Were the 70s Necessary?

When I read that Robin Gibb had died the other day, I admit, I probably didn’t give him his due. Instead, I responded as any good little narcissist would and began to reflect on my life as it relates to the musical success of the Brothers Gibb.  Their high point contrasted against my low point. I’ve never been a Bee Gees fan.

It isn’t that I disliked the falsetto sound of the Bee Gees. But I wouldn’t exactly say I liked it either. As I took a brief journey back in time I realized that the somewhat strident songs of Robin, Barry, and Maurice in some ways mirrored the strident sounds of my own emotional song. During that era, anyway. Robin and his brothers never left me with warm, cozy feelings. The problem wasn’t the Bee Gee’s, though. The problem was my life.

The 70s wasn’t really my decade.

For me the era was fraught with darkness, sadness, and fear. I wasn’t a happy soul and as I remember it, Vietnam, Watergate, and long lines at gas pumps made for significant cultural and economic depression as well. I spent the better part of the 70s feeling as though I was suffocating. There just wasn’t enough air. The Bee Gees were crooning about staying alive; I was trying my hardest to do so. If not physically, certainly emotionally. It is difficult for me to use the words ‘happy’ and ‘childhood’ in the same sentence. My parents weren’t bad people, they just skipped the part in the parenting handbood that said they should nurture their children with at least as much investment as their mental illnesses and addictions.

And, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, in the latter part of the70s, I started getting asked out on dates by young men in terrible, shiny, Quina shirts. If that doesn’t make you question the purpose of life, I don’t know what does! One in particular stands out. Shirt, I mean. I don’t recall the young man’s name. I don’t actually recall going on a date with him. I don’t even remember what he looked like. All I can conjure is his horrible polyester shirt. There I was, terrified of life because of a messed up childhood, a screwed up family, a dead father, a mother who considered me burden, and now dates with young men in disco shirts.

Truly, it is a wonder I survived.

But I did. By moving far, far away from the madness and drama. By learning to breathe. And laugh. By praying a lot and by figuring out that joy and pain can be all mixed up together; and acknowledging and telling the truth about both makes for a richer life. I discovered that I could learn from sadness and be thankful for what it taught me. I learned that sometimes people hurt me on purpose and sometimes they do it out of ignorance but, either way, it is what I do with the hurt that matters in the end.

Most importantly, I learned to forgive.

Most of the time. Once in a while I briefly wallow in anger and bitterness about the past but then I find it robs me of joy and life and love in the present. And those things are just too important today for me hold on to old hurts from yesterday. So I release them and let them go. Until the next time I feel like wallowing. It’s not a perfect system, but it is honest.

I can usually turn those feelings around without much effort these days. I left my mother’s home at age 17. I’ve had more than enough good years to make up for the crummy ones growing up.

There have not, however, been enough years of good fashion to compensate for iconic 70s disco shirts. Those things still traumatize me.

Queen(ish) for a Day

I had an epiphany the other day. Perhaps not a world changing revelation, but I became aware that at some point in time I had developed the misguided idea that massage therapy is about luxurious pampering and indulgence, not about actual wellness.

Granted, this realization didn’t have any far-reaching consequences. Nor had I been pondering it for any length of time. This realization occurred to me while lying, naked, under a sheet as a masseuse kneaded deeply and somewhat painfully into the washboard muscles of my upper back. This was definitely not pampering. And, lacking a propensity toward sadomasochism, it didn’t fall into the indulgence category either. I wasn’t entirely sure how to define the experience as it was happening.

When it was all said and done, it isn’t that I minded being roughed up at the hands of a tiny, older woman, not much larger than an eight year old. It just wasn’t what I was expecting. I’d never had a professional massage before. Other people had mention it but it seemed indulgent and I hadn’t given it much thought. Not that I think I'm unworthy. I'm not, I just hadn’t before considered giving myself this particular benevolence.

Sometime along about February, though, when it was still snowing and cold and my dissertation seemed like an endless project that would torment me for all eternity, sort of like the damnation of doctoral studies, I saw a Living Social deal for an inexpensive massage at a location near my home and I decided, impulsively, to buy it.

