In response to the comment by my old friend Jessica to the Post "Dear people who wish you had a friend like mine" (i think I called it that but too irritated right now to go back and check):
You're so right on, Jessica dear, about the "fuckwad" status of certain men. A woman who I won't name in case she cares (though I so much doubt it) called during the month I spent at my parents' drinking wine coolers, chain smoking and watching soaps in my mother's bed after the aforementioned fuckwad did his damage (which we now call "god's greatest favor"-I could've married him and chalked up 2 divorces instead of one). Here was her pathetic tale, which topped mine (tho I certainly didn't care about that fact at the time):
This lovely and good human being's parents' own hotels and stores on Mackinaw Island (10 times smaller than even this iceberg) and they actually have a house there. Obviously, they knew everyone on the fucking Island. They had set up and financed this royal affair of a wedding where bride and groom would parade through town in carriage w/ hundreds of guests in their carriages traveling behind, to the Grand Hotel, where they'd be married in front of everyone who lived on the island and then a couple hundred others. The night before-during the rehearsal dinner when he asked her to step outside (to proclaim his excitement at the prospect of their wonderful life together, she thought) and told her that he wasn't marrying her and actually just walked away into the night, leaving her at her own rehearsal dinner with scads of guest, her parents and siblings and the entire rest of her family inside. You might think that was enough. As it so happens, it was far from enough.
Mr. Fuckwad of that particular year (if not decade) married another woman-PREARRANGED CEREMONY-in front of the justice of the peace, she in a white wedding dress, the NEXT DAY. Again, you might think that was enough. As it so happens, it was not.
A week later, Mr. Fuckwad CALLED-ON PURPOSE NO LESS, the woman in question just to let her in on the happy news that the woman he had married instead of her was FIVE MONTHS pregnant-with his twins. His reason for calling? "Don't make any trouble for us." Really? "Is this a tv show or is this my real life? Am I having a truly horrifying nightmare or is someone actually speaking these words to me? Was I knocked unconscious? Did I accidentally drop acid?"
How is it, in any definition of the Universe, permissible in any way, to think what he was doing was ok?
Oh, Mr. Fuckwad, fear mightily the awesome power of karma-and dharma, too.
And btw-when Jeff Russell did this and my da was downstairs waiting for us to come out, the dickhead was monotone and cold when he told me "the news." Then we walked down the stairs, opened the door, and he immediately worked up croc tears and started walking towards my da, "sobbing." I saw my da with his fists balled up and knew with certainty that he would be hitting Jeff Russell for the first time he'd hit anyone since high school and that he'd be ashamed after the fact. Though I would have loved to have seen Jeff Russell get a knuckle sandwich, I physically grabbed hold of him and pushed him down the street over and over again until I could trust that he was far enough away that he wouldn't walk back to my da. Best part? He got so pissed at me for pushing him that he couldn't keep up the croc tears and looked like the cold coward fuckface that he truly was.
Boy. Just when you think you could care less about something...bringing that whole picture to mind could make me barf up my own coffee and then try to find Jeff Russell, just so I could pummel him myself.
Ok. This deserves a joint post. You and I can tell our stories and then every other one we heard after it happened to us. You'll be my guest author. You must have heard plenty of stories after it happened to make you feel "less alone" ugh
To all the fuckwads out there, if any of us ever find a way to personally maim you, we will-or at least we'll scheme about it for fun...
Idiots.
Sincerely Your-worst nightmare if you're one of them-and I've got girlpower on my side
I think this may be the angriest and for certain the most vengeful letter I've written thus far, dear readers...hopefully, you will understand and remember that I usually have a kinder, gentler nature...usually.
life is full of seismic shifts... the dialogue that makes a letter is real and goes on no matter what we write about... i'll show you what i create and tell you why... you do the same... and let's keep laughing, crying and telling stories
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Dear Women Who Undermine Women-
It's 2:30 in the morning. Short (c'mon it's me so read "relatively" here) and sweet (& we all know I'm not sweet-oh well-go for "good human being" cuz "sweet" doesn't really rate. Muffy is sweet).
Madeleine Albright said: "There's a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."
I don't even believe in "hell" but that just sounds as right as rain. These are the women who see you in your pajamas in the grocery store, a baby on your hip and a toddler in tow (kinda) and instead of saying, "you've got the best kids...you seem really happy and you can tell your kids just adore you. How would you like to get together for coffee this Friday. My daughter could watch your kids for a couple hours and we could just talk."...they say "oh, you poor thing. You look so tired." Really? Has something happened that I don't know about that makes that an acceptable thing to say?
It's the same for women who tell horror stories about 72 hour labors or SIDS to a pregnant woman. For shame. Then there's that woman who sees your toddler with his binkie that YOU, his MOTHER, have decided it is ok for him to have-it's a comfort and he's not going to be sucking on it in college, even during nap time (yup...I'm a veteran of the binkie wars) and she proceeds to look at both you and your sweetie like you're putting him at the kind of risk you would be if you took him, say, whitewater rafting or mountain climbing. And all the bull shit with nursery school-learning specialists and vocal development coaches-who are there to tell you how far your child is lagging behind. Nursery school's concern with vocal development should be if a child screams "fire!" or "I'm bleeding!" Nursery school should be about playing in the sandbox table (god I loved that) and doing crafts with your sweet, chubby little hand print and running around like a wild child and eating paste.
It must make these women feel better about themselves if they're willing to risk hell, but for the life of me, I just can't see how. We pull each other up or we all go down. Bitch is high praise when it's tossed at you as a response to your doing your job well or being an advocate. It's another thing all together when women call you a bitch because you're so fucking mean to every other woman you know; you're the bitch who's made everyone in the neighborhood cry with what you pass off as camaraderie. It's not. It's. Just. Being. The. Worst. Kind. Of. Bitch. Do you wanna find out if there's a special place in hell just for you?
Clare Boothe Luce said:
Because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, "She doesn't have what it takes." They will say, "Women don't have what it takes."
And to my sistahs everywhere, those I've met and those I admire and those who's forced slavery drives me to tears, I am very literally and Sincerely Yours.
