We spent time at the local university on Friday evening because the daughter's high school chamber choir took part in a choir competition.
In addition to our own kids, about 45 parents and other family members watched four groups representing various schools from about a 50 mile radius. Every group had their strengths, and we enjoyed them all.
After our kids were done with their time in front of the judges, they were ushered into another performance space to do "Clinics." While the parents and friends who had witnessed the competition watched, an instructor (not sure where from) worked with the kids and helped them with various technical aspects the songs that they had performed. I simply don't speak music, so I can't explain exactly what they learned, but most of them seemed to get a lot out of the experience.
All but one young lady, that is.
I will refer to her as "J." J was clearly less than thrilled at the clinic portion of the evening. Her boredom was evident and would not have been an issue had she been standing in the back behind the group where the likelihood of the audience seeing her would have been low. Instead she was on the right hand side of the stage, just far enough away from the group to be essentially a big distraction for several audience members, myself included.
She spent the first ten minutes or so picking at something on her face. It must have been a doozy because she contorted her face into several unflattering poses–open mouth, elongated mouth, tongue sticking out of the side of the mouth–and picked and rubbed and grimmaced. She stopped occasionally to mouth the words that the rest of the choir was singing. When she wasn't picking at her face or mouthing words, she was rummaging through her purse. At one point she pulled her cell phone and place it into her bra. Once she was satisfied that she had relieved her face of whatever blemish had been worrying her, she pulled a tube of cover-up out of her purse, removed the lid and rubbed some off onto her finger. After dabbing the picking spot, it was immediately apparent that she had accrued too much coverup on her finger and, to my utter horror, she wiped it off on a seatback in front of her.
It took everything I had not to yell something like, "Hey, pay attention! Don't you know that we can all see you?" But it occured to me that I didn't want to disrupt what the rest of the choir was learning, and that she really didn't realize we could see her–her little world was so clearly only as big as the personal space that surrounded her. She took less notice of the audience than she did of the instructor.
This was a teen moment at its most sterotypical. It was an active portrayal of the ability to only see just beyond one's own nose, to live in complete oblivion of the rest of the world. Actors onstage pertend that there is a fourth wall, that the audience doesn't exist. J didn't need to pretend.
Once beyond the teen years of naval gazing, many of us grow out of the belief that the world is only as big as we choose to see it, and J was clearly the center of her own universe. Sadly, I have known her long enough to strongly suspect that she will be one of the folks whose perception won't ever grow outside of her personal space. She will likely continue to live her life in her bubble and only see life as it affects her. Even when she is in plain sight of the rest of the world, her vantage point won't allow her to see how she is percieved, only what she is focusing on at that moment. Her own stage will remain tiny, as will her life. It is sad, but fairly predictable.
Then again, how much good does it do me to have the capablity to look beyond my own personal space, my own tiny world stage, and see the J's of the world as they move about in complete righteous oblivion? That night I was angry; I spent an hour angry and resentful at this young woman who, in my opinion, showed a complete and utter lack of respect for a fabulous opportunity. The choir program is on the chopping block as the recession deepens. J will likely graduate and not look back or feel pity for the students who follow her who won't have an opportunity to spend a Friday evening at a university competing or learning new music from a master. I wonder if she will ever look back at that small stage fondly and wish she could go back and relive a youthful moment.
And then I wonder why it made me so angry. Maybe because I stand in front of a classroom full of young adults 3 times a week offering up respect and support. The thought that a student would act so carelessly in the face of opportunity drives me nuts. I feel very fortunate that the J's of this world don't stay long in my classroom; there simply is not enough room for their oblivion on my world stage.
Lake Mendocino
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Blooming Broccoli
Sitting on a table in my living room is a paper plate that holds a stalk of broccoli wrapped in a bright red bow. It was joke gift to my daughter for her 18th birthday. It still sits there weeks after the party ended the decorations put away and the final leftovers eaten or thrown away.
I have left it there on the round accent table, where it sits under the leaves of a house plant on the tier above, waiting patiently for my now "grown" daughter to take responsibility for her gifts. But there it still sits even after all the thank you notes have been sent. It's not as if she had any intention of eating the broccoli. It was the impetus for a good hearty laugh amongst her and a few friends, and perhaps a good story later. But now it sits alone as the deep green slowly fades.