The point in buying it was to treat myself to something decadent after walking through the fiery streets of dissertation hell. I figured my choices were to use it upon finishing the manuscript, as a celebratory indulgence where I would be doted upon lavishly in sort of ‘queen-for-a day’ reverence; or upon deciding the task was impossible and quitting, as a healing balm of merciful self-pity.

Ultimately, celebratory indulgence won out.

Once I successfully completed my dissertation defense, I made an appointment for the massage, feeling perfectly entitled in offering myself this charity. I anticipated the royal massage treatment.

On the morning of the appointment, the friendly, albeit miniature, massage therapist showed me to a rather austere, dimly lit room with a bed in the center. Well, okay. This wasn’t the ambiance I had expected. She left and I undressed, scuttled under the sheet, and waited. A few minutes later she came in the room and started the massage. She was very professional and explained what she was doing, which one part of my brain appreciated. The other part, however, started whining and asking things like, “Hey, where is the candlelight? The aromatherapy oils? Don’t I get wine with this?”

I had to remind myself it was 9 am.

In retrospect I realize that I had something much more sensual in mind. As the therapist kneaded my upper back she asked if I could feel the ‘crunchy’ sensation. Yes, I could. And, it hurt. She explained what she was doing to release the series of knots my muscles contained. Turns out that stress and writing for hours, too many to count, had caused me to contract my upper back muscles until they formed tight little bundles compacted so nicely that my shoulders were nearly touching my earlobes.

Her strong and tiny hands worked out many of the kinks and I left the appointment with my shoulders where they were originally meant to be. When it was over, the experience had benefitted me much better than my fantasies of being transported on a palanquin, being fed peeled grapes would have and I repeated an oft learned lesson that reality and perceived reality can be two different things.

Truthfully though, I haven’t yet decided if massage therapy will become a regular part of my lifestyle. I might incorporate it for the health benefits it provides. If I do I’ll know what to expect. And I’m pretty sure my shoulders would eventually remember to stay put instead of creeping skyward. I'm not sure what I'll do.

But next time, if there is a next time, even if I’m naked....I’m wearing a crown.

Thrilling My Soul....

“And whosoever shall be found without the soul for getting down…”

Last night I got to watch a group of high school students lumbering and lurching across a stage in bloody costumes with vacant eyes and tattered clothing. This was not their typical behavior, I promise. They were performing Thriller before a delighted audience.

For me, it really doesn’t get much better than that. So much fun. Granted, I’m a sucker for zombies and vampires and werewolves (Twilight, excepted, thank you). I have huge romantic crush on the Frankenstein monster with all of his depth of feeling and looking for love in all the wrong places which, I’ve been told more than once, is a little weird. I don’t deny it. But, honestly, my soul was fed by watching the walking dead.

It isn’t so much that they performed Thriller (which I love) it was just the pure joy they exhibited while doing it. My favorite part was when the female victim was running through the audience to avoid the zombie clan and stopped to adjust her sagging ponytail. Always try to look your best when being persued by soulless creatures.

While I appreciate a well done professional production, there is something about the earnestness and raw talent of high school students that delights me to the core. And let’s face it…taking on Thriller is ambitious. Kudos to the choir director for putting it out there. Kudos to the students for giving it their all. When the zombies started trudging onto the stage the audience erupted into exuberant shouts and applause, which just spurred those zombies on to greater lurching and stiff, jerky dancing.

I could relate.

I used to see a man I know at high school performances. His son graduated so he no longer attends but when he did, he always looked like he was facing a firing squad. Well, he sort of always looks like that anyway, but he was appallingly rude and left immediately after his son’s performance every time, claiming he simply couldn’t endure the rest of the ‘talent.’ I’d like to say I feel sorry for him for not being able to enjoy the refreshing spirit of the students. The truth is, I don’t feel sorry for him. I would, however, like to knock the stick out of his butt. But that’s not my job.

This is the same man who, when he led the church choir I participated in, said something I disagreed with and I spoke out publicly in opposition to him. A few minutes later he prayed that God would silence the voice of Satan in the room. Since I was the only other person to speak out besides him, I’m guessing I was the one with the tail and pitchfork. Hmmm….misogyny anyone? Fortunately I look good in red. Anyway, it was the same arrogance he displayed toward me that kept him from being able to take in and enjoy the effort of any student, besides his own child, who poured heart and soul into their art.

