Bringing back Christmas

It isn't me. It's Mom. And she was Buddhist when anyone asked, so I don't know why she's nudging me. But I feel her nudging me. She seems to think it's time to get back in the spirit of it.

I haven't really thought about the last "real" Christmas in a long time. Not that I was avoiding it: it's almost as though it hadn't yet hit me. And then it hit me. In the Playing Mantis toy store in Nyack. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that she wanted to buy my kids the musical wooden marble run. So I bought it. And so the nudging began. And the memories.

The last "real" Christmas was in 1996.

It was surrounded by some of the most painful months I can remember, and sometimes I can't believe I really lived through them. Mom was so sick that fall. I had never seen anyone suffer the way I watched her suffer. It had been forever since she'd been able to eat or drink anything. At home, there were chest tubes and feeding tubes and catheters and morphine injections and bed pans and cheap pink plastic kidney-shaped containers for the vomit. The doctors said it was hopeless. It was only a matter of time. They'd said it from the beginning and I refused to believe it. So I prayed all the time. I made bargain after bargain with God and promise after promise. I read every alternative medicine book I could find and tried anything I could think of, but there was less of her every day.

I cried hysterically at the door as they took her out on the stretcher. The police officer who came to help chose that moment to tell me that he recognized me. He'd let me out of a speeding ticket, he said, and he waited for a response. He kept trying to talk to me and I wanted to hit him. I suppose he was the meaningless detail you cling to so you can stagger to the next place...

The next place was the ER, where she slipped into a coma. Septic shock they said. And they told us that was it. Her kidneys were failing. Her liver was failing. She'd never come out. And I looked at her and started to believe them. She had withered away. Her skin was loose and yellow and waxy. Her beautiful voice had faded away. She couldn't walk. And now she couldn't wake up. And I started to feel selfish for praying for her to get through this. So I sat beside her and said my thank yous, my apologies, my promises. My good-byes. Maybe. And more promises. And more thank yous. Because there's always more to say. There's always one last thing. Even now.

And, even though I hated facilitating those doctors and nurses who pressured and pushed us, I gently reminded Dad that she didn't want all those extra measures and asked him to sign the DNR. And I watched the tears roll quietly down his face. And I tried to wipe mine away before he could see. And then I prayed again because I couldn't help myself.

And then, one morning we walked into her room and she was propped up in her hospital bed. She said "I've been waiting for you... I like you guys." Just like that. And I can't really remember anything else, except that we eventually got to bring her home. And we promised her that we'd never bring her back there. We never did.

She was still very weak when we got her home, but she could get downstairs most days, so she would sit on the couch while we decorated the house. She would lay on the couch, wrapped up in a plaid, wool blanket. On one of those days, I went in to sit with her and her eyes were moist with tears. She told me this story:

Dad had been playing Christmas music while he decorated the tree. "Ave Maria" came on. It was one of the songs Mom had always sung so beautifully with the church choir. But she could no longer sing, so he knelt down beside her and started to sing to her. As he sang she began to cry, and as the tears rolled down her face, his singing cooled her tears. It felt so nice on her cheek that she wanted to tell me a poem about it, but the poem kept changing into Japanese and then she would forget the words.

I don't know exactly what that story means, even to me, but it changes my life to have heard it. All those priceless days were like that. Miracle sounds so trite, but that's what it was. I had said "good-bye". I had let her go. And she came back. And every conversation, every story that she told and each chance to hold her hand was a gift. A miracle. People always wish for that one last day... one more chance to say I love you... one more hour to talk. I was given 3 months with her - 3 months to really pay attention. And one Christmas.

So, I can't imagine how Christmas can ever measure up again. But here I am, feeling that nudge. And I guess if I just pay attention, maybe I'll get it... eventually.

I can't

I know. It's the mantra of losers and downers everywhere. But right now, I'm immobilized. Blocked. I'm dull with apathy. Hopelessness is staring me right in the face and I'm frozen right in front of it. It's repulsive, but casts such a strange spell.

I think it might be dangerous to return it's stare for too long.

I don't plan on living here though. I just need a rest.

Maybe I won't say "I can't". I'm taking a long pause... while I figure out how I will.

the worst kind of insomnia

I can't sleep.

I'm soooooo exhausted and I can't sleep. And now I'm cursing myself for starting that last conversation right as my head hit the pillow.

He's been sullen all day. And I know he was up late, but it's more than that. He had his camp reunion. Saw all those legendary friends from his glory days in junior high or early high school or whenever it was. Saw his first love. All that. He stayed out later than he's ever willing to stay out. And to see him so distant and melancholy today was... well, a little unsettling.

And the more he went on acting that way, the more I started to look at myself, our life, through the eyes of someone who might be romanticizing something else. I guess that's what I was supposing was happening. So as the day progressed I felt a little older. A little fatter. I noticed that my hair spent most of the day in a ponytail. I was basically wearing the same thing I had on yesterday. Our house is a mess. The laundry is still sitting in the dryer. I watched him try to appease our cranky toddler and tried to imagine how his life today was measuring up against all the memories that had been stirred up by all the stories that were retold last night. Then I pushed the thoughts away, telling myself they were kind of silly. But they kept coming back.

Tonight, he just wanted to go to be early. He wasn't saying much. He wasn't smiling much. And finally I just had to ask the question that I knew I definitely should not ask. "Are all your favorite memories from camp?"

"Yes" was his answer. And then it was quiet for a moment. Or an eon. I can't say.

He went on to elaborate for another sentence or two after that moment, but I couldn't listen. In that one moment, the air had turned to lead and I suddenly felt so heavy and sleepy that I had to withdraw from everything that was happening the room. And for one hopeful second, I thought that maybe I would just succeed in falling asleep right then without any further reaction. I held onto that heaviness with both hands, hoping for that relief. But grasping for things like that always makes them evaporate and the next thing I knew I was feeling the waves of emotion that would inevitably follow that "yes".

Piercing heartache... interrupted by fragments of rationalization. "He didn't mean it that way." But he said it. We met in school, became best friends, fell in love, got married, had three amazing, gorgeous children and started the practice he'd dreamed of... and his favorite memories are from fucking camp. So, obviously, more piercing heartache. And more dulling fog when I need a break from processing. Back and forth between feeling that heavy, drugged feeling and that acute pain. I'm overreacting and then I'm totally shut down. And rapidly coming to the surface is anger. What kind of an ungrateful dumbass can overlook so many blessings? That "yes" really poisoned my air. My throat hurts and it feels like I'm breathing ash. And if he knew how hurtful that answer was, I know I could draw out a more satisfying explanation. But it couldn't satisfy me now. I know that's not the whole truth. But whatever he was feeling, it was enough to make him admit to his wife that the best parts of his life happened before he even met her.