Seriously, now. Even if you're like me and don't believe in hell, are you sure you want to find out if you're wrong? Mull over that while you drink your $6.59 double decaf soy no foam latte and I'll enjoy my freshly brewed Spartan French Roast-even if it weren't $6.50 a can I'd still highly recommend it-and I'll wait to hear what you decide.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Dear Wishers for a Friend as Good As Mine-
Have you ever done something for a friend or neighbor or even someone you've never met and found true, unadulterated joy in the doing? Maybe the act itself is one you enjoy performing-you love baking and you make a double batch of homemade brownies for the bake sale. Maybe the person for whom you perform the act is in true need, and the satisfaction comes from the ability to meet that need and the conscious decision that you are doing so "with a good heart," as my da would say. In our house, growing up, that meant doing what you were asked without stomping around and complaining or doing a half-assed job. It's really both a timeless and fabulous rule, by the way. Maybe you're the type of person who just finds joy in giving.
Then there are those people...those people who have done everything in the world for you and more. You think of them and each and every time, your heart fills with love and gratitude, not just for all they have done but for who they have been, who they are and who you can trust that they always will be. My heart's best friend; the friend I have known the longest, Brian, is that person in my life.
In any event, there's Bri. I met him on my first day of law school, 22 years ago-holy shit...it really was 22 years ago...thus, the "oldest friend I have" title I've bestowed upon him. I know he has friends he's known longer than that. He's a lot more outgoing than I am or will ever be. A lot. I don't make friends that easily...that's part of the reason his friendship means so much. That first day, I saw him and he had long hair and looked like kind of a hippie type I could relate to, plus I didn't know one single other person, so I walked down the aisle of the highly intimidating auditorium, so nervous I could feel myself shaking, and asked if I could sit by him. Now, you have to understand here that the auditoriums in my law school were built with a series of two-person bench seats on risers with a flat writing surface in front, with the back of each lower bench bracing the writing surface of the one a step above it (which meant that if someone, say, had a leg bouncing thing that went on, he/she would be forcing the writing surface of the person in back of her/him and his/her own to vibrate uncontrollably...I may have had that, um, problem and Brian was constantly trying to get me to stop until one day when he said "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and joined me in my non-stop leg bouncing gig). So if you asked if you could sit "next" to someone, you were really asking for one singular spot.
He said "no."
"Oh," I said and then walked with all the dignity I could muster to the bathroom and cried until my very first class of law school started, when I returned to the auditorium red-eyed and leaking a river of snot (I'm so not a pretty crier-one tear and I look like I've simultaneously been in a prize fight and have some horrible disorder that produces copious amounts of snot, dripping and running everywhere) and sat in the nosebleed section, trying to disappear.
That was the last mean thing Brian ever said or did to me.
A few days later, we ran into each other in the "smoking lounge," a small, dirty, three-walled space, totally open to the rest of the law school (secondhand smoke doesn't even begin to cover it). Later, I would sleep on these couches between classes when I'd been up all night studying, so tired I was oblivious to the filth and the scratchy, 70's-orange upholstery. We'd give cigarettes to the homeless people who would walk in off the streets of inner-city Detroit so they wouldn't pick butts out of the ashtrays. This day, though, we just started talking, and we never shut up. That, as they say, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
When I broke up with my boyfriend a year into the hell that was law school, Brian was the one to pull me through it. When a three hour lecture got so mind numbingly boring we were nodding off, we kept each other awake, usually by writing notes in the margins of our "real" notes like seventh graders. A couple, I remember like they were written yesterday. In one exchange, we were writing back and forth about "when": when would the professor who was lecturing shut up; when would the professor who was lecturing put some kind of inflection into his maddening monotone; when would either of us understand-or care to understand-the Rule Against Perpetuities (you'd be sorry if you asked or looked it up, and don't bother because the dictionary doesn't even recognize "perpetuities
Another one of the notes we wrote is one that I know without question would be the one Brian would name as his favorite. We have always told each other everything. To this day, there are things we know about each other that no one else does. One night, I had a dream about our Labor Relations professor, George Felton (there are stories I can't tell because they involve names that couldn't be changed to protect the innocent because it would ruin the story, but Professor Felton isn't really "innocent,"-if I remember, he was depressed about his divorce and not seeing his daughter and was prone to do some not-quite-kosher things-like hitting on me-so I'm fine with using his name-he'd laugh if he saw this), riding a bike and wearing a tight tank top (let's be honest here-this was clearly a sex dream although I don't think any sex actually happened in the dream, or when I was awake for that matter). I told Brian the next morning. For the rest of our time in law school, I never knew when he'd say "tank top," or when he'd draw a picture of a tank top on my notes like he did that first day. I only wish I could reproduce that drawing here, or I should say I wish I knew how to use this computer well enough to do that. Just think of a very two-dimensional tank top standing alone, a stark pen outline against very white notebook paper.
These things might not sound so funny to you, but they are examples of most of the comic relief we used to get through law school, a torturous experience, particularly when neither of us knew quite why we were there. Maybe if we would've smoked pot, we could have gotten some much needed recreational brain time and had some laugh-til-it-hurts moments...if we had smoked pot. Which we didn't.
Exams were twice a year, at the end of each semester-long class, and most of the time, your entire grade was based on this one test. There would be a week with no classes just prior, lovingly referred to as "study week." From the first study week through the several weeks we cloistered ourselves there studying for the Bar Exam, Brian and I would go to his parents' cottage up North. As miserable as the studying was, and as hard as we truly did work on it, we had each other in stitches much of the time. For example, when I would get particularly discouraged, Bri would yell "handstand!" and then do a handstand and walk around on his hands. It's truly hard not to laugh when that just comes out of nowhere in a place you don't expect it. It was either laugh or cry and for the most part, we laughed. In fact, I once laughed so hard at whatever he said (which I might have forgotten if we were killing brain cells smoking pot, which we were definitely not) that I wet my pants sitting on his mother's pink upholstery. They don't have that furniture anymore and Diane and I are friends again, so (I think...) she won't care (see? I'm just as willing to out myself for embarrassing things-though I'm not embarrassed, it takes a lot more than that, Baby-as I am to out the other people I'm naming in this letter). After the first trip, everyone in school assumed we were a couple. We never were, but their gossip was funny and we laughed about it, as we did most other things. We had our routine there and although neither of us ever got on Law Review, it certainly worked to the extent we didn't fail out, either, and believe me, failing out wasn't a hard thing to do.
Studying for, taking and then waiting for the results of the Bar Exam is sheer, unadulterated misery. Brian had a serious girlfriend at the time and things were on the rocks. I was engaged and my fiance, Jeff Russell (again-not innocent though George was nice and Jeff was not, so I don't give a shit who sees his name) was calling me constantly, not to say he loved me and encourage me, but to nag me about renting an apartment or which furniture to move. During the time we spent up North right before the exam (two weeks, I think, maybe three? Brian will know) we were dealing with those two idiots. The two people who should have been pulling for us most were walking all over us and leaving each of us with long faces every time we got off the phone. Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers. Unless you've taken the Bar (or the CPA exam or Med School Boards), you can't even imagine how cruel of a thing that was.