His loss.

I love a high school play. So what if the accents are less than believable and the leading man is three inches shorter and 30 pounds lighter than the female love interest. For me, it is all about the passion students put into the roles and the sets and the music. They are trying it out. They are taking off their day-to-day masks and putting on different, fresher ones. In the sometimes terrifying world of adolescence they get to legitimately try out being someone else without fear of rejection. And some of them are exceptionally talented. If we can put away our critical selves, we can appreciate the joy of the effort as well as the pleasure of true talent.

In addition to Thriller, last night’s performance was a combination of choral numbers and individual acts. A talent show of sorts. The students used their gifts for no other purpose than to offer the best of what they have. Which is really all any of us are asked to do if you think about it.

Use our gifts. Do our best. Find our soul for gettin’ down.

I'm in.

Mama Don't Dance

I have tremendous respect for people who can dance. Not people who wiggle their bodies around suggestively; that doesn’t require much talent. I mean people who artfully tell a beautiful, clever, or tragic story through various forms of dance. I can’t do that. If I attempt to dance, people assume I am having a seizure and start trying to stick a pencil in my mouth.

It isn’t pretty.

As a budding teenager, Parker was part of a competitive dance troupe. He spent hours upon hours at the dance studio every week, practicing. I spent weekend after weekend in dark, musty-smelling, hotel ballrooms with flashing lights and ear-splitting music, watching little girls wearing far too much sparkly makeup, perform their art. They were young and somewhat unrefined but I enjoyed the way they were learning to express themselves through fluid…and sometimes not-so-fluid…motion.

Of course, when Parker took the stage, I really didn’t notice those sparkly girls anymore. He was a fabulous dancer and one of the few boys that age with enough confidence to withstand mean-spirited labeling in order to do what he enjoyed. Regardless, it was during those years of watching dancers that I came to realize what a beautiful, expressive, challenging art form dance is.

I started to think about expressing myself through dance.

Not that I had dreams of becoming a middle-aged dancer. I didn’t. I didn’t have aspirations of performing before an audience wearing a tutu. Okay…maybe I wanted to wear the tutu but I could do without the audience. There was just something so beautiful about the idea of using dance as self-expression.

So, I considered learning to dance. Alone. In my kitchen. Not in my underwear, a’la Tom Cruise, but maybe by trying out some lovely, evocative, lyrical moves as a way to tap into deep inner emotions. It seemed doable. But then my pinch-faced, wet-blanket, inner judge strutted in, laughing and mocking, and summarily shutting down any notions of me being anything other than ‘the girl with two left feet.’ Whatever Parker had lacked in the way of an inner-judge, I more than made up for. And after listening to her discouraging words, I didn’t attempt to dance at all.

So much for self-expression and deep inner emotions.

The truth is, that nasty inner-judge had shut down a lot of other ideas over the years. I didn’t like her very much. She was mean. And she didn’t want me to be who I was. She wanted me to be somebody else, less free-spirited, and more insecure. I didn’t want to be who she wanted me to be, and eventually, I tried to stop listening. When she started shutting down my ideas, I just turned away. When she said I wasn’t good enough or pretty enough or smart enough, I tried to ignore her. And sure enough, the less I listened, the less she spoke.

Eventually she stopped demanding unattainable perfection. She stopped telling me not to try things. She started accepting me the way I am and the way I look. In fact, the older I get the more she seems to like me. These days she has less to say about external beauty and more to say about love and grace and joy.

My inner judge and I are getting along pretty well now. We are embracing age together. I like her. She likes me. We find the same things funny. Especially when we are dancing together in the kitchen. Turns out, she’s as lousy at dancing as I am. But now, neither of us care. We glide and twirl and trip and stumble, happily and freely. Self-expression and inner emotions are the order of the day. There simply is no judgment.

I like the way things have turned out and what I’ve learned along the way. And I like being able to express myself in whatever form I choose. Life is so much richer when we just let go and live.

