. He chooses your food. He keeps telling you you’re a total klutz. And he won’t stop playing with your hair. This reminds me of the way my cat used to mess with hamsters. Swoon? I would slug this clown, then slap a restraining order on him for good measure.

I know how the author could have pared this story down: substitute me for the lead female. Oh sure, the book would easily lose its best-seller status. But it would gain the dubious distinction of the shortest vampire love story in history.

Me: Would you like some lasagna?
Edward: You’re so adorably human. Here you are thinking about food and I’m absolutely riveted by your bottomless amber eyes …
Me: What?
Edward: And so hopelessly addicted to the scent of your hair; it’s like a glorious summer meadow.
Me: Shut up. Do you want lasagna, or not?
Edward: No, I think I’ll just watch you while you microwave …
Me: Okay, really, back off because you’re creeping me out. And stop goofing with my bangs.
Edward: I just love when you get infuriated -- the color rises in your cheeks like the blush of fine champagne.
Me: All right, I mean it. Get out in ten seconds or I’m calling 9-1-1.

The one-page epilogue would illustrate the futility of macing a vampire, followed by my own gory (yet tastefully PG) demise. The eventual sequel could outline what really happens in the average human male/female exchange:

Her: I got a movie for tonight.
Him: Okay.
Her: It’s (dramatic pause) The Bridges of Madison County.
Him: Oh.
Her: Do you want me to make popcorn? I could put on those little parmesan sprinkles.
Him: Um, sure … can I finish watching the game now?

The title of this one could be Fade to Black. I'm pretty sure it would be the final book in the series.
(p.s. -- Click here for an entertaining count of adjectives in Twilight, organized by category for those keeping score.)

forces of nature

2009-08-14T12:19:00.000-07:00

My husband made a funny comment recently about our two rescue dogs. He said they’re like thunder and lightning. I suppose he means that Maizy is sleek and nimble; and that Grant is low and loud. Or maybe he means that if they’re left in the house together too long, something is going to get wet. Regardless, it got me thinking about how rescue dogs are like the proverbial Forrest Gump box of chocolates: you really never know what you’re gonna get. Some are light and fluffy, some are dark and bitter. Then there are the ones I seem to pick out, who are 20% sweet and 80% nuts.

Grant is a perfect example. First of all, why do rescue services and pet shelters feel compelled to say a dog is “part poodle” when they really have no idea of its lineage? Is it because poodles are supposed to be mellow and low-shed? Grant is allegedly “part poodle,” but he looks like the product of a love-in between a raccoon, a duck and a baby hippo; and he barks like a Saint Bernard. I am guessing a lot of stars had to align just right for a dog like Grant to exist, and I’m pretty sure most of them would scare the bejesus out of your average poodle. Just tell me the dog is “half shih-tzu, half no idea” and I’ll take my chances.

Secondly, why are rescue shelters so hesitant to tell you the dog has anxiety management issues? Wouldn’t that be an ideal way to weed out the serious shoppers? If I had been locked in a cage and/or tied to a tree all day, I would certainly have anxiety management issues. In fact, anyone going in for a rescue dog and not prepared for this little hindrance might want to reconsider their options.

I was told Grant had “an excitable personality.” Here’s how I found out what, exactly, that entailed: We were walking down the sidewalk about a week after I got Grant. As we approached a cross-street, up rides an eight-year-old boy on his Big Wheel. I didn’t know how Grant would react to a child but I sure knew he was afraid of things that rolled. So I pulled up on the leash, and we stopped. The kid, who had seen us coming and had started to slow down, saw me put Grant into a “sit” so he started pedaling again. I had seen the kid beginning to slow, so Grant and I resumed walking. The kid saw this and threw on the brakes. And on it went. He stopped. We started. He started. We stopped. He stopped. We started. You’d think one of us would have just turned around and gone the other way, but no. It was like being locked in a Death Star tractor beam for idiots.

Mercifully, one of our stops finally overlapped one of his stops, and we found ourselves about a foot away from each other. Grant starts jumping around and panting, bright-eyed and wagging his tail. I am still holding the leash like a madwoman, but feeling encouraged. The kid sees this dog-like show of enthusiasm and, understandably, begins to stick out his index finger oh-so-tentatively. As he leans in, the Big Wheel’s big wheel moves, almost imperceptibly.

"BARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARRARR !!!!!!" Grant freaks. The kid screams and flees. I holler and pull back so hard on the leash that the dog goes airborne and we both hit the ground. I grunt. He yelps. Neighbors start flying out of houses. One of them is holding half a hamburger. Grant morphs back into bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed mode almost immediately. When my vision finally clears, the dog is sitting up eagerly, his tail thumping on the grass.

If there’s a moral here, it’s this: When it comes to calming a frightened rescue animal, food is the answer. Actually, when it comes to Grant, food is always the answer. In Grant’s case, he doesn’t even care if there was a question. And in that sense, the thunder analogy is truly on-target ... but that rumble you’re hearing isn’t the sky, it’s the stomach.

lifescape

2009-07-30T09:43:00.000-07:00

"More and more as I am here and see what life really is, I understand that it is not when or how you die; but how and if you were truly ever alive."
Dr. Jerri Nielsen FitzGerald
1952 - 2009

the next pitch

2009-07-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

My husband, an avid baseball fan, recently took me to a White Sox-Orioles matchup and introduced me to the finer points of baseball strategy. Since then, I’ve been reading more about the game and recently came across an old interview with Greg Maddux. For those even less familiar with baseball than I am, Maddux spent a large segment of his career as a starting pitcher for the Chicago Cubs. Now the Cubs –- to put it rather delicately –- are possibly the most pennant-challenged team in the history of the sport. But Maddux, now retired, is largely regarded as one of the greatest masters of control and precision ever to grace the mound.

It sure didn’t start out that way. In his first full season with the Cubs, he compiled a pretty disappointing 6-14 record. But then in 1988 Maddux rebounded, winning 18 games. He went on to win his first of four Cy Young Awards in 1992, before leaving the (still-yearning-for-a-break) Cubs and signing with the Atlanta Braves.

So anyway, back to this interview I was reading. In it, Maddux was asked how he’d been able to improve his game so dramatically during his time with the Cubs. And you know what he said? He said that whenever he stepped up to the mound, he’d trained himself to focus exclusively on the next pitch. He blocked out the scoreboard. He blocked out the runners on base. He blocked out the weather conditions. He blocked out the legendary curse of the goat; the cheering, heckling, face-painted fans; his aches and pains and troubles … and just poured all he had into that very next pitch. Because that, according to Maddux, was the only part of the game he could really hope to control.

So did he reverse the team’s exasperating record? No. Did he keep Harry Caray even remotely on key during the seventh-inning stretch? No. Did he lift the relentless and weirdly-prophetic goat curse? Certainly not to date. But after adopting this approach, Maddux did manage to log one heck of a lot more good games than bad.