And, dammit, I just really need the sleep right now.

Yes We Can

It makes me smile each time I read it...

Remarks of President-Elect Barack Obama-as prepared for delivery
Election Night
Tuesday, November 4th, 2008
Chicago, Illinois


If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.

It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled - Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.

I just received a very gracious call from Senator McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and he's fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Governor Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nation's promise in the months ahead.

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the Vice President-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.

I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last sixteen years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nation's next First Lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the White House. And while she's no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.

To my campaign manager David Plouffe, my chief strategist David Axelrod, and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics - you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you've sacrificed to get it done.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to - it belongs to you.

I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn't start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington - it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.

It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation's apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered, and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this Earth. This is your victory.

I know you didn't do this just to win an election and I know you didn't do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime - two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they'll make the mortgage, or pay their doctor's bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America - I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you - we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can't solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it's been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years - block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek - it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, it's that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers - in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people.

Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House - a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, "We are not enemies, but friends...though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection." And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn - I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world - our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down - we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security - we support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright - tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

For that is the true genius of America - that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing - Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons - because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America - the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves - if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America.

Sleepwalking again

Almost walked right into a pile of shit. Grazed it even.

And it doesn't take long. Just the blink of an eye really.

A little time in front of the television that could have been spent talking.
Preoccupation with dinner preparation when I could be enjoying my children.
Checking e-mails instead of painting.
Or exercising.
Or laughing.
Missing a few meals... and a few other things that could feed my soul.
Not going for that walk.
Or reading.
Or writing.
Being angry.
Wasting time trying to be right.
Online shopping... I mean, come on.
Going, going, going when I need to just be.
And stopping when I need to keep going.

And it's just a week... and then a month... and then, suddenly, it's my life.

And I don't want to waste it. Time to wake up so I can be a part of my real dreams.

It's a hard knock life for Ethan Hawke

That's just complete speculation. I'm basing it almost entirely on the way the lines have been carved into his face. That, and I read his first novel. And I suspect he was much more like his "Reality Bites" character than he'd ever want to admit. But really it's that hardness in his face. If you watch "Before Sunset" and watch the flashbacks to scenes from "Before Sunrise", you'll see some of what I mean. Go back to "Dead Poet's Society" and it's even more apparent. Even "Mystery Date".

Yes, I saw that in the theater. No, I'm not a stalker.

It's just that face of his. He could do "awe" and "bewilderment" like no one else. All pale and purity and peaches and cream. That sweet face in "Dead Poet's Society".

I met him briefly, if you can call it meeting, at the Paul Simon concert in Central Park in 1991... I think. I told him that I liked him in "White Fang" because it was all I could think to say. He came over to say hello later on and hung out for a minute and massaged my shoulders until the end of a song (sad that I can't remember the song). I think he was hoping that I had beer and would offer him some. I didn't. Whatever. Didn't matter. A cute movie star gave me a back rub - I wasn't hung up on ulterior motives.

Years later we must have lived in the same neighborhood. Or maybe HE was the stalker, because I saw him everywhere when I lived in Chelsea. He always looked cool and tense and full of potential. And always handsome in a scrappy kind of way. But harder over the years. And then I'd see articles and interviews. Always intelligence and philosophy... and angst. And then the divorce. Divorce always sucks.

So I think he's had a hard time of things. Or at least he takes everything pretty seriously. All the wounds are deep. Everything leaves a scar. Thus the lines.

Don't get me wrong, he's still handsome. He evolved from wide-eyed and adorable to a kind of raw and sexy. But there's just something heartbreaking about it. I always wonder if he'd do it all over again.

It reminds me of something one of the Dominican nuns told me back in Catholic school. The way Sister Mary Joseph told it, Leonardo Da Vinci was looking for a model to be the infant Jesus in Adoration of the Magi and sought out the most pure, cherubic face he could find. Years later, when he began to pain The Last Supper, he was seeking an entirely different look for his model for Judas. But by coincidence, he ended up picking the very same model from years before. Sister Mary Joseph went on to explain that this man, who has once been the model for the baby Jesus, had not lived a very "clean" and "pure" life and grew up to look like a traitor. Now, I don't know if that story has any truth to it. This was the same nun who warned us that french kissing led to mortal sin and could ultimately land us in hell... the nun who started me wondering just how many people could possibly end up getting into heaven anyway if that was the case... and did I really want to spend forever and ever and EVER with THEM?!

Anyway, it just reminds me of Ethan. Either way, I give it up to him. I think he has earned every line somehow. Blood and sweat were shed to get that chiseled face. I suppose it's the reason he can conjure so much with it.

Time Sucker

I love this computer.
I hate this computer.

Somebody get me a daisy so I can make up my mind...

I love that I can access so much from right here.
I hate that I can get sucked in for an hour just by stopping to check my e-mail.
I love that I can be just a few feet from my kids while I shop and do research.
I hate that I can be so far from my kids just a few feet away.
I love that I can keep in touch with friends so easily.
I hate that I've become so lazy about picking up the phone or visiting in person.
I love that I can get things done so comfortably on a miserable day.
I hate that I sit here typing away while sun shines and breezes blow outside...

Out of petals. I think I really do hate this computer. At least on a sunny day like this one. Time to live without a screen in front of me.

See ya!

My Promise to Me

I don't know how I want to write, but I will write.
I don't know what I want to write about, but I will write.
I don't know when I'll find the time, but I will find it. I will make it.
I don't know who will read it, but I'll write for me.
I don't know what will inspire me, but I'll look for inspiration everywhere.
And I will read.
And I will write.

And one day I'll read what I've written and I'll find genius. And I will be inspiration.

It's a promise to myself that I intend to keep

Aiming to please

The thing is, there are just too many damn targets and you're bound to miss most of them. It's a set-up for failure.

So while I'd love for everyone to be happy, I give up on trying to make that happen. Let's see if I can make myself happy... and just hope it's contagious.

Ready, aim, fire!

My Sign

At about 9:30 Friday night I threw up. I was feeling agitated. I couldn't sit still. I was just out of sorts. And I couldn't stop thinking about Debbie. I was watching the "So You Think You Can Dance" show I'd DVR'd the night before to try to unwind and just take my mind off things. And thats when the song came on.

