(originally posted on my blog at Redroom.com)
I don’t make New Years Resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in them; I think that making a list of goals for change is a great tool and a healthy way to plan a new beginning that coincides with a new calendar. I simply don’t list all the things I want to do differently once January 1 comes around and post it on my refrigerator as a daily reminder. To me, this seems like a great way to fail as the meaning of the list can too easily change from hope to guilt. Like rules, resolutions seem to be made to be broken.
I do appreciate goal setting. I am a goal oriented person and so can see the value of knowing there is a deadline on its way. Yet, it is not a tradition I have bought into easily over the years, although I have tried. Like most people I knew in my twenties, I swore I would start a new diet or exercise regime after that last glass of champagne had finally worn off. Also like most people I knew in my twenties, I didn’t really need to lose weight. A bit more exercise would have helped, but I never did join a gym back then and so didn’t learn the value of that form of exercise until later in life.
The problem between myself and resolutions is that once I decide I want to change something, it needs to begin immediately. I am not one for delayed gratification when it comes to feeling better. I want it now; I want to begin whatever new routine will get me to my goal as soon as possible instead of waiting weeks or months. About five years ago I finally decided it was time to try a gym membership; I signed up almost immediately instead of waiting the two months for the calendar change. When it was time to find a more challenging atmosphere seven months later, I cancelled my membership the same week I completed the tour of the new gym. When that gym’s closed doors nearly two years later, the hubby and I had chosen one and signed up before I lost more than a few days of exercise.
I have been tweaking my eating habits since the birth of my second child and have had some real success. In fact when I decided to give up gluten products six months ago, it wasn’t difficult at all. I had become so dependent on other forms of nutrition, like fruits and vegetables, that giving up the bread was easy to do.
I realize that making dietary changes is really the cliché resolution, and that the important things that have to do with work habits and career changes and relationship issues are more often the focus for many folks.
So while I don’t really believe in making New Years Resolutions, I do believe in an end of year cleansing. My friend Celia told me that each year she writes on a piece of paper the things she wants to do differently on one side, and the things that she wants to continue to do on the other. She then burns the paper. My hubby and I have taken that concept a few steps further. We gather round a fire pit in our backyard and write the things to let go of and the things to hold onto on blocks of wood before throwing them into the fire. The fire grows as it consumes the good and the bad, releasing all into the open air of possibility.
We began this ritual the year everyone died. We lost four family members in the span of four months and so were delighted that the year of death was ending. We said goodbye to loved ones on that wood. We planned for a happier future. We attempted to let go of negatives and make promises for positive. We wrote our hopes and dreams and desires on piece after piece of wood. We invited friends and family over to do the same. It was a lovely ritual complete with tears and laughter and silence. And the warmth of the fire growing stronger symbolized our survival of a difficult year and the need to look forward to a brighter one.
Some of what we wrote looked far beyond one calendar year. Some was meant for the short term yet took more than a year to begin to manifest. Some of the pain loosened its grip a bit and allowed us to take in a few cleansing breaths. Some of the pain actually dissipated and flew away with the smoke.
I believe that New Years Resolutions are meant to be a kind of cleansing, of planning for the future. I do these things each year, but not with promises to myself made in the form of a list stuck to the refrigerator that has the great capacity to make me feel guilty. Instead the attempt is to reach beyond today and allow the new to grow into something more permanent and the old to fade away.
I don’t resolve; I burn.
Lake Mendocino
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Ghosts of Christmas Past (or passed)
On one hand I believe in ghosts. On the other hand, I don't believe that most people see them. I suppose part of the contradiction in my beliefs is the uncertainty as to origins, lore, and explanations of any ghostly presence.
There are numerous movies about ghosts or spirits or somehow corrupted beings that have either come back to earth from another place (that is generally unpleasant) or never left and are really pissed off, or suffused with evil, or some such thing.
I think that the reality of lingering or visiting spirits is simpler, and lighter.
A week before Christmas my daughter-in-law heard and saw some things in her house that frightened her. She heard footsteps in a room where there were no people, and saw a shadow cross the front door. When I lived in the house she is in, I never sensed any presence of any kind, and I consider myself pretty open to that kind of thing. People had died in that house long before I lived there. And since.
The interesting thing here is the date of my girl's experience. It was one day shy of the eighteenth anniversary of my grandmother's death. And Gram died IN that house. I do believe that if my girl really heard and saw something, then it was Gram.
This morning my dogs were looking out the sliding glass door and whining and growling at the fence top. When I got up and looked I saw a black cat sitting on the fence in one corner. A cat on the fence is not a common sight in our yard, but not unheard of. The slightly freaky thing is that the cat was the spitting image of our Sammy who died a year and six days ago, and who is buried in the back yard below the spot where the cat was sitting. When I brought my husband over to the door to see the cat, it was gone. Now, I'm not saying that I crossed the room to fetch him and when we both came back the cat was gone. I was standing looking at the cat, I motioned him over while I could see the cat. I moved out of the way so he could stand where I was, and when he looked the cat was gone.
Yes, the cat could very well have simply jumped off the fence in the moment it took for us to change places. And that may very well be exactly what happened. The dogs saw the cat before I did. And then it was gone. And it looked just like Sammy who we still miss.
The idea of loved ones coming back to visit is comforting. The concept that they loved us so strongly in life that they still feel connected to us in death makes the abandoned little girl in me feel special in a way my own parents never could.
Or this could all be a reaction to the brandy I put into my coffee this morning.
There are numerous movies about ghosts or spirits or somehow corrupted beings that have either come back to earth from another place (that is generally unpleasant) or never left and are really pissed off, or suffused with evil, or some such thing.
I think that the reality of lingering or visiting spirits is simpler, and lighter.
A week before Christmas my daughter-in-law heard and saw some things in her house that frightened her. She heard footsteps in a room where there were no people, and saw a shadow cross the front door. When I lived in the house she is in, I never sensed any presence of any kind, and I consider myself pretty open to that kind of thing. People had died in that house long before I lived there. And since.
The interesting thing here is the date of my girl's experience. It was one day shy of the eighteenth anniversary of my grandmother's death. And Gram died IN that house. I do believe that if my girl really heard and saw something, then it was Gram.
This morning my dogs were looking out the sliding glass door and whining and growling at the fence top. When I got up and looked I saw a black cat sitting on the fence in one corner. A cat on the fence is not a common sight in our yard, but not unheard of. The slightly freaky thing is that the cat was the spitting image of our Sammy who died a year and six days ago, and who is buried in the back yard below the spot where the cat was sitting. When I brought my husband over to the door to see the cat, it was gone. Now, I'm not saying that I crossed the room to fetch him and when we both came back the cat was gone. I was standing looking at the cat, I motioned him over while I could see the cat. I moved out of the way so he could stand where I was, and when he looked the cat was gone.
Yes, the cat could very well have simply jumped off the fence in the moment it took for us to change places. And that may very well be exactly what happened. The dogs saw the cat before I did. And then it was gone. And it looked just like Sammy who we still miss.
The idea of loved ones coming back to visit is comforting. The concept that they loved us so strongly in life that they still feel connected to us in death makes the abandoned little girl in me feel special in a way my own parents never could.
Or this could all be a reaction to the brandy I put into my coffee this morning.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Who Am I, Really?
According to various pieces of misinformation floating around the Internet, my first name is Geraldine and I am 65-years-old. While I won't admit my correct age to cyber-space, I will say that if my mother was still alive, she would be 68 as of last week.
On another site my first name is James and I live in Somerville. Where exactly is Somerville?
Somewhere else my daughter is listed as 44-years-old. (If you are confused about the math, see the age of her deceased grandmother above.)
We live in the age of information. A tremendous amount of our personal lives is written in one large electronic open book. It only takes a couple of clicks to track down just about anyone. But do they really live there? Or of all the locations listed, which is the current one? I can find "proof" online that my grandfather, who died in 2004, is still alive and living in his house. I can also order a copy of his death certificate, also online.
I once paid the bucks to run an online check on my father, only to get all the information together in one place that I had already found by myself for free. And it still amounted to very little. There simply was not enough accurate information to find where he lived. He died less than a month after I paid for this report. I didn't see him before he died.
So what does it mean that so much of what we can find is wrong? If my students are reading this (and they managed to make it to class the day we talked about evaluating internet sources) they remember that some sources are more trustworthy than others, and that there are several ways to determine what websites should or should not be trusted. But even with that knowledge it takes a good deal of digging to unearth the false and toss it out of the knowledge equation.
A very nice (local) bank salesperson showed up at my door several months ago. (Yes, they do exist.) She asked if I was Mrs. Buccelli. The poor thing looked so confused. She was looking for me, but she was under the impression I was born in the late 1940s and planned to try and sell me bank products for seniors.
Clearly she hadn't simply done an Internet search; she had been given information from a credible financial source. The explanation if logical: when my grandfather died I was required by law to take distribution from the remainder of his retirement account. The calculations for splitting it up into equal payments was rather complicated, and somewhere in the system an age was attached to my file that does not reflect reality, only what the computer system needed to know in order to cut some checks.
I explained this and she was very gracious. She then attempted to tell me about products the bank offered for parents of young children. Oops. My kids are grown. She had a difficult time believing that I was old enough to have grown kids. This woman made my day, even with erroneous information.
The invitations to AARP, the urgent messages to choose my medicare prescription health plan immediately, the long-term health care insurance policies, and the funeral home surveys don't have the same effect. I'm not against any of these item, but I don't qualify for a one.
I suppose that to an extent misinformation shields my privacy. I do have an online presence that I maintain, and so have some control over what is out there. If you don't really know if I am Geraldine or James or Ginny, then I am just that much safer. But for those folks who really want to know me, they aren't going to do it solely online. It takes time and care, like any good relationship. I'm not inviting stalkers, cyber or otherwise. Consider it more of a warning. Do you know who I am? Really? And are you sure you want to?
On another site my first name is James and I live in Somerville. Where exactly is Somerville?
Somewhere else my daughter is listed as 44-years-old. (If you are confused about the math, see the age of her deceased grandmother above.)
We live in the age of information. A tremendous amount of our personal lives is written in one large electronic open book. It only takes a couple of clicks to track down just about anyone. But do they really live there? Or of all the locations listed, which is the current one? I can find "proof" online that my grandfather, who died in 2004, is still alive and living in his house. I can also order a copy of his death certificate, also online.
