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.