Surviving the Apocalypse...

The world is coming to an end tomorrow.

If only I'd lost ten pounds first.

Okay, I have to admit, I'm not really bracing for the end of the world. I'm not even sure how one goes about bracing for it. And, since the end of the world has been predicted on a number of dates throughout my lifetime, but so far all of those predictions have been wrong, I'm guessing the one about tomorrow will be too.

I've seen a few articles refuting the prediction, a couple even came with guarantees that the world would not end tomorrow. I thought that was interesting. I mean, you can guarantee it but, if you are wrong, who is going to hold you accountable?

Anyway, by Saturday I suspect most of us will have survived the apocalypse and lived to tell about it. And while I might like to lose ten pounds, if this were my last day on earth, my biggest regret would not be that I hadn't gotten around to losing them. Or that I hadn't gone to the gym enough. Or that I don't have Michelle Obama arms.

I'm not sure I have a biggest regret. I do have a fairly extensive collection of smallish ones, though.

I wish I hadn't gotten sent to the Principal's office in elementary school for writing a note to a boy which contained ugly sentiments about his mother. I don't remember his name and I'm pretty sure I never met his mother. I don't even remember why I wrote the nasty note, but he started crying and I got sent to the Principal's office for it. I didn't get in any trouble really. I was required to tell him I was sorry, but that was it. I was relieved my parents didn't get a call though. I can only imagine that my mother would have been disappointed in my pathetic attempt. Surely I could have been more caustic.

Anyway, it was mean and I wish I hadn't done that.

And sometimes I shudder when I think back on a conversation I had with a highly educated and articulate man. At the time I had embarked on a new life mission to be open and vulnerable with people, to compliment freely and without concern for whether they would think I was weird. Nothing about that goal is regrettable. But somewhere deep in my core I have the feeling I said something along the lines of, 'I'm so impressed by how articulate you are, for a black man.' Seriously? Was that last part necessary? I don't regret being open but I do regret being ignorant.

Anyway, it was stupid and wish I hadn't done that.

I am happy to report that I never wrote another nasty note about someone's mother (besides my own, I mean) and I never again added the caveat for a black man (or any other unnecessary qualifier) to a compliment. It would be nice if I could say these are the only two regrettable things I've ever done. But they aren't. Not by a long shot. As I said, I have a fairly large collection.

The thing is, I can't change anything about the past. Although I try to live without regret, sometimes stuff happens that, in retrospect, I wish hadn't. Sometimes I make bad choices. I can either beat myself up over my mistakes or I can learn from them and move forward. Life is messy. Mistakes are bound to happen. Focusing on the past doesn't do any good. But learning from the past does.

I figure surviving tomorrow's apocalypse will provide me with the opportunity to start fresh. The past is the past and it's over. Whatever regrets I might have about the past can be turned into anticipation for something positive in the future.

It is never too late to live a better life.

Or to lose ten pounds.

Enjoying the Party....

The older I get, the greater my conviction that life is a party.

Of course there are bad elements tossed in with the good experiences. I'm not suggesting we should make light of life's tragedies but, in general, we seem to vascilate between making a big deal of  misfortunes and being grateful for the good things that happen.

I'm convinced the best of life occurs in between, in the messy, unpredictable, quirky, wonderful, magical, plain old ordinariness that often gets lost. There in the middle, a party is happening. If we take the time to notice.

I'm blessed to have several people in my life who share my love of celebrating. We plan parties for the big things, the little things, and the ordinary things. We even celebrate the unusual, and somewhat offbeat things. Which is why it seemed perfectly normal when my friends Debbie and Laena and I decided to have a small, intimate 1960s themed Christmas party.

The idea just sort of evolved. It started with a conversation about old family photos that my siblings and I found, merged with a suggestion that a retro theme party would be fun, and before we knew what was happening, we were caught up in planning a Christmas party circa 1962.

It was very important to us that this be a pre-social revolution sixties party. We weren't interested in the countercultural movement for this event. No beads and peace signs for us. We were going Camelot all the way. It was to be a casual party. An ordinary event from an ordinary time.

The goal was to try and make everything as authentic as possible so we could take photos. Lots and lots of photos. We work very hard at not denying our self-obsessed, narcissistic tendencies so pretty much everything we do serves as an opportunity to take photos. The retro party was no exception.

Of course, in addition to us, martinis and cigarettes would get top billing in all the photographs. There seemed to be a lot of those back in the day (martinis and cigarettes, I mean), so in keeping with authenticity, we felt it only right to include them.

At the last minute we decided someone had to be pregnant. Our theme era took place before the surgeon general got all fussy about things like smoking and drinking while pregnant so our photos had to show our 'with child' guest imbibing. The challenge to our gestational addition was that Debbie and I are too old and Laena's outfit didn't accommodate a spur of the moment pregnancy. The only other option was Anna. Game for her role as the preggers party guest, we immediately started padding her with towels.

But, a pregnant Anna presented further issues of authenticity. In the early 1960s a pregnant, unmarried, 17-year old would not have been socially acceptable. She would have been whisked off to live with a maiden aunt for the duration of her pregnancy. She would then return to her community with the story that she had attended an extended cheerleading camp and all would, semingly, be returned to normal. People of that era really hated to be bothered with truth and reality. Consequently, our mommy-to-be needed to gain a couple of years. We solved all of this by giving Anna a sophisticated hairstyle...and a wedding ring...making her impending towel-birth far less shocking.

It is worth noting that neither Anna's cigarette, martini, nor pregnancy was real.

As we progressed further into the evening we added some drama by creating a little back story about Anna's husband being Laena's ex-boyfriend:

And Debbie as the hard living, cigarette smoking, martini drinking, cocktail waitress:

 

I tried to adopt the role of depressed, bored, housewife:

But this attempt was mostly unsuccessful because Debbie kept making me laugh. We ended up looking more like Lucy and Ethel:

I admit, this probably isn't a typical way to spend a Friday night in December. But it was a fun way. And later, after our party ended, I started reflecting on the fact that 1962 wasn't all that long ago. And yet, it was a lifetime ago. My lifetime ago. A lifetime of joy and pain. A lifetime of success and failure.

A lifetime of extraordinary, but more often, a lifetime of plain old ordinary.

There are times when I'm at odds with my own life, when things aren't just as I want them to be or, worse yet, when I don't even know what I want them to be.

But as time keeps pressing forward I am learning to notice the messy, unpredictable, quirky, wonderful, magical, plain old ordinariness of life. And I like it.

I learned a few things from Friday night: Life is short, make it as authentic as possible. Laugh a lot. Take tons of photos.

And enjoy the party.

Sh*t My Mom Says

A couple of years ago a guy named Justin Halpern got a book published, called Sh*t My Dad Says. It was based on series of real quotes from his father's salty witticisms posted to his Twitter feed. A whole bunch of copies of the book sold and it was even made into a short lived TV show. I know all of this because I looked it up. I'm bitter. Halpern beat me to the punch. I could probably get a book out of sh*t my mother says. But, it's already been done.

My life changed considerably when we moved my mother to Colorado 2 years, 6 months, 13 days, 5 hours, and 17 minutes ago. Not that I'm keeping track. It is just that when I was 24-years old, I moved from nearly one side of the continent to the other in the hopes that might it feel far enough away to keep her from driving me crazy. Finally able to take full breaths of air into my lungs for the first time in my life, I thought I'd never, ever have to deal with her on a day-to-day basis again. I had no idea that somewhere down the road I'd come face-to-face with once again living within five miles of her. Only this time, I'm responsible for a good bit of her care. If I'd had warning, I'm pretty sure it would have been in the form of a creepy, ominous, Dickensian specter.

Anyway, she is here. In living color.