An interesting lesson on life. Because when you really think about it, how many of us have the on-demand mental discipline to block out everything but our next pitch? How many of us can stop worrying about tomorrow and the next day and the one after that, so we can give the very best of ourselves to the moment we've been given? We obsess over how the inning will end, how the game will end, how the season will end. When in reality, we were never in control of the series to begin with.

The next pitch. More than once I have encountered a related observation, attributed to another very well-respected source: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for each day has enough troubles of its own.” Another favorite of my husband’s. And, come to think of it, part of another, greater, and more thought-provoking read.

bounding lessons

2009-07-16T08:38:00.000-07:00

Have you ever felt like you’re straggling a few steps behind the crowd? Like everyone knows something maybe you don’t? Then you might identify with our dog Grant. Adopted from a shelter, Grant had survived a long line of abusive households. He arrived with a sideful of stitches from a bully’s kick to the ribs; plus a paralyzing fear of loud noises and moving vehicles. As looks go, Grant resembled a patchwork quilt of furry features -- brawny torso propped atop curiously stubby legs and oversized paws strangely reminiscent of Chicken Little. To Grant, a running vacuum cleaner was a sure sign that the sky was falling. And, perhaps as an indirect result, social timing had never become his strong suit.

At home, Grant always tended to trot in and hang out just as everyone was leaving a room. His fear of noise often sent him scuttling for cover at even the most celebratory social gatherings. At the dog park, he’d bound up boisterously to play with a group of other dogs – then stand hovering uncertainly when they ran right past and ignored him.

Last year, we adopted another rescue dog named Maizy as a “little sister” for Grant. Like Grant, Maizy was frightened of just about everything; so we started taking them to the dog park together. I’m not sure if it was the fresh air, the flowers, or the sunshine on her face; but once there, our gangly mutt Maizy proceeded to channel her inner gazelle. Taller, thinner, and more agile than Grant, she would burst into the wildflowers and bound through the high grass like her paws were on pogo sticks. For an hour or more she would blissfully prance and pirouette; and while a sizeable number of bigger, stronger dogs tried to keep up with her, none of them ever came close.

So we weren’t remotely surprised when Grant just stood by and watched Maizy from the path, head bobbing along as he struggled to track her progress. He continued to sit on the sidelines for months, a silent spectator to her spinning, exuberant antics. And then one day just recently, Grant suddenly, with no discernible warning, bounded right in after her. Our jaws dropped in shocked amusement as Maizy’s tail sailed gracefully through the daisies and daffodils, followed closely by a low chaotic ruckus that could only be Grant in pursuit. Sure enough, they eventually sprang into a clearing: Maizy, a sleek and streamlined prima ballerina, twirling and leaping at butterflies; Grant, hedgehog-like, panting and crashing through the brush, stubby legs scrambling and pistoning for all he was worth. No, he wasn’t as graceful as Maizy. He wasn’t as fast or limber or lithe. Yet it was indeed a most beautiful thing to witness.

And every day since, I’ve thought about that. I’ve thought about the injustices and uncertainties and all-out pain that comes with everyday life. I’ve thought about the relentless need for control, and what it can do to the light that once lived inside us. I’ve thought about Maizy; about simple, unassuming acts of guidance and grace by example. And ultimately, I’ve thought about Grant: head high, eyes jubilant, oblivious to judgment or scorn, running through the summer prairie grass as fast as his Chicken-Little legs could carry him.

man in the mirror

2009-07-07T10:07:00.000-07:00

Last week, within mere hours of each other, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died on the same day. Both had ascended to become icons of an era – he for a non-stop collection of catchy pop tunes and dance moves that captured the public’s imagination; she for a girl-next-door glamour that beamed radiantly from an entire generation's worth of posters and lunch boxes. In later life, she became known for her surprisingly strong acting ability and an involvement in community causes. He became known for his growing reclusivity, elective surgeries bordering on self-mutilation, and the constant companionship of children and a chimp. She died after a long and courageous battle with a formidable disease. He died as he lived, shrouded in mystery amidst questionable circumstances.

Here’s the thing: Our popular media machine – so gleefully on their game whenever a turn of events calls for collective teeth-gnashing – were poised to stage a public send-off for Ms. Fawcett when news of Mr. Jackson’s passing abruptly rattled the airwaves. You could almost feel the communal exhale of cathartic homage choked off in mid-breath by the first shocked, hysterical whisperings of the Jackson tragedy. And that instant spawned a new MTV for the ages: Michael Television -- all Michael, all the time. He was prodigious, he was mythic, he was brilliant. Did we forget about the unflattering monikers, the disdainful whisperings, the pop-tinged public spectacle that had shaded our perceptions in recent years? It seems we had. In death, the King of Pop was transformed into a minor deity … and the memory of Farrah was all but trampled underfoot.

The reaction may seem woefully imbalanced, but I have at least a theory. The theory is that Michael Jackson unwittingly pulled off the ultimate show-stopper: He died without warning, on the brink of a comeback, in the prime of life. Farrah Fawcett had been terribly ill. She was over 60. She had filmed a makeshift memoir of sorts. In short, her passing had not been wholly unexpected. But Michael Jackson, who wore surgical masks in public and dangled his infant son over a balcony rail, had the added gall to remind us that life can be short and death can be sudden. To rudely holler in our faces and say, you know what, all the money and fame and talent and plastic surgeries and Peter Pan trappings in the world cannot shield you from this random finality.

And we pick and pick at that, and then we pick some more, the way a child picks at a scab or a bug bite or a blister. It’s a fascination that flirts with the edges of mass hysteria. We can’t leave it alone, and we can’t leave him alone, because we’ve worked too hard to bury this knowledge deep beneath our daily routines. Keeping the image of his greatness alive makes the knowledge seem much less real. Though it doesn’t change the reality.

But then, you know what they say about a seasoned showman: He sure knows how to exit with impact. And our alarmed and urgent curtain calls follow him out, to no avail.

Rest and reflect in peace.

hidden seasons

2009-06-25T08:49:00.000-07:00

I rolled over and looked toward the window. Early sunlight filtered through my room, and I could already feel the warmth rushing over my face. I was nearly overcome by a swell of joy and excitement. It was going to be another hot and sunny day! That meant I could walk to the library after breakfast, crossing that gray-weathered little wooden bridge over the railroad tracks. It meant we would be going swimming after lunch – a long afternoon of underwater handstands and cannonballs, chlorine and Coppertone smells. It meant cool little cut-up sandwiches for dinner, because it was too hot to cook in the kitchen. And it meant a whole night of four-square and swing races and kick the can, hiding behind big trees and scratching mosquito bites while fireflies flickered contentedly. It was summer, and the world was wonderful. I was eight years old.

And through countless summers ever since, I’ve wondered, where did that secret place go? A place of simple gratitude and unrestrained joy in a season of popsicles and picket fences, lemonade and lawn games. On the way home from work once, on a whim, I rolled down the car windows and turned off the radio. Sure enough, it momentarily rushed back to meet me. The buzz of fat bumblebees and cicadas. The whistled melody of robins and whippoorwills. Dandelion fluff dancing on my outstretched fingers. And the light, most of all the light: Full of dappled hope and happiness, hidden promises discarded and forgotten over time. I realized the place hadn’t changed, the season hadn’t changed. But I had; and in that breath I would have given anything to kick off my shoes and cross that crooked little bridge to the long-ago place I remembered.