So we had each other and we had to get each other through this and in the end, that was as it should have been. Again, we had a routine, set by Brian, of course, who is afflicted with the worst undiagnosed and un-medicated OCD I've ever encountered (and even that, I find an endearing quality). Breakfast (read: coffee [for me] mountain dew [for him] and cigarettes [for both of us]) was from 6-7. Studying was from 7-noon. Lunch (more cigarettes and coke for me, still mountain dew for him). Studying from 1-5. Dinner (maybe eating something but always cigarettes-we were chain smokers and I add the beverage each time because I CANNOT smoke without drinking something and it can't be water, a fact which amuses Brian). It seems to me we then studied from 6-midnight. That's a sick amount of studying but I think I'm right. If not, Brian will post a comment and correct me, like he did the other day when we were on the phone and I said something about being 42 and he said "43." He was right, which is as much a testament to his memory than my lack thereof. He's like a fucking elephant.
Brian made all the other rules, too. If we would have been pot smokers at the time, the rule would have been changed from only smoking at night during regular studying to not smoking at all. If we would have been pot smokers. Which we weren't). I had a relaxation tape (yes, it's long enough ago that it was actually a cassette tape) that claimed it both hypnotized you "your arms are heavy" and "you feel the sun shining-it's warm"-and sent you subliminal messages through music on the flip side-which we played every night and knew by heart. Perhaps we often defeated the purpose when Brian, who had memorized the tape by that point, would yell out from the loft where he slept (directly above me so we could hear everything the other said, even during the six hours we were supposed to be sleeping) "YOUR ARMS ARE FEELING VERY HEAVY!!!" and then proceed to have me laughing for the next however long, canceling out any benefit the tape may have had for that night. I eventually had to get some Unisom because I was so continuously focused on the material-and there was so, so much of it-that if I shut my eyes, words would zoom back and forth across the backs of my eyelids and it was truly frightening. Between the silliness and the constant and intense fear, we got very little sleep, though we probably desperately needed it.
The day before the exam, Brian decreed that during the lunch breaks-one on each day of the two full days of the test-we would separate ourselves from the crowd so we wouldn't get psyched out listening to everyone talk about what they said and was it wrong and should they have said it this way, etc. We took the exam with a woman Brian knew, Bonnie, who I had met in our bar review course.
Note: Yes, there is actually a class that you pay exorbitant amounts of money for that purports to teach you the subjects you were supposed to have learned in law school that everyone knows weren't taught in the way they needed to be taught to enable students to pass the exam-or work in jobs as lawyers, for that matter. Seriously. They taught us the probabilities each of the letters in multiple choice questions had of being correct-letter "C" the most popular (I think but again, Brian will post a comment for all to see and correct me if I'm wrong). Another pearl of wisdom? When you write your day full of essays, if you don't know the answer, make it up and "sound like" you're really positive you're right "say 'the law in Michigan is!!!'" Also, the examiners were looking for you to say ten things in each answer, so underline whatever you thought those ten things were. Oh, yeah, and you only have 20 minutes to write each one. What a bunch of shit, you say? It was but honestly, it ended up being good advice to a certain extent.
Bonnie was on her third try at the exam. She had failed twice. The deal with the Bar Exam is that you start working (hopefully) right after you graduate from law school, and you're employed with the understanding that you will pass the Bar Exam. If you take the exam in February, you don't find out if you passed until about June. If you take the exam in July (like we did) you don't find out if you passed until November. So Bonnie had, by the first day of the exam, spent 18 months-a year-and-a-half of her life-studying for, retaking the bar review course, and then taking and re-taking the actual exam. And failing twice. And up for her third try. So we mostly sat with her because as you can imagine, she didn't really want to talk either. I wanted Bonnie to pass almost as much as I wanted us to pass. Almost.
I won't even go into the exam because that's not about Brian and Maggie. It's about Brian. Maggie. It's a hell you ultimately go through alone. Let's put it this way: after all that preparation, there were people who got up and walked out in the middle because they just couldn't take the pressure. Bonnie passed, though.
After taking the Bar and working at the job I didn't know if I'd keep if I failed the exam and with two months to wait before I'd see the results, I was scheduled to get married. It was in September but I can't remember the date. Weird. But Brian will. We had rented an apartment-signed the lease with a woman who told us right off we'd be in big trouble if we broke it. The reception and flowers were paid for. My wedding dress was hanging in the closet. Presents had started arriving at my parents' house in advance of the big day.
Eight days before the wedding (a little less, as it was evening-that counts when you're talking about this gig), I pulled into the driveway and my da and Jeff Russell, that son-of-a-bitch (hey, I've forgiven but not forgotten), were standing on our cool balcony. I thought maybe my da was in Detroit, four hours South of where he lives in Northern Michigan, for work, which wasn't uncommon (in fact, he'd been in the Upper Peninsula and had made a nine hour trip going 80 mph so the dumb fuck wouldn't do this to me when I was alone...later he would tell me he tried to talk to Jeff Russell, thinking something "real" might be wrong but "he sounded like an episode of "Thirty-something" and [my da] just hate[s] that show." How did he know to come? Jeff Russell called and alerted my parents who were both far away that he was going to do this. My mom said to him "if you tell her before one of us gets there, I'll kill you with my bare hands." You don't know my mom. It's lucky for Jeff Russell that he waited-but that, again, is another letter). I waved happily. When I got upstairs, they were both in the kitchen, faces grave. My da looked sick. Jeff Russell looked scared like a bully looks scared when you finally call his bluff.
My da said, "I want you to remember that everyone in our family is ok. No one is hurt or sick. We're ok. Jeff wants to tell you something," and he walked down the stairs and out at my urging (can't remember why I knew he had to go-just did).
Jeff Russell looked at me blankly and sighed. "I don't love you. I've never loved you. I don't know why I ever asked you to marry me and I'm not getting married to you next week."
I'm not telling the rest of that story. That's another letter. This letter is about me and Brian, not that dumb ass, Jeff Russell.