I once paid the bucks to run an online check on my father, only to get all the information together in one place that I had already found by myself for free. And it still amounted to very little. There simply was not enough accurate information to find where he lived. He died less than a month after I paid for this report. I didn't see him before he died.
So what does it mean that so much of what we can find is wrong? If my students are reading this (and they managed to make it to class the day we talked about evaluating internet sources) they remember that some sources are more trustworthy than others, and that there are several ways to determine what websites should or should not be trusted. But even with that knowledge it takes a good deal of digging to unearth the false and toss it out of the knowledge equation.
A very nice (local) bank salesperson showed up at my door several months ago. (Yes, they do exist.) She asked if I was Mrs. Buccelli. The poor thing looked so confused. She was looking for me, but she was under the impression I was born in the late 1940s and planned to try and sell me bank products for seniors.
Clearly she hadn't simply done an Internet search; she had been given information from a credible financial source. The explanation if logical: when my grandfather died I was required by law to take distribution from the remainder of his retirement account. The calculations for splitting it up into equal payments was rather complicated, and somewhere in the system an age was attached to my file that does not reflect reality, only what the computer system needed to know in order to cut some checks.
I explained this and she was very gracious. She then attempted to tell me about products the bank offered for parents of young children. Oops. My kids are grown. She had a difficult time believing that I was old enough to have grown kids. This woman made my day, even with erroneous information.
The invitations to AARP, the urgent messages to choose my medicare prescription health plan immediately, the long-term health care insurance policies, and the funeral home surveys don't have the same effect. I'm not against any of these item, but I don't qualify for a one.
I suppose that to an extent misinformation shields my privacy. I do have an online presence that I maintain, and so have some control over what is out there. If you don't really know if I am Geraldine or James or Ginny, then I am just that much safer. But for those folks who really want to know me, they aren't going to do it solely online. It takes time and care, like any good relationship. I'm not inviting stalkers, cyber or otherwise. Consider it more of a warning. Do you know who I am? Really? And are you sure you want to?
Sunday, August 29, 2010
And They Call Themselves Watch Dogs
I have two wonderful dogs who fancy themselves defenders of the home. Often in the middle of the night one or both will wake me with a growl or a few barks as they respond to noises outside the house they believe could be menacing to us. All too often they respond to a door knock that isn't, storming the front door and windows like they are intent on ripping apart anyone they don't know who dares step foot onto the front porch. There is rarely anyone at the door when this occurs. Sometimes when a visitor walks through the door without a knock they don't even react.
Early this morning, well early every morning, the neighbors' rooster started crowing. It usually starts about 5:00 am. I believe that the chicken pen is located in the apartment"complex" two yards south of me. Yes, we are well within city limits. We are located in the center of town, between the West & East sides.
The rooster is a bit of a controversy on my block. I have heard one or two neighbors complain about the early morning crowing. The all-day-long Tourette's-like crowing is not terribly pleasant either. One day I came home to a "letter" in my mailbox asking that if I had a rooster I get rid of it or the anonymous neighbors would call the police and animal control. That was weeks ago and until this morning the rooster was still living nearby.
I am likely the only neighbor it does not really bother. Our windows are situated so that most of the noise from that side of the house is of low-key annoyance (except the really loud polka music). I also have very fond memories of a pet rooster when I was a kid.
His name was Maestro and he was very smart. He only crowed later in the morning and not often at all during the day. He would take his hens (of which there were two) for daily walks and would come home when called. All three would eat grain from our hands. I loved hearing him crow. Yes, we also lived in town, it is Petaluma after all: The Egg Basket of the World, the Chicken Capital of the World. It was generally tolerated. We did have to get rid of Maestro because our next door neighbor had a rooster that crowed far more and was mistaken for being ours. Shortly after Maestro left and the rogue rooster continued his daily ruckus, the neighbors and cops realized their mistake and then there were no more roosters. Sadly, Maestro was not allowed to return home.
All this to say that when I hear a crowing rooster is makes me smile. And my dogs ignore it.
But it doesn't have the same effect on everyone and this morning someone snapped.
I was awakened by yelling at about 6:40 am. It wasn't loud enough to wake Joe, nor my dogs apparently. There wasn't even a throaty growl to acknowledge that there slumber was being disturbed. Out the bathroom window I could see a man I didn't know yelling and throwing things at the building near the unseen chicken pen. He was screaming "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" punctuated by several obscenities. I heard him yell at the rooster, "Hey rooster. Why don't you crow?! Huh, COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" And so on.
Still my dogs were silent.
The next time I looked out the window, the angry man was chasing the rooster, chair menacingly in hand, into the yard next to us. By now Joe was awake and getting dressed; Molly was still curled up on the bed and Max Bear (nicknamed Jethro for moments like this) was sitting up but leaning against my side of the bed.
We went downstairs and the rooster was standing atop our pergola, and then the angry man was walking away from our house in our driveway. Joe dialed the police department and while listening to the menu looked outside again to find that the rooster had disappeared. He had been ready to report the angry man who had not only awakened us in a manner FAR worse than a couple of ignorable crows, but was trespassing and moving fowl into our yard.
During all this the dogs were still upstairs in our bedroom on or next to the bed. Neither has barked nor growled once.
The rooster and the angry man disappeared before the Petaluma Police answered the phone, so Joe hung up. We waited for more ruckus. Nothing. The neighbors next door slowly came out of their apartments to survey the damage. We rehashed the incident a bit, theorizing that if we had been able to nab the rooster we could have called the police and animal control to take it away, solving several problems at once.
But when Joe said that we could have let the dogs out back to deal with the rooster I laughed. The dogs had waited until the coast was clear before slowly making their way downstairs hoping to follow their normal morning routine of potty and breakfast.
And they call themselves watchdogs!
Early this morning, well early every morning, the neighbors' rooster started crowing. It usually starts about 5:00 am. I believe that the chicken pen is located in the apartment"complex" two yards south of me. Yes, we are well within city limits. We are located in the center of town, between the West & East sides.
The rooster is a bit of a controversy on my block. I have heard one or two neighbors complain about the early morning crowing. The all-day-long Tourette's-like crowing is not terribly pleasant either. One day I came home to a "letter" in my mailbox asking that if I had a rooster I get rid of it or the anonymous neighbors would call the police and animal control. That was weeks ago and until this morning the rooster was still living nearby.
I am likely the only neighbor it does not really bother. Our windows are situated so that most of the noise from that side of the house is of low-key annoyance (except the really loud polka music). I also have very fond memories of a pet rooster when I was a kid.
His name was Maestro and he was very smart. He only crowed later in the morning and not often at all during the day. He would take his hens (of which there were two) for daily walks and would come home when called. All three would eat grain from our hands. I loved hearing him crow. Yes, we also lived in town, it is Petaluma after all: The Egg Basket of the World, the Chicken Capital of the World. It was generally tolerated. We did have to get rid of Maestro because our next door neighbor had a rooster that crowed far more and was mistaken for being ours. Shortly after Maestro left and the rogue rooster continued his daily ruckus, the neighbors and cops realized their mistake and then there were no more roosters. Sadly, Maestro was not allowed to return home.
All this to say that when I hear a crowing rooster is makes me smile. And my dogs ignore it.
But it doesn't have the same effect on everyone and this morning someone snapped.
I was awakened by yelling at about 6:40 am. It wasn't loud enough to wake Joe, nor my dogs apparently. There wasn't even a throaty growl to acknowledge that there slumber was being disturbed. Out the bathroom window I could see a man I didn't know yelling and throwing things at the building near the unseen chicken pen. He was screaming "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" punctuated by several obscenities. I heard him yell at the rooster, "Hey rooster. Why don't you crow?! Huh, COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" And so on.
Still my dogs were silent.
The next time I looked out the window, the angry man was chasing the rooster, chair menacingly in hand, into the yard next to us. By now Joe was awake and getting dressed; Molly was still curled up on the bed and Max Bear (nicknamed Jethro for moments like this) was sitting up but leaning against my side of the bed.
We went downstairs and the rooster was standing atop our pergola, and then the angry man was walking away from our house in our driveway. Joe dialed the police department and while listening to the menu looked outside again to find that the rooster had disappeared. He had been ready to report the angry man who had not only awakened us in a manner FAR worse than a couple of ignorable crows, but was trespassing and moving fowl into our yard.
During all this the dogs were still upstairs in our bedroom on or next to the bed. Neither has barked nor growled once.
The rooster and the angry man disappeared before the Petaluma Police answered the phone, so Joe hung up. We waited for more ruckus. Nothing. The neighbors next door slowly came out of their apartments to survey the damage. We rehashed the incident a bit, theorizing that if we had been able to nab the rooster we could have called the police and animal control to take it away, solving several problems at once.
But when Joe said that we could have let the dogs out back to deal with the rooster I laughed. The dogs had waited until the coast was clear before slowly making their way downstairs hoping to follow their normal morning routine of potty and breakfast.
And they call themselves watchdogs!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Blast from the Past
As long as I have had home Internet access I have spent some portion of my time attempting to track down old friends. I have had some success, which is cool. I spent roughly 10 years looking one long lost friend and reconnecting was not a disappointment; in fact I can safely say it has enriched my life.
When my bio-dad died three years ago, my step-sister fed me names to track down so that she could let them know that Dad was gone. In fact I used the Internet to almost reconnect with said bio-dad just before he died. In attempting to track down his other daughter I discovered that she had passed away several years before. With the Internet I can keep track of my estranged father-in-law, keep an eye out for my other long-lost sister, and continue to track down people I would like to see or talk to again. The last year or so Facebook has made my hobby quite a bit easier.
Then someone tracked me down. Turn-about is fair play I suppose.
It was a good thing, though, and a pleasant surprise to see a name in my in-box that I had only seen on envelopes back when we wrote the occasional letter. Jessie used to live next to my grandparents. Their neighbor had a little apartment in the back of her property; Gram and Grandpa had a habit of befriending the inhabitants. Jessie is the sole reason why I passed Algebra in my sophomore year. She was a single mom with a young son. I have no clear recollection of his age at the time, except that he was younger than me and he was fun to hang out with.
Jessie's note was simple and sweet; in a few short lines she reminded me of some genuinely wonderful memories of my grandparents that had been buried far below the anger I still sometimes feel towards my grandfather six years after his death. It was flattering that someone would be interested enough in my life to do a Google search and contact me.