Just prior to Thanksgiving she fell. I received a call about it, but I was assured she was just fine. At the time I thought it was weird that a frail 84-year old could fall and then bounce right back (after having non-emergency lift come to her rescue). But, then this is my mother, so who am I to question something odd. By the next morning, however, it was evident that she wasn't just fine so I loaded her in the car and took her to the emergency room where it was discovered that she had a broken pelvic bone. Since there wasn't anything to be done about her situation, she stayed in the hospital for a couple of days and was then released to go back home where she could utilize her 'electric chair,' a motorized scooter she uses to terrorize those people whom she considers more elderly and feeble than herself.  It is like she and Darwin sat down to tea one day and discussed survival of the fittest and she decided to be the last one standing. Or sitting. In the electric chair.

Her lack of mobility presented a problem when it came to Thanksgiving day at my house, however. Too many stairs. She couldn't come and spend the day with us so we opted, instead, to go en masse to visit her for a little while. My mother's conversation can be a bit bizarre and I noticed while visiting her, all three of my children had their phones out. I considered saying something but then I decided not to. A spoon full of sugar and all that.

What I didn't realize was, they were banding together and surreptitiously taking real-time quotes from my mother's soliloquy and posting them to a thread on Facebook for the enjoyment of others.

On her current boyfriend whose ex-girlfriend is jealous:  "I don't get jealous, I just get even." - grandma

On my suggestion that due to a lack of men she might turn her affections to the abundance of women: "I haven't found a woman hot enough to convince me to change my mind." - grandma

On never wanting to give up her 'party-girl' status:  "Oh Parker, we can get high on that marijuana now! It's legal after all." - grandma

On her former boyfriend, the raging alcoholic: "Oh my neighbor complained about me makin' too much noise in the bedroom." - grandma

If I thought my mother would be uncomfortable about their coping strategy I would discourage my children from making her comments public, but I'm fully confident she would embrace the notoriety.

While visiting my mother might not be considered the worst of situations, it can have its challenging moments. I find myself weirdly proud of my children for turning a rather arduous visit into something funny and sharing it for others to enjoy. 

So fine. Halpern did it first and got a book deal. Seeing my children's gleeful comradery, however, makes me feel a little less bitter.

Mock(yeah)ing(yeah) Bird(yeah)...

Apparently the high school I attended had two stories. I don't actually remember that detail but, a few years ago I discovered that if you go to the school, sit in the parking lot, and bore your children beyond comprehension with your life history, you can marvel at the fact that the building has two stories even if you only remember it having one. Not that the fact my high school had two stories actually matters to anybody. It doesn't. I was just surprised to discover it.

I don't have many memories of high school. I can recall a few details about the era, but can only remember a very small number of actual events inside the school walls. If I try very hard and concentrate very carefully, I think I can muster some recollection of the second story. But not really. And I've yet to come up with a good reason to put in that much effort. Steve thinks the math department must have been on the second floor.

Anyway, all that to say, regardless of the fact I hardly remember anything about high school, I do remember a kiva somewhere in the building where I first saw the movie version of To Kill A Mockingbird.  Until last week, I had only seen the movie that one time, although I've read the book repeatedly.

Last week I saw the movie again. At a real movie theater complete with sugary, sticky floor and popcorn remnants from the previous patrons. I'm only a little freakishly compulsive so I kept my search for leftover bedbugs on the seat to a minimum. Anyway, to mark the 50th anniversary of its release, To Kill a Mockingbird was being shown in theaters. Despite the fact that I'm not much of a movie watcher, I was awfully excited about the whole thing. And, although it isn't a cult movie, this was probably as close as I would ever get to seeing one. I considered dressing up as Boo Radley.

When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in high school I didn't appreciate its message. I think I missed the point as I sat in classrooms full of all-white students being taught by all-white teachers. Racial oppression wasn't something we thought much about. Granted we had some 'others' who didn't quite fit in; those who, by choice or by nature, were different and who were disliked by the insecure. Still, even though the prevailing message of the story was how wrong unfair judgement is, I don't think, with our shelves stocked full of white bread, most of us really caught on.

It wasn't until I read the book in adulthood that it became my favorite piece of fiction. I have long felt that if I were to run for the office of dictator and win (although I would try to be a benevolent dictator), To Kill a Mockingbird would be assigned as required reading for all humanity. While I understand it seems unlikely I'll be elected Dictator Martin Griggs, I recommend everyone go ahead and read the book now, just in case.

Realizing that my 'live to read' mentality isn't universal, as dictator, being all benevolent and everything, I'd allow those who didn't want to read, the option of watching the movie. Rarely do I think a movie does a book justice but I'd make an exception in this case.

Imagine it. What if everyone read or watched To Kill a Mockingbird and understood what Harper Lee was saying about prejudice and judgement? What if, by reading the story, people examined and understood the source of their fear regarding race and difference and acknowledged it? What if, after reading the book, people tried harder to be like Atticus Finch?

Atticus said a lot of great things. Perhaps the most significant, though was when he said to Scout, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view."
 

Racial tension is alive and well in our culture. And gender tension. And sexual orientation tension. And financial policy tension. And political  party tension. And a myriad other tensions. How would that change if we collectively modeled Atticus and simply considered things from the other person's point of view?

 

Maybe we wouldn't judge. Maybe we wouldn't condemn. Maybe we wouldn't harm.

Maybe we'd make the world a better place for everyone.

Amen, Atticus. Amen.

 

 

 

Sue's Mews

This post is about my cats. Only not really.

That I have an affinity for cats is no secret. I'm well on my way to being a crazy cat lady and really, at this point, why change? Steve and I got our first cat shortly after we were married. Her name was Katie Scarlett O'Hara. She was tiny and mean and really didn't like anyone. She was, in a word, horrible. When she died, at age 21, I don't think she'd ever had one real cat friend. Katie never let anyone get close. But, we loved her just the same.

Emma came to live with us when she was a much older cat. She was sweet, but timid. She never used her voice or had any confidence. One time I found Emma cowering in the corner while Katie picked on her so mercilessly Emma defecated on the floor. I joked that Katie had, literally, scared the shit out of her. Poor old Emma just never really found her place in life. But, we loved her just the same.

Katrina, a refugee from the hurricane of the same name, lived with us only a few months before she died. She never recovered from the trauma. We don't know what she had experienced, exactly, but she was always sickly. We assume she must have been starving at some point because she stole food at every opportunity. Most notable was the time she jumped on the table and swiftly stole a foil wrapped baked potato almost as big as she was. Thank God she didn't notice there was sour cream. Katrina didn't give much back. But, we loved her just the same.

We adopted Boe from a family who was moving to Japan. They said they couldn't take him but I think they just didn't have room. Boe was a little overweight. Okay, Boe was a lot overweight. Okay, Boe was a fatso. He weighed in at 23 pounds and really, really, really liked food. But Boe was sweet and kind and caring and welcoming. We had to put Boe down when cancer compromised his quality of life. Even up to his final goodbye, though, Boe was cheerful and loving. And hungry. But, we loved him just the same.

Thor was a punk. He didn't have a tail, was slightly lame, and had a curved spine. He acted like Mr. Tough Guy but was charming in his own way. He died of a bladder blockage at a very young age but while he was with us he made us laugh. Nothing much intimidated that scrappy little cat. Even Parker, at over six foot tall, could be seen screaming and running away when Thor started stalking him. Thor might have had 'little cat complex.' But, we loved him just the same.

Mr. Pankey died suddenly a few weeks ago. We don't exactly know what went wrong but he had some sort of neurological dysfunction. We adopted Mr. Pankey and Tyler (who is still with us) shortly after the back-to-back deaths of Boe and Thor. Mr. Pankey was quirky to say the least. He often wanted attention but just didn't quite know how to ask for it. He'd ask to be petted but then avoid our touch. He loved Tyler more than anyone and wanted to be friends with our girl cat, Princess. But she declined his invitation. Mr. Pankey was socially awkward. But, we loved him just the same.