Feeling Good. I know the Nina Simone version, but it was the newer one that was playing on the show. Didn't matter though - it's all in the words. It's the song I told Ross I wanted everyone to hear in the event that I died of anything painful or long-suffering to let them know that I was ok. It's one of my "things". I'm always thinking of ways that I can let people know not to be too sad if anything ever happens.

The song played at 10:04pm. I looked at the clock as soon as it started because I'd been waiting to hear it. I was looking for my own sign and that was it. And then I just waited.

I got the call the next day. She passed at 10:01.

Thank you, Debbie, for sharing a part of your life with me. It was a pleasure knowing you. You inspire me.


FEELING GOOD (Anthony newley, leslie bricusse)

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin on by you know how I feel

(refrain:)
Its a new dawn
Its a new day
Its a new life
For me
And Im feeling good

Fish in the sea you know how I feel
River running free you know how I feel
Blossom in the tree you know how I feel

(refrain)

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, dont you know
Butterflies all havin fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
Thats what I mean

And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me

Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel

Looking for signs

I've been visiting whenever I can. Me and my little toolkit. Gold needles, frankincense and myrrh. She seemed to like geranium oil... Whatever I think might help. But I feel like I'm fumbling through this now... hoping it's divinity and not desperation that's guiding me.

Darlene is fighting for her. She does everything she can think of to allow her to make her own choice - but windows of opportunity seem to be closing. Obstacles popping up everywhere. And she can't discern truth from fear from hope from delusion. And neither can I. So she's asked for a sign. Just something to let her know which way to go... whether she needs help holding on or letting go. Maybe a Bonnie Raitt song. She'll keep the radio on.

I watched Darlene tell her that it's ok to go. I watched her flinch as she said the words. Her pain is palpable and it's hard to say who is suffering more. So please, a sign. Darlene needs a sign.

Her hand moved

I saw it move. Her palm was face down and I saw her try to move it, almost turned up and then dropped again. All in the space of a second. I had just finished massaging her feet and ankles and was stimulating the acupuncture needles in her ear. I was joking with her and Darlene about how my lowest grades in school were in massage... and her hand moved.

And I should have said something right then because she must have been trying to say something. I KNOW she was reacting. But Darlene was sharing a story and I got sidetracked. And I don't know how I can get sidetracked like that, but I did. And I forgot to get back to it. And I should have told Darlene. And I should have acknowledged it out loud so she knew that I saw her. Because I saw her! And I know it must have taken so much effort to move that way. And what torture it must be to try to communicate something and have it go unnoticed. But I noticed. I can't believe I didn't say so.

This morning when Darlene walked in, she grabbed her hand and brought it over to her heart. So she can. And she knows what's going on.

I don't think I can sleep until I get back there to tell her that I saw her move. I know it's just as much for me as for her, but I have to do everything I can.

What I can still do for her...

I can be grateful that I met her, was inspired by her, learned from her, laughed with her, shared with her, treated her, grew with her.... just witnessed what a f---ing amazing person she is... her spirit. Her openness. Her gratitude. Her humor.

I can learn some more. I can take everything I've learned and use it to help her or someone like her.... but there's no one like her... but someone else.

I can follow her example and be positive... just about everything.

I can take this compassion and just apply it in any direction I can think of.

And I can just keep on praying for her.

And I will.

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha

It wasn't about me after all...

Scrappy's gone. He just stopped moving. Benjamin put him outside with the sunflowers we're trying to grow.

But I don't think it was all about Scrappy. I just really wanted that miracle. And I really want it for someone else, too....

And I don't know how to make it happen. And it doesn't look good.

And I'm really sad today.

Metamorphasis

I may have found a kindred spirit. Most unexpectedly.

We have been anxiously anticipating butterflies since we received a plastic container full of 5 fuzzy little caterpillars and some brown crud. And while I love that we can actually witness such an amazing phenomenon in our home, I've had to fake some of my enthusiasm because I'm still phobic about all these creepy crawlies... I mean, beautiful little creatures.

And yet I must be evolving somewhat because at one time I was one of those squeaky little girls who would squeal "Eeew! Kill it!" at the sight of any insect. Spiders especially.

So I'm getting there. Trying to be a good Buddhist. And while I can't quite embrace insects, I'm learning to respect them from a safe distance. But caterpillars in my house. That's a little too close.

However, I did get over it temporarily when that transformation started to take place. I found myself right up against the little mesh habitat, watching to see what would happen. And it was pretty amazing. Ok, and still a little disgusting if I'm to be totally honest. But amazing. We welcomed Cream Cheese, Sam, Max and Freebird back into the world and it was very exciting. But one of our butterflies got stuck in its chrysalis. It's bottom half wriggled on an off throughout the day, part of its wings struggling to flap and open while still wedged partially inside. At one point it looked as though it had given up. I figured it had died.

I saw it the next morning on the floor of the habitat, a crumpled mess. It had legs and antennae, but they were mangled and folded in odd directions. Big bulges on the side of its body seemed to be parts of the wings that were never allowed to unfurl... and then there were the partial wings that had been struggling from the day before. I felt a bit of relief that this butterfly never made it. And then Benjamin saw it move. And then there it was trying to fly. Shen and I decided to name it Scrappy.

And in the past 3 days, Scrappy has consumed me. We've set the other butterflies free, but though Scrappy made a valiant attempt to escape, we're keeping him. Feeding him orange slices and sugar water on balled up tissues, spraying him with water that I keep hoping will hydrate those withered wings and allow them to open. And it's only since Scrappy's arrival that I've been willing to do any of this myself. This little butterfly has got a bit of a hold on me. I really just can't bear to see it suffering. And I've developed a deep respect for it, the way it chugs along.

I've been wondering what's making me so determined to rehabilitate a butterfly. And a few things come to mind. Well, first, I really think it would be incredibly unfair for that poor caterpillar to go through such an enormous change only to come out crippled and disfigured... and incomplete. It didn't get to evolve into what it's supposed to be. The idea of that is making me crazy. Ok, so maybe it's a leap, but the idea of not fulfilling your destiny... spreading your wings... flying... completing your transformation... it's all striking me. I desperately want Scrappy to get his chance to fly. Ok, and me, too.

The second thought is that maybe I'm just finally developing some compassion for bugs.

Well, at least that means I'm moving in the right direction.

