Travelouge: Day 1

I try not to be a high maintenance traveler. But, truth be told, I think I am. Particularly road trips. I don’t like them. In recent years Steve has taken the kids on road trips but I have managed to avoid them by making up convincing excuses such as being in school or writing a dissertation. Earlier in the spring, however, as Steve and Anna started talking about taking a road trip, I inserted myself into the conversation and invited myself to go along. They cheerfully and graciously welcomed me, although as the day of departure loomed closer I noticed signs of stress and am pretty sure they were meeting and exchanging feverish whispers about how awful travelling with me was going to be. I think it was the recent prescription for Valium that came in a brown unmarked box that was the real give away.

My aversion to car travel started when I was a kid.  When my family took road trips I, being the smallest, was stuck in the center of the back seat. My brother would pick on me and make me scream and then gaze innocently out the window. My mother would yell at me and my brother would act angelic until she turned around to face the front again. The cycle would repeat.

This went on for hours. Somehow my mother never seemed to catch on to what was happening and I could never seem to figure out how to make my brother scream instead. This set a tone for long car rides. I don't think I've ever fully recovered.

To be clear, no one in my current immediate family creates the same level of ruckus as my brother. But I still don’t like car travel.  Fast food grosses me out. Public restrooms are just unsettling, and truck stops are… well… let me just say when I see a bumper sticker that says, “If you are going to ride my ass at least pull my hair,” I worry for the fate of our species.
 
Nevertheless, I’ve decided to be a big girl. I’m going on a road trip.

Stop one: Omaha, Nebraska while Steve attends to business. For Anna and I this means a little bit of exploring but mostly digging into the gigantic bag of books we brought along.

And maybe a little truck stop shopping.

Next stop....Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin.

Overwhelmed by Perfection....

I try to live by the notion of having a rich life by doing new things, even if they scare me. To that end, I have tried to engage Pinterest. Truly, I have. I look at all the cute photos and sayings and recipes for a few minutes but then my anxiety meter starts running faster and faster and eventually I’ve had all I can take and move on to something else.

The fact is, I’ll never look that good, my house will never be decorated that creatively, and I’ll never cook that well. A few minutes of Pinterest and I start suffering from perfect and adorable overload. Things I neither am nor want to be.

Not that I have any objection to great ideas. I don’t.  But is weaving bacon really necessary?

When I go on Pinterest, I see instructions for exercising to achieve the perfect body next to recipes for  gooey, carmel turtle brownies. Can I have the perfect body and still eat those gooey brownies? It seems doubtful unless a whole lot of obsessive exercise follows the brownie consumption.  Maybe I can just enjoy the turtle brownie, exercise for health, and leave perfection out of the equation.

There are ideas for decorating the most adorable wedding venue ever. Really cute ideas. But I look at them and wonder, if all that effort is going into creating a whole room full of preciousness, what is going on behind the scenes?  Is an equal amount of effort going into ensuring the right people are marrying one another? Will there be as much concern for creating a loving environment after the three year-old flower girl walks down the isle dressed as Audrey Hepburn? And really, should a three-year old walk down the isle dressed as Audrey Hepburn?  A spectacular wedding doesn’t make for a spectacular marriage.

I see oodles of adorable ideas for decorating a baby’s room. And sure, when my babies were born, I did my best with what I had to create sweet little bedrooms for them. Nothing quite as cutesy as the photos I see on Pinterest but still, I did what I could. Will the cuteness of the baby’s room matter if the child grows up in an indulgent or emotionally distant home? Will that baby be concerned about those less fortunate or about making a positive difference in this world? Will having her name emblazoned across the bedroom wall make that baby girl grow up feeling valuable and important or will she fall prey, like so many others, to feeling inadequate no matter how big those letters are.

I don’t think Pinterest is a bad thing. There isn’t anything wrong with sharing cute ideas and sayings and recipes. As long as the pressure to have everything look perfect doesn’t overshadow dealing with a less than perfect, real life. 

Life is messy. Everything isn’t color coordinated. Sometimes things aren’t adorable. Sometimes they are ugly and horrible. Sometimes even the shiniest surfaces can’t hide the dark and dingy underside of life.