My only experience with broccoli that has remained in my home beyond its prime has been in the refrigerator. Too often the once yummy vegetable has sat in the back of the vegetable drawer inside a plastic bag that slowly fills with condensation. Then very light brown spots begin to appear and I imagine that the texture of the stalk develops a slimy texture. I don't bother to reach inside the plastic bag to test my slime theory. When it is time to clear out inedible foods, I take a hold of the corner of the bag and toss it into the trash.
Outside of its normal storage habitat, a stalk of broccoli reacts very differently as it begins its descent from healthy food to compost ready material. It first begins to fade something like tanned skin fading as the sunlight becomes scarce in winter. The fade brings out the yellow. There is no withdrawal of anything much beyond the color; nothing seems to be shriveling the way I would expect. There is a little shrinkage but nothing dramatic. It is aging gracefully. There is no foul smell. In fact I only notice its slow decline when I cross the room on my way into the kitchen, not because the air is fouled by the slow rot I would expect.
The real surprise has been the small and vital yellow flowers that are blooming from within the head. The head of the broccoli is often referred to as the flower, but it would appear that there are more traditional flowers trapped within the topmost portion of the stalk. The chlorophyll seems to have withdrawn inside itself to serve as food for these new flowers, with their tiny paper-fine petals and their white centers.
The red ribbon tied to the stalk has taken on the look of an accent for a bouquet of flowers. The silly gift has transformed itself into something more; it has reinvented itself, almost as if it is attempting to match its surroundings, to become a member of the various home accents.
I'm sure that an internet search or flip through the pages of my plant book would offer a simple and logical explanation for this phenomenon. I don't bother, however. I am enjoying my place as an observer in this happening. I don't feel a need to understand the death of the broccoli. I'm willing to accept that the process is predictable and there is no need to arm myself with knowledge; I can simply allow it to continue undisturbed and enjoy the tiny gifts that it shares before it exhausts it resources.
I have left it there on the round accent table, where it sits under the leaves of a house plant on the tier above, waiting patiently for my now "grown" daughter to take responsibility for her gifts. But there it still sits even after all the thank you notes have been sent. It's not as if she had any intention of eating the broccoli. It was the impetus for a good hearty laugh amongst her and a few friends, and perhaps a good story later. But now it sits alone as the deep green slowly fades.
My only experience with broccoli that has remained in my home beyond its prime has been in the refrigerator. Too often the once yummy vegetable has sat in the back of the vegetable drawer inside a plastic bag that slowly fills with condensation. Then very light brown spots begin to appear and I imagine that the texture of the stalk develops a slimy texture. I don't bother to reach inside the plastic bag to test my slime theory. When it is time to clear out inedible foods, I take a hold of the corner of the bag and toss it into the trash.
Outside of its normal storage habitat, a stalk of broccoli reacts very differently as it begins its descent from healthy food to compost ready material. It first begins to fade something like tanned skin fading as the sunlight becomes scarce in winter. The fade brings out the yellow. There is no withdrawal of anything much beyond the color; nothing seems to be shriveling the way I would expect. There is a little shrinkage but nothing dramatic. It is aging gracefully. There is no foul smell. In fact I only notice its slow decline when I cross the room on my way into the kitchen, not because the air is fouled by the slow rot I would expect.
The real surprise has been the small and vital yellow flowers that are blooming from within the head. The head of the broccoli is often referred to as the flower, but it would appear that there are more traditional flowers trapped within the topmost portion of the stalk. The chlorophyll seems to have withdrawn inside itself to serve as food for these new flowers, with their tiny paper-fine petals and their white centers.
The red ribbon tied to the stalk has taken on the look of an accent for a bouquet of flowers. The silly gift has transformed itself into something more; it has reinvented itself, almost as if it is attempting to match its surroundings, to become a member of the various home accents.
I'm sure that an internet search or flip through the pages of my plant book would offer a simple and logical explanation for this phenomenon. I don't bother, however. I am enjoying my place as an observer in this happening. I don't feel a need to understand the death of the broccoli. I'm willing to accept that the process is predictable and there is no need to arm myself with knowledge; I can simply allow it to continue undisturbed and enjoy the tiny gifts that it shares before it exhausts it resources.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Anger
For lots of reason, including genetic and childhood exposure, I have a temper. In years past it was something I had great difficulty controlling. In general conversation my kids conveniently gloss over the fact that I had a pretty mean mouth on me when they were younger. I worked very, very, very hard to control my tongue and avoid saying anything I might regret. I did this in large part because I didn't want my kids to think that it was okay for anyone to talk to them in any way that was less that respectful. They are great kids; why should I allow my baggage to hurt them.