Parent Trap

My 13 month old has discovered scratching. And she's discovered that she likes it. She particularly likes trying it out on her 3 year old sister, who has been extremely patient with her little sister. So far.

So yesterday my little cherub strolls casually over to her big sister and catches her by surprise, clawing her right across the cheek. Shen then turns to me with a wounded look and whimpers, "Mommy, she scratched me." I turn to Tate and say sternly, "No". But since that word is merely amusing to her, I proceed to go over to Shen and kiss her cheek and stroke it gently to demonstrate to Tatum how she should be with her sister. "See, Tatum? Gentle. Nice". And then Shen and I both gently stroke Tatum's cheek to show her how it feels. Shen is especially sweet in her demonstration.

Tatum grins and repeats us in her own sweet way. "Naa. Naaa". And then she reaches over and begins to stroke Shen's arm... and then proceeds to dig every fingernail into her sister's flesh once more. Shen grimaces and turns to me for help.

We try again a few more times with our demonstration. We try that useless "no" word. We try to distract her or even just separate her, but Tate just wants to scratch now. And she's nothing if not persistent. Shen looks up at me hopelessly with those big eyes of hers. "She's not listening, Mommy!" She's not. And now we both have a couple of tiny pink lines on our arms. Something must be done.

And in the midst of it my mind just fails me sometimes. I get fragments of "good advice" spinning through my brain like a tornado. Stick to your guns. Be compassionate. Set boundaries. Be clear. Be patient. Stay firm. Use positive language. Be the example. Children live what they learn. Hmmm.... and it's still not coming to me.

And then my just turned 6 year old walks in and assesses the situation in .5 seconds and grabs his sister by the hand. "No, Tatum. We need to cut your nails. They're too sharp."

Now there's an idea. Maybe I should let him raise her.

Somebody do something!

Help! I'm suffering from a severe case of inertia!

For Deborah and Joanne

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha
Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha

You're so vain

I bet you think this blog is about you.

...don't you? don't you?...

Well, it's actually about me. Turns out I'm the vain one.

I don't WANT to be vain. I hate that preoccupation with designer everything and perfect hair and a face full of make-up. What a waste of time. But it was way easier to have disdain for all those dyes and fad diets before the gray hair and cellulite made it's debut. Now I find myself tempted to buy those creams and chemicals that I know don't work in the hopes that maybe they will. I've been spending time in front of the mirror with a pair of tweezers hunting down those grays. And with every extra pound I find myself wearing heels just a little bit higher to make my legs appear just a little bit longer, as they continue to get wider.

The thing is I was counting on aging gracefully. I was planning on going the route of Audrey Hepburn - every beautiful line on my face the result of smiling sweetly while working tirelessly to help children in third world countries (do I even have that right about her?). And thin, of course, because I'd be too busy changing the world to ever linger in front of the fridge. I'd conveniently forgotten about the effects of three kids and all the food I end up cleaning off their plates. And I just didn't realize how it would all sneak up on me.

And I suppose the other thing I never expected was that I'd care so much. Honestly, I'm not 18 anymore. You'd think I'd be mature enough to just live my life and get on with it already. I look fine. Give me a shower and some time to get ready, I can even look good. I've already attracted the most important things into my life, so if I needed looks to get them, then they've already served me pretty well. Time to pass the torch to the 20 year olds and let them be the pretty ones, right? But, no. If I'm going to be totally honest, I'd still like to be "hot".

And just out of principle, I won't let myself invest too much of my energy in that direction, but I still care. I'm determined to be a woman of wisdom and character. And if I have to admit that I'm vain, at least I can hold my ground and not slip into utter shallowness. Besides, what I REALLY want is to be beautiful, and I mean the mind, soul... that quality that shines through from somewhere behind the eyes. I'm tempted sometimes, but I'm not going to settle. Replacing passion and compassion with make-up and lipo is like trying to substitute crack for nirvana.

I think I'll hold out for the real thing...

Out of our heads

It's only recently that I developed an interest in the Waldorf education philosophy. For the longest time, I thought of it as something pretty "out there". And perhaps now I'm right out there with it, but it's given me an interesting perspective on things.

Waldorf education principles are based on Rudolph Steiner's spiritual and cultural movement called Anthroposophy - literally, the wisdom or knowledge of man. The philosophy is based on the view that a human being is a being of body, soul and spirit. Which is all well and good, though it sounded a bit like "blah, blah, blah" to me the first 50 or so times I heard it. It wasn't until I needed some alternative - until my five year old started biting his nails and having daily stomach aches in kindergarten - that I started to explore what it all meant.

And after a few months of fumbling through my best effort at Waldorf home schooling I'm started to get it. It's not a part of me yet, but I'm trying to make it mine. I'm trying to tune out all the well-meaning advice and unlearn so much of what I've learned about parenting. As I do, I'm getting back in touch with my body, soul and spirit. And it's alarming to discover how neglected they've been. And not just mine. Everyone's.

I overheard two women complaining the other day about how their 3 year olds "learned nothing in preschool this year". Their daughters can't even write their names. The conversation moved on to discussions about science camps and language classes for the summer. It sounded way too complicated and overwhelming for 3 and 4 year olds. And participating in these kinds of discussions was torture for me a few months ago. I was so conflicted - not wanting my kids to miss out on all these opportunities, but feeling exhausted by just the thought of all the running around and "doing". And yet, how could I not do everything possible to foster the education of my kids? Worse yet, my attempts to force my kids into all these "enrichment" classes made us all rushed and frazzled.

What sweet relief to discover that my kids could thrive without it! It's still work, mostly because I'm in the habit of being busy and productive and hurried and I have to relearn everything I'm trying to teach them. But when I'm able to just be with them, what a pleasure it is for all of us. Just to walk and pick up leaves and pine cones and spot birds. We dance and practice cartwheels and create recipes and find ways to decorate our rooms. We pretend. And together we're learning to play. We're feeding our souls. We're finding out all the things our bodies can do and how it feels to move about in the world around us. We're indulging our senses and our imaginations. We're learning how to tell stories and how to listen. And we're figuring out how to be happy and confident and comfortable in our own skin.

It's hardest for me. I still get preoccupied with progress. But my kids, they rock at this stuff and I couldn't be happier. If they get this stuff down, curiosity and passion will take care of the rest. We're going to master this childhood thing.