Within an hour of it all happening, when I had stopped (temporarily...very temporarily) sobbing enough to talk, I started calling Brian. I couldn't find him. My parents called Brian. They couldn't find him. I wanted nothing else but to talk to Brian because I knew, knew with all my heart and soul, that no one else knew what they could or should say to me except Brian. My mom fell asleep holding me on the couch at my Aunt Kathy's house (I know Brian would have me insert here a fact that he finds amazing and hilarious, so I will: my da has four sisters and all of them are named "Mary," because, as my Gramma would be happy to explain, she "just love[s] the Blessed Virgin so much." There, Bri). After pulling my arms out from her vice grip, I called Brian all night. I called him everywhere I could think of. I called everyone in his family. I called everyone we knew. In the morning, I sat on the deck chain-smoking (I had been down to about one cigarette a day, having promised Jeff Russell I'd quit but now, well, f.u.c.k. i.t.) and trying to find Brian.
Honestly, after that morning, it's a fog. I don't know when, but either I or someone else got a hold of Brian. He had been up North at a friend's cottage in the same development where his folks had theirs the whole time. It was just that nobody knew.
He said, "I'm coming." And he came.
Again, sordid story of the next month. Maybe a later letter. This letter is about me and Brian, though.
When I went back to Detroit and back to my job, I lived in Brian's brother Steve's (my future and now ex-husband-confused?) house where he rented rooms. Brian was there all the time. He rarely left me alone. If we would have smoked pot, we would've smoked a lot at this point because I would have done anything to alter my state of mind...but we didn't. I had to go to a work-related wedding. Brian was my date. I came out dressed up and the other guys who lived in the house whistled and said how hot I was.
Brian came up from downstairs where his room was and said, "let's hit it." It wasn't as if Brian thought I wasn't a girl...he just truly didn't care. I was "Mags" to him and that's really all that mattered. It's kind of like my husband...I get my hair cut or dyed-and recently I went from having long, blond hair to half an inch shy of a brush-cut-and the woman who cuts my hair will say "well, Gary sure will notice this one." He doesn't, though. Ever. Even when I got it all hacked off. Honest-to-God-swear-on-a-bible I had to tell him. What I do with my hair is just irrelevant to why he loves me. Just like my gender, or seeing me at my very worst and lowest, never has meant one goddamn thing to Brian.
By this point, Brian's "serious girlfriend" had gone the way of the wind. I was his only friend who liked her when they were dating. Brian loved her and believed in her, so I did. No question. Everyone else was right though. She was a Grade A No Holds Barred Bitch-and-a-Half. So it was just he and I, waiting and waiting for the Bar Exam results. One of us would panic-and I mean truly panic-and the other would do the pick up job. One of us would freak out about a rumor they'd heard about the results being posted here or there or that letters were going out on Tuesday or whatever, and the other would join right in and discuss it and obsess about it and be all over it...until it turned out not to be true.
One Saturday, we were sitting around the house decidedly not expecting the results to come in the mail. They did. The mailman came and Brian went out to check the mail and ran in and said "they're here," and threw my letter at me (he's going to say he didn't throw it but he did, just like he says he didn't make me get out and pee on the side of the Interstate Highway because I had asked him to stop too many times, but he did). In the split second before I opened that letter, I said a nine word prayer: "If Brian doesn't pass, I don't want to pass." It wasn't something I did on purpose, it just was. And it was true.
We both did pass, though. And we've gone on through all those years since then as friends, then friends with the woman he picked to marry, then brother-in-law and sister-in-law, then parents-he was one of the first people to hold both my sons, and I treasure the pictures of him doing so-then through my divorce from his brother and through the years since then, and they haven't been exactly what you'd call placid for either of us or our families.
About a month ago, I was in the worst professional nightmare of my life. It was and has been for several years, very, very bad. I was with a friend in Petoskey, 45 minutes away from home, and I was in her driveway heading out. Before I left, I texted Brian: "I desperately need your help. I'm stopping at the gas station and then I'll call you on the way back from Petoskey." Brian will correct what I've gotten wrong in that text, but I know for sure I said "I desperately need your help," and that he texted back-literally withing seconds, "anything." Just typing that I can feel how it felt when I saw that word and it makes me cry all over again. It was the one and only word I needed to hear and, of course, Brian said it.
How many friends or family members do you have that you know for certain would immediately say "anything," without any qualifiers, without any hesitation, if you asked for help without even telling them first what you wanted? I've never asked for help from Brian (and even plenty of times I haven't asked for help but he knows I need it) when he hasn't answered "anything," or some equivalent. I know without a shadow of a doubt he'll always be that person to me.
So lately, there've been a couple things Brian's needed my help with. This isn't an unequal relationship where one of us is there for the other and the other, well, isn't. I'd do anything for him and have been there when he needs me. Right now, though, he's begun to say things like "I don't mean to dump this on you, Mags," or "I don't want to make you spend all this time doing this."
Has he forgotten who he is to me? Has he forgotten how much I love him? Has he forgotten that it isn't even a question of trying to do enough to repay all he's done for me. We have never had a tit for tat relationship. It is with complete conviction I've felt for as long as I can remember that Brian and I are, to use a term anyone younger than 40 wouldn't know, always there to "do a solid" for each other. I've told him to stop telling me he doesn't want to put me out; that I want him to stop saying those things because he knows I'd do anything for him...
maybe, though, he's forgotten how I get that joy from giving when I can do anything for him-like I was talking about way back in the first paragraph of what, I'm pretty sure, is the longest post I've ever written. If that's not true, Brian will have counted the words of each post that could be a contender and we'll have that answer soon enough, soon enough...
So I decided today's letter had to be about Brian. Not "to" Brian, because then he might feel like I was just blowing smoke (I know him), but to you "about Brian."
I do have other friends and a wonderful family but I have to say, my answer to that question would be a resounding yes ...and I honestly never forget how blessed that makes me...to have found that buried in all the other stuff the Universe has decided to send my way. Having Brian for a friend has been one of the things that have taught me best never to ask "why me?" and be questioning all of the bad things that've happened to you-oh, poor me...oh, pity party-but to ask "why me?" and then marvel at all the amazing things I have in my life; all of the millions and millions of things I have to be thankful for. I'm not saying he told me to do that but that the fact of having him in my life has taught me all on its own.
Maybe now he'll stop telling me he feels badly for taking my help. That would keep me from having to hit him the next time I see him...though, unfortunately, we may be past that point...
Then there are those people...those people who have done everything in the world for you and more. You think of them and each and every time, your heart fills with love and gratitude, not just for all they have done but for who they have been, who they are and who you can trust that they always will be. My heart's best friend; the friend I have known the longest, Brian, is that person in my life.
Disclaimer-or "the small print those damn lawyers make us put in" here: There are many people to whom I'm related that fit this description but Brian is my friend...well, ok, he was my friend first and then we were related, in a sense, but then we became just friends again, though we still feel related-but that's for another letter. I just didn't want any of my brothers or sisters or parents reading this and saying "I've done everything in the world for her-why don't I get in this letter?" See?