So Jessie, when you read this, thank you. And write soon.
When my bio-dad died three years ago, my step-sister fed me names to track down so that she could let them know that Dad was gone. In fact I used the Internet to almost reconnect with said bio-dad just before he died. In attempting to track down his other daughter I discovered that she had passed away several years before. With the Internet I can keep track of my estranged father-in-law, keep an eye out for my other long-lost sister, and continue to track down people I would like to see or talk to again. The last year or so Facebook has made my hobby quite a bit easier.
Then someone tracked me down. Turn-about is fair play I suppose.
It was a good thing, though, and a pleasant surprise to see a name in my in-box that I had only seen on envelopes back when we wrote the occasional letter. Jessie used to live next to my grandparents. Their neighbor had a little apartment in the back of her property; Gram and Grandpa had a habit of befriending the inhabitants. Jessie is the sole reason why I passed Algebra in my sophomore year. She was a single mom with a young son. I have no clear recollection of his age at the time, except that he was younger than me and he was fun to hang out with.
Jessie's note was simple and sweet; in a few short lines she reminded me of some genuinely wonderful memories of my grandparents that had been buried far below the anger I still sometimes feel towards my grandfather six years after his death. It was flattering that someone would be interested enough in my life to do a Google search and contact me.
So Jessie, when you read this, thank you. And write soon.
It's Just a Jump to the Left (or it should be)
A few weeks ago my hubby, daughter and I met a fairly large group of friends for a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Menlo Park, CA.
I must say I was mightily disappointed.
I was disappointed by the need of the cast to re-invent the envelope and then push on through: the need to add flesh where there previously was none; the need to badly pantomime the entire movie while the movie was playing. Well over a dozen years ago (which was the last time I saw Rocky in the theater) some cast felt that adding a stripper during the opening credits would make the movie sexier. I beg to differ.
Now before you label me a prude, there are a few things you should know: I have seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the big screen over 150 times. I cut my adolescent teeth on fishnet stockings, homemade and refurbished corsets and running up and down the aisles in my 4" come-fuck-me-pumps.
I know my Rocky Horror.
Which is why the current incarnation of casts drives me nuts. From what I have gathered there are several in the state that go from one theater to the other putting on their own show before and during the movie. They have their own pretty authentic make-up, costumes and props. Some of the actors are pretty amazing. The rest simply suck.
When I was a regular midnight madness inhabitant I didn't own copy of the movie. (Admittedly this was before it was available on either VHS or DVD.) We had to learn the movie BY WATCHING AND MEMORIZING IT. The casts I have seen thus far look over their shoulder at the screen far too often, and even more often blow lines, lyrics and movement. In my mind there is no excuse. Buy the damn movie, study the moves at home and be able to produce a completely replicated live show during the movie.
I can point out a redeeming quality or two: During the Time Warp/Sweet Transvestite, three live Transylvanians stood in front of the screen with flashlights and performed some original choreography for the audience. This was a wonderful little tidbit amongst a whole lot of crap. The idea that a cast could elevate their work beyond the screen in a creative and non-icky way is terrific. The fact that each of the players looked bored brought the production value down a bit. I have to say, though, that the young man playing Brad was absolutely awesome. He was in character from the time he was spotted outside the theater and all the way through.
I applaud the concept of a cast when showing the movie. I do. I just wish the cast acted like the professionals they profess to being. Website after website touts these wanna-be actors as hard-workers who are trying to make a living, or partial living, on the weekends. In my mind they have the power to elevate the entire genre to something more, but instead they get caught up in their own excitement and arrogance and lessen the experience. The "barker" for our showing had great promise. But by the end of the movie his insistence on shouting lines at the screen, sometime repeatedly because he was drowned out by the chaos of voices he had encouraged, nearly brought on an audience fed lynch mob and beating.
The last time I saw the movie on the big screen was about a dozen years ago. I'm not sure I'll be going back again quite as quickly.
I must say I was mightily disappointed.
I was disappointed by the need of the cast to re-invent the envelope and then push on through: the need to add flesh where there previously was none; the need to badly pantomime the entire movie while the movie was playing. Well over a dozen years ago (which was the last time I saw Rocky in the theater) some cast felt that adding a stripper during the opening credits would make the movie sexier. I beg to differ.
Now before you label me a prude, there are a few things you should know: I have seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the big screen over 150 times. I cut my adolescent teeth on fishnet stockings, homemade and refurbished corsets and running up and down the aisles in my 4" come-fuck-me-pumps.
I know my Rocky Horror.
Which is why the current incarnation of casts drives me nuts. From what I have gathered there are several in the state that go from one theater to the other putting on their own show before and during the movie. They have their own pretty authentic make-up, costumes and props. Some of the actors are pretty amazing. The rest simply suck.
When I was a regular midnight madness inhabitant I didn't own copy of the movie. (Admittedly this was before it was available on either VHS or DVD.) We had to learn the movie BY WATCHING AND MEMORIZING IT. The casts I have seen thus far look over their shoulder at the screen far too often, and even more often blow lines, lyrics and movement. In my mind there is no excuse. Buy the damn movie, study the moves at home and be able to produce a completely replicated live show during the movie.
I can point out a redeeming quality or two: During the Time Warp/Sweet Transvestite, three live Transylvanians stood in front of the screen with flashlights and performed some original choreography for the audience. This was a wonderful little tidbit amongst a whole lot of crap. The idea that a cast could elevate their work beyond the screen in a creative and non-icky way is terrific. The fact that each of the players looked bored brought the production value down a bit. I have to say, though, that the young man playing Brad was absolutely awesome. He was in character from the time he was spotted outside the theater and all the way through.
I applaud the concept of a cast when showing the movie. I do. I just wish the cast acted like the professionals they profess to being. Website after website touts these wanna-be actors as hard-workers who are trying to make a living, or partial living, on the weekends. In my mind they have the power to elevate the entire genre to something more, but instead they get caught up in their own excitement and arrogance and lessen the experience. The "barker" for our showing had great promise. But by the end of the movie his insistence on shouting lines at the screen, sometime repeatedly because he was drowned out by the chaos of voices he had encouraged, nearly brought on an audience fed lynch mob and beating.
The last time I saw the movie on the big screen was about a dozen years ago. I'm not sure I'll be going back again quite as quickly.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
My Weird Daughter and I
(originally posted on my blog at RedRoom.com)
When my daughter was six-years old she often spent her afternoons with her best friend Brianna. Brianna’s grandmother was a nice enough lady who often carted the girls around on errands after school. One day during a particularly lively play date Brianna’s grandma said to my daughter, “Melia, you are weird!”
My first reaction was to belt the woman. Who did this cleaning lady think she was to say something potentially hurtful to my lively, funny, beautiful daughter? The violent reaction, thankfully, faded very quickly. In its place was the reality I had long ago learned to embrace: weirdness doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
I had felt like a social outcaste in my two-parent, multiple-child, no-divorce neighborhood all through elementary school. My parents were not only divorced, but they left me to be raised, alone, by my grandparents. I felt as though I spent my entire childhood trying to apologize for my weirdness by doing whatever I could think of to fit in. Very little of it worked, and I probably seemed even weirder and I know I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
By the time I arrived at Junior High and met many, many other weird kids, I began to finally see that not everyone was normal. In fact that was the same year that the divorces began in my neighborhood and within a few years there were new families blending on every street.
By the eighth grade I was almost completely comfortable in my own skin, or at least I knew how to fake it very well. My best friend and I even wore leprechaun costumes to school for St. Patrick’s Day, complete with giant, green homemade top hats. We were very well received as most kids were in awe of our willingness to appear silly in public. In high school I discovered the drama department and the Rocky Horror Picture show and my comfort level with my own weirdness was nearly complete.
When it came time to raise my own daughter, I wanted her to feel comfortable with herself from the onset. I hoped to surround her self-esteem with the kind of mental cement that would keep her safe and secure even when she traveled outside of home So when she told us the story of being called weird, I told her that the next time someone called her that to thank them. After all, weird was a good thing, a compliment really. It meant she was an individual, not the same as everyone else, but in a good way.
It worked. Many people since have hurled the weird comment her way. Each time she accepts and embraces it, it deflates them and empowers her.
She has been called weird many times since and thanked every single person. By copping to and embracing her differences willingly, she doesn’t waste time apologizing for being herself or wallowing in the worry that people won’t like her for who she is. Despite the normal adolescent bumps, she is pretty comfortable in her own skin and the mental cement is intact.
My daughter and I are both weird, thank you very much.
When my daughter was six-years old she often spent her afternoons with her best friend Brianna. Brianna’s grandmother was a nice enough lady who often carted the girls around on errands after school. One day during a particularly lively play date Brianna’s grandma said to my daughter, “Melia, you are weird!”
My first reaction was to belt the woman. Who did this cleaning lady think she was to say something potentially hurtful to my lively, funny, beautiful daughter? The violent reaction, thankfully, faded very quickly. In its place was the reality I had long ago learned to embrace: weirdness doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
I had felt like a social outcaste in my two-parent, multiple-child, no-divorce neighborhood all through elementary school. My parents were not only divorced, but they left me to be raised, alone, by my grandparents. I felt as though I spent my entire childhood trying to apologize for my weirdness by doing whatever I could think of to fit in. Very little of it worked, and I probably seemed even weirder and I know I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
By the time I arrived at Junior High and met many, many other weird kids, I began to finally see that not everyone was normal. In fact that was the same year that the divorces began in my neighborhood and within a few years there were new families blending on every street.
By the eighth grade I was almost completely comfortable in my own skin, or at least I knew how to fake it very well. My best friend and I even wore leprechaun costumes to school for St. Patrick’s Day, complete with giant, green homemade top hats. We were very well received as most kids were in awe of our willingness to appear silly in public. In high school I discovered the drama department and the Rocky Horror Picture show and my comfort level with my own weirdness was nearly complete.
When it came time to raise my own daughter, I wanted her to feel comfortable with herself from the onset. I hoped to surround her self-esteem with the kind of mental cement that would keep her safe and secure even when she traveled outside of home So when she told us the story of being called weird, I told her that the next time someone called her that to thank them. After all, weird was a good thing, a compliment really. It meant she was an individual, not the same as everyone else, but in a good way.
It worked. Many people since have hurled the weird comment her way. Each time she accepts and embraces it, it deflates them and empowers her.