So now it's become very hard for me to watch so many people pushing their children to excel. Hard to watch five year olds experience the kind of pressures and expectations that give grown men and women ulcers. Our kids are all in their heads and old beyond their years. And collectively, we've now proven that we can get them to read and do math earlier and earlier, but I don't think it's any coincidence that more and more kids are now in occupational therapy, relearning how to be in their bodies. I don't know how I didn't always see it, but now that I have, it's impossible to ignore.

Well, one thing at a time, I suppose. For now, my kids and I are enjoying a little time out of our heads.

Mastering the 10 minute interval

I've decided that this is the next thing I really need to work on.

I've spent the last 6 years waiting for that nice long uninterrupted block of time that would allow me to make my big contribution to the universe, and it's finally dawning on me that that is never going to happen.  At this point, I think it's time to accept the fact that achieving any of my remaining dreams will rely largely on my ability to use little scraps of time... And get in the habit of overlooking the other mundane "to do" lists for at least some of those spans.

Going from a single girl in NYC to a married mother living with in-laws in the suburbs in the course of a year through me for a bit of a loop.  I got lost in the shuffle somewhere in there and put a lot of things aside. Pieces of me packed away in cardboard boxes and stored in the garage or the basement for years.  Gradually, those parts of me are finding their way to the light of day again, gasping for air after being hidden away under crumpled newspapers and unused wedding gifts.

But I have a home, a business and I'm getting the hang of this motherhood thing, so it's about time to exercise some of these old muscles (literally and figuratively).  Give my inner city girl a place to live, a way to thrive in the suburbs.  I'm working on it.  Spending more time with my old girlfriends, listening to my cheesy 80's favorites again, re-reading The Bohemian Manifesto and going for long walks alone.  But I need more!  There are too many other dimensions of me that have been starving for a little time and attention... and that after being quite indulged for many, many years before I had kids.  So I'm planning to donate all those spare intervals to the poor, neglected colors in my prism.  Prepare to be blinded by them.

This is going to take a bit of planning, however.  I'm going to have to change a few habits.  First of all, I need get over the overwhelmed, desperate feeling I get when I have some free time so that I don't spend all of it making lists in my head and trying to decide what I should do while those precious minutes slip away.   Or at the very least, I should at some point write that list down, so that I don't spend the next span of time compiling the same list in my head.  Yes, there will be laundry in the dryer and dishes either in the sink to be washed or dishwasher to be emptied.  There will be a book I've been meaning to finish.  A house I've been meaning to clean.  There will be things I'd been hoping to organize and applications of one sort or another to be filled out.  But some of those things will just have to wait while I write my masterpiece or go out for my walk.  Maybe get a massage.

And I can skip that whole step of wandering over to the fridge and snack drawer.  I don't want to realize one day that I missed my big chance to make my mark in this world because I was too busy eating.

Yeah, the next time I suddenly have a few moments to myself, I'm going to fuel my soul.

Ode to Quitting

My first job out of college was so cool... for about 10 minutes.   

I was an administrative assistant for the President of small subsidiary of a larger Japanese television network.  The company was comprised of my boss and me. So, depending on the day or event, I was the Director of Media Relations, Research Director, or my favorite, Director of International Co-Productions. I dressed like an executive and wore high heels everyday (never did that sneaker/commuting thing). I carried a nice leather briefcase. My calls were all screened and transfered in to me. I went on business trips to London and Cannes and had meetings with Presidents and CEOs of other media companies.  I got to make offers and read scripts.  And best of all, I took long, long lunches with my boyfriend or girlfriends while my boss was on business trips.

My boss was a stout little Japanese man who loved to be boss.  He introduced himself  to everyone as Dr. Matsui - a "Dr." due to his Ph.D. in Telecommunications.  Think napoleonic samurai as Michael Scott from "The Office" and you'll get the general idea.  As such, his position wasn't nearly as important as his title (President, Founder... sometimes he'd throw in an Esq.  here and there after his name for effect) might suggest.  More accurately, he was boss of me at a bogus little company he'd basically made up.  He was also President of another Japanese subsidiary with an office across town, where he was boss of Janet and Mary.  I was the brunette, Janet, the sexy blonde, and Mary, the adorable redhead - we used to joke that we were Charlie's Angels.  And I don't think any of us ever believed it was a coincidence when we met each other.

But for a few brief moments I thought that I was included in important meetings because of my intelligence and media saavy.  I read up on the companies we'd be meeting with and learned what I could about each executive.  And then I started noticing the little comments and innuendo.  Yes, it was humiliating, but at the time I was more preoccupied with how oblivious he was to the astonished looks he would get for being totally offensive and socially retarded.  He was sexist in the way that only the most impotent men need to be.  So much to prove. People would generally overlook it with the possibility of a big chunk of a production budget still on the line, but it was clear what people thought of him.  One of the presidents of a big network pulled me aside once to suggest that maybe I should call him if I was interested in making a career move, but as I wasn't sure whether it was to rescue me from such a jerk or to allow him to behave like one himself, I never pursued it.  

I did have some real work, though.  I really did do quite a bit of research.  That's part of what my company did.  We (I) researched all kinds of international media trends and put together monthly reports of how those trends could impact Japanese media companies.  And while I felt it was all more or less bullshit, I did a pretty thorough job of reporting it all.  Once I put the reports together, I'd hand them over to Dr. M. and he'd translate them into Japanese, put his name and the name of the company on the front cover in bold letters and remove any trace of me.  I knew enough Japanese characters to recognize that.

However, it was in Cannes, at MIPCOM (I can't even remember what these letters mean now), that I realized what my real purpose was.  I prepared for weeks and weeks for the meetings that I would have there.  I was so excited to be going to Cannes, and I would be going without my boss!  I had a number of meetings set up, and I was to stop by and visit a number of booths to seek out various executives we'd been communicating with.  I got my hair cut, bought some new "work clothes", just to make sure I'd look like I was serious.   All for nothing.  Well, my hair looked cute, but I hate work clothes.  I realized during my first meeting that I was by far the youngest person at this event.  A joke.  No, not even a joke.  An offering.

I had one-on-one meetings with some very important potential partners.  Every one of them a forty or fifty-something year old man.  Every one breezed through all the parts of the meetings I had prepared for and then invited me to this party or that dinner... or had I had a chance yet to just explore Cannes and see some of the nicer hotels?  And I recalled Dr. M. saying to me before I left, "You won't need to worry about meals.  Just get invited places."  

I bought sandwiches off carts in the street (delicious) for just about every meal.  I hated Cannes.