There are times even now, however, when I get pretty doggone pissed. Usually I can keep the irrational part of myself in control. I take a certain amount of pride in being able to argue a position or make a point while keeping calm on the outside and attacking the situation diplomatically, however much that may sound like an oxymoron. I am very fortunate to have a supervisor at job #1 who is really, really good about talking me out of a tree when I begin to react negatively towards a situation that has annoyed or angered me at work. I do vent my anger when in a safe location, with trusted friends or family. I have a pretty sharp tongue, and try to direct it away from loved ones. The thing I really don't like about being angry is the loss of control, of myself or what is happening to me.
Then there is the anger at things outside of myself that I have no control of whatsoever.
Take the automatic appeal of convicted killer, Richard Allen Davis, as an example. In the fall of 1993 this man brazenly kidnapped a young girl, Polly Klaas, from her home. He tied up her friends, threatened to kill her mother and sister if she protested, and whisked her off into the night. Within a span of a few hours he sexually assaulted her, strangled her and left her body to rot under a piece of plywood on a spot less than two hours from her home.
In 1996 Davis was convicted of murder with special circumstances and sentenced to die by lethal injection in San Quentin prison. (From research I have done separately, death row inmates are given a choice between lethal injection and the still functional electric chair in San Quentin. Since the re-instatment of the death penalty in California in 1974, all have chosen lethal injection.) He was imprisoned immediately and sat in solitary confinement while his lawyers planned his appeal. That "automatic" appeal process was twelve years in the making.
They pleaded his case before the California Supreme Court of Appeals on Tuesday, March 3, 2009.
His request carried a couple of options. One was removing the death penalty. Another was throwing out the conviction altogether. This is a man with a laundry list of arrests and convictions. He is the reason for the "3 strikes" law. At the end of a trial that was moved to Santa Clara County in response to the tremendous public outcry, When Davis heard the jury's verdict, his reaction was to turn to the cameras and flip a double bird. When he read a statement to the judge just before sentencing, he claimed that just prior to strangling Polly she asked, "Just don’t do me like my dad."
Before this case, I sat firmly on the fence about the death penalty. The compassion I could fell for both the victims and the convicted made a clear, well-informed and well-formed position impossible. Even for someone who has no personal involvement in this crime, it is nearly impossible to feel neutral about the case. And I can't claim to have to no personal involvement. I met Polly once. She was the best friend of the woman I consider my adopted sister. Polly's house was less than 8 blocks from my own. My son was terrified and worried about Polly up until we learned she was dead.
I am pissed. I angry. I am frustrated. And I know that nothing I can do or say will make me feel better. I don't believe that someone is inherently evil; I don't believe that human-kind is destined for sin and evil deeds. I do believe that there are occasional individuals who make choices in their lives, who consciously take on the mantle of victim and use it as a badge of honor to justify their actions. Those people are evil. Richard Allen Davis is an evil man. This is not a glib statement. I don't write it without cringing. But I do believe it.
The anger is directed not only at the man, but at the system that the man has gleefully manipulated since he was young. Back in 1952 in Santa Rosa, California, a prominent businessman murdered his wife while 5 of his 6 children were watching. He was sitting in the electric chair in 1954 just over two years after his conviction. I'm not saying that we need to return to old west justice and the complete disregard of basic human rights. I do believe that prison reform is imperative. I don't believe that a confessed and convicted killer should be set free on a technicality.
This is the kind of anger that feels hopeless and full of sadness. The complete opposite of empowering.
What do I do with this kind of anger? For now there isn't much I can do except post a comment on another writer's blog or vent my anger here. I set up an email update with the California Supreme Court website. I'm a firm believer in positive thoughts, and in the power of negative thinking. Do what you will with that.
There are times even now, however, when I get pretty doggone pissed. Usually I can keep the irrational part of myself in control. I take a certain amount of pride in being able to argue a position or make a point while keeping calm on the outside and attacking the situation diplomatically, however much that may sound like an oxymoron. I am very fortunate to have a supervisor at job #1 who is really, really good about talking me out of a tree when I begin to react negatively towards a situation that has annoyed or angered me at work. I do vent my anger when in a safe location, with trusted friends or family. I have a pretty sharp tongue, and try to direct it away from loved ones. The thing I really don't like about being angry is the loss of control, of myself or what is happening to me.