I understand the desire to pretty up the exterior. I think that shows more strength than wallowing. But, putting a nice gloss on what people see won’t change the interior. When that hard work is being done, it is rarely pretty.

It’s about balance. Those perfect outfits, elaborate hairstyles, and oh-so-cute decorating tricks are all well and good as long as the people creating them remember to offer grace and love and harmony to the world outside themselves. A beautiful exterior with a mean-spirited interior is nothing more than a beautiful exterior with a mean-spirited interior. The world is not a better place for it.

In the spirit of trying to do things that frighten me, maybe I’ll try out an adorable idea or two from Pinterest. I’m pretty sure I’ll still decorate my home with an off-beat style and I can guarantee nobody at my house will find heart shaped boiled eggs and woven bacon. Guaranteed.  But, I can probably stick a sprig of baby’s breath in a jar and tie it with a ribbon.

Just don’t expect me to have the perfect butt.

Appreciate the Cabbage....

My garden is in and, once again, I’ve started talking to my plants. Every morning I get up and pour a cup of coffee, don my red polka dot gardening boots (fondly referred to as boots of Chinese plastic, ala The Pretenders) and amble around the yard saying good morning to the flowers, herbs, and vegetables, and asking how everyone is doing. Steve observes this with some bemusement although I think as long as I don’t suggest the plants are talking back he’ll just let me do my thing without interference.

Last year I planted my first garden. I deemed it wildly successful although I only grew squash and tomatoes which are pretty much no-brainer garden vegetables. A little sun, a little dirt, and a little water and off they go producing abundantly. I felt quite accomplished even though I wasn’t really doing much. With the right elements, stuff just sort of happens.  

This year I’ve ventured into new and exotic territory with some eggplant, cabbage, beets, and onions. I  also added watermelon and pumpkins to the squash patch. But the squash started grousing about the crowded living conditions almost immediately and I’ve already had to put on an addition.

Nobody likes a grumpy squash.

Providing them more space meant I had to relocate a huge wood pile, replete with spiders and creepy crawly bugs. Fortunately no snakes have taken up residence in the pile, or if they have, they weren’t home when I moved it. Hauling all that wood to a new location and digging up the ground for more squash homes wasn’t my favorite activity but it made them happy and I’m pretty excited to see my first big, orange pumpkin ripening on the vine, so I didn’t grouse back.

Thus far my garden is a peaceful little place and my morning ritual brings me joy. Gardening seems a little like parenting. There are all kinds of elements that can harm my plants. Voracious bunnies, zealous raccoons, bugs, and birds, and fungus. So, while I might occasionally need to prune and shape and tame my vegetables, what it seems they need from me most, beyond the essentials of life, are affirming words. They need to know they are doing a good job of being vegetables.

And, I'm pretty sure everything likes to hear that it is beautiful. Even an eggplant.

When my children were young I was quite vigilant about them being kind to one another. No name calling. No physical violence. No criticisms or making fun of one another. I’ve been told, more than once, that my expectations were unreasonable. But I don’t think they really were. I made a point to teach my kids that the world has plenty to offer in the way of unkindness. People will say and do hurtful things, but at home, everyone has to feel safe and loved. Everyone needs to hear affirming and loving words.  It wasn’t, and still isn’t, a foolproof plan. But that doesn’t keep me from trying.

A home should feel safe.

Whether home is an apartment, a house, or a cedar box in the backyard, kind words foster health. I’ll probably spend the rest of the summer talking to the plants and telling them what a good job they are doing. And, I'll probably tell my mostly grown up children how proud I am of who they are becoming. I'll tell the eggplant it is lovely and my manchildren they are handsome. I'll exclaim at the beauty of the petunias as well as my gorgeous daughter. When a plant gets unruly, I'll carefully trim it back and when one of my children is being less than I know they can be, I'll remind them to be their best.

It’s easy to see the beauty in a flower. It takes looking deeper to find the beauty in a cabbage. But even the cabbage needs to feel appreciated.

It’s no different with people.

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.