In any event, there's Bri. I met him on my first day of law school, 22 years ago-holy shit...it really was 22 years ago...thus, the "oldest friend I have" title I've bestowed upon him. I know he has friends he's known longer than that. He's a lot more outgoing than I am or will ever be. A lot. I don't make friends that easily...that's part of the reason his friendship means so much. That first day, I saw him and he had long hair and looked like kind of a hippie type I could relate to, plus I didn't know one single other person, so I walked down the aisle of the highly intimidating auditorium, so nervous I could feel myself shaking, and asked if I could sit by him. Now, you have to understand here that the auditoriums in my law school were built with a series of two-person bench seats on risers with a flat writing surface in front, with the back of each lower bench bracing the writing surface of the one a step above it (which meant that if someone, say, had a leg bouncing thing that went on, he/she would be forcing the writing surface of the person in back of her/him and his/her own to vibrate uncontrollably...I may have had that, um, problem and Brian was constantly trying to get me to stop until one day when he said "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and joined me in my non-stop leg bouncing gig). So if you asked if you could sit "next" to someone, you were really asking for one singular spot.
He said "no."
"Oh," I said and then walked with all the dignity I could muster to the bathroom and cried until my very first class of law school started, when I returned to the auditorium red-eyed and leaking a river of snot (I'm so not a pretty crier-one tear and I look like I've simultaneously been in a prize fight and have some horrible disorder that produces copious amounts of snot, dripping and running everywhere) and sat in the nosebleed section, trying to disappear.
That was the last mean thing Brian ever said or did to me.
A few days later, we ran into each other in the "smoking lounge," a small, dirty, three-walled space, totally open to the rest of the law school (secondhand smoke doesn't even begin to cover it). Later, I would sleep on these couches between classes when I'd been up all night studying, so tired I was oblivious to the filth and the scratchy, 70's-orange upholstery. We'd give cigarettes to the homeless people who would walk in off the streets of inner-city Detroit so they wouldn't pick butts out of the ashtrays. This day, though, we just started talking, and we never shut up. That, as they say, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
When I broke up with my boyfriend a year into the hell that was law school, Brian was the one to pull me through it. When a three hour lecture got so mind numbingly boring we were nodding off, we kept each other awake, usually by writing notes in the margins of our "real" notes like seventh graders. A couple, I remember like they were written yesterday. In one exchange, we were writing back and forth about "when": when would the professor who was lecturing shut up; when would the professor who was lecturing put some kind of inflection into his maddening monotone; when would either of us understand-or care to understand-the Rule Against Perpetuities (you'd be sorry if you asked or looked it up, and don't bother because the dictionary doesn't even recognize "perpetuities
Another one of the notes we wrote is one that I know without question would be the one Brian would name as his favorite. We have always told each other everything. To this day, there are things we know about each other that no one else does. One night, I had a dream about our Labor Relations professor, George Felton (there are stories I can't tell because they involve names that couldn't be changed to protect the innocent because it would ruin the story, but Professor Felton isn't really "innocent,"-if I remember, he was depressed about his divorce and not seeing his daughter and was prone to do some not-quite-kosher things-like hitting on me-so I'm fine with using his name-he'd laugh if he saw this), riding a bike and wearing a tight tank top (let's be honest here-this was clearly a sex dream although I don't think any sex actually happened in the dream, or when I was awake for that matter). I told Brian the next morning. For the rest of our time in law school, I never knew when he'd say "tank top," or when he'd draw a picture of a tank top on my notes like he did that first day. I only wish I could reproduce that drawing here, or I should say I wish I knew how to use this computer well enough to do that. Just think of a very two-dimensional tank top standing alone, a stark pen outline against very white notebook paper.
These things might not sound so funny to you, but they are examples of most of the comic relief we used to get through law school, a torturous experience, particularly when neither of us knew quite why we were there. Maybe if we would've smoked pot, we could have gotten some much needed recreational brain time and had some laugh-til-it-hurts moments...if we had smoked pot. Which we didn't.
Exams were twice a year, at the end of each semester-long class, and most of the time, your entire grade was based on this one test. There would be a week with no classes just prior, lovingly referred to as "study week." From the first study week through the several weeks we cloistered ourselves there studying for the Bar Exam, Brian and I would go to his parents' cottage up North. As miserable as the studying was, and as hard as we truly did work on it, we had each other in stitches much of the time. For example, when I would get particularly discouraged, Bri would yell "handstand!" and then do a handstand and walk around on his hands. It's truly hard not to laugh when that just comes out of nowhere in a place you don't expect it. It was either laugh or cry and for the most part, we laughed. In fact, I once laughed so hard at whatever he said (which I might have forgotten if we were killing brain cells smoking pot, which we were definitely not) that I wet my pants sitting on his mother's pink upholstery. They don't have that furniture anymore and Diane and I are friends again, so (I think...) she won't care (see? I'm just as willing to out myself for embarrassing things-though I'm not embarrassed, it takes a lot more than that, Baby-as I am to out the other people I'm naming in this letter). After the first trip, everyone in school assumed we were a couple. We never were, but their gossip was funny and we laughed about it, as we did most other things. We had our routine there and although neither of us ever got on Law Review, it certainly worked to the extent we didn't fail out, either, and believe me, failing out wasn't a hard thing to do.
Studying for, taking and then waiting for the results of the Bar Exam is sheer, unadulterated misery. Brian had a serious girlfriend at the time and things were on the rocks. I was engaged and my fiance, Jeff Russell (again-not innocent though George was nice and Jeff was not, so I don't give a shit who sees his name) was calling me constantly, not to say he loved me and encourage me, but to nag me about renting an apartment or which furniture to move. During the time we spent up North right before the exam (two weeks, I think, maybe three? Brian will know) we were dealing with those two idiots. The two people who should have been pulling for us most were walking all over us and leaving each of us with long faces every time we got off the phone. Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers. Unless you've taken the Bar (or the CPA exam or Med School Boards), you can't even imagine how cruel of a thing that was.