Then there is the anger at things outside of myself that I have no control of whatsoever.
Take the automatic appeal of convicted killer, Richard Allen Davis, as an example. In the fall of 1993 this man brazenly kidnapped a young girl, Polly Klaas, from her home. He tied up her friends, threatened to kill her mother and sister if she protested, and whisked her off into the night. Within a span of a few hours he sexually assaulted her, strangled her and left her body to rot under a piece of plywood on a spot less than two hours from her home.
In 1996 Davis was convicted of murder with special circumstances and sentenced to die by lethal injection in San Quentin prison. (From research I have done separately, death row inmates are given a choice between lethal injection and the still functional electric chair in San Quentin. Since the re-instatment of the death penalty in California in 1974, all have chosen lethal injection.) He was imprisoned immediately and sat in solitary confinement while his lawyers planned his appeal. That "automatic" appeal process was twelve years in the making.
They pleaded his case before the California Supreme Court of Appeals on Tuesday, March 3, 2009.
His request carried a couple of options. One was removing the death penalty. Another was throwing out the conviction altogether. This is a man with a laundry list of arrests and convictions. He is the reason for the "3 strikes" law. At the end of a trial that was moved to Santa Clara County in response to the tremendous public outcry, When Davis heard the jury's verdict, his reaction was to turn to the cameras and flip a double bird. When he read a statement to the judge just before sentencing, he claimed that just prior to strangling Polly she asked, "Just don’t do me like my dad."
Before this case, I sat firmly on the fence about the death penalty. The compassion I could fell for both the victims and the convicted made a clear, well-informed and well-formed position impossible. Even for someone who has no personal involvement in this crime, it is nearly impossible to feel neutral about the case. And I can't claim to have to no personal involvement. I met Polly once. She was the best friend of the woman I consider my adopted sister. Polly's house was less than 8 blocks from my own. My son was terrified and worried about Polly up until we learned she was dead.
I am pissed. I angry. I am frustrated. And I know that nothing I can do or say will make me feel better. I don't believe that someone is inherently evil; I don't believe that human-kind is destined for sin and evil deeds. I do believe that there are occasional individuals who make choices in their lives, who consciously take on the mantle of victim and use it as a badge of honor to justify their actions. Those people are evil. Richard Allen Davis is an evil man. This is not a glib statement. I don't write it without cringing. But I do believe it.
The anger is directed not only at the man, but at the system that the man has gleefully manipulated since he was young. Back in 1952 in Santa Rosa, California, a prominent businessman murdered his wife while 5 of his 6 children were watching. He was sitting in the electric chair in 1954 just over two years after his conviction. I'm not saying that we need to return to old west justice and the complete disregard of basic human rights. I do believe that prison reform is imperative. I don't believe that a confessed and convicted killer should be set free on a technicality.
This is the kind of anger that feels hopeless and full of sadness. The complete opposite of empowering.
What do I do with this kind of anger? For now there isn't much I can do except post a comment on another writer's blog or vent my anger here. I set up an email update with the California Supreme Court website. I'm a firm believer in positive thoughts, and in the power of negative thinking. Do what you will with that.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A New Year, A New Administration, A New School
I find it hard to believe that I allowed myself to avoid writing and posting on this blog since November. In my own defense, it wasn't like I had tons of time on my hands. I was working 60 or so hours per week, and I'm normally a 30 per week kind'a gal.
I'll be honest, I'm not the kind of writer who writes every single day. Maybe I should be, so far I'm not. I have done some revising of existing pieces, accepted a few rejections and sent a couple more out. (for more about this subject, check my other blog My Literary Niche.
So we have a New Year. It didn't begin very well, another lost grandchild and we are left with very unhappy and unsettled kids. I don't put much stock in the idea that the first day of the year represents what is coming. It just just doesn't happen that way in my life. Resolutions are the kind of thing that I strive for throughout the year, not simply when the calendar changes.
Tomorrow a new president will be sworn into office. Tivo is set to record the inauguration; if only we could figure out a way to tape it onto something more portable so I could take it to school and play it in the Writing Center. Alas, our electronics have been slowly dying off, so we have few workable choices. A new administration is certainly something to look forward to, especially given the world financial and relational situation. War sucks no matter where it is.