Our lives today are so full of incredible advances – mobile phones and GPS, tracking chips and radar. But the place we really need to get back to resides in our minds and our hearts. The map was scribbled out in faded crayon and folded up in our back pockets, and our grown-up selves misplaced it long ago. Somehow, the path we once tended so carefully has become choked and overgrown with weeds of discouragement and worries that are often much too real.

Yet on some nights when sleep is a struggle, my mind still tiptoes back to a distant, lazy summer afternoon filled with swingsets and sandboxes, somersaults and giggled secrets. We were bronzed and barefoot. Homework-free until fall. The next school term light-years away. And as we ambled home to dinner, our shadows stretched so long and full before us that they nearly touched the place where the clovered meadow met the sky.

parental discretion

2009-05-26T11:59:00.000-07:00

Oh, the good old days. Back in the early seasons of “Jon & Kate Plus 8” my husband and I used to watch every week. The sight of these two tussling with eight munchkin-sized bundles of sticky-fingered terror – six of whom are the exact same age – never failed to prompt an odd thrill of dread, fear, amazement and amusement. We – and apparently, millions of couples around the country -- couldn’t resist cackling in horrified glee and wondering what we would do in that same situation. After all, minus the multiples, they seemed just like the rest of us.

Over the last couple seasons, however, I’ve become more likely to scream and run than sit down and watch. Somewhere down the line, the family dynamic began a not-so-subtle shift from food fight to freak show. Jon grew increasingly petulant and beleaguered, as Kate morphed from frumpy housewife to snippy fashion-plate. Watching these two share space on a sofa – let alone try to co-parent a brood of shrieking toddlers desperately in need of a nap – started to make me feel kind of twitchy. The two had clearly started out at different ends of the laid-back spectrum to begin with; and the daily strain of their situation had really put them at odds over things like … breathing style.

And then poof – right before the new season, hmmmm -- the supermarket tabloids are suddenly on fire with scandalous rumors of two-sided cheating. Both spouses go on the defensive – Kate running to TV shows, cable news networks, all manner of celebrity-scouting magazines; Jon spewing whiny soundbites about “poor decisions” and how much he “values his family,” despite some full-color photos that clearly put that last statement on shaky ground.

Now, Jon & Kate, I feel a little funny singling you two out. After all, I don’t doubt for a second that having that many multiples can detonate any errant shreds of marital bliss. But at the same time, at least one of you guys voted to let a cable network stick their questing cameras in your family’s face every single day. And since fame is a fickle thing, with plenty of bad to go along with the good, some might argue that you’re getting exactly what you signed up for. So in that spirit, there’s one thing I have to wonder while this circus continues to escalate:

Who the heck is looking after your kids?

Because if you think about it, the question of whether or not this is a New Season Publicity Stunt is utterly irrelevant. At this point, any sane parent who truly “valued the family” and was “doing it all for the children” would grab said children, cancel their show, move, hire a counselor (or three), and try to restore any remaining scrap of normalcy to their daily lives. Can you imagine the look on those “eight little faces” if they ever get hold of this humiliating footage somewhere down the line?

But then again, I’m talking about a parent whose judgment hasn’t been completely obliterated by the bright lights of fame. Not a parent who crouches next to a five-year-old and helps him sound out the word “pap-a-rahtz-ee” as she points at the bushes with self-effacing smugness.

And then has the nerve to flash an earnest look of innocence and insist for the same set of lenses that “we’re determined to face this privately.”

you can, too

2009-05-22T07:20:00.000-07:00

"Always remember that the 'happy endings' in movies are simply the point at which the teller chose to stop dissecting the story."
Anonymous

half glasses

2009-05-13T07:50:00.000-07:00

My husband thinks that I am writing today to announce that he was right. Or, more precisely, to announce that he was right once again. But I am actually writing as a way to say thank you. Maybe you can relate to our situation, or at least to fifty percent of it. I am a card-carrying Chronic Worrier, and he’s what I’ve come to term a Delusional Optimist. “Delusional” in the sense that he has this seemingly unshakable belief in good things to come – and to Chronic Worriers everywhere, this just does not seem reasonable. Or even very safe, really. Hit him up with the infamous “Worrier’s What-If” litany of concerns, for instance, and he fires back right on cue:

“What if the results are bad?”
”What if they’re not?”

”What if we lose more money?”
”What if we don’t?”

”What if it doesn’t get better?”
“What if it does?”

And on and on, just like that. It’s a simple thing, really, this patient ping-pong game that he plays with me whenever the need arises. A quiet refusal to buy into dread, rising panic, obsessive pre-planning, and the often-irrational need to control the uncontrollable. He’s not lecturing or scolding, not pulling out his soapbox or raising his voice. Never buying into my side, never backing down from his. Just calmly, yet relentlessly, offering an alternative perspective that – for all we know – has an equal or better shot at being the eventual outcome. When it turns out he’s right, he sure lets you know it. And gradually, I’ve come to recognize this as an ultimate symbol of his love -- this insistent yet caring way of coaxing me to be a better person.

None of us ever has complete control in this life; none of us knows the “perfect” way to muddle through every difficult situation. And not everyone believes in heaven and hell, angels and demons. But C.S. Lewis and others have observed that Satan – whom Christians term a fallen angel -- would patiently, gradually prod us toward accepting lower standards for ourselves. So I’d like to believe that true angels would do the opposite: gently nudge us into raising our frail and fractured human sights toward the hopeful, the joyful, the expectant … just a little bit at a time.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I haven’t always believed that angels may actually walk among us. But I do now.
I know proof when I see it.

of dragons and drawbridges

2009-05-07T08:03:00.000-07:00

When I was little, I figured that marriage represented the answer to many of Life’s Big Problems, and that was why so many people did it. My teacher was married. Our mailman was married. My best friend’s parents were married. Not that I dreamed much about actually getting married myself. I had glasses and braces and looked a lot like Curious George, so I just assumed potential suitors would not exactly be tracking me down on their Tuffy bicycles. I never fantasized about dresses. I never picked out music or daydreamed about cakes and colors and bridesmaids. I most definitely did not fit the “Cinderella” mold. At the time, come to think of it, my haircut was more reminiscent of Robin Hood.

I’m certainly quite a bit older now; and incidentally, I did find a handsome and wonderful prince (my braces were finally gone, so maybe that helped). Agreeing to marry him was the best decisions of my life. But the credit for this goes to the man, not the marriage. There is a world of difference. And I wanted to note this firsthand, because there seems to be this cultural presumption that little girls and boys will eventually grow up, get married, start a family, manicure a lawn. We’ve built an astonishing number of services, products, and institutions around this idea. Maybe that’s why I’ve encountered some incredibly accomplished, interesting, attractive single people who seem to give off this oddly indistinct aura of apology because they aren’t attached to The One.