BUT, I then learned one of the greatest feelings I know.   My very favorite thing about that job, even better than the long lunches when my boss was away, was quitting.  

I didn't even know I was going to do it, which made it all the better when it actually happened.  Dr. M. was being his typical oppressive, irrational self and I openly disagreed with him about something.  I can't remember what it was - doesn't matter.  He was caught off guard by my unusually assertive behavior and began to berate me.  And I stood there, stunned, for a couple of seconds... and then I just blurted it out.  "You know what?  I don't want to work here anymore."

At first he looked enraged.  Then powerless.  Then I swear he was doing everything he could not to cry.  I felt kind of bad for him.  I mean, really, doesn't everyone feel sorry for Michael Scott, as much of a jerk as he is?  But still.  You wouldn't want to work for him.  

So I quit.  And I'm proud to say, it wasn't the last time.  Walking away from things that suck is way, way underrated.  

Free Stuff

Yesterday my family headed over the the 2008 Global Green Expo at Liberty State Park to learn all about conservation, organic farming, recycling and the many, many things we can all do to make the world a better place.  I thought it would be a great way to introduce these things to my kids... and learn a few things myself.  And I guess it did some of that. 

Benjamin learned about composting; though he was more excited about the "pet worms" he was allowed to take home.  The girls nibbled some organic snacks, checked out the horseshoe crabs, and slathered on samples of chemical free lotions scented with essential oils.  We stopped into the Children for Children (www.childrenforchildren.org) tent and decorated our own reusable shopping bags and helped paint a community mural.  

But then there was the "expo mentality".   All the free stuff they give out so that you'll stop at every booth.  And, for some reason, we all seem to get caught up in collecting it all.  Because it's free.  

At any other expo I suppose it would seem perfectly normal to grab whatever beach ball, refrigerator magnet and mouse pad  that was offered.  But this was supposed to be about limiting waste and clutter and garbage that will end up in landfills.  I mean, really, do we really need another plastic frisbee (even if it was made from recycled bottles)?  It was a little alarming watching people loaded down with shopping bags, grabbing stacks of coloring books and coasters and plastic water bottles and starlight mints.  And yet I also found myself thinking "we could always use more pens in the office".

That said, it was nice to go to an event where organic veggie and chicken wraps were offered.  But we had to laugh when we saw the line for hot dogs and Philly cheese steaks.  Ahhh... ain't that America...

Shen's baby naming

Shen tore open her new baby doll today.  "It's a boy," she announced as she changed the doll from one pink outfit into another. "And her name is Mala."

She then proceeded to give Tatum's doll, the one with the permanent "O" for a mouth (for her attached pacifier), a name, too.  "She's Abba. And she's a girl."

Once again proving (to me) that my kids are awesome.

A poem I like

There's a poem I read in a high school yearbook, that I always loved.  Maybe it's a song.  I don't even know.  It's probably famous.  As a matter of fact I'm sure of it, since I found the parts I couldn't remember in an internet search.  It was one of those things that I always wanted to dedicate to someone when I was younger.  It goes like this...

I love you not only for what you are

but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not only for what you have made of yourself

but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me that you bring out;

I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart

and passing over all the foolish, weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there,

and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life 

not a tavern but a temple

out of the works of my every day

not a reproach but a song.

I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good

and more than any fate could have done to make me happy.

You have done it without a touch

without a word

without a sign.

You have done it by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what being a friend means after all.

I think of this poem often now.  I'll be flipping through the mail or walking through the aisle at Stop and Shop and suddenly the words will pop into my mind and I'll start to cry.  Just a little.  Just for a moment.  And not because I'm sad.  It's because I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude that I have me this friend and get to spend every day with him.  

And then I pull myself together because it feels a little ridiculous to just start crying spontaneously in the post office or the mall.

I get teased often about this crush that I have on my husband.  My girlfriends often tell me that I love my husband more than anyone they know.  And he and I have talked about it, too.  In the end, we've both agreed that it's perhaps a bit unfair to let my friends have this impression. After all, I'm sure they all love their husbands very much.  We've come to the conclusion that partly it's love and partly it's emotional instability.  On a bad day, I can sing a very different song (or more accurately, spit venom).  It's just that he's the only one who hears it.

But still.  Those good days happen often enough.

Car Therapy

I was in a foul mood earlier; snapping at my husband for no particular reason and irritated by the crumbs on the floor and the random clutter of homeless objects collecting on the kitchen counter.  I can't stand having a "to do" list hanging over my head on a beautiful day, which today is, so I suppose that explains the bitchy behavior as I left to go to Whole Foods.

It's amazing to me, though, how that quickly that funk can evaporate when the right song comes on the radio.  DJ's seem to be at their best on the first hot days of spring - they know we're ripe for nostalgia.  So I decompressed to old U2, Journey and Jeff Buckley and rolled down the windows.  Now I had the breeze and the bright greens and pinks of everything blooming all around me.  And once that shift starts to happen, it just has it's own velocity.  Suddenly, I'm aware of the moments I'm witnessing all around me.  Kids skipping alongside moms and babysitters on their way to the park.  Dog tails wagging next to people who look like theirs would be wagging, too, if they had tails.  Red, red cardinals flying against a backdrop of bright blues and greens.  A couple of girls catching up over a long lunch outside.

And before long, I'm remembering other springs, and other days like this one.  And I think of playing hooky and calling in sick.  Falling in love and finding excuse after excuse to stay just a little longer.  The radio always has a way of picking up and running with this.  Classic rock or even the corny pop stuff from the 80's.  And John  Mayer gets to me, even though he bugs the crap out of me lately.  A 15 minute drive and my eyes welled up at least 3 times.

By the time I finished my shopping, my mood had turned completely.  Spring fever's got a hold on me but good, and it seems to have everyone around me in the same happy trance.  So the ride home is really something to savor now.  I pull my hair out of it's ponytail because I can't stand the thought of even the slightest restrictions (well, I keep my seat belt on, but that's about all I can take).  All the windows down now and the radio at full volume.  Santana's playing and he's just perfect.  I'm sure I was speeding, but it seemed the only way to drive at the time.  I felt 17... and kind of like a hottie actually.

And then, just for a moment, I remember that I'm a 38 year old woman driving a Honda Odyssey with three car seats in back.  I look in the mirror.  I don't think I look old.  And, I don't really care all that much.  It just feels good - the music and the wind in my hair and having my soul stirred  and awakened that way.  But I remembered yet another thing I used to make fun of when I was young - "older" people trying to act young.  And I'm trying to remember now what I thought was so ridiculous.  