Wednesday I begin teaching at a new school, Contra Costa College. So far the staff has been great, very friendlty if not a bit scattered. The school is doing well financially, so I may even have classes to teach next fall. I am already mostly ready, even without the textbooks for one class (again).
I suppose if I want to bring some more new things into my life, one to include would be the commitment to my writing. Let's see how that goes.
I'll be honest, I'm not the kind of writer who writes every single day. Maybe I should be, so far I'm not. I have done some revising of existing pieces, accepted a few rejections and sent a couple more out. (for more about this subject, check my other blog My Literary Niche.
So we have a New Year. It didn't begin very well, another lost grandchild and we are left with very unhappy and unsettled kids. I don't put much stock in the idea that the first day of the year represents what is coming. It just just doesn't happen that way in my life. Resolutions are the kind of thing that I strive for throughout the year, not simply when the calendar changes.
Tomorrow a new president will be sworn into office. Tivo is set to record the inauguration; if only we could figure out a way to tape it onto something more portable so I could take it to school and play it in the Writing Center. Alas, our electronics have been slowly dying off, so we have few workable choices. A new administration is certainly something to look forward to, especially given the world financial and relational situation. War sucks no matter where it is.
Wednesday I begin teaching at a new school, Contra Costa College. So far the staff has been great, very friendlty if not a bit scattered. The school is doing well financially, so I may even have classes to teach next fall. I am already mostly ready, even without the textbooks for one class (again).
I suppose if I want to bring some more new things into my life, one to include would be the commitment to my writing. Let's see how that goes.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Exhausted Appreciation
Happy Thanksgiving.
This is the first year for as long as I remember that I haven't done any cooking for the big feast. I made a few breakfast items this morning but have mostly spent the day hanging out. It almost doesn't feel like Thanksgiving because I am not standing in the kitchen, my back aching, my head hurting and my feet screaming. I also won't be seeing my son today; he is working until 6pm and then going to his fiance's house for dinner. Joe and Melia and I are going to the home of our friends Mike and Celia where Mike is preparing a fabulous meal.
Realistically speaking, even if I wanted to, I couldn't possibly host or serve a traditional feast. I have been working so much that my body is protesting loudly in a variety of uncomfortable ways. I don't have the energy to cook and clean and tend to anyone's needs. Heck, I'm having a difficult time tending to my own needs. I'm not eating right or exercising enough. I feel overwhelmed daily.
But my mood is good.
I like my jobs. I love teaching. I still like running the Writing Center, but it is burning me out. I can see the wall slowly making its way toward me. I am destined to hit it and when that happens I will be forced to move on. I'm hoping that when that happens I can move onto teaching and writing full-time. I have an interview next week with another community college. So in addition to the class prep and grading I planned to do this weekend for my classes, and the formatting job I need to finish, and the family finances I have to address, and a Thanksgiving to participate in, I'm prepping for the interview.
Still, not really complaining. But I am looking forward to the end of the semester. I'm very likely going to move into a new office space. It is really long past time for me to move my freelance and creative work out of my house. I think I have decided on a location, but am still dealing with details. I'd like to be mostly moved in before Christmas, which is a week after the semester ends. Yes, I know, even when I have a break scheduled I still manage to overload myself.
One of the many things that I have learned this last few months is that I can do more work than I had thought I could. I have also been reminded just how important taking care of my body is. I physically feel pretty crappy a good portion of the time, but I know how to feel better and once I have the time I will be changing my eating and exercise habits back to what they were only a few months ago. It also reminds me that there were several years when I felt like this ALL the time. I have also been reminded that I have the power to change that, and for that knowledge I am very grateful.
I am grateful that I have trusted my own instincts and am moving forward in my chosen career(s). I am grateful that months ago Joe and I had a talk about the changes that are now taking place and we are managing to stay connected and happy together. I am grateful that my kids are great. I am grateful for my friends and extended family (even if I don't have the time or energy to spend much quality time with them).
Yep, lots to be grateful for. And lost of exhaustion that I will be grateful to be rid of in a few short weeks.
This is the first year for as long as I remember that I haven't done any cooking for the big feast. I made a few breakfast items this morning but have mostly spent the day hanging out. It almost doesn't feel like Thanksgiving because I am not standing in the kitchen, my back aching, my head hurting and my feet screaming. I also won't be seeing my son today; he is working until 6pm and then going to his fiance's house for dinner. Joe and Melia and I are going to the home of our friends Mike and Celia where Mike is preparing a fabulous meal.