Recently we welcomed Oliver into our home. Here he is helping me write this blog post:

He's a sweet boy. Aptly named, he's forever hungry and loves to go through drawers and steal things. He is also a little clingy and needy but we hope in time he will understand that he won't be abandoned and living on the streets again.

The interesting thing about cats is, they are all unique. They approach life and people and food and comfort and relationships and death differently. And they do best when they are understood, loved, and accepted just as they are.

Sort of like people.

*Credit for the title of this post goes to my friend Dan who loves all things silly.

Yes, I'll Be Your Neighbor....

I was having lunch with some friends the other day and our conversation turned to our mutual love and respect for Mr. Rogers. Yes, that Mr. Rogers. The one with the neighborhood.

Doubtless not everyone discusses Mr. Rogers over a veggie sandwich but, in this particular group, we were talking about him and one person asked, "Why did I never meet this man?"  I responded that I was fortunate enough to actually meet him.

Really. I got to have an honest-to-goodness, face-to-face conversation with, arguably, the most gracious man in our generation.

My children weren't allowed to watch much television. This fact is a huge source of dramatic revelation about how they were left out of a significant cultural rite of passage. Their friends discuss favorite TV shows from childhood and my own offspring are left to confess the didn't grow up with television. Those poor Griggs. They never even saw one episode of Saved by the Bell.

Freaks.

I'm sure to hear about this for many more years. The truth is, I've just never been much of a television person. It was on a lot when I was growing up because that's what everybody did...watch TV. But, aside from a few shows, television just never really captured my attention. Consequently, my own children watched very little and even then it was on an ancient set closed up in a cupboard with a picture so fuzzy it was hard to make out what was happening. Once when we were trying to watch the Winter Olympics we couldn't tell if there was a blizzard on the ski slopes or if it was just our television.

Anyway, one show my children were allowed to watch was Mr. Rogers. We all loved Mr. Rogers Neighborhood and his gentle, loving way of handling childhood issues. Naturally, when he was on a book signing tour to Denver we made the effort to go and meet him. He was, after all, Mr. Rogers! At the time I took up a huge amount of space as I was several months pregnant with Anna. And the line to see Mr. R was very long. We waited while I gestated and the boys restlessly fidgeted in place. Eventually, our turn to meet Mr. Rogers arrived. We asked him to sign his books The New Baby and You Are Special and then he started to talk with us. There we were with hundreds of other families but it was our turn and Mr. Rogers, with all his gentle spiritedness and thoughtful speech, tuned out everyone else and made our little family of four (plus one) feel as though we were the only people in the room with him. He took his time to talk with all of us and to listen as the boys expressed their feelings about having a new baby sister.

I'd never met a celebrity before or since. And I generally don't care much about what celebrities do or think. But this was Mr. Rogers. Sincere, sweet, caring, gentle Mr. Rogers.

Mr. Rogers wasn't a loudmouth. He was soft spoken and intelligent with a powerful message of care and grace and mostly of concern for the welfare of children. Never snarky. Always loving.

After our conversation at lunch the other day, I got the book You Are Special off the bookshelf.  On the inside title page Mr. Rogers had underlined the printed word 'are' so the title looked like this: You ARE Special. Next to that he wrote, "I can tell!" and then he signed his name.

The cynical side of me thinks he probably did the same thing for every family who asked him to sign a book. But the other, less hateful side of me, knows that Mr. Rogers saw something very special in our family with two little boys eagerly awaiting the birth of their baby sister. They were, truly, excited for her arrival. When he said he could tell, I believe he could tell.

Which makes me think about how much I care for, notice, and look carefully at people in my own life. Do I stop, amid the noise and confusion of life, to take notice of who they are, what they need, or how special they are to this world?  Do I not only notice but do I also make them feel special?

How easy it is to go through life thinking of my own needs without noticing what is happening in the rest of the world. How easy to pay attention to the loud, ugly, uncivilized messages of hate and war, and lack of care for the less fortunate. How easy and how wrong. Do we really need more 'strong leadership' in this country, or do we just need more of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood?

New Beginnings...

I'm not pregnant.

Just in case anyone was wondering about that.

I suppose, technically, it is possible.  And, really, you can read about women much older than I having babies if you just pick up a copy of Star. Whatever. Possible or not, were I to turn up pregnant, I'd certainly have some 'splainin' to do.

Realizing this may be more information than anyone wants, I only bring it up because of a series of dreams I've been having. Dreams in which I have the starring role. Pregnant.

I believe in the power of dreams. It was through a series of recurring, evolving dreams which took place over more than 20 years, that I came to a point of forgiveness and reconciliation with my father after his suicide. Because of those nocturnal psychotherapy sessions, now when I dream, I rarely shrug it off. I almost always take the time to deeply consider and analyze the meaning. Which is why I have been paying attention to this latest round of dreams where I show up pregnant. Very pregnant. And old. Well, for a pregnant lady, anyway.

In these dreams I'm distressed. I don't really want to be pregnant, or at least I don't want to raise the child I'm about to give birth to. Not in an "Ohmygawd, I'm preggers," Snookie, Paris Hilton, Kardashian sort of way. A baby wouldn't disrupt my life of parties and shopping.

It's just....I've already done that.

For the past 24 years I have loved being a mom. It has been the primary focus of my life. Yes, I've worked off and on and earned a PhD during that time but, first and foremost, the focus of my time, identity, and resources has been in the raising of my children. I'm thankful that I've had the choice of working or staying home when it seemed best for both my family and me. I wouldn't change a thing.

But, I'm about to turn the page on this part of my life story and when I do I'll see, 'The End' in large script type. I know, in much the same way I feel when I finish a really good novel, there will be a sense of loss. A sense that I want just a little bit more. I will always be a mother, of course, but the time when my children live with me, depend on me, and need me for the day-to-day is nearing its end.

Then what?

In my dreams, I don't want to re-read that book. I don't want to raise any more children. But, at the same time, I feel anxious about what's coming. I'm about to give birth to a new future and I can't anticipate what that will be. If I'm being honest, that is exactly what I'm feeling on many days. Anxious for the future. Not because once my children are grown and gone I'll have no purpose but because I and my purpose are changing and evolving and I don't have a clear vision of what is next.

And then I remind myself that feeling anxious accomplishes exactly nothing. I am, in fact, between the parenthesis. Not quite in the past. Not quiet in the future. It is uncomfortable but I'm having to learn to relax with it.

I can't go back to the past and I don't have to know the future. All I have to know is the present. I can be thinking about the future, dreaming about the future, even exploring ideas about the future. But what matters is right now. And right now I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.

When the time is right, my future purpose will show up. I'll know it when I see it. I suspect it will hand me a pretty bouquet of flowers and tell me it is happy to finally meet. I look forward to that day.

And mostly I'm glad I won't be wearing maternity clothes.

Ladies (Room) Aid

Last week my sister and I travelled to our brother's home in West Virginia for our annual sibling weekend. We call it an annual event although in reality it ends up, for various reasons, happening only semi-annually. Regardless of how frequently we get to do it, the time spent is always refreshing and renewing. Plus, our mother can't make the trek so we are free to be in one another's company without her organ recitals and tedious conversational loops about how her life has no meaning because I won't take her to the mall and how she can't drive herself because we made her sell her car three years ago. Never mind that she is unable to walk more than a few feet without becoming fatigued and we insisted she give up driving when the likelihood that she was going to kill someone topped out at 100%.

Details.

Regardless, the time the three of us spend together is not only bonding and soul filling, it is also very fun. Every time we are together some sort of theme emerges, not because we plan it, but just because it happens. Over this sibling weekend we looked at old family slides on an antique projector my brother had restored. We weren't really sure what we would find in the boxes of musty, deteriorating slides but, it turns out, there are deeply layered stories hidden in those faded images. We discovered that the voices of the past will soon be lost if we don't somehow find a way for the stories to be told.

Fodder for future writing.