You know what?  Who cares?  It feels good to feel young... at any age.  

Don't Judge Me

This isn't it.  This is merely the prelude to the earth-shattering genius  that will eventually become evident here.  I haven't sorted those details out yet, but when I do, it's gonna be HUGE!

So don't even begin deliberating yet.  I'm just clearing my head... making my entrance... giving the opening band a chance to play.

It's all just brewing...

When stupidity finds confidence..

I remember many times when I was younger thinking I could do anything... could fool anyone... could get away with whatever I wanted.  And most of those times I was under the influence of one thing or another.  

One beautiful September day in the early 90's, I remember trying mushrooms with several friends who were mushroom "veterans".  They had promised to walk me through the whole experience and were fully equipped with the perfect snacks an beverages for such an occasion.  So we set up our blankets and backpacks on a quiet stretch on Jones Beach and began chewing some foul-tasting fungus... with Cool-Ranch Doritos to mask the flavor.

It was a rough start.  Things started to warp pretty quickly.  Before long, I was laying flat on my back melting into the sand overwhelmed by the clouds, which were enormous and appeared to be breathing.  They were covered in an elaborate network of colorful veins that pulsed to the same rhythm as the breathing.  It was too much.  I became claustrophobic and started to panic. 

Luckily, the veterans came to my aid.  They helped sit me up, gave me some cold water and talked me through the images.  And soon I was feeling a little clearer.  This was phase two.  I was beginning to feel quite good now.  Everything was vivid and technicolor, but now I was on board and in on the whole thing.  Empowered even.  And as a matter of fact, I was ready to take a walk and interact and just enjoy my day.  Besides, I really needed to pee.  So I ventured over to the boardwalk to see what the rest of civilization was doing in their mundane, pastel little lives.

Well, the rest of civilization also had to pee.  So I waited in line.  And as I waited, I stood there thinking my profound amazing thoughts and appreciating all the brilliant details and colors that only I could see.  And then I paused to take a little pride in just how "normal" I could be in the midst of my mushroom trip.  No one would ever guess.  After all, I'm just this sweet-looking young girl at the beach.  Not freaking out or laughing uncontrollably or hyperventilating.  Well, not now anyway.  "I'm totally composed," I remember thinking with pride.

But my happy train of though was interrupted by the woman standing in line in front of me.  She had cleared her throat rather loudly and was staring at me.  What was her problem?  What was she all out of sorts about on such an spectacular day at the beach?  She looked pretty normal.  She had a pretty silk shirt on, I noticed.  And then I noticed a hand on the sleeve of her shirt.  Fingers just rubbing along the silkiness of the sleeve.  A dainty little wrist.  My friendship bracelet.... my bracelet... wait, my bracelet.  My hand.  Me.  Fondling a perfect stranger in line for the ladies room at the Jones Beach boardwalk while.

Seconds earlier, I thought I was enlightened.  Go figure.

My own little neverland

Tonight, with a pounding headache and the very last of my energy, I trudged over to the dryer to pull out the clothes before they crinkled into an unrecognizable, unfoldable mess.  There's nothing fun about remembering clothes in the dryer just as you're about to relax.

Or is there?

I opened the dryer to find a little puff of fairy dust shimmering all around me.  Or maybe it was dragon dust... I don't know which of my kids it came from.  But for a moment, it really felt magical to have the air around me glimmering and sparkling.  And I have to say, that I've had a good number of magical moments like these since I've had kids.  They just breathe newness and intrigue into everything.

Ok, so sometimes it's a sticky, old lozenge or, worse yet, silly putty, but I'm up for surprises.  I love the surprises.  I love having my chores interrupted by fairy dust!

Damage Control

I don't care what they say, I still won't shop at Walmart.  

I don't believe they've turned over a new leaf.  I guess I have to be happy that they've jumped on the "green" bandwagon, but really, does anyone really believe that it's something more than an image revamp?  Ok, so the impact is still there.  The message will still get out (but not without a gigantic Walmart trademark whenever possible).   And it must mean that the documentaries and the boycotts are creating some positive shifts, but those ad campaigns of theirs are so manipulative.  It reminds me of that thing I read about a couple of years ago about the tobacco companies... spending a few hundred thousand dollars on some charitable campaign or research, I can't remember which, and then spending millions and millions publicizing that "good deed".

Sorry, Walmart, you're going to have to do better than that... and then keep doing it...

Slow Mo(tiva)tion

I can't sleep.  Every now and then I'm just overwhelmed by the feeling that if I could just conquer these demons, fight the good fight, say what needs to be said, learn to say "no" more often, learn to say "yes" more often, eat more green vegetables, kick the sugar habit, laugh at fear, take more long walks, watch more good movies and less crappy TV, do more yoga, spend more time dancing, cook exotic meals, paint, let my kids lead the way, learn guitar, pick up and just go, and just maybe finish some of the damn things that I start... I'd be a freakin' legend.  

Really.   I think it's possible.

I could use a drink

Or maybe not a drink, because I'm not really good at drinking.  Maybe a cupcake.

Maybe some real sleep with absolutely no reason to wake up at any particular time.

Maybe some time to wander in the city with no schedule and no particular place to be.

Maybe just a few days to paint and listen to music and maybe have lunch with a girlfriend.

Maybe a few hours uninterrupted.

Maybe some time to completely forget about the dishes in the sink and the laundry that needs to be done.

A good movie could be a start.

A massage would be nice.

A haircut even.

Or just enough to shower, put on make-up and find an outfit I really like.

No, no... I don't want to be that girl.  Give me the painting and the music and the wandering in the city.  Screw the make-up.

And I'll take that drink.

Sean Penn is one of my Angels

Which is funny, since I think I've heard him describe heaven as a place with drugs and hookers.

And yet he's popped up at various points in my life and moved and inspired me, gave advice, recommended books, made me angry, made me cry, laugh... reminded me to be alive in new or forgotten ways.

I watched "Into the Wild" last night and he did it again.  Newly kinetic parts of me today driving me to live in all different directions.  Don't get me wrong.  He's not the only one.  Not even the biggest one.  Or close.  My husband and children rock my world.  But Sean Penn is inspiration I'm willing to share.  Everyone has some kind of access to him and should take advantage of at least some of what he's putting out there for us.