Realistically speaking, even if I wanted to, I couldn't possibly host or serve a traditional feast. I have been working so much that my body is protesting loudly in a variety of uncomfortable ways. I don't have the energy to cook and clean and tend to anyone's needs. Heck, I'm having a difficult time tending to my own needs. I'm not eating right or exercising enough. I feel overwhelmed daily.
But my mood is good.
I like my jobs. I love teaching. I still like running the Writing Center, but it is burning me out. I can see the wall slowly making its way toward me. I am destined to hit it and when that happens I will be forced to move on. I'm hoping that when that happens I can move onto teaching and writing full-time. I have an interview next week with another community college. So in addition to the class prep and grading I planned to do this weekend for my classes, and the formatting job I need to finish, and the family finances I have to address, and a Thanksgiving to participate in, I'm prepping for the interview.
Still, not really complaining. But I am looking forward to the end of the semester. I'm very likely going to move into a new office space. It is really long past time for me to move my freelance and creative work out of my house. I think I have decided on a location, but am still dealing with details. I'd like to be mostly moved in before Christmas, which is a week after the semester ends. Yes, I know, even when I have a break scheduled I still manage to overload myself.
One of the many things that I have learned this last few months is that I can do more work than I had thought I could. I have also been reminded just how important taking care of my body is. I physically feel pretty crappy a good portion of the time, but I know how to feel better and once I have the time I will be changing my eating and exercise habits back to what they were only a few months ago. It also reminds me that there were several years when I felt like this ALL the time. I have also been reminded that I have the power to change that, and for that knowledge I am very grateful.
I am grateful that I have trusted my own instincts and am moving forward in my chosen career(s). I am grateful that months ago Joe and I had a talk about the changes that are now taking place and we are managing to stay connected and happy together. I am grateful that my kids are great. I am grateful for my friends and extended family (even if I don't have the time or energy to spend much quality time with them).
Yep, lots to be grateful for. And lost of exhaustion that I will be grateful to be rid of in a few short weeks.
Friday, November 7, 2008
A New Castle in the Sky
I'm normally a fence sitter when it comes to politics.
I don't mean to say that I don't have an opinion, but my deep respect for the equally deep feelings of others requires me to keep my attitudes in check lest I fall into an all out confrontation that will serve no purpose save to piss me off, piss my friend/neighbor/fellow party goer off, and end what may likely be a relaxed social gathering. I don't believe that I can sway anyone's strong opinions with my anger or righteousness. I do believe, however, that by keeping an open mind and understanding as to why a stance is different from my own, I have an increased opportunity to share my views in an intellectual way, in a more subtle get under-your-skin kind of way. That sublty and respect for other's opinions is my personal tool for bringing about change in my little world. And yes, it has at time worked.
But goddamn if I didn't bawl my eyes out when it became clear that Barack Obama is going to be the next president of the United States of America. And frankly I don't much care who knows how I feel. I'm not attacking anyone's choices. I'm not dancing the I-told-you-so dance. I am simply enjoying the feeling of imminent change. The feeling of hope for the future of our country on levels that I can barely begin to express. I cried on election night because I am so proud of my country. I am proud that my fellow citizens were willing to take a chance on change. That sounds like such a simple concept, but really it isn't.
Change for most of us is a terrifying experience. A change in job, a change in location, or a change in relationship, all offer new hope and new ideas that mask that black abyss that is the unknown. No matter how sure we are that change is the best thing, it still holds within it things we cannot readily see. And we remain blind to so much for so long, to so much unpredictability, sometimes too much, that even within hope and happiness our terror lurks. This terror could so easily have been too overwhelming for so many people across the nation. It could have tied their hands and their minds down, tethering them, and the rest of us, to a known quantity–the status quo–no matter how much of the real terror was sitting squarely in the light of our everyday lives. Like the abused spouse who remains because the outside world is unknown and unreliable in its actions with no guarantees that change will be better, too often they remain, staying in a place that is safe if only in its familiarity.