No need to grab your pencils. I’m just dancing.

Downward Dog Dunce

I’m deformed.

All right, maybe that is a bit dramatic but, due to some genetic weirdness in my spine I have occasional muscle spasms in my back. Lots of people have muscle spasms, mine just happen to have been handed down to me along with mousy brown hair and detached earlobes. I like my earlobes just fine and I discovered the magic of chemical hair processing before I was old enough to wear a bra so, on the whole, I’ve either accepted what I’ve been given or found ways around it. Not so much with the back thing. The spasms have occurred, intermittently, for most of my life and for years people have suggested I do yoga as a way to manage it. For years I’ve ignored the suggestion.

It’s not that I have anything against yoga. I just couldn’t envision myself doing it very well. Neither my mind nor my body is quite that limber. Physically, I’m the proverbial bull in a china shop, and the notion of getting my brain to settle down and think only one or two thoughts at a time is challenging, but emptying it of all thought and getting to a meditative state is just laughable. I knew it wasn’t something I’d be good at. And like most people, I don’t make a point of trying out things I know I’ll do poorly. But, a bout of spasms came on recently, worse than usual and requiring drugs stronger than Advil, so I began to think about giving yoga a chance after all. I decided to try out a class or two.

As a neophyte, I thought yoga was yoga. I had no idea there were different styles and levels. In my search for a class, however, I saw several different types listed. At the time my back was in an active spasm complete with a highly excitable sciatic nerve, but I figured I had to start sometime, so I picked a class. Once I hobbled in the room, though, I decided it might be a good idea to check with the instructor about the wisdom of participating. I explained my situation and she, in turn, explained that I had chosen an advanced yoga class for my introduction. Of course I had.

There I was, slightly cocked to the left while my overzealous back muscles maintained a constant state of contraction, about to embark on an advanced level yoga class for the first time. Maybe I should have reconsidered. But the instructor was encouraging and told me to just do what I could, so I figured I might as well try. Besides, I had the pants.

Not that I had gone out and purchased yoga pants just for this occasion. I hadn’t. I had gone out and purchased yoga pants a while back when, after weeks of sitting at my computer working on my dissertation, my jeans had all begun to cut off circulation. I could breathe again. So, while I hadn’t gotten yoga pants for yoga, here they were, on my body and ready to help me. Truly, the right outfit can give you confidence to do anything. It's like magic. I slowly got on the floor for my first yoga class.

I started the class crouched on the floor in child’s pose. I ended the class crouched on the floor in child’s pose. And I spent most of the time in between crouched on the floor in child’s pose. Perhaps I needed to start at a more beginning level.

On day two I attended a class designed for beginners. My back had calmed down a bit and I hoped I could perform the asanas reasonably well. The instructor was a woman older than I and about a third my size. She spoke in a low, calm monotone, and folded herself into positions that were surely not meant for the human body. Several times during the class I thought, you have got to be freaking kidding! I might have said it out loud a time or two which, I guess you aren’t supposed to do in a meditative yoga class. Regardless, the teeny-tiny-rubber-woman was gracious toward me and occasionally gave me quiet little hints when I was doing things backwards. It was humbling, to say the least.

I tried yet a different class on day three and this time while attempting to stand on one leg and extend my arms out in front of me as the other leg stretched out behind me, I ended up toppling over, letting out a little shriek, and catching myself to prevent falling to the floor. Whatever peaceful place others in the class had reached, they were all snapped back to reality by the awkward blond woman in the corner whose body was hurling across the room. I had been correct in my assumption I’d be a moronic yogini.

I didn’t think I’d be good at yoga and I was right. In fact, I am terrible at it. So far I’ve learned nothing about mediating but I’m learning a lot about humility. I don’t really like being the unintentional yoga class clown. If I keep at it long enough, maybe I’ll settle down and reap the benefits to body, soul, and mind. But if I accomplish nothing more than keeping back spasms at bay, that is good enough. Although we don't like to admit it, sometimes it’s okay to just be good enough.

So, while it is true that nobody will ever call me Swami Sue. If I want to, I can imagine I'm gracefully folding into pretzel shapes and drifting into a state of mindlessness.