Let me just say this for the record. There are many days when I don’t understand why my husband, the prince, has not simply jumped on his horse, the Honda Element, and fled the castle. There are other days where he’s retreated, with good reason, about as far away as he can get; and he would have gone farther if not for a load-bearing wall or immovable piece of royal furniture. The women in my family grapple with this Mediterranean shortness of temper that, on very rare occasions and in the privacy of our own homes, can sort of flare up and flame the immediate area. My great aunt actually lifted – while wearing a hoop skirt and heels – the back end of a 1952 Chevy Bel Air when her dander was, shall we say, up. Now this is not to say that when it comes to faults and frailties, my beloved does not have a couple doozies of his own. I am just way too smart to mention them here. :)

There’s something I’d like any discouraged singles out there to consider: I know the dating scene can be horrible. I have been there. If felt like a series of secret dance steps that neither partner ever mastered completely. My toes got stepped on frequently; and if I’m not mistaken, there were even a couple of malicious shin-kicks in there. But if dating is like a mystery dance, then marriage is a three-legged race. You are, quite literally, bound together for better or worse. A surprising, sometimes stunning range of weaknesses will rear their ugly heads, on both sides of the table. And there is absolutely no way to conceal them, unless you plan to lock yourself in the bathroom for life. You are forced to either war night and day, or work it out between yourselves. In the process, you labor harder and grow closer than you ever thought possible … and you learn some astoundingly tough and transforming lessons along the way.

I would not trade my spouse for all the riches in the world. He is a cute, kindhearted, ever-so-slightly quirky and ideal complement for a person like me. I know this because we’d both already taken copious amounts of time getting comfortable with our own selves, before even considering the idea of mutual matrimony. And once you’ve really, truly reached that point, the idea of marriage itself becomes a nice-to-have … not a need-to-have.

indigenous people

2009-05-05T07:40:00.000-07:00

Here’s what I think. There are two basic kinds of people, extroverts and introverts. Okay, this is not Sociology 101, and I’m not plagiarizing Carl Jung. I’m also not ridiculing our collective tendency to lump fellow humans into one of two groups, although think about that for a minute. Brown-eyed vs. blue-eyed. Republican vs. Democrat. People who like the toilet paper flap facing toward the back, vs. those who prefer it in front.

But I digress. What interests me are the labels themselves – or, more precisely, what they mean to us. Sure, the first group reaches out and the second one reflects. Social butterflies flitting amongst shrinking violets. We think of them as polar opposites – but are they?

I have a dear family member whom I refer to – privately, mind you – as Tigger. She bounds out of bed. She bounces through her workday. She ricochets through the week being chatty and chipper with everyone. I am in fact using her alias here intentionally, because if she learned I’d mentioned her she’d bounce right over and shoot me. But beyond that, you simply cannot help but love, admire and adore her. She lifts you up and leaves you grinning, and it’s completely natural and unrehearsed. I once tried to emulate her at a holiday luncheon and sounded like a loon. People actually paused mid-bite, forks suspended and eyebrows raised, to wonder if I needed urgent medical attention.

Now of course, I should have known better. Because when it comes to interrelating, I’m a natural-born sideliner. I watch. I consider. I observe the situation, normally while it’s taking place, often with me in it. I’m not shy by any means – on the contrary, I very much enjoy hearing what you have to say. I just like to be alone and think, always with that miniscule trace of reflective melancholy. And here’s what’s interesting: I cannot count the number of times my more outgoing brethren have accused me of “failing to be in the moment.”

We speak such a unique mix of languages, and many of them have little to do with cultural dialect. Of course there are times we’ll fail to understand each other. But when we as humans are confronted with something we don’t understand, why do we put so much energy into making it more like us? You extroverts shape the moment by acting upon it. We introverts frame it by analyzing, playing it back. And in so doing, we frequently make it more significant than the sum of its parts.

Not long ago, I attended an exhibit on ancient civilizations. It talked about the Aztecs, the Mayans, the Incas, the Zapotech, and it really was fascinating. One contributed modern language. Another perfected cutting tools. Still others advanced transportation, weaving methods, agriculture. But here’s what I found most striking: All of these societies had members who functioned as warriors, and others who served as scribes. The warriors fought and foraged -- made sure the tribe was fed, clothed and sheltered. The scribes watched and memorized – recorded events for posterity. One group action-takers, the other passive thinkers. Both collaborating, in two entirely different ways, to make sure their people lived on.

passages

2009-05-01T09:06:00.000-07:00

He stood by the wall in a gray three-piece suit: elderly head bowed and tremoring slightly, right hand resting on the tarnished pocket watch that hung from his vest. He had dressed for the occasion.

“Well,” he said, as my aunt moved the last of my grandmother’s things from her room and shut the door, “nice knowing you.”

My grandmother, a feisty spitfire of a woman who had been in Don’s life for more than 20 years, had suffered a stroke. One day she simply stood up from her chair to open the curtains, fell down, and never got up. Her daughters flew in to be with her, and Don held her hand as the doctors told them the effects were probably permanent. They decided to move her out of the assisted living facility and halfway across the country, where she could be in a nursing home close to my mother. She had lived down the hall from Don for almost a decade. It still sounds funny to call him her boyfriend. He was 96 at the time, but he understood what this meant for them.

I remember my grandmother as someone with the proportions of a Weeble and the general demeanor of a Tasmanian devil. Her temper was as fierce and overflowing as her love for all of us. When I was little, I was secretly afraid of her. Once, after coming to visit for the holidays, she got stranded at the airport when a snowstorm grounded flights. I can still recall, as a kindergartner of about five, flipping on the TV and seeing my grandmother on the evening news. She was dressed in her little pink travel suit and hat, and she had stepped right up in the face of a United Airlines customer service agent who was built like a Ford Explorer. She was holding him by the tie, demanding to know when she could get home. Though she came up to roughly his ribcage, he wore the expression of a man who had awakened to find his houseplants talking to him. “Mom,” I called, “you should come in here.”

I grew up in a different state from my grandmother, and you know how things go. Busy with school. Busy with work. Busy with home and marriage and life in general. And then one day you look up, and you wonder where the time’s gone. Sure, I phoned my grandma regularly over the years, sent her cards, even traveled to see her two, maybe three or four times. Not quite the same as banking all your vacation so you could fly out yearly to visit, as my grandmother had done for us. The last time I saw her – I mean, really saw her, before the stroke – she sat in a McDonald’s booth and gazed blandly across the table. Her featured sagged, her thin hair had turned snowy white. The styrofoam coffee cup looked a lot bigger than she did. And then I mentioned Don’s name, and she perked right up.

These days grandma sits in her wheelchair while I paint her nails. She tries to fold napkins but her hands don’t work properly. She tries to eat soup but she can’t always swallow. She gestures for what she wants, we fail to understand, and – on her good days -- she can still throw a look that would wither an Oak tree. The nurses dress her in tee shirts and sweatpants. She thinks I am the lady who works at the hair salon.