Anyway, all of this makes the journey from my house to his house (which isn't easy) worth it. Even in these days of streamlined transportation it takes a good bit of effort to make the trip. Lots of herding, shoe removal, body scanning, and general dehumanizing just to board a plane with no personal space, land in a different city, and do it all over again. Granted it isn't travelling by covered wagon but, given the vast numbers of people crowded together, I do worry a little about contracting cholera. Maybe the real problem is all that talk of reaching my final destination. I guess not that many people get cholera at the airport. Nevertheless, I do employ quite a few 'germaphobic'* practices in an effort to try and avoid the seemingly inevitable and slightly more common head cold.

I really don't enjoy air travel.

Last week the flying leg of my trip ended in Charlotte, North Carolina. My sister had flown to Charlotte from Detroit and my brother, after confirming my plane had left Denver, drove from his house to Charlotte. Our sibling weekend would begin by meeting up at the airport and driving four hours back to my brother's house.

Anticipating the lengthy car trip, I stopped in the ladies restroom after getting off the airplane, before meeting my siblings. Upon entering the restroom, I was met with the booming voice of a woman, employed by the Charlotte Douglas International Airport, who smiled and greeted each woman with a hello as she entered. She kept a running commentary going as women entered and exited the restroom. Her voice echoed against the blue tile walls and her words reverberated with exclamations of "Hello all you beautiful women!" "It is a wonderful day to be alive!" "Safe travels!" "You are all so beautiful!" Each woman was offered a blessing as she exited.

After all the unpleasantness of security checks and cramped airplanes this woman's cheerful greeting was a welcome return to the world of 'human-style' interaction. No matter where I was in the restroom, I could hear her affirming words. I couldn't help but smile.

I'm sure some people were uncomfortable with her boisterous outpouring of goodwill. There may have been a few curmudgeons who thought she was annoying. (Why does my own mother come to mind?) And, undoubtedly a few cynics found her message a bit too schmatlzy. But my sense is that, largely, recipients of her message were encouraged and calmed by her positive energy and loving message.

I don't know why she was doing it. I don't know if the Charlotte Douglas International Airport takes their southern hospitality seriously enough to hire someone to stand in the restroom and offer a generous greeting or if she was doing it of her own accord. I don't know if she had a counterpart in the men's restroom doing the same thing. I sort of doubt it but, lacking a ticket for admission, I didn't check.

But I do know that I appreciated her efforts. Although she was some distance from me, I smiled directly at her to let her know her salvo of cheerful words was welcome.

All this made me think about how I might offer my own version of generous restroom greeter to the strangers who cross my path. I might not stand in restrooms bellowing out blessings but I can offer a kind word, a smile, a polite 'you first' gesture.

It isn't hard to be kind. It just takes being mindful. We forget, in our hurried and harried culture, to slow down, breathe, and be kind. A little gesture goes a long way.

Everyone benefits if we all just take time.

*I guess the real word for this is mysophobia but I prefer the made up version better.

Centipede Humor

It is always a little disconcerting when I find things, familiar from my childhood, in antique shops. This is happening more and more often. Not because I shop for antiques a lot but because I, personally, am becoming an antique.

Recently, I went shopping for antique doorknobs. I have a thing (a negative thing) about matching doorknobs which are, in my opinion, dull and unattractive. I'm afraid I'll die of boredom if all my doorknobs match. I realize, in light of record unemployment, a fragile global economy, and an emotion filled upcoming election, doorknobs might seem a teeny bit trivial. They are. I recognize that. But, the antique ones still make me happy.

Anyway, the last time I was canvassing antique shops I came across a number of items that were familiar; things I played with as a child, a few appliances we had when I was growing up. I was particularly drawn to a portable record player made of heavy pressed cardboard, covered with decorative paper. It had a lid that closed over the platter, volume knobs, and stylus arm. The lid was secured by a sturdy metal latch situated under a hinged, plastic handle.

I had a record player just like that, along with a few recordings that I listened to tirelessly. My favorite song was, 'The Thousand Legged-Worm.' 

Said the thousand legged worm as he gave a little squirm, has anybody seen a leg of mine? For if it can't be found, I shall have to hop around on the other nine hundred ninety nine.

Okay, so I'm guessing the author of that lyric didn't get a Nobel prize for literature, but, like antique doorknobs, those words made me happy. They were my first introduction to humor. Not uproarious humor, maybe. But secretly, I thought they were funny and especially enjoyed the irony.

I kept my delight a secret because humor was something of a foreign concept in our family. Life was awfully serious. I honestly don't remember anyone laughing about anything. The effect of our humorless home was that I thought something was wrong with me when my quirky, offbeat sense of humor reared its head. It happened often. I couldn't help it. Humor became my guilty little secret. Sort of like porn. But funnier. And with fewer naked people.

As a teenager I started to notice other people who had a sense of humor and I realized maybe I wasn't so odd after all. I was fascinated by those who said things I found funny. Although by this time my psyche has been badly bruised, I discovered that laughter had extravagant healing powers.

When I was a senior in high school my mother's new husband decided he wanted to move to another, larger, town. Not wanting to be bothered with pesky mothering responsibilities, my mom went along with his plan (which did not include me) and the two of them moved off and left me to fend for myself. I was 17 and homeless but, fortunately, my best friend's mother graciously allowed me move in with them. Their family had experienced its own share of tragedy but, unlike my own family, this family allowed laughter to permeate the pain. I watched as they joked and shared in a familial humor so foreign to me. The presence of humor and laughter calmed my spirit.

Within their welcoming embrace, laughter became something I did every day and, freed from the oppression of my own humorless family, I unleashed my oddball humor into the world. I'd like to say my humor is universally appreciated. It isn't. But, it doesn't much matter. Like mismatched doorknobs and centipedes making the best of missing appendages, it makes me happy.

In my world, a day without laughter is a day wasted. I wish I'd said that originally, but I didn't. Charlie Chaplin did.

I think he was on to something.

Vote for Obi Wan, He's Our Only Hope....

I don't often get to hear someone say their agenda for tomorrow includes taking photographs of a dominatrix tying up her girlfriend. Somehow that just isn't conversation that comes up in my circle of friends. Not often, anyway. In Steve's circle of friends, however, I have heard that comment. Granted it was only once. At an art show opening. And, admittedly, it didn't exactly thrust me into the plot line to Fifty Shades of Grey, but I must say, it delighted and amused me nevertheless. Were I not married to a visual artist, I'd probably never be in on this type of conversation.

There are other advantages to hanging out with the visual artist community. Perhaps my favorite, even more than evesdropping on conversations about snapping photos of sadomasochism in action, is watching people appreciate Steve's art. His impressionist paintings are highly evocative and seem to have fairly broad appeal. Unless, of course, you're my mother. She frequently asks if he ever considers putting faces on the people he paints. Having never been much of a deep thinker, she prefers to have things spelled out for her. I've suggested he keep a ready supply of happy face stickers around for when she asks to see his paintings.

My mother notwithstanding, when Steve first started showing his paintings publicly it was interesting to watch people respond to them.  I've actually seen people brought to tears because of the intense feelings evoked by a painting. Often viewers connect with a specific location they believe is depicted in the watery, ethereal mix of color.

Once he was asked if a painting was created on a certain street corner in Paris. Another time a person was sure they were looking at a painting of Venice. At first people would ask and Steve would tell them it was painted in downtown Denver, or maybe it was simply something that came from his head.*  But this response would disappoint those who really wanted the painting to be of Paris, or Venice, or Rome. For some reason they had a significant investment in knowing that the painting was from the place they wanted it to be from. One man actually told Steve he was wrong, and that he knew the exact street corner in Paris where it had been painted. That would be fine if Steve had ever been to Paris. But he hasn't.

It quickly became obvious that some people who were viewing Steve's art had reasons why it was important for the painting to be of something specific and personal to them. I have admired the graceful way Steve has altered his response. Now when people say, "Where is this?" Steve gently responds with, "Where would you like for it to be?"