I have a copy of the front page of the local newspaper that is entirely filled with the profile of President-Elect Obama. There is another displayed from another newspaper on the office door of a colleague . Both cause me to pause, to hold my hand to my chest over my heart and feel a sense of wonder and pride and hope. He looks eerily familiar: A young man with a young family ready to take on the mantle of one of the most powerful countries in the world. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt with a solid color tie. He is slender and smiling. I look at it and wonder, does my generation finally have the chance for the kind of hope that hasn't been seen since before I was born? Are we, forty years later, finally ready to give a new future another chance? Has cynicism taken a long enouh vacation for us to try something new that is such a strong echo of the past?
That is certainly my hope.
I pray that it does. I also pray that the hope continues farther than the last. I pray that the new stars that are rising in politics rise far beyond their predecessors and live well into the next generation. I pray that the new castle in the sky we are building in our hearts binds with the foundation of our nation and sustains new hope and change for many, many years.
I don't mean to say that I don't have an opinion, but my deep respect for the equally deep feelings of others requires me to keep my attitudes in check lest I fall into an all out confrontation that will serve no purpose save to piss me off, piss my friend/neighbor/fellow party goer off, and end what may likely be a relaxed social gathering. I don't believe that I can sway anyone's strong opinions with my anger or righteousness. I do believe, however, that by keeping an open mind and understanding as to why a stance is different from my own, I have an increased opportunity to share my views in an intellectual way, in a more subtle get under-your-skin kind of way. That sublty and respect for other's opinions is my personal tool for bringing about change in my little world. And yes, it has at time worked.
But goddamn if I didn't bawl my eyes out when it became clear that Barack Obama is going to be the next president of the United States of America. And frankly I don't much care who knows how I feel. I'm not attacking anyone's choices. I'm not dancing the I-told-you-so dance. I am simply enjoying the feeling of imminent change. The feeling of hope for the future of our country on levels that I can barely begin to express. I cried on election night because I am so proud of my country. I am proud that my fellow citizens were willing to take a chance on change. That sounds like such a simple concept, but really it isn't.
Change for most of us is a terrifying experience. A change in job, a change in location, or a change in relationship, all offer new hope and new ideas that mask that black abyss that is the unknown. No matter how sure we are that change is the best thing, it still holds within it things we cannot readily see. And we remain blind to so much for so long, to so much unpredictability, sometimes too much, that even within hope and happiness our terror lurks. This terror could so easily have been too overwhelming for so many people across the nation. It could have tied their hands and their minds down, tethering them, and the rest of us, to a known quantity–the status quo–no matter how much of the real terror was sitting squarely in the light of our everyday lives. Like the abused spouse who remains because the outside world is unknown and unreliable in its actions with no guarantees that change will be better, too often they remain, staying in a place that is safe if only in its familiarity.
I have a copy of the front page of the local newspaper that is entirely filled with the profile of President-Elect Obama. There is another displayed from another newspaper on the office door of a colleague . Both cause me to pause, to hold my hand to my chest over my heart and feel a sense of wonder and pride and hope. He looks eerily familiar: A young man with a young family ready to take on the mantle of one of the most powerful countries in the world. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt with a solid color tie. He is slender and smiling. I look at it and wonder, does my generation finally have the chance for the kind of hope that hasn't been seen since before I was born? Are we, forty years later, finally ready to give a new future another chance? Has cynicism taken a long enouh vacation for us to try something new that is such a strong echo of the past?
That is certainly my hope.
I pray that it does. I also pray that the hope continues farther than the last. I pray that the new stars that are rising in politics rise far beyond their predecessors and live well into the next generation. I pray that the new castle in the sky we are building in our hearts binds with the foundation of our nation and sustains new hope and change for many, many years.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Gratitude & Sorrow
It's been one year since we lost our first grand-baby.
He lived inside his mother for almost 5 months before higher powers decided that it was time for him to move on. His mother and father were both devastated. Before they knew that he existed they had chosen to be apart, to move away from a relationship that had become increasingly dysfunctional. They didn't have to recommit to each other once they knew that they were pregnant; they could have lived apart and parented separately the way many parents do. My son refused to live away from his child. His girlfriend refused to live away from her child. So together they chose to repair a relationship that they had already walked away from. They chose to move back in together. They chose to work hard in couples therapy so that when their baby was born he would not be born into chaos, anger and fighting.
In their therapy session, a whole new world opened up for them: a world of honest, open and clear communication. They worked hard every week for months, and the work was evident to those of us who watched from the outside as they grew and matured.
When they lost their baby, they named him Rowan and layed a special brick for him to commemorate his existence.