And I, who have never known a grandfather, send Don letters and photos and sweets. Twinkies and Fannie Mae Turtles are two of his favorites. I tell him how she visits with the ducks. I tell him how she sits in the sunshine and reads the Sunday paper, how she looks at his photos and smiles. He is 97 years old, and he used to sit next to my grandmother holding her hand and turn off his hearing aid when she nagged. I don’t know if he realizes the truth. If he does, he never lets on. Perhaps we have both come to realize that it is better to keep some things alive for as long as you can.

In the end this is what it comes down to. The meaning of our lives is reduced to a series of moments. They fit together like threads in a shawl, and the shawl is what we have to keep us warm. At the home where grandma lived with Don, there were roses and daffodils blooming at every window. Sometimes he’d pick them and put them in her room, and the fragrance perfumed the whole hallway. I picture him sitting in his rocker, his hearing aid silent, looking at the garden and remembering. And I wonder, do we really, truly appreciate what we’ve been given?

Nice knowing you.

fine

2009-04-29T07:49:00.000-07:00

The job is great.
My family is good.
Life is wonderful.

I was parked behind this bumper sticker for several minutes yesterday, so I had time to reflect just a bit. It was affixed to a rusted-looking Honda Civic, and so -- cynic that I am -- I initially presumed it to be tongue-in-cheek. After all, our daily exchanges have become so automatic that they hardly even register:

“How are you?”
“Fine. Job’s fine. Family’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

But it was that last line that convinced me otherwise. Life is wonderful. How often do we ever think to say that?
For that matter, how often does it even cross our minds?

And then I thought, What if everybody, everywhere, all over the planet, made the decision to speak in positives for one entire day? What if, when you turned on the news or listened to the radio or walked down the street, you heard nothing but contented affirmations? No fearful pronouncements on the economy. No collective hand-wringing over the latest barnyard-bred global pandemic. No worrisome reports on orange highlighter pens and their possible link to cancer. No arguments over global warming. No “formal investigations” to identify the latest guy who Screwed Up Royally.

The job is great.
My family is good.
Life. Is. Wonderful.

What would happen? Because when you really think about it, for most of us, there’s lots more going right at the moment than there is going wrong. (You’re reading this right now because your eyes work. You’re deciphering the words because your brain is functioning. You’re sitting up because you’re breathing and fully alive.) In fact, when you really think about it, most of those “public service announcements” are not-so-cleverly-disguised messages of communal fear. Played without ceasing into our ever-sentient minds.

So what kind of world would it be if we all just resolved to ignore them … and then stuck by our agreement? What if we just decided, as a group all at once, to look on the bright side? It wouldn’t change the fact that things still need fixing. It wouldn’t change the fact that life is imperfect. But it might give us a new vantage point from which to regard the problem. A “collective perspective,” if you will. What do you think would happen?

John Wooden once had an interesting thought: “Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.”

signs of intelligent life

2009-04-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

I was randomly flipping channels during a late-night bout of insomnia earlier this week, and I came across the ending credits of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Funny how less than a half-century ago, we humans presumed that we'd use our burgeoning technical prowess for outbound exploration. '60s and '70s favorites like Space Odyssey, Star Trek, and Star Wars -- backed by a virtual catalog of Isaac Asimov science fiction stories and an entire litany of Charlton Heston cult classics -- simply took it for granted that the dawn of the 21st Century would see humankind hyperdriven into the outermost reaches of distant galaxies with geeky, unpronounceable names.

Fast-forward to 2009, and Mr. Heston's alter-egos might be stunned by the state of affairs: A series of oft-disgraced shuttle launches and grounded attempts at lift-off; peppered with the occasional unmanned space probe sending filmy, nondescript images back from Jupiter (could be a man, could be a funky-looking boulder).

This is the final frontier we'd fearlessly hoped to conquer? Well, it's not a total wash. We simply took humankind's astounding technical aptitude and turned it inward ... so that now when we sit down on a couch, with a console, or at a keyboard, we're controlling things like Tivo or the Wii. We're posting our up-to-the-second state of being on Facebook, MySpace, or LinkedIn. We're tweeting on Twitter or texting nonstop (OMG, RU there?) while uploading live video feed onto YouTube.

Now certainly, we've also made huge leaps in medicine and research. But pardon me for pointing this out: Does it strike you that we're using a disproportionate percentage of these amazing technical advances to turn the spotlight on ... well, ourselves? Because it seems like a lot of these transmissions (including, some might argue, this one) imply a near-frightening fascination with making ourselves feel known, recognized, important, even celebrated.

Is that really so wrong? Well, it's not the question of right or wrong I'm debating. What I'm simply doing is observing what we all look like. Collectively, as a society. You give intrepid young minds a mirror, they'll often figure out how to create fire. You give babies a mirror, they can spend an amazingly long time just gazing into it.

When God regards his children -- collectively, mind you -- I wonder which age group we fall into. But mostly, I wonder what He thinks about how we're using the tools we've been given.

"I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do."
H-A-L 9000, in 2001: A Space Odyssey

snippets of solace

2009-04-16T12:15:00.000-07:00

Big doses of hope can come in small packages. So for those struggling through a disillusioning day, three short reflections:

"The person who knows how to laugh at himself will never cease to be amused."
(Shirley MacLaine)

"To the world, you are one person. To one person, you just might be the world."
(Anonymous)

"Those created to shine must learn to withstand burning."
(Anonymous)

Don't lose sight of the light ...

for richer, for poorer ...

2009-04-15T07:43:00.000-07:00

I believe the unrivaled Eric Hoffer once remarked (and I’m paraphrasing here) that a sense of inadequacy – however indistinct – sharpens our eyes to the imperfections of others. Hoffer went on to observe that we often strive to highlight in others the frailties we hide from ourselves.

How often I’ve seen this dynamic played out in even the closest, most caring relationships. We carry with us a menagerie of unresolved childhood conflicts. Then, inevitably, the world wallops us with its measure of hardship and unpredictability.
The resulting fear and frustration can cause us to snipe at even those whom we love most deeply. But as the accusations escalate, we are plagued by a deeper distress:
that it is we ourselves who have failed to fulfill an ideal.

There’s a reason the early stages of a romantic relationship are so addictive. For a short time, we become someone’s idea of the perfect person. Slowly, secretly, we dare to persuade ourselves that this might actually be the case -- that we might truly be someone’s soul mate, conceived to fit perfectly with our pre-ordained match! Our wedding day is often the culmination and celebration of this joyous illusion. And over the course of time -- the gradual and not-so-gradual process of breaking through to reality – we are forced to confront two disturbing facts. First, this person cannot possibly live up to our expectations. Secondly -- and infinitely worse -- we are doomed to fail them miserably. Most likely on multiple levels.

I call this very difficult process “expectation erosion.” And true to Hoffer’s observation, it often serves to echo and uncover deep feelings of inadequacy within ourselves. Sure, we feel some sense of loss that our “perfect person” is only human like the rest of us. But how badly we wanted to believe that we could actually be everything they ever needed.