Sure, he is the artist and he could demand that he knows location of the painting (I painted it, I should know what it is about, damnit!), but he doesn't do that. He lets it be about the viewer, not about the artist. There is something so lovely in his response and in the way he uses his talent to make people feel happy. Or peaceful. Or romantic. Or whatever emotion they need to feel. He sets aside his pride. If someone looking at a painting needs for it to be of Venice, then it should be of Venice.

So many things in life are like that. Sometime we really need something to be what we want it to be, regardless of what it really is.

The current political climate feels that way to me. With such deep and emotional divisions, each camp seems to feel certain that 'their' candidate is the only hope for America. Except neither candidate is the only hope for America. There never has been only one hope for America in the form of a president. And there never will be. Simplistically put, one candidate addresses one set of issues. The other another set of issues. It all depends on what you want the hope for America to be.

Sometimes I listen to people argue and think that what they really want is to put a happy face sticker on the candidate of their choice without ever having to think deeply about the issues or understand the validity of the opposite position. We seem to forget that in the United States we have a system of checks and balances, not a dictatorship. Whomever is elected president has only so much influence.

When discussing the upcomming election, maybe we should move our egos out of the way and simply ask, "What would you like the hope for America to be?" 

Listen generously. Exercise your right to vote. And leave your whips and chains in the art studios where they belong.

*This comment reminds me of a passage in Jane Eyre where Mr. Rochester is examining Jane's drawings.
R: "Where did you get your copies?"
J:"Out of my head."
R:"That head I see now on your shoulders?"
J:"Yes, sir."
R:"Has it other furniture of the same kind within?"
J:"I should think it may have: I should hope — better."

Pomp and the Real Circumstances....

A while back I came across this vintage photograph of myself as a five-year old, rockin' the Mary Janes, and graduating from kindergarten. It feels a little weird to think of myself as vintage but this photo leaves no question about the era of my childhood.

It is sort of interesting, and a little unsettling, to look at a picture of my five-year old self. I don't remember participating in a kindergarten graduation ceremony. In fact, I don't actually remember being five-years old, although I'm sure I was. I have this photo to prove it. Contrary to what those who know me might believe, the one thing I do recall is that I was a rather shy and timid child. Hence the small and reserved smile. Sadly, no one knows exactly know where that child went.

Fast forward a few decades to the day I received my doctoral degree. My siblings and I worked diligently to recreate the kindergarten photo as closely as possible, just for the fun of it. Admittedly, the hardest part to match was the shy little grin. I'm not exactly known for having a subtle smile.

And that diploma I'm holding, it is the real deal. In exchange for an absurd amout of work and a ridiculous number of years, they handed me my very own diploma with my very own name on it. Spelled right and everything.

And it feels oh-so-good to have earned it.

Except, if I'm being honest, there are a lot of other names that should have been added to that diploma. Names of family and friends, the people who love me and helped me earn that degree, their names should be included as well. It would make for a very large diploma, to be sure, but it would be more accurate.

Yes, I'm the one who took all the classes, and I'm the one who fumbled around for a long time trying to design and conduct meaningful research. Yes, I'm the one who painstakingly wrote every word of the dissertation and then rewrote them all about 12,000 times. Yes, I'm the one who did that part.

But, I didn't earn the degree entirely by myself, because I didn't live in isolation. I lived among people and our messy, awkward, turbulent lives entwined in that earthy way humans have, that creates relationships, and makes life worth living. Throughout the process of writing a dissertation, I rarely cried alone because other people cared to cry with me. I didn't have to rejoice alone because my cheering squad was always at the ready. And never, never ever, did someone say to me, "Yeah, you're right. This is too hard. You should quit." Never.

And, I didn't quit.

I didn't quit because the people who love me were alongside me the entire time. From start to finish. They encouraged and supported me. They put up with me and listened when I whined. Sometimes they gave me food. They celebrated the victories and bouyed me up during the disappointments. When I needed space they kept their distance and when I needed to be held closely, they were always nearby.

We all like to receive accolades when we accomplish something big but the idea that any one of us does anything of value singlehandedly is not only a little crazy but a whole lot arrogant. We don't do things entirely on our own because we not supposed to do things entirely on our own. We are meant to be in the messy engagement of relationships. We are meant to be in communities. Our lives are meant to be braided into the lives of others. Sometimes loosly. Sometimes tightly. But always intersecting and connecting in meaningful ways. No one lives in a vacuum and no accomplishment, big or small, is done without the love, support, and encouragement of others.

The joy of the accomplishment is not that I did it alone, but that I did it. And as cliche as it may sound, it is because others believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself.

On that bright, sunny, graduation morning when my name was called and I walked across the stage to receive my diploma, there was a small outburst of cheers and hoots and, "Go Mom." But that kerfuffle wasn't just for me, it was for everyone who had helped me get to that point. It was the beautiful sound of relationship. And at that moment, life seemed almost perfect.

If only I'd been rockin' the Mary Janes.

What the World Needs Now....

A few years ago I fell in love with a man named Joe.

For the record, I'm married to a man named Steve. But I decided I would divorce Steve in order to marry Joe. This plan was complicated by the fact that Joe was a priest. Further complicated by the fact that Joe was dead.

I came to realize that what I felt for Joe wasn't a romantic love anyway. Good thing since he was celibate. What I loved about Joe was his beautiful soul and his generously offered kindness and compassion. Joe didn't judge. Joe loved. Joe didn't yell or bully or badger. Joe was grace in human form. Joe was a healer, not a destroyer.

Although Joe was a real person, I never actually met him (one more glitch in the plan of Holy Matrimony). I learned about him when I read the book Father Joe, by Tony Hendra. My friend, Debbie, gave me the book and her enthusiam for it was contagious. I couldn't wait to read it. And re-read it. And re-re-read it. And then Steve (whom I did not divorce) gave me a copy of the book on CD, read by Tony himself, and I fell in love with Joe all over again.

The thing that drew me to Joe was his ability to love. Even though he operated from a belief system, a doctrine and a religious order that had walls and boundaries and criticisms of those who didn't hold those same beliefs, Joe managed to break down those barriers and simply offer grace and love. Not just to those he agreed with. Not just to those he looked like. Not just to those he could control. He offered grace to everyone.

Everyone.

We need more Father Joes.

It is sort of like that scene in one of those Matrix movies where Mr. Smith replicates himself a zillion times and Keanu Reeves still manages not to show an ounce of emotion. I always thought the story would be better told if Neo hadn't been lobotomized prior to filming. I kept wanting to yell at the screen, "Hey Neo, dude, get a personality and then try to save the world."  But, whatever, that isn't exactly my point. My point is that in the movie the bad guy replicated himself into a whole bunch of bad guys and in our own real lives what we need is more people to replicate themselves to be like Father Joe. We need more people to offer grace and kindness. More people to listen and care and understand.

We have plenty of people being rude and mean and not bothering to listen. Particularly during this political season. It is truly ridiculous. One person yells and then the next person yells and the next and the next. Like Mr. Smith, all the nastiness keeps replicating. It is terribly loud. And annoying. And absurd. Really? Is this the best we have to offer? Are we truly unable to engage in the idea that 'the other side' might have a reasonable and viable viewpoint?

Of course not. We can all do so much better.

Here's the thing. Does all the yelling and snarkiness and criticism and fighting and dominating really change anything?  IfItalkfasterthanyoudodoesthatmakemypointgreaterthanyours? IF I YELL AND TALK OVER YOU DOES THAT CHANGE YOUR POINT OF VIEW?

No. And it never will.

But listening will. Truly listening to one another is the way to understanding. I don't mean agreeing. We won't ever all agree. Nor should we. Groupthink is dangerous. Very, very dangerous. If everyone starts thinking and believing the same thing we are in terrible trouble. Agreeing and understanding are two different things. The way to grace is understanding. The way to understanding is listening.