So we had each other and we had to get each other through this and in the end, that was as it should have been. Again, we had a routine, set by Brian, of course, who is afflicted with the worst undiagnosed and un-medicated OCD I've ever encountered (and even that, I find an endearing quality). Breakfast (read: coffee [for me] mountain dew [for him] and cigarettes [for both of us]) was from 6-7. Studying was from 7-noon. Lunch (more cigarettes and coke for me, still mountain dew for him). Studying from 1-5. Dinner (maybe eating something but always cigarettes-we were chain smokers and I add the beverage each time because I CANNOT smoke without drinking something and it can't be water, a fact which amuses Brian). It seems to me we then studied from 6-midnight. That's a sick amount of studying but I think I'm right. If not, Brian will post a comment and correct me, like he did the other day when we were on the phone and I said something about being 42 and he said "43." He was right, which is as much a testament to his memory than my lack thereof. He's like a fucking elephant.
Brian made all the other rules, too. If we would have been pot smokers at the time, the rule would have been changed from only smoking at night during regular studying to not smoking at all. If we would have been pot smokers. Which we weren't). I had a relaxation tape (yes, it's long enough ago that it was actually a cassette tape) that claimed it both hypnotized you "your arms are heavy" and "you feel the sun shining-it's warm"-and sent you subliminal messages through music on the flip side-which we played every night and knew by heart. Perhaps we often defeated the purpose when Brian, who had memorized the tape by that point, would yell out from the loft where he slept (directly above me so we could hear everything the other said, even during the six hours we were supposed to be sleeping) "YOUR ARMS ARE FEELING VERY HEAVY!!!" and then proceed to have me laughing for the next however long, canceling out any benefit the tape may have had for that night. I eventually had to get some Unisom because I was so continuously focused on the material-and there was so, so much of it-that if I shut my eyes, words would zoom back and forth across the backs of my eyelids and it was truly frightening. Between the silliness and the constant and intense fear, we got very little sleep, though we probably desperately needed it.
The day before the exam, Brian decreed that during the lunch breaks-one on each day of the two full days of the test-we would separate ourselves from the crowd so we wouldn't get psyched out listening to everyone talk about what they said and was it wrong and should they have said it this way, etc. We took the exam with a woman Brian knew, Bonnie, who I had met in our bar review course.
Note: Yes, there is actually a class that you pay exorbitant amounts of money for that purports to teach you the subjects you were supposed to have learned in law school that everyone knows weren't taught in the way they needed to be taught to enable students to pass the exam-or work in jobs as lawyers, for that matter. Seriously. They taught us the probabilities each of the letters in multiple choice questions had of being correct-letter "C" the most popular (I think but again, Brian will post a comment for all to see and correct me if I'm wrong). Another pearl of wisdom? When you write your day full of essays, if you don't know the answer, make it up and "sound like" you're really positive you're right "say 'the law in Michigan is!!!'" Also, the examiners were looking for you to say ten things in each answer, so underline whatever you thought those ten things were. Oh, yeah, and you only have 20 minutes to write each one. What a bunch of shit, you say? It was but honestly, it ended up being good advice to a certain extent.
Bonnie was on her third try at the exam. She had failed twice. The deal with the Bar Exam is that you start working (hopefully) right after you graduate from law school, and you're employed with the understanding that you will pass the Bar Exam. If you take the exam in February, you don't find out if you passed until about June. If you take the exam in July (like we did) you don't find out if you passed until November. So Bonnie had, by the first day of the exam, spent 18 months-a year-and-a-half of her life-studying for, retaking the bar review course, and then taking and re-taking the actual exam. And failing twice. And up for her third try. So we mostly sat with her because as you can imagine, she didn't really want to talk either. I wanted Bonnie to pass almost as much as I wanted us to pass. Almost.
I won't even go into the exam because that's not about Brian and Maggie. It's about Brian. Maggie. It's a hell you ultimately go through alone. Let's put it this way: after all that preparation, there were people who got up and walked out in the middle because they just couldn't take the pressure. Bonnie passed, though.
After taking the Bar and working at the job I didn't know if I'd keep if I failed the exam and with two months to wait before I'd see the results, I was scheduled to get married. It was in September but I can't remember the date. Weird. But Brian will. We had rented an apartment-signed the lease with a woman who told us right off we'd be in big trouble if we broke it. The reception and flowers were paid for. My wedding dress was hanging in the closet. Presents had started arriving at my parents' house in advance of the big day.
Eight days before the wedding (a little less, as it was evening-that counts when you're talking about this gig), I pulled into the driveway and my da and Jeff Russell, that son-of-a-bitch (hey, I've forgiven but not forgotten), were standing on our cool balcony. I thought maybe my da was in Detroit, four hours South of where he lives in Northern Michigan, for work, which wasn't uncommon (in fact, he'd been in the Upper Peninsula and had made a nine hour trip going 80 mph so the dumb fuck wouldn't do this to me when I was alone...later he would tell me he tried to talk to Jeff Russell, thinking something "real" might be wrong but "he sounded like an episode of "Thirty-something" and [my da] just hate[s] that show." How did he know to come? Jeff Russell called and alerted my parents who were both far away that he was going to do this. My mom said to him "if you tell her before one of us gets there, I'll kill you with my bare hands." You don't know my mom. It's lucky for Jeff Russell that he waited-but that, again, is another letter). I waved happily. When I got upstairs, they were both in the kitchen, faces grave. My da looked sick. Jeff Russell looked scared like a bully looks scared when you finally call his bluff.
My da said, "I want you to remember that everyone in our family is ok. No one is hurt or sick. We're ok. Jeff wants to tell you something," and he walked down the stairs and out at my urging (can't remember why I knew he had to go-just did).
Jeff Russell looked at me blankly and sighed. "I don't love you. I've never loved you. I don't know why I ever asked you to marry me and I'm not getting married to you next week."
I'm not telling the rest of that story. That's another letter. This letter is about me and Brian, not that dumb ass, Jeff Russell.
Within an hour of it all happening, when I had stopped (temporarily...very temporarily) sobbing enough to talk, I started calling Brian. I couldn't find him. My parents called Brian. They couldn't find him. I wanted nothing else but to talk to Brian because I knew, knew with all my heart and soul, that no one else knew what they could or should say to me except Brian. My mom fell asleep holding me on the couch at my Aunt Kathy's house (I know Brian would have me insert here a fact that he finds amazing and hilarious, so I will: my da has four sisters and all of them are named "Mary," because, as my Gramma would be happy to explain, she "just love[s] the Blessed Virgin so much." There, Bri). After pulling my arms out from her vice grip, I called Brian all night. I called him everywhere I could think of. I called everyone in his family. I called everyone we knew. In the morning, I sat on the deck chain-smoking (I had been down to about one cigarette a day, having promised Jeff Russell I'd quit but now, well, f.u.c.k. i.t.) and trying to find Brian.
Honestly, after that morning, it's a fog. I don't know when, but either I or someone else got a hold of Brian. He had been up North at a friend's cottage in the same development where his folks had theirs the whole time. It was just that nobody knew.