She has been called weird many times since and thanked every single person. By copping to and embracing her differences willingly, she doesn’t waste time apologizing for being herself or wallowing in the worry that people won’t like her for who she is. Despite the normal adolescent bumps, she is pretty comfortable in her own skin and the mental cement is intact.
My daughter and I are both weird, thank you very much.
Monday, July 5, 2010
To Sing or Not to Sing, That is the question
My first singing lesson, that was supposed to take place last week, was rescheduled for this week.
Strangely enough I think that I knew it would be canceled as I was driving to the lesson last week, unnaturally calm. I say unnaturally because I expected to be fighting the panic back, to be talking myself down out of my metaphorical anxiety tree. I arrived earlier than was required and managed to walk in to the building breathing normally.
The actual first lesson day was another story. I didn't make it out of the house because I needed to use all of my energy and focus to fend off the expected panic attack.
As the anxiety rises within the body, the mental capabilities are tipped off balance. The mental steps that I think we all walk down as we attempt to follow our logic begin to spiral back up on themselves, covering the same ground over and over again. Isn't that the classic cliche definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again in hopes of finding a different outcome.
Getting out of that head space means switching metaphors from a staircase to a tight rope. It is very important to walk that tight rope carefully and deliberately in order to make sure to keep the thought processes linear, in line and straight so as not to veer off and go back to the circular motion and returning to the same outcomes over and over again. Sometimes it takes a voice from the outside to get off the stairs and onto the line.
It is my signal to myself that I am fighting to stay sane when I know that the thoughts that concern me are becoming great fears and the solutions in turn become less and less flexible. I can't give a logical explanation as to why I was feeling panicked. Lord knows that I tried to put my finger on a scenario that I could attach to. The hope was that if I had been able to attach to a scenario I would have been better equipped to find a definable solution earlier.
I tried to remember the explanation I had been practicing for more than a week as to why I wanted to take voice lessons: I used to be a decent back-up singer. I used to be able to carry a tune. I want to learn the discipline it takes to return to those skills. (What I really want is to have the ability to sing strongly enough for a vibrato and solos, but I'm not sure I would have felt comfortable admitting to that in the first session.)
However, as the time neared (I was about 1.5-2 hours out at this point) I couldn't remember my logical reasons, or couldn't hold the thoughts long enough to get all the way through my own speech in my head. What kept coming back was the other truth, that I wanted to conquer an issue that was a direct result of the childhood sexual abuse by my guitar teacher. I suppose that even in the safety of my own, safe home, I was unwilling and as yet unable to face head-on this facet of my own recovery.
I tried telling myself that if I didn't go he would win. That concept gave me a full 5 minutes of relief and strength. It fell away quickly, though, when the unnamed panic began to creep back in.
An attempt at strategizing my way out of the lesson didn't get me very far. I imagined calling and canceling, knowing that canceling meant forfeiting the gift certificate that the Husband had given me for my birthday a year before. He spent money on this gift, had given me a gift I had asked for out loud. The idea of throwing away his gift added a layer of guilt to my panic. So I went from the idea of canceling to the guilt of wasting a gift and putting off recovery and quickly moved back to not feeling strong enough to attend the lesson to wanting to cancel to guilt. You can see the downward spiral.
Then I thought about the book project I have been working on. The book project, mind you, that I have not been able to do any real work on for more than a month, despite the fact that I have the time. I had hoped to blog about the singing lessons as a form of drafting for the book. Not long ago, it seems, I had been feeling very strong and confident about the book project and the personal resources that would allow me to research and write the thing. The last several weeks have been spent primarily in a dark place where I worked very hard at avoiding creativity, specifically the book project.
So add that step onto the spiral staircase, and we have another piece to repeat over and over again. As you can imagine, the panic only grew.
As I realized that my thought processes were out of balance with reality, I considered turning to pharmaceuticals. Specifically taking a Valium. That would require I have someone else drive me to the lesson. A surprisingly calm request moved from my lips to my husband's ears. He didn't consent immediately, but agreed in silence to change his mind about how he had planned to spend the time I was singing. He asked me if I was nervous, I calmly looked him in the eye and simply said, "Yes."
Another hour passed by (without drugs) and the Husband suggested that I talk about my feelings. Even out loud I couldn't give a logical story frame to my feelings. I could repeat that I felt ill and panicked, that I didn't want to go, but that I didn't want to waste his gift to me. Then he said the magic words that let me off the hook when I forfeited by gift certificate.
"Whatever. It'll be a donation." That concept was my ticket to finding the fine line of logic and stepping off the spiral.
Gotta love the simplicity of the out he gave me and the permission to call and cancel the appointment as gracefully as a panicked person can. It allowed me the room to cry for awhile and follow the Husband's next piece of wisdom, "If you're not ready, you're not ready."
Apparently I'm not ready. I can be okay with that for now.
Strangely enough I think that I knew it would be canceled as I was driving to the lesson last week, unnaturally calm. I say unnaturally because I expected to be fighting the panic back, to be talking myself down out of my metaphorical anxiety tree. I arrived earlier than was required and managed to walk in to the building breathing normally.
The actual first lesson day was another story. I didn't make it out of the house because I needed to use all of my energy and focus to fend off the expected panic attack.
As the anxiety rises within the body, the mental capabilities are tipped off balance. The mental steps that I think we all walk down as we attempt to follow our logic begin to spiral back up on themselves, covering the same ground over and over again. Isn't that the classic cliche definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again in hopes of finding a different outcome.
Getting out of that head space means switching metaphors from a staircase to a tight rope. It is very important to walk that tight rope carefully and deliberately in order to make sure to keep the thought processes linear, in line and straight so as not to veer off and go back to the circular motion and returning to the same outcomes over and over again. Sometimes it takes a voice from the outside to get off the stairs and onto the line.
It is my signal to myself that I am fighting to stay sane when I know that the thoughts that concern me are becoming great fears and the solutions in turn become less and less flexible. I can't give a logical explanation as to why I was feeling panicked. Lord knows that I tried to put my finger on a scenario that I could attach to. The hope was that if I had been able to attach to a scenario I would have been better equipped to find a definable solution earlier.
I tried to remember the explanation I had been practicing for more than a week as to why I wanted to take voice lessons: I used to be a decent back-up singer. I used to be able to carry a tune. I want to learn the discipline it takes to return to those skills. (What I really want is to have the ability to sing strongly enough for a vibrato and solos, but I'm not sure I would have felt comfortable admitting to that in the first session.)
However, as the time neared (I was about 1.5-2 hours out at this point) I couldn't remember my logical reasons, or couldn't hold the thoughts long enough to get all the way through my own speech in my head. What kept coming back was the other truth, that I wanted to conquer an issue that was a direct result of the childhood sexual abuse by my guitar teacher. I suppose that even in the safety of my own, safe home, I was unwilling and as yet unable to face head-on this facet of my own recovery.
I tried telling myself that if I didn't go he would win. That concept gave me a full 5 minutes of relief and strength. It fell away quickly, though, when the unnamed panic began to creep back in.
An attempt at strategizing my way out of the lesson didn't get me very far. I imagined calling and canceling, knowing that canceling meant forfeiting the gift certificate that the Husband had given me for my birthday a year before. He spent money on this gift, had given me a gift I had asked for out loud. The idea of throwing away his gift added a layer of guilt to my panic. So I went from the idea of canceling to the guilt of wasting a gift and putting off recovery and quickly moved back to not feeling strong enough to attend the lesson to wanting to cancel to guilt. You can see the downward spiral.
Then I thought about the book project I have been working on. The book project, mind you, that I have not been able to do any real work on for more than a month, despite the fact that I have the time. I had hoped to blog about the singing lessons as a form of drafting for the book. Not long ago, it seems, I had been feeling very strong and confident about the book project and the personal resources that would allow me to research and write the thing. The last several weeks have been spent primarily in a dark place where I worked very hard at avoiding creativity, specifically the book project.
So add that step onto the spiral staircase, and we have another piece to repeat over and over again. As you can imagine, the panic only grew.
As I realized that my thought processes were out of balance with reality, I considered turning to pharmaceuticals. Specifically taking a Valium. That would require I have someone else drive me to the lesson. A surprisingly calm request moved from my lips to my husband's ears. He didn't consent immediately, but agreed in silence to change his mind about how he had planned to spend the time I was singing. He asked me if I was nervous, I calmly looked him in the eye and simply said, "Yes."
Another hour passed by (without drugs) and the Husband suggested that I talk about my feelings. Even out loud I couldn't give a logical story frame to my feelings. I could repeat that I felt ill and panicked, that I didn't want to go, but that I didn't want to waste his gift to me. Then he said the magic words that let me off the hook when I forfeited by gift certificate.
"Whatever. It'll be a donation." That concept was my ticket to finding the fine line of logic and stepping off the spiral.
Gotta love the simplicity of the out he gave me and the permission to call and cancel the appointment as gracefully as a panicked person can. It allowed me the room to cry for awhile and follow the Husband's next piece of wisdom, "If you're not ready, you're not ready."
Apparently I'm not ready. I can be okay with that for now.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Birthday Blues
The title of this post is a bit of a misnomer. Usually on the day of my birthday I am having a difficult time emotionally, but this year the tough stuff has already (mostly) passed.
I don't dislike my birthday because I am getting old (cause I'm not) but because I have always believed that a birthday should be something special, but life hasn't always supported that belief. That includes a bunch of old crap about my parents and a couple of nasty incidents in childhood that occurred if not on the day, then relatively close to it.
This year I felt the familiar down-turn of mood almost two weeks out and have since worked through, or lived through, the bulk of the icky feelings.
This morning I had an early breakfast with my hubby and as I write my dog is cuddled up next to me on the couch ready to dole out as much unconditional love as I need (and then some). I look forward to a special lunch with my sister-in-law and a trip to the City to celebrate the SheWrites.com one year anniversary. A larger extended family potluck is being planned by my daughter for this weekend or next. I have already received a ton of birthday wishes via Facebook.
So far, a good day. Not a blue one.
Happy Birthday to Me!
I don't dislike my birthday because I am getting old (cause I'm not) but because I have always believed that a birthday should be something special, but life hasn't always supported that belief. That includes a bunch of old crap about my parents and a couple of nasty incidents in childhood that occurred if not on the day, then relatively close to it.