We all have the choice to make the world a better place. Love, understanding, grace. Those are the things that heal. Yelling, criticism, vitriol. Those are the things that destroy.

Every day we get to choose. Replicate the ugly or replicate the lovely. Each person is responsible for what they offer the world.

More Father Joe please.

Consuming Whimsy

A few days ago I took my maiden voyage to IKEA. Or, as some people like to say, I lost my IKEA virginity. I'd heard about IKEA, seen it in movies, but I'd never walked through the doors until recently. I really couldn't fathom all the excitement about a furniture store, but then I experienced it on my own and discovered that there simply isn't any accounting for reason when surrounded by cheap Scandinavian doodads made in China.

I got caught up in the consumptive frenzy that is IKEA.

It is important to point out that I'm not an entertainment shopper. By that I mean, I am not someone who shops out of boredom or habit or just for the sheer pleasure of it. I find it tedious and tiring and most of the time, if I go shopping it is because I need to find something specific.

But, lets face it, whether I like to shop or not, I'm still an American and I still buy far more 'stuff' than anyone will ever need. So while I may pride myself on not having to own the latest and greatest gadget, car, or palatial house, I hardly live a Spartan lifestyle. Especially when it comes to shoes. One need only peek inside my closet to know that I have a weakness for shoes. And all around the house my love of whimsy is all too evident. I'm a sucker for cute, silly, little things that have no purpose other than being off beat and unusual. Sadly, I'm as much as product of consumerism as anyone.

Fortunately, IKEA does not carry shoes.

Unfortunately, they do carry large, useless, plastic bowls that light up.

My first trip to IKEA came out of a desire to find a new desk. I have a perfectly fine, but aesthetically lacking, desk and having recently earned a PhD I deemed myself deserving of a new, more attractive, desk. I wanted something clean, simple, and inexpensive and even though I had avoided IKEA since it opened near my home a couple of years ago, the search for a desk seemed to warrant a trip. I truly had no idea what I was in for.

Let's just say that IKEA carries a lot of stuff.

I started feeling overwhelmed in the parking garage with its two levels and instructions on how to shop. The amusement park feel left me pondering if they should sell tickets for admission. Once inside, the cavernous, windowless structure was packed with merchandise and people. I felt a little woozy. Logic would have suggested that going to IKEA on a Saturday wasn't the best idea, but logic hadn't really played into the decision...and there I was.

I allowed myself to be hearded along the shopping path with the other shopping sheep, stopping to look at a desk here, a lamp there. And then, out of nowhere, I saw something I simply couldn't live without. I admit to being lured in by the bright yellow 'CLEARANCE' sign and the seductive $2 pricetag. But what really captivated me was the unassuming bowl that by day appeared to be a large, clear, plastic serving utensil.

But by night, this baby got its solar energy on and became this.

How could I resist? A two dollar bowl that glows in the dark? I got caught up in the moment and although I didn't go home with a desk, I did go home with my great bargain.

It wasn't until later that I started to realize I had no idea what to actually do with the bowl. There it was, my Scandanavian solar bowl, made in China, that served no earthy purpose.

Who doesn't need one of those?

I still don't know what to do with my solar bowl. When my siblings were here I intended to serve them watermelon salsa in it, anticipating the lovely red glow, but we ended up eating all of the salsa before it got dark. And I tried putting tortilla chips in it, but they just blocked the light.

I hate to admit it. I was bested by IKEA and made a completely unnecessary impulse buy.

Last night Steve and I returned to IKEA to purchase the desk that was the impetus for the original shopping trip. I found the one I wanted and headed for the checkout. I was doing very well, ignoring all the cute whimsy until this.

Damn that IKEA and their Scandinavian whimsy made in China. Consumerism wins again.

Crossing Paths: Part II

After our experience of running into people who are practically our neighbors at a college visit halfway across the United States, I started thinking about how these chance encounters play out. Sometimes I never see the people again, sometimes I develop lifelong friendships, and sometimes the situation is, for the moment, just really, really awkward.

When I first attended Michigan State University I lived in a residence hall where I made great friends; particularly my three roommates. When we left the residence hall we moved into an apartment together and had a nice little bond, although I eventually switched from being their roommate to Steve's.

One of the roommates was getting married shortly after I did, so the rest of us threw a bridal shower for her at my married housing apartment. Unbeknown to me, a stripper was hired to come and 'perform' at our little soiree. That, in and of itself, is a little weird and uncomfortable. I wasn't used to having a naked man dancing in my apartment (besides, Steve, I mean) and hiring a stripper seemed a little tacky. Which, no doubt, is why I wasn't told about it.

We heard a knock at the door and when I answered, there he stood. He was tall and attractive and for a moment I wasn't sure why a man in a shiny orange jogging suit was at my door. In response to my quizzical expression he announced that he was the stripper. Warning buzzers started going off in my head. Strange man! Bad fashion!

Stripper?

There was a lot of squealing and giggling going on around me although I was, for once in my life, speechless. Someone invited him in and instantly, the squealing stopped and the tension in the room was palpable. Thank God it wasn't just me who was uncomfortable. Maybe he wouldn't strip after all.

Two other women stared, wide-eyed, at the presently fully-clothed man standing in the middle of the living room. He stared back equally as wide-eyed.

Because it was so obvious that something very uncomfortable was going on (something besides having a stripper in my living room), someone must have asked what was wrong. It turned out that stripper man and the two staring women had all been childhood friends. They had grown up and played together in the same neighborhood. He had been one of their brother's best friends. And now here he was, about to bare all, literally, in front of them.

It seemed that once we knew of their association we could have let the guy off the hook with just a cordial handshake but apparently everyone else in the room felt the party must go on. I wasn't sure how they could do this! I didn't want to see the guy naked and I hadn't even grown up with him! What was wrong with these people?? He was going to take his clothes off in front of his childhood friends? I'm pretty sure my anxiety was off the charts just about then.

Apparently a job is a job and the next thing I knew his portable boom box was blaring and he was strutting around in my 10' x 10' living room, wriggling and thrusting out of his horrible orange jogging suit and down to his skivvies. Whew, okay. At least he was still wearing those.

And then off came the skivvies.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I didn't know which was worse, the shiny orange jogging suit, or him not wearing the shiny orange jogging suit.

I don't remember how long the whole stripping performance lasted. Probably not long since he was wearing only three pieces of clothing. I guess at some point he had to take off his shoes and socks but I don't recall him doing so in a slithery, seductive fashion. All I remember is that once his clothes were off he sat on my couch to catch up on old times with his former friends. Just sat there.

Buck naked.

I remember thinking, "Hey, get your naked ass off my furniture!! I don't know where it has been! And cover that thing uuuuupppppp!!!!"  I was miserable. Nobody else seemed to care. Apparently, once they saw him naked there wasn't anything else to do but reminisce about the old days. Because, sure, isn't that how everyone would respond?

How long this went on, I don't remember. But I recall being glad when he left. I couldn't shake the awkwardness of the women knowing him. Surely there was a pool of strippers who could have shown up at my apartment that night. Why did it end up being that one? And why, after the initial shock wore off, weren't these women more uncomfortable with it?!

Except for my original three roommates, who have remained lifelong friends, I don't think I ever saw the people involved in that awkward evening again. I don't know if stripper man ever got a more socially acceptable job or if he kept getting naked for his neighbors.

I do hope he retired the shiny orange jogging suit, though.

Crossing Paths: Part I

On the evening prior to our recent college visit at Michigan State, Anna and I had a what to wear conversation. Granted, on the shallow-to-deep spectrum this conversation barely registers but sometimes the matter just needs to be discussed. This particular conversation involved a decision about whether to look cute or be comfortable. Since we had packed so sparingly I wasn't sure there was a way to do both.