I often wonder if it’s possible to love another person fully and completely until we’ve forgiven ourselves for this inevitable transgression. Until we (and our loved one) can recognize that we are uniquely lovable, just the way we are. Perhaps, in the end, that is what the journey of marriage is all about.

floodlight or footlight?

2009-04-03T14:48:00.000-07:00

Society can do weird things to your aspirations. Our list of popular platitudes pretty much says it all. Look Out for Number One. Go Big or Go Home. Climb the Ladder. Winning is Everything. It's enough to make you believe that you're lost in the shadows if you're not in the spotlight. And nothing could be further from the truth.

You want to serve as a guidepost? There are two ways to do it. One is to become the floodlight. Big, dazzling, flashy, and visible for miles. People look up to you. You use your brightness to illuminate darkness and lead the way. And everyone knows exactly where you are, precisely what you're doing at any given time.

Lots of us want to be floodlights. All that attention can make you feel pretty important. Trouble is, if everybody were a floodlight the world would be -- ironically -- a pretty blinding place.

But think of the last time you were in a movie theater. Ever try to find your seat without footlights? You probably had to ponder that for a second. After all, when footlights are doing their job we hardly even notice them. But they weren't designed to be flashy or ostentatious. They're meant to illuminate quietly. They point to a safe and certain path. And gently, very subtly, they guide us in the proper direction -- even when we didn't realize we were headed off course.

Turn off a floodlight, the path becomes unclear. Turn off the footlights, the very same thing happens. It's hard to say whether one is more important than the other. They were simply created to shine in different ways.

so the story goes

2009-04-02T11:12:00.000-07:00

The power of any story depends on the point at which its telling begins. And of course there's the challenge of timing. Some people like to plunge in and uncover all the details, maybe even wanting to know the ending up front. Others prefer to savor each new surprise and element as it emerges. So there is, perhaps, greater truth in the corollary: The power of any story depends upon the pace at which we choose to discover it.

Years back, I was hiking in the hills when I came across an arresting scene: a quiet, breathtaking pond, the surface as perfect as unblemished glass. It waters reflected back everything beautiful about my surroundings. They even captured a tiny image of me, silhouetted as I was against picturesque trees and clear August sky. Stepping closer revealed even more detail: crystal glint of sunlight on the surface, lazy drone of dragonflies, hushed movement of minnows somewhere far beneath. The image was so idyllic that I'll admit it took me some time to venture further. Barefoot, pants rolled to the knee, I finally waded in -- and of course, no matter how carefully I tried to step, it destroyed the mood completely. Bracing cold, clammy rocks, slippery shapes that nipped and nibbled disturbingly. Ew.

Needless to say, I didn't stay in for long. In the end, what had I expected? Like a Seurat painting, everything breaks down up close. But we humans wrestle with the stasis of superficial beauty. It never sustains us for long. We want to plumb the depths, learn the secrets, make our mark, discover more. Perhaps it has to do with that unbroken image of ourselves, that Narcissus-like picture we see reflected back. We gravitate toward things that suggest we are worthy, noble, lovable. Yet we also distrust them, because we know ourselves far too well. So we strive to break the illusion and wade on in -- but at a controlled and predictable pace. And life, that crafty old cannonballer, usually lumbers in to force our hand and reveal the unflattering ending. This hastened knowledge can often catch us, to put it mildly, unprepared.

In the end, I realized that my mountain pool was indeed an oasis of beauty -- both more and less mysterious than I'd given it credit for. The closer I looked, the less it could maintain that unspoiled illusion. And, unconcerned with my opinion, it went on being exactly what it was, eons before I'd stumbled into that clearing. Which, if we're honest, is more than we can usually say for ourselves.

The power of any story depends not on the ending, but on the telling. And even more depends upon our courage to accept the revelations on every page -- each unexpected detail beneath the surface.

enough said

2009-01-06T05:14:00.001-08:00

"Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is the resolution to take action, to take a stand, to take no prisoners in the face of alarm, anxiety, dread, panic, even abject terror. It is a moment-by-moment decision to pursue mastery over the ultimate foe."

moving forward, looking back

2009-01-04T13:29:00.000-08:00

Can favorite colors predict friendship? Mine was red, hers was purple; and while both hues share the same base tone, it still seems like maybe that preference should have been reversed. One is vibrant, unrestrained, joyous; the other has those underlying traits, but is tinged toward blue, as if perpetually bruised.

But nonetheless, we liked what we liked and friends we became, though brought together by the most unlikely of circumstances. Me, the intense, studious, awkward perfectionist; her, slightly younger, learning disabled, uncoordinated, never to graduate from a fifth grade speller. What brought us together was her older brother, taking another friend of mine to task for making fun of her. What made us inseperable was an indefinable sense of otherness united against the uncertain outcomes – and unpredictable cruelties -- of the world.

Our Barbies actually became friends first, the way it is with many little girls. At the beginning of that first summer, we were trading doll clothes and fixing up teddy bears. By the time school started, we were sharing secrets and having sleep-overs. Her mother would drive us to the movies and on the way, we’d make up nonsense songs like “Somebody’s Tickling My Hair” and “Ice Cream All Over Your Chin.” We’d sit on the back step as the summer sun went down, playing checkers and comparing scrapes and mosquito bites. We had formed a club of two, a not-so-secret society based upon an understanding of what we were and a certain wariness of the world. But it was also based upon much more: By the time we parted ways much later – the year I left home for college – I had helped her learn to read, showed her long division, taught her to braid her own hair. And in the end, I was the one who learned the most.

Later, much later, we got together for lunch and it wasn’t quite the same. She had stayed very much as she'd been, I had moved on. Funny how we equate the latter with progress, because it isn’t necessarily synonymous. There she sat: Still unable to drive, still unable to make change, still sweet and overflowing with simple, innocent joy. I, on the other hand, was weighed down by a mortgage, family troubles, work worries, an armload of other concerns. And you know, it occurred to me even then to wonder which of us was at more of a disadvantage.

There are moments to this day when it all comes back to me: The slant of the sunlight on the pavement, the smells of suntan lotion and citronella, popsicle juice on our fingers, cats-eye marbles on the back porch. I have an education, a big office, a parking space with my name on it. And without a moment's reservation, I would trade it all in for one more summer day with her, the chance to be just as we were back then.

How much easier it seems to get rich, than to know when we have gotten rich.

sowing seeds

2008-12-31T12:05:00.000-08:00

Did you ever say something regrettable and watch a loved one’s face just crumble? Can you remember what it felt like to see that familiar, trusted countenance fold in on itself like a flower? Sometimes, the offending word or phrase comes out in nearly slow-motion – don’t go there, your brain chides, but the tongue can be insolent and willful. More often, though, we crush somebody’s spirit and are on to the next activity before fully weighing the damage we’ve done. Those of us with quick tempers are especially familiar with this scenario. We vent, we stomp, we slam a door or a drawer – and in those few suspended seconds, it’s all very akin to the satisfying scratching of an itch. Something inflames a nerve, ruffles an insecurity, cramps a conviction, and that swift and sudden fury is like a freight train that can’t be stopped. How desperate we are to make ourselves heard. And in the aftermath, how dismaying to realize the destructive depth of our tracks.