And they stayed together. And they grieved together. The loss of Rowan helped them, as if even in death, even after he had moved onto another place and another existence, he continued to impact their lives for the better.
Last weekend these two young people who came so close to being apart, and becoming parents too young made a new promise to each other. Vince proposed, Alexis accepted and they are now planning their life together. They are talking about where they want to live, where they want to raise the children they will have sometime in the future. They are planning for their marriage. It is clear that the wedding is secondary, and that the life is the priority. All because of Rowan.
Vince gave Alexis my grandmother's ring. The ring had been stripped of its diamonds many years ago; so Vince and I found a jeweler who could repair the damage and rebuild the ring for a new generation. We filled the holes with heirloom diamonds. It is now more beautiful than it ever was.
The jeweler liked the ring that I was wearing, the one that my husband had sculpted for me. She wanted to see more of his work. We brought her photos of his jewelry and sculpture, and one wire tree. She ordered six rings and 5 wire trees. So now my talented husband the artist is creating art. He was destined to do this, but because we walked into that particular jewelry store on that particular day, his destiny has become manifest.
He would not be sculpting if we hadn't walked into the jewelry store. We wouldn't have walked into the jewelry store if Vince didn't want to marry Alexis. Vince wouldn't be marrying Alexis if they hadn't work so hard to make their relationship work. They wouldn't have worked so hard to make their relationship work if they hadn't gotten pregnant.
Our lives have been impacted in incredible ways all because of the mere existence of our first grand-baby. His life was so important and so profound that he didn't need to live for a full five months inside of his mother in order to create a ripple affect that continues on. I am so grateful that we had him in our lives, even for the all too short time he was here. I am so sad that I never had a chance to hold him in my arms.
I am so grateful that I can hold him in my heart and see the gifts that he left us.
He lived inside his mother for almost 5 months before higher powers decided that it was time for him to move on. His mother and father were both devastated. Before they knew that he existed they had chosen to be apart, to move away from a relationship that had become increasingly dysfunctional. They didn't have to recommit to each other once they knew that they were pregnant; they could have lived apart and parented separately the way many parents do. My son refused to live away from his child. His girlfriend refused to live away from her child. So together they chose to repair a relationship that they had already walked away from. They chose to move back in together. They chose to work hard in couples therapy so that when their baby was born he would not be born into chaos, anger and fighting.
In their therapy session, a whole new world opened up for them: a world of honest, open and clear communication. They worked hard every week for months, and the work was evident to those of us who watched from the outside as they grew and matured.
When they lost their baby, they named him Rowan and layed a special brick for him to commemorate his existence.
And they stayed together. And they grieved together. The loss of Rowan helped them, as if even in death, even after he had moved onto another place and another existence, he continued to impact their lives for the better.
Last weekend these two young people who came so close to being apart, and becoming parents too young made a new promise to each other. Vince proposed, Alexis accepted and they are now planning their life together. They are talking about where they want to live, where they want to raise the children they will have sometime in the future. They are planning for their marriage. It is clear that the wedding is secondary, and that the life is the priority. All because of Rowan.
Vince gave Alexis my grandmother's ring. The ring had been stripped of its diamonds many years ago; so Vince and I found a jeweler who could repair the damage and rebuild the ring for a new generation. We filled the holes with heirloom diamonds. It is now more beautiful than it ever was.
The jeweler liked the ring that I was wearing, the one that my husband had sculpted for me. She wanted to see more of his work. We brought her photos of his jewelry and sculpture, and one wire tree. She ordered six rings and 5 wire trees. So now my talented husband the artist is creating art. He was destined to do this, but because we walked into that particular jewelry store on that particular day, his destiny has become manifest.
He would not be sculpting if we hadn't walked into the jewelry store. We wouldn't have walked into the jewelry store if Vince didn't want to marry Alexis. Vince wouldn't be marrying Alexis if they hadn't work so hard to make their relationship work. They wouldn't have worked so hard to make their relationship work if they hadn't gotten pregnant.
Our lives have been impacted in incredible ways all because of the mere existence of our first grand-baby. His life was so important and so profound that he didn't need to live for a full five months inside of his mother in order to create a ripple affect that continues on. I am so grateful that we had him in our lives, even for the all too short time he was here. I am so sad that I never had a chance to hold him in my arms.
I am so grateful that I can hold him in my heart and see the gifts that he left us.
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