This year I felt the familiar down-turn of mood almost two weeks out and have since worked through, or lived through, the bulk of the icky feelings.
This morning I had an early breakfast with my hubby and as I write my dog is cuddled up next to me on the couch ready to dole out as much unconditional love as I need (and then some). I look forward to a special lunch with my sister-in-law and a trip to the City to celebrate the SheWrites.com one year anniversary. A larger extended family potluck is being planned by my daughter for this weekend or next. I have already received a ton of birthday wishes via Facebook.
So far, a good day. Not a blue one.
Happy Birthday to Me!
Monday, June 28, 2010
To Sing or Not to Sing?
I've scheduled my first singing lesson for this afternoon. Last year for my birthday my husband gave me one hour of singing lessons. My birthday is tomorrow, so you can see it took me some time to get up the nerve to make the call to set up the initial time. The plan is to stretch out one hour to 2 half-hour lessons this week and next. If all goes well, I will add in more over the course of the summer.
The desire for the lessons stems from my work around the book I am writing about being sexually abused as a kid. As a little, little girl, I loved to sing. I often sang to myself made up songs. I imagined interviews many years in the future when I would tell the story to some interested reporter how I used to sing to my own reflection in the window of Gram's white car. I would explain how I had always loved to sing and what an important part of my life music had always been. When I was actively taking guitar lessons I wrote and sang a number of my own songs.
So, life didn't happen exactly the way I had envisioned. I don't sing in public, certainly not solo. I love to sing along with the radio, but you won't hear me warbling in the shower. I lost my voice when I lost my music, back when I was taking guitar lessons from a pedophile.
These lessons are another in a long line of attempts to regain what I lost all those years ago.
So what makes me think I can sing to begin with? Not much, actually. I know from work in high school productions that I can be a competent back-up singer, but probably not a soloist. But what if I can sing well? Strong, out loud, carry a tune and find a vibrato? I can, or could at one time, at least carry a tune. I'd like to recapture that part of myself at the very least. Anything more would be simply wonderful.
The desire for the lessons stems from my work around the book I am writing about being sexually abused as a kid. As a little, little girl, I loved to sing. I often sang to myself made up songs. I imagined interviews many years in the future when I would tell the story to some interested reporter how I used to sing to my own reflection in the window of Gram's white car. I would explain how I had always loved to sing and what an important part of my life music had always been. When I was actively taking guitar lessons I wrote and sang a number of my own songs.
So, life didn't happen exactly the way I had envisioned. I don't sing in public, certainly not solo. I love to sing along with the radio, but you won't hear me warbling in the shower. I lost my voice when I lost my music, back when I was taking guitar lessons from a pedophile.
These lessons are another in a long line of attempts to regain what I lost all those years ago.
So what makes me think I can sing to begin with? Not much, actually. I know from work in high school productions that I can be a competent back-up singer, but probably not a soloist. But what if I can sing well? Strong, out loud, carry a tune and find a vibrato? I can, or could at one time, at least carry a tune. I'd like to recapture that part of myself at the very least. Anything more would be simply wonderful.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Irony or Coincidence?
Tuesday night I was teaching my summer freshman composition course. We were discussing Virginia Woolf's "Death of The Moth" essay, reading aloud and discussing the passage about the moth flying to and fro across the window pane as if he were trying to get out to the world and the activity, energy and life represented in the open fields.
We heard a noise at one of our very large classroom windows (we are on the second floor of the building). What looked like a giant bug with a wide rectangular face, it's open mouth brimming with tiny sharp teeth, was flitting to and fro across the window as if it were trying to get into our world and the activity and life we represented. Unlike the moth, our over-sized bug was attached to a very long neck and a wet substance was spewing from the center of its mouth.
It was a scrub brush attached to a very long pole and a hose. In reality we knew this immediately, but the timing was pretty interesting. It stayed on that window until we were nearly done discussing the essay, and spent less time on the second window. By the time we were ready to move on, so had the scrub brush.
Irony or coincidence? You decide.
We heard a noise at one of our very large classroom windows (we are on the second floor of the building). What looked like a giant bug with a wide rectangular face, it's open mouth brimming with tiny sharp teeth, was flitting to and fro across the window as if it were trying to get into our world and the activity and life we represented. Unlike the moth, our over-sized bug was attached to a very long neck and a wet substance was spewing from the center of its mouth.
It was a scrub brush attached to a very long pole and a hose. In reality we knew this immediately, but the timing was pretty interesting. It stayed on that window until we were nearly done discussing the essay, and spent less time on the second window. By the time we were ready to move on, so had the scrub brush.
Irony or coincidence? You decide.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
What Dreams May Come
I have had several, shall we say, interesting dreams this last few mornings.
In order of appearance:
1) My daughter and her boyfriend had a baby. They only took care of the baby part-time, so I kept having to step in and care for the infant. I also had to fight them over their inconsistent parenting behavior.
2) I was 2-months pregnant with a baby of my own.
3) I was in China and diagnosed with Cancer. I had only a few weeks to live. Two chemotherapy treatments were to be taken before I boarded the plane home, the third once I was back on US soil.
4) A nuclear bomb went off. Several of us who survived were attempting to figure out what resources were left.
Apparently, according to online dream dictionaries, I am dealing subconsciously with some anxiety and changes.
Ya think!!
In order of appearance:
1) My daughter and her boyfriend had a baby. They only took care of the baby part-time, so I kept having to step in and care for the infant. I also had to fight them over their inconsistent parenting behavior.
2) I was 2-months pregnant with a baby of my own.
3) I was in China and diagnosed with Cancer. I had only a few weeks to live. Two chemotherapy treatments were to be taken before I boarded the plane home, the third once I was back on US soil.
4) A nuclear bomb went off. Several of us who survived were attempting to figure out what resources were left.
Apparently, according to online dream dictionaries, I am dealing subconsciously with some anxiety and changes.
Ya think!!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I hate to complan, but...
I'm having a rough weekend.
Reasons:
Burnout--I just finished the Spring semester and am slowly working on the plans for Summer school. Then I will have to work on Fall. I am currently scheduled to teach 3 classes at two different schools this fall (one is new for me) and may be adding a 4th on in as well. I'm not complaining necessarily, but am not feeling the excitement I prefer to feel. I'd like more down-time, but don't have the luxury.
Pain--My back went out on me. What does that mean, you ask? It means that my lower back hurts a great deal, especially when I am upright and walking. This is annoying and depressing on several levels. It means I can't paint my ceilings (yes a real project I was really looking forward to) that will precede repainting my dining room and entryway with a color I don't despise. It means I can't go shopping, run errands, clean or walk my dogs. My back actually feels swollen in places. I'll be calling the chiropractor tomorrow. In the meantime I am trying to stretch and build muscles for support.
Worry--My grandson's heart is working very, very hard to keep him going. A bit too hard, it seems. Instead of waiting until he is 3 or 6 months old to do surgery, they may have to do it fairly soon. Let me be clear, I have complete faith that this young man will pull through just fine. I do. He is strong. But I as I write this he may still be in the ER with his parents and neither of them is responding to my text messages. Their not responding doesn't necessarily mean bad news, more likely it means no news. The cliche says that no news is good news. But waiting is really a bitch.
Missed Trip--Because of my back I couldn't make the trip to Las Vegas where my adopted sister is about to have her first baby.
Other stuff--that I'd rather not share on the Internet is also percolating away under the surface and likely adding to my IBS and back pain. Nothing life-threatening or horribly bad, just internal work.
The up-side: I am writing by updating this blog. Not the most fun, entertaining or exciting post I've ever written, but at least I am writing. And the drugs are helping with the back pain.
Mmmmm drugs.
:-)
Reasons:
Burnout--I just finished the Spring semester and am slowly working on the plans for Summer school. Then I will have to work on Fall. I am currently scheduled to teach 3 classes at two different schools this fall (one is new for me) and may be adding a 4th on in as well. I'm not complaining necessarily, but am not feeling the excitement I prefer to feel. I'd like more down-time, but don't have the luxury.
Pain--My back went out on me. What does that mean, you ask? It means that my lower back hurts a great deal, especially when I am upright and walking. This is annoying and depressing on several levels. It means I can't paint my ceilings (yes a real project I was really looking forward to) that will precede repainting my dining room and entryway with a color I don't despise. It means I can't go shopping, run errands, clean or walk my dogs. My back actually feels swollen in places. I'll be calling the chiropractor tomorrow. In the meantime I am trying to stretch and build muscles for support.
Worry--My grandson's heart is working very, very hard to keep him going. A bit too hard, it seems. Instead of waiting until he is 3 or 6 months old to do surgery, they may have to do it fairly soon. Let me be clear, I have complete faith that this young man will pull through just fine. I do. He is strong. But I as I write this he may still be in the ER with his parents and neither of them is responding to my text messages. Their not responding doesn't necessarily mean bad news, more likely it means no news. The cliche says that no news is good news. But waiting is really a bitch.
Missed Trip--Because of my back I couldn't make the trip to Las Vegas where my adopted sister is about to have her first baby.
Other stuff--that I'd rather not share on the Internet is also percolating away under the surface and likely adding to my IBS and back pain. Nothing life-threatening or horribly bad, just internal work.
The up-side: I am writing by updating this blog. Not the most fun, entertaining or exciting post I've ever written, but at least I am writing. And the drugs are helping with the back pain.
Mmmmm drugs.
:-)
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Those Old Visceral Reactions
I have recently swallowed too many of my own (not terribly good or fun) feelings, and found that I had reawakened my good old buddy, IBS.
I really prefer referring to him by his initials, because initials sound more relevant and important. When I say Irritable Bowel Syndrome it sounds like a cop-out, like nothing terribly serious let alone painful. I mean, come on, irritation is just that, irritating. Not painful or hurtful or really very serious. When my mood is irritable I rarely do any real physical harm to anyone. But when my you-know-what is irritable, some heavy duty pain is the result.
When I was 11-years-old (before the local docs had discovered the term Irritable Bowel Syndrome) some fairly acute abdominal pain led me to the hospital and surgery. When I say acute, I'm talking writhing around on a the bed, floor and backseart of my grandmother's car moaning and crying, clutching the area just below center of my body with all my might, hoping that the outside pressure would relieve some of what was going on inside.