I am, afterall, wearing magic yoga pants.

A Cerebral Story

I love a party. One of my greatest joys in life is having something to celebrate with people I love. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy to constitute a party. Okay, it doesn’t actually even have to be something real. Sometimes I invent things to celebrate, just for the fun of having a party. This year, Anna and I attempted to make fortune cookies in honor of the Chinese New Year. The attempt was fruitless and the cookies were a disaster. I later reflected that it might have been the Universe’s attempt at letting me know I shouldn’t try and co-opt a holiday about which I have absolutely no knowledge, heritage, or history. That could be it. Or maybe I just don’t follow directions very well. Regardless, we had something of a celebration, despite of the unfortunate cookies.

The same spirit of celebration overtook me a few years ago when I had a party to honor my friend’s uterus. She was scheduled to have a hysterectomy and I thought, seeing as how her uterus had served her well in housing two precious sons during gestation as well as admirably performing whatever other duties a uterus performs, it was only right and proper to have a party to celebrate it before it tottered off into oblivion. Well, the proper part might be questionable. Nevertheless, our party consisted of poetry and songs for her uterus and, in general, a spirit of thankfulness for a uterine job well done.

Weird. I know.

I’m not sure how many people actually have parties in celebration of their organs. I suspect not many but, somehow, in my social circles, it just doesn’t seem to be that peculiar. Hence the recent Brain Party, honoring the grey matter of a dear friend. Whereas the Uterus Party was intended to say goodbye to a beloved body part, the Brain Party was in celebration of a generous cerebral healing.

I live in a neighborhood that has been home to many wonderful people. Some have come and gone but, typically, those attracted to buying a house in our neighborhood are true ‘salt of the earth’ types. If the world were full of people as lovely as the ones I’ve been blessed to live around, it would forever be a most gracious and kind place. When our children were growing up, we had several families on our block which made up a community in the truest sense of the word. We looked after one another’s kids, loved and cared for each other, and shared what we had; wheelbarrows, articles of clothing, ketchup. Whatever one person needed, someone else had it to loan. We knew, instinctively, when marriages were strained, when finances were challenged, and when sitting on the porch with a glass of wine for some conversation, laughter, and tears was no longer a luxury, but a necessity.

Over time our community changed as the children grew up and families moved to other neighborhoods, but many of us maintained our friendship long after addresses changed. In particular, we’ve stayed close with two couples who lived across the street from us and last year we were shocked to hear that our friend and former neighbor, Kathy, had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. We watched in wonder as Kathy unflappably planned for surgery and a lengthy recovery. Because she is, by nature, painstaking and giving with others, she was surrounded by people eager to help in whatever way they could. Long lists of friends volunteered to prepare meals and provide whatever support was necessary. Her family was sure to be well taken care of during the ordeal, which was nothing short of what Kathy would offer to anyone in similar need. The day of surgery arrived and Kathy’s family and friends nervously waited for results. The benign tumor was successfully removed and Kathy began the arduous process of recovery. The months passed with ups and downs but recently Kathy and her brain fully returned to health; her healing complete.

And so, it seemed only natural to have a party to celebrate Kathy’s amazing, healthy, and tumor free cerebrum! Amid much food and wine we shared stories and memories and laughter. What wonderful laughter, ringing out loudly and joyfully in a house full of friends and love. As I listened, I realized that all six adults were there as well as all eight of our children. Everyone was together, taking part in and enjoying the varied and lively conversation, the shared memories woven together through time, and the comfortable sense of being with those we love. And there in the middle of it all sat Kathy, as beautiful as ever, with her sharp wit, her disarming humor, and her ever-present munificence.

I paused in the midst of the clamor to take in the blessing of relationships, and families, and healing, and health. Those things we often take for granted in spite of their precarious existence. It was a celebration of Kathy’s healthy brain…and so much more.

I’ll probably find something else to celebrate soon. Maybe I’ll co-opt someone else’s holiday again. Or maybe I’ll throw another party for a body part. Perhaps I’ll have an impromptu celebration of a pretty new string of garden lights the way I did a few years ago. It doesn’t much matter the reason because, in the end, all it really boils down to is a celebration of life.