We, as human beings, grapple with mighty challenges, and even mightier faults and frailties. Yet I have come to believe that no excuse can outweigh the price of unleashing an undeserved tirade. Those who care for us are bound to trip up occasionally, despite having our best interests at heart. As they fall, they may bruise a belief or crush an expectation. Unconditional love, after all, can be clumsy and groping and awkward. But in the end, it’s about feeling quiet gratitude for the effort – not jumping to condemn its execution.

Even the thorniest path is graced by an occasional wildflower. They are the bright spots we gather up and carry with us on life’s uneven journey, made all the more precious by their rarity along the way. And as any mother will tell you, no bouquet of long-stem roses can compare with a handful of daisies picked by a hopeful and innocent heart.

snapshots

2008-12-22T09:34:00.000-08:00

The light is different, somehow. Did you ever notice that about memories that are clearest because they’re closest to your heart? It’s different. Honeyed, diffused – like dandelion tufts suspended in a sunbeam on a warm summer day. I think back to grade school, watching social studies films that had yellowed with age. Do our minds do that too? Do they break down the harsher celluloid of our reality into something softer and gentler? It’s possible, but unlike those films there are no skips or scratches. My dearest memories stand out like beacons, like glowing guideposts on a dark stretch of road. I suppose it’s because that’s exactly what they are: mile markers on a highway that stretches from one uncertain horizon to another.

Peeking out my bedroom door on Christmas morning when I was five, thrilling at the secret sight of glittering gifts against silver lights and tinsel. Sitting at a stoplight on the last day of junior year, summer and the rest of my life stretched before me like Broadway footlights. My husband stooped down on the sidewalk -- treasured face adorned with sleepy, sweet, silly grin -- lifting our dogs by their front paws and making them wave goodbye as I head off to work. And the very first memory, my earliest: Walking hand-in-mittened-hand with my father on a snow-muffled winter morning, watching gray kittens play and caper in soft, downy flakes of white beside an old brown tree trunk. Or years later, finding a weathered black-and-white snapshot of my father on a sled, just a very little boy almost swallowed by his scarf and parka, holding on for dear life, his face overflowing into a wide-mouthed, toothless, jubilant grin.

I used to wonder about the term “halcyon.” I understood what it meant by its context, used in rusty cliches like “those halcyon days.” So on a whim one afternoon, I looked it up. Sure enough: calm, peaceful, golden, prosperous. But I was surprised to see it identified this way too, as a noun: A fabled bird, thought to have had power to calm the wind and waves while it nested on the sea during the winter solstice.

Why do certain memories nestle in our hearts more snugly and companionably than others? Maybe it’s because their existence is not a random process; because they weren’t so much formed as bestowed as an offering. Tiny windows of light to warm us in the wind and cold. Mooring posts that give us something to cling to when the waters get too rough.

Like a dandelion petal carried in your pocket for luck. Or a perfect first snowflake, caught in the palm of a tiny, mitten-clad, upturned hand.

ghosts of christmas past

2008-12-17T19:21:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, bullies adored me. A single menacing look, and I would cower. In third grade, the head bully used to wait behind a tree, jump out and knock down my books, just to watch me cry and hyperventilate. Once in kindergarten, three classmates chased me for six city blocks on their Big Wheels. Do you know how easy it should be to outrun a kid pedaling that low to the ground? But it didn’t matter; I was terrified, and it showed. Haunted houses? Forget it. A snarl or a rattle of the cage was all it took. Those masked monsters saw me coming from the front door. After my first trip or two, I never went back.

Why am I telling you this? Because an old friend kicked my ass the other day, and I sat still and took it. I took it because life, at the moment, is baring its fangs at me in the worst kind of way, and I needed to be slapped from my panic. What she did was a little bullying for the bright side. Because the sad truth is, you can try to run and hide all you want; but sooner or later, life will bully you into a corner regardless. It will shake your cage, it will rattle your nerves, it will grab you by the shirt and growl full in your face -- and sometimes, it will hit, bite, and leave quite a mark. And it feels like there is nothing you can do. Except thanks to my friend’s tough love, I realize maybe there is. Because you can step up and refuse to back down. You can say I’m making a shift, I’m claiming this moment, and also claiming the one after that, for as long as the clock winds down. You can look around and be grateful, instead of looking ahead and being afraid.

My friend calls this her “coins in the jar” paradigm. We all have a certain number of coins in our jars, she says. And we can try to build moments and memories that add to that collection … or we can succumb to fear and drain coins away. And in my friend’s view, you want to increase that treasure trove as much as you can … so you’ll have something to draw on when times get tough.

She also challenged me to build the most ridiculous holiday gingerbread house I can imagine this year, using graham crackers and gum drops. Roof askew, windows crooked. But sweet, silly, solid. Sort of a symbolic rebuilding that flies in the face of Life the Ultimate Bully. Deck the halls with boughs of holly …

Clink.

Angst

2008-12-14T11:01:00.000-08:00

Here's an interpersonal riddle: What do you do when you're going through something so personally daunting, so fear and/or anger-inducing, that you distance yourself from those you love? And what do you do when the inevitable looks of pain and misunderstanding on those beloved faces create more anguish for you?

I find as humans that we need other humans the way a plant needs water and light -- yet having that need does not necessarily make us any good at fulfilling it for ourselves. On the contrary, many of us are extraordinarily adept at pushing any amount of healing attention away -- consequently increasing our own fear, hopelessness, and helplessness. For those caught in the loop, it's a torturous circle. And from the outside, I'm not sure those looking in can comprehend the indescribable pain it brings -- because in one way or another, our words and actions scream "leave me alone" at the very moment we're begging to be rescued.

In such a situation, I think the real question becomes this: Will we finally recognize the sun seems eclipsed because our actions are blocking it out? And more importantly: If we do, will we be able to stop standing on our own foot long enough to live out the moments that matter ... before we leave our loved ones with the memory of chasing a shadow?

interaction warning

2008-12-13T14:21:00.000-08:00

What is it about doctors? I understand they’ve logged hundreds of hours of specialized training; that they work long days; that they’ve got state-of-the-art treatment options at their fingertips. What I don’t understand is why so many seem to have lost track of the big picture. When I log into a spreadsheet at work, the spreadsheet does not expect me to speak to it reassuringly. It does not have questions regarding what I’m about to do. It does not expect an encouraging pat on the back. It’s a spreadsheet. It carries no secret aspirations of one day becoming a movie poster. It is my canvas, so to speak, and I understood its limitations when I entered my chosen field.