When the surgeon didn't find what he had expected, he yanked out my perfectly healthy appendix so as not to have wasted a trip. Over the years, each time I returned to a doctor with similar complaints, they ran tests and determined that there was nothing physically wrong.
Of course there was something physically wrong, it just wasn't caused by something physical. It was caused my something emotional: When I was eleven I was swallowing words and worries that surrounded the sexual abuse I experienced. As a teen, well, as a teen there is plenty of angst anyway, and I always managed to get myself into difficult emotional situations. As an adult it was several years before I understood the connection between emotional pain and physical pain.
Thankfully in recent years I have understood (and accepted) what causes the pain, that severe feelings can be directly tied into severe physical pain. After all, before medical science put an nondescript medical term to it, there were plenty of terms to describe when emotions have a physical effect.
Think about it, someone is a pain in the neck. She makes me sick to my stomach. He is a pain in the ass. There is bad blood between us. I've had a change of heart. The cat has his tongue. I'm waiting with bated breath. I'm in a blue funk. Blue funk?
Okay, so I'd rather be in a blue funk than feel the IBS symptoms. So I'm back on the emotional wagon. I'm working on vocalizing my feelings instead of keeping them inside.
For those of you who know me fairly well, it may be hard for you to believe that I EVER keep feelings to myself. I assure you that I do, and you might want to feel a little bit grateful about that. ;-)
I really prefer referring to him by his initials, because initials sound more relevant and important. When I say Irritable Bowel Syndrome it sounds like a cop-out, like nothing terribly serious let alone painful. I mean, come on, irritation is just that, irritating. Not painful or hurtful or really very serious. When my mood is irritable I rarely do any real physical harm to anyone. But when my you-know-what is irritable, some heavy duty pain is the result.
When I was 11-years-old (before the local docs had discovered the term Irritable Bowel Syndrome) some fairly acute abdominal pain led me to the hospital and surgery. When I say acute, I'm talking writhing around on a the bed, floor and backseart of my grandmother's car moaning and crying, clutching the area just below center of my body with all my might, hoping that the outside pressure would relieve some of what was going on inside.
When the surgeon didn't find what he had expected, he yanked out my perfectly healthy appendix so as not to have wasted a trip. Over the years, each time I returned to a doctor with similar complaints, they ran tests and determined that there was nothing physically wrong.
Of course there was something physically wrong, it just wasn't caused by something physical. It was caused my something emotional: When I was eleven I was swallowing words and worries that surrounded the sexual abuse I experienced. As a teen, well, as a teen there is plenty of angst anyway, and I always managed to get myself into difficult emotional situations. As an adult it was several years before I understood the connection between emotional pain and physical pain.
Thankfully in recent years I have understood (and accepted) what causes the pain, that severe feelings can be directly tied into severe physical pain. After all, before medical science put an nondescript medical term to it, there were plenty of terms to describe when emotions have a physical effect.
Think about it, someone is a pain in the neck. She makes me sick to my stomach. He is a pain in the ass. There is bad blood between us. I've had a change of heart. The cat has his tongue. I'm waiting with bated breath. I'm in a blue funk. Blue funk?
Okay, so I'd rather be in a blue funk than feel the IBS symptoms. So I'm back on the emotional wagon. I'm working on vocalizing my feelings instead of keeping them inside.
For those of you who know me fairly well, it may be hard for you to believe that I EVER keep feelings to myself. I assure you that I do, and you might want to feel a little bit grateful about that. ;-)
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Walking with Memphis
My grandson (I know, I am entirely too young to be a grandmother) was born this weekend!!!
I haven't had a chance to hold him yet, he is currently in the NICU at UCSF. I can't wait to get my mitts on him, though. Shortly after he was born his parents serenaded him with "Close to You." This new phase of life promises to hold plenty of new challenges.
To be completely honest, I'm not sure how to be a grandparent. My role models, my own maternal grandparents, played the role of my parents. My maternal great-grandmother wasn't the nicest lady, and I didn't know my paternal grandparents. I don't have a lot of information to draw on, good or bad. I suppose that babies are babies, and I can feel my devotion to him growing even from a distance. I already find myself longing to be closer to him, to touch him and to hold him.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
No, really. It's okay.
I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
Okay, take your hands away from your ears and stop humming because while you may be uncomfortable hearing my truth, most people know someone who has been hurt in the same way that I have.
Few want to discuss it at all, let alone admit it out loud, but statistically well over half of the population of the US alone is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
One of the many problems with sexual abuse being a taboo subject is that empathy and understanding are rarely discussed out in the open. And too often when the subject comes up, the very few people who have falsely accused someone of sexual abuse are the most common topic of discussion.
I'd like to see that changed. Not that I want to be a crusader for sexual abuse as casual discourse or party chit-chat. I do want to see some stigma removed so that the people who need to talk (most of us) can do so safely.
Wow, I just published that without meaning to. Must be something subconscious. Oh well.
I won't be on this soap-box much, so don't run away. Just try to keep an open mind. Really, it'll be okay.
Okay, take your hands away from your ears and stop humming because while you may be uncomfortable hearing my truth, most people know someone who has been hurt in the same way that I have.
Few want to discuss it at all, let alone admit it out loud, but statistically well over half of the population of the US alone is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
One of the many problems with sexual abuse being a taboo subject is that empathy and understanding are rarely discussed out in the open. And too often when the subject comes up, the very few people who have falsely accused someone of sexual abuse are the most common topic of discussion.
I'd like to see that changed. Not that I want to be a crusader for sexual abuse as casual discourse or party chit-chat. I do want to see some stigma removed so that the people who need to talk (most of us) can do so safely.
Wow, I just published that without meaning to. Must be something subconscious. Oh well.
I won't be on this soap-box much, so don't run away. Just try to keep an open mind. Really, it'll be okay.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
TV Dad
The last time I saw my bio-dad was actually on a TV screen several days after he died. The hubby and I paid a visit to my step-mother to...to do what? To share grief? Ask questions? I suppose to do whatever we do when a relative dies. I hadn't spoken to my Dad in something like 15 years, yet this wasn't a visit meant to soothe my guilt (of which I had none). I had actually spent some time the month before attempting to track the man down (again) and so wanted some sort of contact and understanding of his death. He had died as a result of severe burns from a house fire.
In part, I had came to look at the cottage he had been living in and where the fire took place. I also came to see the chair that his family claimed was the cause of the fire. I was hoping for some answers, some idea if a cigarette or an electrical shortage had caused the sparks that ultimately gave birth to enough heat to melt a good deal of his flesh.
Sharon, his wife, now his widow, was happy to see me; there is a commonality that grief offers. I truly don't remember much of what we talked about, and I haven't peeked at the journaling I did then. What I remember most was watching the VHS tape whirring in the VCR and the events of his 60th birthday party. (Was it 60? or 50 or 55?) We listened to Sharon's narration, and her daughter Susan's interjections, as many people passed by the screen. There were only a few names and faces that were familiar to me; I had spent so little real time in my bio-dad's world.
When Dad finally did some into view, he was carrying around a little dog. I'm not sure carrying is the right description. The dog was really tucked between Dad's arm and body, content in its roll as companion. There was clearly a great deal of affection between him and his dog. Sharon and Susan both made comments about the bond between the man and the beast. What I could see was a patience that I would not otherwise have attributed to this man. There appeared to be a place of infinite patience and parental love that the dog had managed to tap into. I'm not sure what is says that a dog could get into a place neither of his daughters nor any of his step-kids could. I could be jealous of that dog, but I'm not. I have a sense of gratitude that the man could finally find a conduit to feelings he had wanted so desperately to feel but had been incapable of accessing.
Dad knew he was being filmed, but would not pose or act for the camera. In fact he often gave the camera a look that said: you are only here by my good graces, but don't expect me to interact, and don't get in my way. He and the dog went on and off screen, sometimes glaring from afar. He refused to act the part of guest-of-honor.
That man had such a streak of manliness. That sounds odd, I know. But he did. He had this no-nonsense air about him sometimes that verged on frightening. He knew that the party, complete with live music and food and drink all night, was in his honor, so he played along. He ate, he drank, he sat and listened to music. He looked very much like the man I had known for the 10 years or so of my life when we weren't estranged.
I can't honestly say whether seeing that image of him helped or hurt my need to know...what? Who he was when he died? How he looked before he died? I had already learned that before the fire he was disabled and used either a wheelchair or a walker to get around. He was an undiagnosed diabetic who only began to receive regular insulin once he was in the burn unit. There may have been some high blood-pressure or heart issues at play as well. He wasn't supposed to smoke, yet the newspaper report said he fell asleep in his electric easy chair with a burning cigarette.
The chair was made to lift him up to a near standing position when he wanted to move out of it, or recline when he wanted to relax or sleep. According to the family, he wasn't even in the chair when it caught fire.
I'm finally ordering a copy of the fire report. I tried over 2 years ago, but the two voice-mail messages I left for the local fire department weren't returned. This time I spoke with a real person.
In a way I feel fortunate that the most recent pictures in my head of my bio-dad are the same as the ones before we stopped speaking. I can live with a picture from the TV screen.
In part, I had came to look at the cottage he had been living in and where the fire took place. I also came to see the chair that his family claimed was the cause of the fire. I was hoping for some answers, some idea if a cigarette or an electrical shortage had caused the sparks that ultimately gave birth to enough heat to melt a good deal of his flesh.
Sharon, his wife, now his widow, was happy to see me; there is a commonality that grief offers. I truly don't remember much of what we talked about, and I haven't peeked at the journaling I did then. What I remember most was watching the VHS tape whirring in the VCR and the events of his 60th birthday party. (Was it 60? or 50 or 55?) We listened to Sharon's narration, and her daughter Susan's interjections, as many people passed by the screen. There were only a few names and faces that were familiar to me; I had spent so little real time in my bio-dad's world.
When Dad finally did some into view, he was carrying around a little dog. I'm not sure carrying is the right description. The dog was really tucked between Dad's arm and body, content in its roll as companion. There was clearly a great deal of affection between him and his dog. Sharon and Susan both made comments about the bond between the man and the beast. What I could see was a patience that I would not otherwise have attributed to this man. There appeared to be a place of infinite patience and parental love that the dog had managed to tap into. I'm not sure what is says that a dog could get into a place neither of his daughters nor any of his step-kids could. I could be jealous of that dog, but I'm not. I have a sense of gratitude that the man could finally find a conduit to feelings he had wanted so desperately to feel but had been incapable of accessing.