The primary source of concern was footwear. I was debating wearing tennis shoes since we would be going on a walking tour of campus. Tennis shoes weren't really going to enhance the cuteness of any outfit I had brought along on the trip but they would make traipsing around on foot far less tiring. Ultimately, for me, comfort won out over style. Although I had made my decision, Anna was still debating what she would do. I said, (and I quote), "Well, it isn't like you are going to see anyone you know anyway."  Why this would matter, I'm not sure. But I said it.

Had I been writing a novel, this would have been a moment of foreshadowing.

The next day we arrived at the information session a little early. I was picking up literature and flitting around in my usual manner which involves unintential behaviors such as dropping things, running into people, and tripping. My family has come to expect this so they usually find ways to be as far away from me as possible. True to form, Anna and Steve were sitting down, pretending not to be with me. When I found and caught up with them, Anna commented that she thought she knew a girl in the room.

Oh right!

I thought she was kidding, picking up on my comment from the night before. But she said she was serious and pointed out a thin, dark haired girl. I couldn't help but notice that she had on cute flip-flops. As did her mother.

Oh sure, her mother opted for cute over comfort.

The presentation started and afterward we were divided into smaller groups, according to the color-coded dots on our nametags, for the walking tour. It happened that the girl Anna recognized was assigned to the same group we were. As we walked I kept trying, unsuccessfully, to read the future coed's nametag which stated both her name and hometown. Her long hair kept covering up the information despite my less than elegant attempts to see it but, I was able to catch a glimpse of her mother's nametag and noticed it said: Centennial, CO.

Really? People from Centennial, Colorado were at Michigan State on the same day, in June, for prospective student tour, that we were?  What are the odds of that happening?

It goes without saying that I struck up a conversation with the woman, more out of disbelief that this had really happened than anything else. Turns out the girl and Anna had attended middle school together. They had gone to different high schools but still recognized one another from a few years ago.

So there I stood at Michigan State University, looking like a geek in my tennis shoes, talking to a woman whose daughter goes to high school a mile from my house. Again I ask, what are the odds? When I mentioned that we would be going to the University of Michigan information session the next day they said they would also.

Of course they would.

I'm not the kind of person who can have something like that happen without wondering why. I realize that I might never see those people again. I probably won't ever know why our paths crossed, why they attended an information session at a university 1500 miles away from home on the very same day we did.

But not knowing doesn't keep me from wondering. Was there a reason? Was there something happening, cosmically, behind the scenes? Something more than reminding me of the importance of wearing cute shoes, I mean.

I'll probably never know.

Likewise I'll probably never know why a few months ago when I was at the grocery store I saw Anna's 3rd grade teacher, Miss Bowman. I hadn't seen her for several years although for a time she had been an important part of our family's special occasions. When Anna sang with the Colorado Children's Chorale we invited Miss Bowman to attend concerts. She had dinner with us and participated in other family events. We lost touch after her retirement but one day there she was in the check-out line at King Soopers. We spent a good amount of time visiting and catching up before going our separate ways. And then, the very next time I went to the grocery store...there she was...in the bread isle! We hardly had anything to say, having caught up just a week earlier, except to marvel at seeing one another again.

And then...just like that....I stopped seeing her.

Weird.

I'll probably never know the reason.

But, I'm sure there is one.

Shades of Blue

I'm trying to learn to be more tolerant of other people's perspectives. I really am. I don't always do such a great job. But, I'm trying.

We live in largely intolerant society and we are conditioned to be intolerant of other perspectives. It is a hard habit to break. Civilized communication seems to be fading as people shout, call names, and disparage. It really seems we could approach differences with a little more understanding.

In fact, I hesitate to use the word 'intolerant' because it concerns me that the anti-PC people reading this will be intolerant with the fact that I said 'intolerant' because somehow tolerance has taken on a negative connotation when used in the context of undertanding people other than ourselves. There seems to be something threatening in trying to see another person's perspective.

Which is really sort of crazy if you think about it. Most of us want to be heard and understood but, if I write you off as an idiot because you hold a different perspective from mine and I don't try to see things from your point of view, and you do the same to me, we won't ever understand one another or change the world for the better because we are only seeing the world from one angle. But what if the world could be equally as good from another angle?

If I say the sky is one color and you say the sky is another color, does the color of the sky change or does our perception of the color of the sky change? And does it matter what color the sky is, or is the important point that I understand why you think the sky is one color while I think it is another.

An example.

A number of years ago Steve's oldest brother, Bruce, decided to get married. This was a surprise  since we were pretty sure he was a confirmed bachelor. But, one day he up and got engaged and ruined that theory.

A flurry of planning went into effect and Bruce asked Steve to stand up as his Best Man. Then Bruce asked if Charles and Parker would be Junior Groomsmen. I wasn't really sure what a Junior Groomsman was (just a Groomsman who hadn't hit puberty, I guessed) but we agreed to let them fill that role. Anna was asked to be a Flower Girl. Bruce apologized for not being able to find a suitable part for me to play. I assured him that my hands were full being the Mother of the Wedding Party and just making sure everyone had on underwear.

My children. Not the wedding guests.

Anyway, Bruce asked Steve and the boys to go to a tuxedo shop in Colorado to get measured for their wedding attire. Bruce said the tuxedos he had chosen were sky blue. When Steve relayed this information to me I expressed my horror. "SKY BLUE? You are wearing sky blue tuxedos??? With platform shoes and ruffled shirts as well?"  I couldn't contain my opinion that sky blue tuxedos were definately a wedding fashion 'don't!'   But, it wasn't my wedding.

We went to the tuxedo shop for measurements and while there, the sales clerk showed us a photograph of the chosen tuxedos. I started laughing when I saw the photo of a lovely, classy, grey tuxedo (on an impossibly handsome model, of course). Sky blue?

And then it dawned on me. I live in Colorado where almost every day the sky is a bright, crisp, beautiful blue. Bruce, on the other hand, lives in Michigan where, due to being surrounded by lakes, the atmospheric conditions create clouds and grey, overcast skies on most days. When he said 'sky blue' he meant Michigan sky blue. When I heard 'sky blue' I thought Colorado sky blue.

Same words; different meanings.

Now granted, the color of wedding attire isn't as significant as the issues heating up our current culture wars but it does make me think about my response to what other people say. If I just listen and try to understand what color sky they are talking about and why they see the sky that color, instead of rushing to an immediate judgement, I might be pleasantly surprised by what I find.

My sky blue probably won't ever be grey. It probably won't ever be my choice for what color the sky should be. I probably won't ever even like grey as a color for they sky and should it be brought to a vote, I certainly wouldn't vote for grey. But I probably don't have to scream, and mock, and disparage you if you do like grey. Defining what color sky blue is for you isn't my job.

But then, neither is making sure you have on underwear.

Travelogue: The Last Leg

Following our visit to Michigan State, we had scheduled a tour at the University of Michigan. All this scheduling and making reservations was starting to wear on me. Thus far not much on the trip had been spontaneous and while we had been having a lot of fun, I was ready for a little less structure. Nevertheless, we were looking forward to visiting U of M. Neither Steve nor I had spent much time there when we were younger and we were all curious to see if it would be a good fit for Anna.

It was another gloriously beautiful day and, while U of M was different from MSU, we enjoyed the tour of campus. Our rosy-cheeked guide picked up the enthusiasm where I’d left off previously so exuberance remained in good supply. Anna was impressed with the campus and we ended the tour by finding a delicious Mediterranean restaurant. In all it was another lovely, informative, and delightful day.

We had planned to move on to the western coast of Michigan to explore the Grand Traverse Bay area the following day. This was where our planning had ended. We didn’t know where our final few days would take us and we were open to just seeing what seemed interesting.