Fragile, beautiful, and fleeting….life.

Party on.

Don't Try This At Home....

Life has a way of soothing our weary souls, just when we need it, by giving us little things that force us not to take ourselves so seriously. Simple situations that encourage us not to be uptight, but to laugh instead, and remember that few things are worth losing our joy over. It’s those little snippets that change our perspective and add some much needed color.

I’ve been forgetting that lately. For every day I think I’ve got the upper hand on my dissertation revisions, I have another day when it seems like it will never be finished. For every day I’m confident I know what I’m doing, I face another one that leaves me feeling utterly inadequate. I lose sight that it will be finished soon. It won’t always be looming over my head. Some days it feels endless and insurmountable, when I find myself with piles of books and articles stacked around me, trying to discern what is important, what is tangential, what is vital, and what is just noise. Many days I forget that it’s just a dissertation. It isn’t life or death. And then I have a welcome reminder.

Yesterday hadn’t been the worst dissertation day. In fact, as dissertation writing days go, it had been pretty productive. But I was tired and feeling like all I ever do is sit in front of a computer and revise. I felt fat. And sluggish. And humorless. And boring. The house had been quiet all day with the boys at work, Steve out of town, Anna with laryngitis and the cats, well, … monosyllabic cats. In all, I was feeling rather dull. Thinking a nice relaxing cup of chamomile tea before bed would help, I put the tea kettle on to boil and began thinking about ways to make tomorrow feel less like a prison sentence and more like a party. How to start anew. Tomorrow I’d wear something nicer than a paint-spattered grey sweatshirt to write in. I’d put on a cute sweater. And do my hair. And apply lipstick. I probably write better in lipstick.

As I stood in the kitchen being all Annie about tomorrow and waiting for the water to boil, my cat, Princess, wandered in for a little snack. Princess lives up to her name. She’d wear a tiara if it wouldn't fall off and she prefers to take her meals on top of the refrigerator away from the rowdy, messy, distasteful boy cats. It is bad enough that we ask her to live with them but eat with them? No, thank you. I, the indulgent pet servant, oblige. Her food bowl sits atop the refrigerator and she jumps up there for a dainty little nibble every so often. It typically isn’t a big deal. It does involve her jumping up on a small section of counter en route to the refrigerator. And yes, that is gross if I think about it. So I don’t.

Anyway, the water began to boil and I took the kettle off the burner and poured some of the boiling liquid into my cup. I mindlessly dropped the tea bag into the steaming mug, dunking it rhythmically a few times. Things were feeling pretty Zen just before I turned around and saw that Princess had jumped up on her little section of counter but, for whatever reason, she hadn’t proceeded to the top of the refrigerator as normal. She was sitting primly on the counter as though it were her throne, staring trancelike at absolutely nothing. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, cats tend to zone out and stare blankly more often than not, except that her beautiful black tail was stretched out behind her like a wooly caterpillar lying prone after a long journey, right across the hot burner. Smoking.

Oblivious, Princess sat gazing while her furry appendage was engulfed in a plume of smoke. I shrieked and ran to the stove. Startled by my uncharacteristic aggression toward her, Princess flew off the counter and streaked up the stairs. Fortunately her fur was the only thing that got scorched. Her skin was fine but the damage had been done and the house started reeking of burning cat tail.

Somehow, as the air took a on a decidedly burning feline stench, the whole scene struck me as very funny. And I started to laugh. My family has grown accustomed to me burning things in the kitchen; although never before had it been one of the pets. Moments later Charles came upstairs from the basement to investigate and Anna came downstairs and croaked out, “What’s burning?” I had to respond with, “the cat,” which just made me laugh harder. As I explained what happened we all started laughing and at that moment life seemed very joyful. And certainly no longer dull.

A dissertation is just a dissertation. It isn’t my life. For the moment it is challenging and consumes a large portion of my life but my life is these people, laughing heartily with me amid the smell of burning fur, and all the meaningful little moments that make up our days. I needed that perspective last night. Funny how life knows just how to give us what we need.

So, today I’ll wear a little lipstick while I write. It will add a bit of color.

But then, so does cooking the cat.