Dad knew he was being filmed, but would not pose or act for the camera. In fact he often gave the camera a look that said: you are only here by my good graces, but don't expect me to interact, and don't get in my way. He and the dog went on and off screen, sometimes glaring from afar. He refused to act the part of guest-of-honor.
That man had such a streak of manliness. That sounds odd, I know. But he did. He had this no-nonsense air about him sometimes that verged on frightening. He knew that the party, complete with live music and food and drink all night, was in his honor, so he played along. He ate, he drank, he sat and listened to music. He looked very much like the man I had known for the 10 years or so of my life when we weren't estranged.
I can't honestly say whether seeing that image of him helped or hurt my need to know...what? Who he was when he died? How he looked before he died? I had already learned that before the fire he was disabled and used either a wheelchair or a walker to get around. He was an undiagnosed diabetic who only began to receive regular insulin once he was in the burn unit. There may have been some high blood-pressure or heart issues at play as well. He wasn't supposed to smoke, yet the newspaper report said he fell asleep in his electric easy chair with a burning cigarette.
The chair was made to lift him up to a near standing position when he wanted to move out of it, or recline when he wanted to relax or sleep. According to the family, he wasn't even in the chair when it caught fire.
I'm finally ordering a copy of the fire report. I tried over 2 years ago, but the two voice-mail messages I left for the local fire department weren't returned. This time I spoke with a real person.
In a way I feel fortunate that the most recent pictures in my head of my bio-dad are the same as the ones before we stopped speaking. I can live with a picture from the TV screen.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Snake on a Plane
Okay, so I wasn't actually on an airplane with a snake, but I once sat next to a very, very cranky woman during a three hour flight from Boulder, CO to SFO.
I can certainly understand feeling frustrated or even angered by the experience of traveling, especially post-9/11. But this woman sustained her anger through the pre-boarding, the flight and disembarking.
I was the unlucky person wedged between her and another person about whom any personl details, including gender, have long since left my memory. I had managed to book a flight that had neither a window nor aisle seat available anywhere on the plane. That lucky person next to the window studeously ignored my presence during the flight as well as I ignored his/hers. It's rather astonishing, really, that people who are seated, or should I say crowded, so closely to each other for an extended period of time can have so little interaction. We push ourselves into our seats and studiously avoid touching even our elbows on the arm rests. Between the window seater and I there was at least a courteous nod and half-smile. Nothing rude, simply the acknowledgment that we were two strangers forced into close proximity of each other who had little to no intention of interacting beyond the obligatory nods and clear attempts to avoid touching or interacting. But between myself and the angry lady on the aisle was another story.
She glared at me when she first arrived at the three seats. Like most people on the aisle, I suppose, she was disappointed that there was someone between her and the window; who wouldn't want the luxury of an empty seat next to them on a over-full flight? Even understanding this, I was borderline offended when she continued to stare angrily at me, even after I nodded and offered a half-smile. My existence was clearly the second to last straw on her wide camel back. She dropped her carry-on luggage on to the floor next to me and kicked it rather viciously under the seat in front of her before landing hard on the seat herself.
The pulling and tugging of the seatbelt was like a silent tantrum; I could almost hear the internal dialogue and a myriad of swear words that each jerk and pull of the belts was fueled by. I wondered if she hurt herself when she locked the two belt ends into place and then pulled hard to tighten into place. Once seated, she would not look at me, nor at the stewardess during the pre-flight instructions; she only stared straight ahead at the seat back in front of her. I wonder if that seat became hot from her gaze. The person in front of her did seem to squirm quite a bit at the onset of the flight.
Shortly after take-off, I spent some time utilizing my naturally sharp peripheral vision to study this very angry creature. She had long dark hair, glasses, and wore loose fitting, dark clothes over a plump body. She reminded me of women I used to see in the crowds at science fiction conventions; if there is such as thing as a cookie cutter version of a female con-geek, she was one. Her jewelry was all silver, there was some sort of dark blue or purple gem worked into the pendant around her neck. Her hair followed no style; it simply hung long.
Eventually, she pulled out a paperback novel by David Baldacci. Not exactly the reading material I expected, but the cover did look dark and menacing. Regardless, she was reading, and for a few moments my opinion of her rose a bit. I have high regard for books, and in general for people who read them. Sustained reading is a sign of some intelligence, some ability to think at an elevated level, maybe a bit higher than a non-reader. It wasn't a romance novel, so she wasn't losing herself in a river of romantic notions the way I had done in my very early years.
I sat with this for a short time until she brutally tore a page out of the back of the book. I am not exaggerating when I say brutally. Yes, I love books and you could even say that I revere them, but when she ripped the page from the book, it was clear her anger had no limits, she was even pissed off at the book. I was actually so surprised by this that I flinched, thinking that a hunk of my hair was next. She used the page, now garbage, to spit a used chunk of chewing gum out of her mouth. The gum and paper were crunched up together in her hand and then pushed into the seat pocket in front of her.
We build walls around us when in crowded conditions like this. If Jung was still around I suspect he would identify it as a part of a collective consciousness; the walls don't really exist, but we all have them. It was time to fortify my wall if I was going to survive the remainder of the flight. I cut off my peripheral vision, pulled my arm as close to my body as possible, closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else, anywhere else. In other words I psychically removed myself form the situation as best as I could. I even made a point to breath as shallowly as possible.
This intent was thwarted somewhat by the flight attendant and the drink dispensing. There was simply no way around reaching in front of my angry companion to retrieve my orange juice. She steadfastly refused any and all attempts by the flight crew at being taken care of. She wanted no refreshments, no snacks, no contact, nothing. She wanted to remain left alone in her anger.
When we reached San Francisco, and it was finally time to disembark, I continued to sit quietly in my seat even as people were beginning to mill about and fill the aisle. I mentioned to the window person that if he/she didn't mind, I wasn't in a hurry to stand up: we would be able to get off the plane eventually, no hurry. He/She agreed and we waited until the aisle was mostly clear before we began collecting our belongings and disembarking.
The angry lady stood as soon as was allowed, yanked her carry-on out from under the seat and used similar movements to remove a bag from the overheard bin. She nearly hit someone with her bag, but was still clearly irritated with the presence of other's and their belongings. I could see her anger, that had not so much cooled as leveled out during the flight, rise back up as she mentally broadcast her disgust and frustration with the human race that surrounded her.
By the time I was off the plane, she was nowhere to be found. It was at that point that I chose to never allow crowds or security rules or delays to get under my skin when traveling. I never want to be that woman. I never want to exude those kinds of negative vibes to the innocents around me. Hell, I never want to feel that level of anger for any sustained amount of time. So as unpleasant a woman, and a situation, as that was, I did learn something valuable. It's simply not necessary to be a bitch in the air, nor a snake on a plane.
I can certainly understand feeling frustrated or even angered by the experience of traveling, especially post-9/11. But this woman sustained her anger through the pre-boarding, the flight and disembarking.
I was the unlucky person wedged between her and another person about whom any personl details, including gender, have long since left my memory. I had managed to book a flight that had neither a window nor aisle seat available anywhere on the plane. That lucky person next to the window studeously ignored my presence during the flight as well as I ignored his/hers. It's rather astonishing, really, that people who are seated, or should I say crowded, so closely to each other for an extended period of time can have so little interaction. We push ourselves into our seats and studiously avoid touching even our elbows on the arm rests. Between the window seater and I there was at least a courteous nod and half-smile. Nothing rude, simply the acknowledgment that we were two strangers forced into close proximity of each other who had little to no intention of interacting beyond the obligatory nods and clear attempts to avoid touching or interacting. But between myself and the angry lady on the aisle was another story.
She glared at me when she first arrived at the three seats. Like most people on the aisle, I suppose, she was disappointed that there was someone between her and the window; who wouldn't want the luxury of an empty seat next to them on a over-full flight? Even understanding this, I was borderline offended when she continued to stare angrily at me, even after I nodded and offered a half-smile. My existence was clearly the second to last straw on her wide camel back. She dropped her carry-on luggage on to the floor next to me and kicked it rather viciously under the seat in front of her before landing hard on the seat herself.
The pulling and tugging of the seatbelt was like a silent tantrum; I could almost hear the internal dialogue and a myriad of swear words that each jerk and pull of the belts was fueled by. I wondered if she hurt herself when she locked the two belt ends into place and then pulled hard to tighten into place. Once seated, she would not look at me, nor at the stewardess during the pre-flight instructions; she only stared straight ahead at the seat back in front of her. I wonder if that seat became hot from her gaze. The person in front of her did seem to squirm quite a bit at the onset of the flight.
Shortly after take-off, I spent some time utilizing my naturally sharp peripheral vision to study this very angry creature. She had long dark hair, glasses, and wore loose fitting, dark clothes over a plump body. She reminded me of women I used to see in the crowds at science fiction conventions; if there is such as thing as a cookie cutter version of a female con-geek, she was one. Her jewelry was all silver, there was some sort of dark blue or purple gem worked into the pendant around her neck. Her hair followed no style; it simply hung long.
Eventually, she pulled out a paperback novel by David Baldacci. Not exactly the reading material I expected, but the cover did look dark and menacing. Regardless, she was reading, and for a few moments my opinion of her rose a bit. I have high regard for books, and in general for people who read them. Sustained reading is a sign of some intelligence, some ability to think at an elevated level, maybe a bit higher than a non-reader. It wasn't a romance novel, so she wasn't losing herself in a river of romantic notions the way I had done in my very early years.
I sat with this for a short time until she brutally tore a page out of the back of the book. I am not exaggerating when I say brutally. Yes, I love books and you could even say that I revere them, but when she ripped the page from the book, it was clear her anger had no limits, she was even pissed off at the book. I was actually so surprised by this that I flinched, thinking that a hunk of my hair was next. She used the page, now garbage, to spit a used chunk of chewing gum out of her mouth. The gum and paper were crunched up together in her hand and then pushed into the seat pocket in front of her.
We build walls around us when in crowded conditions like this. If Jung was still around I suspect he would identify it as a part of a collective consciousness; the walls don't really exist, but we all have them. It was time to fortify my wall if I was going to survive the remainder of the flight. I cut off my peripheral vision, pulled my arm as close to my body as possible, closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else, anywhere else. In other words I psychically removed myself form the situation as best as I could. I even made a point to breath as shallowly as possible.