He said, "I'm coming." And he came.
Again, sordid story of the next month. Maybe a later letter. This letter is about me and Brian, though.
When I went back to Detroit and back to my job, I lived in Brian's brother Steve's (my future and now ex-husband-confused?) house where he rented rooms. Brian was there all the time. He rarely left me alone. If we would have smoked pot, we would've smoked a lot at this point because I would have done anything to alter my state of mind...but we didn't. I had to go to a work-related wedding. Brian was my date. I came out dressed up and the other guys who lived in the house whistled and said how hot I was.
Brian came up from downstairs where his room was and said, "let's hit it." It wasn't as if Brian thought I wasn't a girl...he just truly didn't care. I was "Mags" to him and that's really all that mattered. It's kind of like my husband...I get my hair cut or dyed-and recently I went from having long, blond hair to half an inch shy of a brush-cut-and the woman who cuts my hair will say "well, Gary sure will notice this one." He doesn't, though. Ever. Even when I got it all hacked off. Honest-to-God-swear-on-a-bible I had to tell him. What I do with my hair is just irrelevant to why he loves me. Just like my gender, or seeing me at my very worst and lowest, never has meant one goddamn thing to Brian.
By this point, Brian's "serious girlfriend" had gone the way of the wind. I was his only friend who liked her when they were dating. Brian loved her and believed in her, so I did. No question. Everyone else was right though. She was a Grade A No Holds Barred Bitch-and-a-Half. So it was just he and I, waiting and waiting for the Bar Exam results. One of us would panic-and I mean truly panic-and the other would do the pick up job. One of us would freak out about a rumor they'd heard about the results being posted here or there or that letters were going out on Tuesday or whatever, and the other would join right in and discuss it and obsess about it and be all over it...until it turned out not to be true.
One Saturday, we were sitting around the house decidedly not expecting the results to come in the mail. They did. The mailman came and Brian went out to check the mail and ran in and said "they're here," and threw my letter at me (he's going to say he didn't throw it but he did, just like he says he didn't make me get out and pee on the side of the Interstate Highway because I had asked him to stop too many times, but he did). In the split second before I opened that letter, I said a nine word prayer: "If Brian doesn't pass, I don't want to pass." It wasn't something I did on purpose, it just was. And it was true.
We both did pass, though. And we've gone on through all those years since then as friends, then friends with the woman he picked to marry, then brother-in-law and sister-in-law, then parents-he was one of the first people to hold both my sons, and I treasure the pictures of him doing so-then through my divorce from his brother and through the years since then, and they haven't been exactly what you'd call placid for either of us or our families.
About a month ago, I was in the worst professional nightmare of my life. It was and has been for several years, very, very bad. I was with a friend in Petoskey, 45 minutes away from home, and I was in her driveway heading out. Before I left, I texted Brian: "I desperately need your help. I'm stopping at the gas station and then I'll call you on the way back from Petoskey." Brian will correct what I've gotten wrong in that text, but I know for sure I said "I desperately need your help," and that he texted back-literally withing seconds, "anything." Just typing that I can feel how it felt when I saw that word and it makes me cry all over again. It was the one and only word I needed to hear and, of course, Brian said it.
How many friends or family members do you have that you know for certain would immediately say "anything," without any qualifiers, without any hesitation, if you asked for help without even telling them first what you wanted? I've never asked for help from Brian (and even plenty of times I haven't asked for help but he knows I need it) when he hasn't answered "anything," or some equivalent. I know without a shadow of a doubt he'll always be that person to me.
So lately, there've been a couple things Brian's needed my help with. This isn't an unequal relationship where one of us is there for the other and the other, well, isn't. I'd do anything for him and have been there when he needs me. Right now, though, he's begun to say things like "I don't mean to dump this on you, Mags," or "I don't want to make you spend all this time doing this."
Has he forgotten who he is to me? Has he forgotten how much I love him? Has he forgotten that it isn't even a question of trying to do enough to repay all he's done for me. We have never had a tit for tat relationship. It is with complete conviction I've felt for as long as I can remember that Brian and I are, to use a term anyone younger than 40 wouldn't know, always there to "do a solid" for each other. I've told him to stop telling me he doesn't want to put me out; that I want him to stop saying those things because he knows I'd do anything for him...
maybe, though, he's forgotten how I get that joy from giving when I can do anything for him-like I was talking about way back in the first paragraph of what, I'm pretty sure, is the longest post I've ever written. If that's not true, Brian will have counted the words of each post that could be a contender and we'll have that answer soon enough, soon enough...
So I decided today's letter had to be about Brian. Not "to" Brian, because then he might feel like I was just blowing smoke (I know him), but to you "about Brian."
So here's my question: if you had one friend like Brian and that was the only friend you could have for the rest of your life, could you be happy with that?
I do have other friends and a wonderful family but I have to say, my answer to that question would be a resounding yes ...and I honestly never forget how blessed that makes me...to have found that buried in all the other stuff the Universe has decided to send my way. Having Brian for a friend has been one of the things that have taught me best never to ask "why me?" and be questioning all of the bad things that've happened to you-oh, poor me...oh, pity party-but to ask "why me?" and then marvel at all the amazing things I have in my life; all of the millions and millions of things I have to be thankful for. I'm not saying he told me to do that but that the fact of having him in my life has taught me all on its own.
Maybe now he'll stop telling me he feels badly for taking my help. That would keep me from having to hit him the next time I see him...though, unfortunately, we may be past that point...
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
it's hard to take your own advice
Do you ever listen to yourself doling out healthy, worthwhile advice, all the while knowing full well that you're right at that minute not taking that very advice to heart? What a shitty feeling. It's one thing to believe something and another to actually internalize it.
Today, I was giving out advice to my last divorce client on how to let go. With certain clients over the years-those I knew would be open to it and I thought could benefit from it-I've done what I've dubbed "The Divorce Ceremony." It involves burning some things and saying goodbye, not so much to your ex-spouse, but more to the person you were when you allowed yourself to be treated poorly or were afraid to be alone or begged...all that stuff that's just not pretty...blessing it all and telling it why you're not that person anymore. It involves keeping other things that symbolize how you've grown and who you want to be.
Today, with that last client, an amazing woman who I admire and am grateful to have crossed paths with, I allowed myself to share that vibe with her and say goodbye to some of my own demons, admit that I was still sad about some things but that I was also proud of myself for others and grateful for the woman I've become since my divorce. The sense of relief I felt in allowing myself to talk with her and share some of what I was giving to her with myself was huge.