Meanwhile, we were keeping up with what was happening at home. Parker had flown back to Colorado and we had been getting updates about the wildfires from both the boys and the news. It was such a sad story. Beautiful Colorado with vibrant blue skies and fragrant green forests was being roasted by multiple forest fires and soaring three digit temperatures. Homes were burning, animals were flooding shelters, acres of forest were being destroyed. I cried every time I heard the news. I couldn’t do anything to stop the fires but my soul was troubled by it all. I called some friends, whose home I knew was only a wind shift away from being in the fire’s path, to find out how they were faring. They had prepared as best they could, putting things they considered valuable in storage and waiting to see what each moment would bring. I was on vacation but I was hearing news of the heat. And the fire. And the smoke.

Nero kept coming to mind.

We spent the following day in the Traverse City area and that evening over a dinner of cherry pie (we were in Traverse City, afterall!) there was a certain look in each of our eyes. A look that said it was time to go home. Although we had planned to have a few more 'unplanned' days on the road, we all agreed that we had done what we wanted to do and seen what we wanted to see. Our hearts now just wanted to return to our beloved Colorado, scorched and hot as it was.

It didn’t make a lot of sense. Longings of the heart often don’t. I wanted to see my man-children, my cats, and my home, feeling especially thankful for what I have when so many had lost so much.

The next morning we pointed our little Jeep west and searched its interior for a recorded book to listen to. Oddly, the only thing we could find was Fahrenheit 451. The hours and miles passed while we listened to Guy Montag wrestle with himself as firemen burned books. On day two, we crossed over the Colorado border just the sun was going down. A smoky haze filled the sky, creating an intense orange sunset, and we were content to be back where we belong.

We had accomplished a lot on our two-week road trip. Our travels were safe, we had ample time to laugh, Steve found places he did and did not want to pursue art, Anna had two additional colleges to consider, we’d seen Steve’s father, and eaten more than our share of fudge. The weather had been perfect, I’d whined only a little, and our joy containers were full to the brim.

In the end, though, we had come back to what we love most. Although currently as hot as hell, this is our little bit of heaven.

Travelogue: On The Banks of the Red Cedar

The view of Mackinac Island as our ferry boat pulled away looked like this.

Which made leaving on such a bright and beautiful day hard to do. But, we boarded out ferry boat and set out for 'the mainland.'  I laughed when I heard people call the lower peninsula that. Regardless, we got back to the boat dock, retrieved our luggage, and set out for the slightly less scenic suburbs of Detroit.

Steve's dad lives in Northville. Not exactly 'the hood,' Northville is far enough removed from Detroit that you don't really notice the devistation the last few years have taken on the city. Northville is a sleepy little town; quiet, and quaint in its own right. At 88, Steve's father still lives in the home their family moved into over forty years ago. He drives locally a bit, gardens, mows his own yard, shovels his own snow, and takes care of all his own business. He's happy and self-sufficient, doesn't complain, and is generally delightful to be around.

I refer to him as the 'Anti-Mommie Dearest.'

While visiting him, we also took Anna on  a college visit to Michigan State University. Steve and I both graduated from MSU so the trip to campus was fun and nostalgic at the same time. During the walking tour I think I might have gotten a little excited and animated as I offered stories about my former MSU days. Other people on the tour started distancing themselves from me and smiling in that not-so-friendly-would-you-please-shut-up sort of way. But I still had trouble containing my enthusiasm.

It might have hit its peak when we entered Erickson Hall and I started gushing about it. "Oh look, its Erickson Hall!" Anna was a little confused by my display of emotion over Erickson Hall since it is one of the more benign buildings on campus. But, that is where I had spent many hours earning my Master's degree and being in it brought back good memories.

In fact, being on campus left me with very warm and genuinely positive feelings. I realized, as we walked through areas of campus I haven't seen in several years, that this is where my life had taken a significant turn for the better.

My first year of higher education had been at a small liberal arts college where I was absolutely miserable. Prior to my freshman year I had been able to neatly contain my feelings about a painful childhood and my father's suicide. But, during that first year of college, cracks formed in my emotional container and before long the fear and sadness hurt started escaping, slowly at first, and then later in a near hemorrhage.

Not knowing what to do, I opted to transfer to a different school. I wanted a place large enough to offer a level of anonymity and an opportunity to evaluate my life. I chose MSU and after moving there, the healing started. It would take many more years to come to terms with the past, but it was there that I began to understand who I am, apart from who I'd been told I was. It was there that I learned to laugh. To find joy and to relax into living. It was there that I started to know and like the young woman I'd become. Ultimately I earned a Bachelor's degree, a Master's degree, met and married my husband, and started unpacking the rather large set of emotional baggage I'd carried through early life.

The other people on our campus tour couldn't have known all that though. What they saw was an overzealous alumna who, seemingly, had forgotten to medicate before the visit. I tried to care what they thought.

But, I couldn't.

A little part of me was home.

Next stop: The University of Michigan

Travelogue: The Straits of Mackinac

We said goodbye to  Door County and travelled north through the lush, tree-lined roads of Wisconsin entering Michigan through the Upper Peninsula. It was a leisurely and lovely drive. But, it had been several hours of driving and when we got to Mackinaw City we were hungry so, after checking into our hotel, we set out to find some dinner. The clouds were, admittedly, ominous and pretty much screamed rain but when Steve suggested driving to find a place to eat I insisted that after being cooped up in the car for several hours I could not fathom driving anywhere else. My family exchanged glances that included the tiniest hint of eye-rolling and we set out on foot. Needless to say, it started raining. Hard. My gracious and compassionate family probably didn’t mock me at all as we walked back to the hotel while getting drenched.

The next morning we boarded our ferry boat for Mackinac Island. It was a beautiful, crystal clear day as we zipped across the straits, Charles in tow. While relaxing on the boat, and admiring the water, I practiced my multi-tasking skills by eavesdropping on the man sitting in front of me. He was explaining to another man that he and his wife had just gotten married and, being older, they had invited their children and grandchildren on a ‘family honeymoon.’ Now, they were headed to Mackinac Island for the, ‘real honeymoon.’  I listened to his story and thought to myself that it was a rather charming story. No "Somewhere In Time," perhaps, but sweet anyway. My reverie ended with me thinking about how darling it was that a nice older couple like that could find happiness so late in life. A few minutes later I was snapped back to reality when I realized that they were probably my age. Well...there you have it. The story wasn’t any less sweet after that revelation. It was just one of many reminders of how frequently I forget my age. I silently wished them many years of happiness as we exited the ferry.

Once on the island we checked into our hotel and then opted to take advantage of the perfect and uncharacteristic weather. Spectacular blue skies, seventy degree temps, and low humidity made me forget I was in Michigan. Often overcast and muggy, Michigan weather was  behaving a bit more like Colorado! No complaints from us.  But, we certainly didn't want to waste the 'too good to be true' day so we rented bicycles and pedaled around the island. Parker and Anna chose a tandem bike for their journey, making easy work of the ride.

Toward the end of the ride we switched.

Along the way we made a few stops to enjoy the beach and for Parker to instruct Anna in the fine art of skipping stones. Parker is an accomplished stone skipper and while I'm not entirely sure how that will serve him throughout his life, Anna just never quite qot the hang of it. Her stones landed with a loud thud about a foot in front of her. Good thing she has singing to fall back on.

Following our delightful bike ride we opted out of the weird tourist shops although I admit we did sample some fudge. We made up a ruse about needing to sample all the fudge shops in order to find the best one. Good thing we are so clever. None of the other zillion tourists to Mackinc Island have done that before, I'm sure!  

Charles was awarded the job of 'Fudge Judge'  and I'm fairly certain we were deemed the day's most annoying tourists. And really, who could argue?

Having had our fill of fudge, we set out on a hike to the highest point on the island which afforded spectacular and praise worthy views like this.

And this.

We ended our day sitting by the water, sipping on Mackinc Island Fudge Stout, appreciating our good fortune, and pretty much loving life.

The next morning we watched as the sleepy little island awoke slowly and then starting bustling with tourists. By then it was time for us to go. We said goodbye and moved on to our next stop:

Grandpa's House, Northville, MI.