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.