I first saw him when I was 15 years old in Franklin, Tennessee.  I had heard that a movie was being shot nearby and it sounded much more exciting than the Green Hills Mall, so I went.  It was the set of "At Close Range" - the first movie set, the first celebrity I'd seen close up.  Well, I once saw Andy Warhol cross the street, and Susan Lucci lived in my town growing up... my dad says we once saw Bette Davis walk into a liquor store when I was tiny... but they were just sightings.  I got to stand around a giggle with my girlfriend for this one.  Christopher Walken was there, too, but as a culturally bankrupt Tiger Beat reading Duran Duran fan, I had no idea who he was.  Chris Penn was in Footloose, so I knew him.  But Sean, he was with Madonna.  He was the one.

And he seemed pretty unfriendly.  And he sent someone over to ask us to leave.  "You're distracting the actors," they told us.

Ten years later,  I sat outside a little Italian place by my apartment in Greenwich Village with my best friend, Beth, sharing a pasta dish because we were poor and having a glass of red wine because we weren't that poor.  A few guys and a transparently thin blonde girl sat at the table next to us. They were behind Beth, so she couldn't see them.  But apparently she could feel one of them push his chair too close to hers, because she very pointedly adjusted her seat and cleared her throat to make sure that he knew he was imposing on her personal space.  And just as I was saying, "You've got to check out hair on the guy across from me," the gentleman behind her turned to see who was giving him a little shove.  It was Tim Robbins.  And Sean was the guy with the hair.  That pompador from "Dead Man Walking".  Gary Oldman and some other guy I didn't recognize were also at the table.  And the skinny blonde.  

We eavesdropped, but it was hard to hear.  They were talking about their "dream" girls.  I think Tim Robbins said Raquel Welsh (which happens to be the first poster he has in "Shawshank Redemption").  The guy we couldn't recognize said Anna Nicole Smith.  And then there was something about mushroom trips?... or maybe it was mushroom sauce.  I don't know.  

I passed Sean on the street a few days later and stuck my tongue out at him.

And about a week after that, I was sitting outside at one of the mediocre cafes on MacDougall Street reading a book and waiting for my vanilla milkshake to arrive.  And for some reason I knew he was nearby.  I turned around to look, and there he was across the street.  And as soon as I saw him, he saw me.  We smiled the smiles of people who keep running into each other.  I waved him over, and to my surprise, he came and sat across from me.  

He was coming from (or going to) a birthday party for one of Tim Robbin's kids.  My milkshake arrived and I offered him some.  He said it looked good, but declined.  He asked my name, and then asked how I spelled it.  I asked him about books he liked and he told me to read Charles Bukowski.  I asked him how old he was (34 or 35, I forget which) and what I had to look forward to.  His expression told me to anticipate some suffering but that I would survive.  I asked about his children and the look on his face when he spoke of them made me want to lean over and kiss him.  But I didn't.  Instead, I reminded him that he'd acted like a jerk when I'd seen him 10 years earlier and he apologized.  "I was kind of in a bad way at the time."

He advised me not to have a child with someone I wasn't planning to spend my life with, which I'd been considering.  He laughed when I asked about Madonna.  He was, you know, nice.

I saw him a couple of times after that.  Once I was walking with a guy I hardly knew, who was going on and on about celebrities in Manhattan, and was mortified to look up and see him just a few feet away and easily within earshot.  He'd just had his hair cut and looked more himself again and I told him so.  Another time, just walking down the street to our respective apartments.  He had a friend with him, I think his name was Joe, and it was weird.  So I left.

I half expected to see him again at 35, but it never happened.  But there are the movies, and the appearances on The Colbert Report and that actor's studio show.  I did read some Bukowski. Loved the raw and unapologetic writing.  But toxic.  I picked up Tales of Ordinary Madness while I was pregnant and had to put it down.  I was afraid I'd have angry children.  I see things in the news... was happy to see him win awards, sad when he and Robin almost split.  Sadder still when his brother died.

And he's way over there somewhere.  Living his life.  Doing his thing.  And I'm way over here. And I'm 99.99% sure that I still would have married the right guy and had these gorgeous children and been happy and fulfilled regardless; but sometimes when I see one of his movies, I think maybe he helped me along.

Evolution

If I'm to learn anything from my own personal history, it's that my next phase of evolution will more than likely include whatever it is I waste my time ridiculing now.  So far, that's how I've come to be a Waldorf homeschooling Buddhist acupuncturist.

I remember thinking how insane it was to homeschool - those poor women with control issues and no other lives.  And I have to cringe now remembering that, as a kid, I casually referred to the kids who attended the local Waldorf school as "the weirdos".  Buddhism was a cult... until the Dalai Lama became really popular... and then it was just "in".  

And then there's acupuncture.  I remember meeting an anorexic supermodel-looking girl in a dance club who explained to me that she had to get up early to see her acupuncturist, Dr. Wu, the following morning so that she could get her period again.  Dr. Wu had explained to her that her Yin and Yang were out of balance among other things.   I was dating a surgical resident at the time, so of course I knew next to everything, and considered myself very mature for listening politely to the rest of these absurd explanation of her health issues.  The next day, I told my doctor boyfriend the whole story and we laughed all the way to 10:30 mass.

Oops... am I headed for Catholicism again??

For Angela

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha.

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha.

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha.

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha.

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha.

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha.

Tayata Om Bhekandze Bhekandze Maha Bhekandze Radza Samungate Soha.

Blockhead

I'm a genius until I sit down in front of this damn computer.  

I've been testing this theory recently and, so far, it's the same every time.  I go for a walk and within 30 seconds the thoughts begin to flow... I'm articulate... maybe even profound.  It's prose and it's beautiful and I think it's even moving.  Sometimes funny.  And honestly, sometimes I come across thoughts that are so lovely and touching or raw and truthful that I think they come from some other source.  

Of course, when this happens, I want to write them down.  I am always eager to grab onto those beautiful sentences and hold them and look at them and make sure they match the perfect arrangement in my head.  But give me a pen or a keyboard and they evaporate.

I haven't given much to writing these last few years, and really not ever, so I have high hopes that this it is in fact "writer's block".  It will be pretty difficult to write a novel otherwise, and that's one thing on my life "to do" list that always seemed appealing.  

Untitled

Choosing a title seems like a little too much pressure.  After all, I've only just decided today that I may be ready to start a blog.  Choosing an identity to put out there into the universe seems like an awfully big decision for my first personal venture into the web.