I, on the other hand, am my doctor’s canvas; and when he’s proposing an action on me I sure as heck want to understand the implications. I am not part of the chair upholstery, and I strongly prefer not to be talked at, talked over, or talked about like I’m not even in the room. It may be a “disease,” a “disorder,” or an “illness” to you, but kindly remember that it’s taking place where I live. I sleep there, I wake up there, and I will break daily bread with the pain and the scars and the void where things used to be. So I am not always going to be understanding, or stoic, or docile, or even polite, because there’s a good chance what you’re dryly pontificating about has me at least unnerved, possibly terrified. And, as your human canvas, I would like to assume you understood my limitations when you entered your chosen field.

What I’m saying is, I think some doctors need to revisit why they became doctors in the first place. Were you trying to help people like me? If so, kindly remember that I am more than a collection of cells to be studied and manipulated. And consider taking a refresher course on what it means to treat actual human beings – perhaps something akin to “art appreciation for the healing sciences.” In the meantime, I’ll draw what lessons I can from my more daunting doctor-related interactions. Because I’d be lying if I said there weren’t a time when somebody really needed me, and I was too busy to look up and talk. I’d be fooling myself if I told you that I’ve always been a perfect listener or a reassuring shoulder; that my eyes were always kind or that I’ve always fought fair. And I’d be ignorant indeed if I assumed the problem I’m describing rests with medical professionals alone.

Chosen or not, we are all each other’s canvas -- and part of what we paint reflects the state of our selves.

animal attraction -- the long way around

2008-12-11T19:09:00.001-08:00

I’m going to borrow a trait from my mother here, who could get me to hide as a child just by rattling her car keys. Why? Because, God love her, she is a terrible driver. More specifically, she is terrible with directions. She is incapable of making any trip, anywhere, in a straightforward manner. When I was four, she asked me if I’d like to go to the hardware store with her. The hardware store, mind you, was less than two miles away. They had strawberry Twizzlers there, so of course I was in. What followed was a three-hour vehicular odyssey consisting of four separate trips back and forth to the airport. The airport? Yes. Because my mother kept missing the same highway exit, sending us past the same elderly toll-booth attendant four times. When he finally asked my mother where she was trying to go, and whether she’d like a state trooper escort, it prompted my mother to pull over and burst into hysterical sobs of frustration. As you might imagine, after that trip I had the same reaction whenever my mother tried to take me anywhere.

So today I’m going to explain why I like dogs. But as you can see, I'm doing so by way of a roundabout little detour. A somewhat less traumatizing detour than the airport excursion of my youth, yes -- but a detour nonetheless.

My husband’s favorite casual restaurant is Moe’s, and we usually go there about once a week. He likes the bottomless tortilla chips; I go for the free salsa bar. We normally take our dogs with us, and they wait less-than-patiently in the car. Pondering my basket of food last week, it struck me that so many of us are like a Moe’s burrito. Held together on the outside, falling apart on the inside. Melting, cheesy, full of beans, pick your favorite Tex-Mex analogy. My point is, the outer part, the wrapper, masks some degree of insecurity, anxiety, fear, shame, or outright despair. And we work so hard to perfect that wrapper. Why is it in place? Most people would say we’re afraid to let the insides spill out where others can see. But I actually suspect we’re afraid to show our inner selves to ourselves –- because in truth, the sheer depth of those feelings can be frightening. It’s easier to deal with loose ends here or there, tuck them back in where we can. I think behaviorists call this “selective perception." And I understand that it may be a self-preservation instinct, but I don't think we're doing ourselves any favors.

Now here’s the contrast that occurred to me as we snuck some tortilla chips out to the car last week: My dogs are on full tilt, every minute, all the time. There is absolutely no mute button, and they seem incapable of self-editing. Take fear, for example. My cockapoo mix is afraid of –- among other things –- motorcycles, egg timers, and Swiffer dust-mops. Should one of these objects (or God forbid, all three at once) ever cross his field of vision, he either barks frantically, has an accident, and/or wraps himself around my throat. You can imagine the mayhem that ensues when we pass a scooter in the car. Meanwhile, his sister the beagle is less effervescent, but no less straightforward: she growls menacingly, hides, growls, then hides some more. In either case, they wear their fears out loud.

I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if more of us had the courage –- or possibly just the big, dopey, blissful ignorance –- to be more like my dogs. If we weren’t so afraid to let everyone in on our faults. To display the imperfections and insecurities that mix with and mask our most lovable parts. To experience every moment all-out, with brave, defiant, thrumming feeling, despite the fear of what lies ahead.

Cold feet, warm hearts. I suppose it's a trait only a mother could love. Pass the guacamole.

the road less traveled

2008-12-09T18:07:00.000-08:00

I drove past myself in the car last night.

What I mean to say is, I was passed by a guy who reminds me a lot of myself ... specifically, the way he sped past me in a huff because I was in a 40 zone doing -- imagine this -- 40. I can’t say that I blame him, because I’ve visited that same state of mind more than I care to admit. It’s almost like I’m offended, maybe even a little threatened, by someone who isn’t moving frantically enough toward an ultimate goal or appointment. In truth, it’s not that my own affairs have typically been all that pressing. It’s just that I’ve felt less vital, somehow, when I’m not moving a few paces faster than average. The thing is, I don’t really know that this has propelled me any further than I would have gotten otherwise. In the case of the guy who passed me, for instance, I watched his taillights fade into the darkness as he revved his engine impatiently. Then I watched them grow larger and larger as I caught up to him at the next stoplight. I smirked but resisted the urge to actually wave or applaud, as that would have come too close to making fun of myself. I did note with some amusement, however, that his vanity plates shouted “GAILFORCE.” Why, of course. Full of sound and fury, still sitting next to me at the intersection. What do we gain from all this haste? I’m not sure. But I am starting to notice what I’ve been missing along the way.

Interestingly, here’s one of those understated details: the decal in this gentleman’s back window. Just two simple words, “Finish Strong.” Now there’s something worth appreciating. In life, we mess up. We lose hope. We fall down, sometimes again and again. And as someone once lamented to me, we can never go back and make a brand new start. But we can start right now, and make a brand new ending.

wrapping up wonder

2008-12-08T18:27:00.000-08:00

I watched a little boy fog up a window with his breath the other day. He seemed transfixed: I breathe in, the fog goes away. I breathe out, there it is again. His little nose and chubby cheeks were pressed so close to the glass that he barely seemed to remember the Christmas display he'd been gazing at in the first place. And I thought to myself: When do we lose that? When do we forget to be in awe of little things? My days are filled with tiny miracles -- the garage that keeps my car dry, the huge coat that keeps me warm in the snow, the assurance of a warm meal for dinner, my husband reaching out to hold my hand -- but too often, I'm wrapped up in the crashing stock market and the plummeting economy. I'm worried about health. I'm wondering what others think of me. What was it like to forget to worry? To forget to notice surroundings? To sit in rapt attention at the miracle of breath itself?

As adults, we strain and strive for power, success, control. It's the currency of our society. Yet children, the most powerless among us, are also the most innocently joyful. The most filled with simple wonder. I wonder what that says about our priorities?

And a little child shall lead them.