This intent was thwarted somewhat by the flight attendant and the drink dispensing. There was simply no way around reaching in front of my angry companion to retrieve my orange juice. She steadfastly refused any and all attempts by the flight crew at being taken care of. She wanted no refreshments, no snacks, no contact, nothing. She wanted to remain left alone in her anger.
When we reached San Francisco, and it was finally time to disembark, I continued to sit quietly in my seat even as people were beginning to mill about and fill the aisle. I mentioned to the window person that if he/she didn't mind, I wasn't in a hurry to stand up: we would be able to get off the plane eventually, no hurry. He/She agreed and we waited until the aisle was mostly clear before we began collecting our belongings and disembarking.
The angry lady stood as soon as was allowed, yanked her carry-on out from under the seat and used similar movements to remove a bag from the overheard bin. She nearly hit someone with her bag, but was still clearly irritated with the presence of other's and their belongings. I could see her anger, that had not so much cooled as leveled out during the flight, rise back up as she mentally broadcast her disgust and frustration with the human race that surrounded her.
By the time I was off the plane, she was nowhere to be found. It was at that point that I chose to never allow crowds or security rules or delays to get under my skin when traveling. I never want to be that woman. I never want to exude those kinds of negative vibes to the innocents around me. Hell, I never want to feel that level of anger for any sustained amount of time. So as unpleasant a woman, and a situation, as that was, I did learn something valuable. It's simply not necessary to be a bitch in the air, nor a snake on a plane.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wrapped in Music
Imagine sitting in a room made for music. Imagine closing your eyes and breathing in the simple eloquence of a lone instrument and accompanying musician. Eyes closed, I could feel the notes surround the small crowd in the newly finished concert hall, weaving in and around each of us. No microphones were needed, no curtains, no barrier between the music and the listeners. As Mary Rogers put it, we were wrapped in a blanket of music.
I spent last evening at the Green Music Center on the campus of Sonoma State University. A retirement party was the inaugural event for the Hospitality Center. It was strictly invitation only, a semi-private affair that I lucked into because I am fortunate to be related to one of the retirees. My uncle, Sonny, was one of the two men honored last evening for his many, many years working at SSU. He, along with a team of equally incredible people, is responsible for the at times controversial but irrefutably incredible music center.
I have a complicated relationship with music, but last evening my issues were non-existent. What was on the forefront was family pride and awe. Sonny stepped onto the campus fresh out of high school, and until 2009, never left. All told he spent 45 years of his life dedicated to his academic and professional career at SSU. His mother, my beloved grandmother, died long before the Center was an clear idea. But his father, born a simple farmer from Arkansas, watched Sonny work tirelessly to oversee that the design and building of what is now a world class music center. Sonny and I both missed his parents last night, but I could feel them there. I could feel the pride they felt for him. I could feel their love wrap around our shoulders as surely as the music did.
There wasn't a spot in the hall that wasn't enveloped in the notes that emanated from the piano. Even nearly empty, the hall was so clearly full of the music that will be. The small crowd were merely representatives of the hundreds of thousands of listeners of all ages and all walks of life who will enjoy the variations of the musical blanket that will now, and maybe forever, fill that hall to the rafters.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Rainy Reflections
Most people I talk to are taken aback, and some are even appalled, that I enjoy a dark, cold rainy day. I get it, many people suffer from seasonal depression, so the rain only adds to their already depleted stores of the all important Vitamin-D whose presence can be restore with some sun-shine. They not only enjoy the sunshine, but they like the heat that accompanies it and can spend hours outside soaking in the heart. Not me. The rain re-energizes me as much as it soothes me.
I deal with depression plenty, but it isn't seasonal. Very little makes me happier than being bundled up with good company of some sort–a book, my dog, my honey, a favorite move–and the sound of rain drops outside the window. I enjoy pausing and watching the wind whip the leaves into a frenzy, the heaviness of the water pulling down on branches, or puddling up on outdoor furniture.
I like to drive in the rain, even when I should be safely home behind solid walls, to watch the water build up in the gutters and become small ponds in the street. Like a horror movie or scary story, I am drawn to watching flood waters (from a safe distance) rise above sand bags, or the river creep over its banks. I don't like to watch actual destruction, but the promise or threat of it. It feels a bit like flirting with a bad boy from afar, or playing with a burning candle. I want to get close to the danger, feel its power and threat, absorb the energy that waft off the tiny waves created when the wind coaxes the water beyond its natural boundaries.
When the sun and temperature are high, I prefer to hide inside in the dark. It feels as though I actually wilt in the heat. I feel limp and lifeless, as if the sun absorbed my energy. Isn't that supposed to be the other way around, or am I just thinking of Superman? The sun is supposed to give life, but it feels like it is stealing mine one degree at a time. I never feel daintier or weaker than when the sky is cloudless, the sun is high and bright, and the ground heats up.
El Nino is coming. That's what I have been hearing for months. Today is supposed to be the beginning of weeks and weeks of heavy rain and wind. My memory of an El Nino winter was one that lasted well into June. This is only January; the area is limping into winter after three years of drought. If the rain comes down hard enough, the natural stream systems won't be able to get the water into the depleted reservoirs fast enough and while the major river(s) likely won't flood, the smaller streams might. And the streams is what caused problems a few years ago.
So far today there is plenty of rain, but not enough to convince me that the little boy is back. Regardless, I am reveling in the fact that I don't have anywhere to be until afternoon tomorrow. Until them I'm praying for rain; not because our eco-system needs it, but because I do.
I deal with depression plenty, but it isn't seasonal. Very little makes me happier than being bundled up with good company of some sort–a book, my dog, my honey, a favorite move–and the sound of rain drops outside the window. I enjoy pausing and watching the wind whip the leaves into a frenzy, the heaviness of the water pulling down on branches, or puddling up on outdoor furniture.
I like to drive in the rain, even when I should be safely home behind solid walls, to watch the water build up in the gutters and become small ponds in the street. Like a horror movie or scary story, I am drawn to watching flood waters (from a safe distance) rise above sand bags, or the river creep over its banks. I don't like to watch actual destruction, but the promise or threat of it. It feels a bit like flirting with a bad boy from afar, or playing with a burning candle. I want to get close to the danger, feel its power and threat, absorb the energy that waft off the tiny waves created when the wind coaxes the water beyond its natural boundaries.
When the sun and temperature are high, I prefer to hide inside in the dark. It feels as though I actually wilt in the heat. I feel limp and lifeless, as if the sun absorbed my energy. Isn't that supposed to be the other way around, or am I just thinking of Superman? The sun is supposed to give life, but it feels like it is stealing mine one degree at a time. I never feel daintier or weaker than when the sky is cloudless, the sun is high and bright, and the ground heats up.
El Nino is coming. That's what I have been hearing for months. Today is supposed to be the beginning of weeks and weeks of heavy rain and wind. My memory of an El Nino winter was one that lasted well into June. This is only January; the area is limping into winter after three years of drought. If the rain comes down hard enough, the natural stream systems won't be able to get the water into the depleted reservoirs fast enough and while the major river(s) likely won't flood, the smaller streams might. And the streams is what caused problems a few years ago.
So far today there is plenty of rain, but not enough to convince me that the little boy is back. Regardless, I am reveling in the fact that I don't have anywhere to be until afternoon tomorrow. Until them I'm praying for rain; not because our eco-system needs it, but because I do.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Procrastination and the New Year
If I actually sat down and made a list of all the things I am not doing right now, the "shoulds" of family, house and employment responsibilities, I wonder if I would feel better or worse.
I quietly gave up on resolutions years ago, long before it was fashionable to flaunt my non-conformity, or lack of desire to choose the worst possible time of year to make grandiose pledges to better myself. Two New Years ago we began a new tradition of throwing a presto-log into the fire pit and tossing in bits of wood covered in the our desires for the new year. The desires could be about letting go of old habits, about moving forward, or words of encouragement to the cosmos to bring brighter happier things into our lives. It is another way of making lists, listing out the things we are willing to give up and lists of things we are willing to accept. This year we have already have several "Spare the Air" days and frankly I don't want to acquire any bad Karma for purely selfish reasons. Maybe once this week's rains die down we can safely perform what is quickly becoming a favorite ritual.
But for the moment I will admit to putting off the following:
Writing a letter of recommendation for a dear friend
Updating syllabi
Creating lesson plans and schedules
Putting the last of Saturday's party stuff away
Returning the party stuff that I borrowed
Attacking the piles of laundry in my bedroom
Making my bed
Cleaning out my car
Cleaning my office
Organizing my office
Making plans as to what I am going to move into my new office space
Writing about my upcoming grandchild & my ensuing anxieties
Writing creatively (besides the blog update)
Updating my other blog
Eating
Getting dressed
Drying my hair
One thing that I should do is to meet my dear friend Linelle for coffee. She is a bright shining light in my life. Consider one thing done!
(P.S. This posting sounds much more depressed than I feel.)
I quietly gave up on resolutions years ago, long before it was fashionable to flaunt my non-conformity, or lack of desire to choose the worst possible time of year to make grandiose pledges to better myself. Two New Years ago we began a new tradition of throwing a presto-log into the fire pit and tossing in bits of wood covered in the our desires for the new year. The desires could be about letting go of old habits, about moving forward, or words of encouragement to the cosmos to bring brighter happier things into our lives. It is another way of making lists, listing out the things we are willing to give up and lists of things we are willing to accept. This year we have already have several "Spare the Air" days and frankly I don't want to acquire any bad Karma for purely selfish reasons. Maybe once this week's rains die down we can safely perform what is quickly becoming a favorite ritual.
But for the moment I will admit to putting off the following:
Writing a letter of recommendation for a dear friend
Updating syllabi
Creating lesson plans and schedules
Putting the last of Saturday's party stuff away
Returning the party stuff that I borrowed
Attacking the piles of laundry in my bedroom
Making my bed
Cleaning out my car
Cleaning my office
Organizing my office
Making plans as to what I am going to move into my new office space
Writing about my upcoming grandchild & my ensuing anxieties
Writing creatively (besides the blog update)
Updating my other blog
Eating
Getting dressed
Drying my hair
One thing that I should do is to meet my dear friend Linelle for coffee. She is a bright shining light in my life. Consider one thing done!
(P.S. This posting sounds much more depressed than I feel.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)