I'm grateful to her for being herself-someone kind and open enough that I was able to do that-so much stronger and with such a hard won belief in herself that I was able to end my career as a divorce attorney with a client I truly felt I had helped along her journey over the last year.
Today, I was giving out advice to my last divorce client on how to let go. With certain clients over the years-those I knew would be open to it and I thought could benefit from it-I've done what I've dubbed "The Divorce Ceremony." It involves burning some things and saying goodbye, not so much to your ex-spouse, but more to the person you were when you allowed yourself to be treated poorly or were afraid to be alone or begged...all that stuff that's just not pretty...blessing it all and telling it why you're not that person anymore. It involves keeping other things that symbolize how you've grown and who you want to be.
Today, with that last client, an amazing woman who I admire and am grateful to have crossed paths with, I allowed myself to share that vibe with her and say goodbye to some of my own demons, admit that I was still sad about some things but that I was also proud of myself for others and grateful for the woman I've become since my divorce. The sense of relief I felt in allowing myself to talk with her and share some of what I was giving to her with myself was huge.
I'm grateful to her for being herself-someone kind and open enough that I was able to do that-so much stronger and with such a hard won belief in herself that I was able to end my career as a divorce attorney with a client I truly felt I had helped along her journey over the last year.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
it's gonna be a bright, bright, sunshiney day
Wow. It was so warm and sunny today that the inside of my car heated up and I had to turn on the vent-it was actually hot! Everywhere I went, I heard the sound of dripping...snow melting off every roof, eve, tree, gutter; sluicing down the sides of the street and running like a quick, cold creek right down the drains. Even my driveway, which is a skating rink all winter no matter how much of a thaw we get-was reduced to slush and mud.
I desperately wanted everyone I saw inside to go outside. I so wanted anyone I came in contact with to feel that deep-in-your-bones warmth.
My house faces East so the sun rises in front, out my bedroom window, and sets in back, where we can watch it go down from our deck. It's a tiny little house and needs a new furnace and my tax statements keep confirming that the value of the house continues on the decline, but even if it was only for this one reason, I'd buy it again and again.
At dusk and at dawn, the inside of the house is painted in all sorts of color and shades of light, very different in the morning and evening, but equally surreal, since the sun really hits the right windows at just the right time. Whenever I take my boys to school, we've seen the light inside and then we walk right out into the sunrise and one of us always says, "look at that," or "great sunrise this morning." We invariable remark on the sunset that night, as it's so apparent even if we're inside; it draws us to the window in the back where we can look out and see the sun setting behind the silhouette of the big, old oak tree and the pine woods behind that.
When we saw the sunrise this morning, it was beautiful, as usual. I'm sure we noticed, but we didn't know how beautiful it really was. We couldn't have known then that it was the harbinger of a Spring day when it's really still winter and we all know it's coming back with a vengeance.
Later, I was talking to a friend who is a beautiful woman, inside and out, and I love her very much. We were talking about how little each of us sees of others on a usual basis. There are those exceptions when, for whatever reason, we see the essence of another and for that, we are changed, and the bearer new as well.
That's what that sunrise was like today. It was pretty and we talked about it like we always do and appreciated it, but we really saw just another sunrise. We didn't see deeper into THIS particular sunrise. We couldn't. We didn't know it was bringing unexpected warmth to us. The trick to seeing the essence of the sunrise, though, isn't to remark on your surprise after the fact. The trick is to close your eyes and take yourself back to the moment you saw that sunrise-the colors, the smells in the air and the sounds of boys climbing in and backpacks hitting the seat and maybe a little bickering-and to drink in the full awareness that at that time, without any help from you, an unseasonably warm and beautiful day was living in that sunrise. You see and feel that sunrise anew...you see it's essence and for that moment, your are that sunrise.
We are like that. It's not that we need to be clairvoyant. We just need to be conscious of pure and transformative moments in our lives when we get a glimpse of the depth and truth of a person we see every day-husband, wife, child, friend, mother, daughter, father, son, the clerk at 7-11 or the person you have as a companion in the elevator-and then we must adjust our eyes and look at them in all the ways we've known them in light of what we now perceive that we never expected. To be open to that and to then appreciate it is the gift we give one another when we love. Not romantic love or familial love or any other kind of emotional give and take. This is love in the sense that we are willing to be quiet enough and still enough to allow our essence to shine forth or to absorb that essence of another, we immediately complete one another and for that time, we are not afraid. We are standing in a beam of truth and hope and sheer delight with even that momentary knowledge of what it all really is. We are in a true state of love-the ability to recognize and appreciate that we are one in the deepest part of ourselves with another; that we are whole and that this completeness is the deepest kind of love there is. We see in a way we didn't when we first saw.
...and the sunrise is more beautiful now that we know what it had to give us all along.
I desperately wanted everyone I saw inside to go outside. I so wanted anyone I came in contact with to feel that deep-in-your-bones warmth.
My house faces East so the sun rises in front, out my bedroom window, and sets in back, where we can watch it go down from our deck. It's a tiny little house and needs a new furnace and my tax statements keep confirming that the value of the house continues on the decline, but even if it was only for this one reason, I'd buy it again and again.
At dusk and at dawn, the inside of the house is painted in all sorts of color and shades of light, very different in the morning and evening, but equally surreal, since the sun really hits the right windows at just the right time. Whenever I take my boys to school, we've seen the light inside and then we walk right out into the sunrise and one of us always says, "look at that," or "great sunrise this morning." We invariable remark on the sunset that night, as it's so apparent even if we're inside; it draws us to the window in the back where we can look out and see the sun setting behind the silhouette of the big, old oak tree and the pine woods behind that.
When we saw the sunrise this morning, it was beautiful, as usual. I'm sure we noticed, but we didn't know how beautiful it really was. We couldn't have known then that it was the harbinger of a Spring day when it's really still winter and we all know it's coming back with a vengeance.
Later, I was talking to a friend who is a beautiful woman, inside and out, and I love her very much. We were talking about how little each of us sees of others on a usual basis. There are those exceptions when, for whatever reason, we see the essence of another and for that, we are changed, and the bearer new as well.
That's what that sunrise was like today. It was pretty and we talked about it like we always do and appreciated it, but we really saw just another sunrise. We didn't see deeper into THIS particular sunrise. We couldn't. We didn't know it was bringing unexpected warmth to us. The trick to seeing the essence of the sunrise, though, isn't to remark on your surprise after the fact. The trick is to close your eyes and take yourself back to the moment you saw that sunrise-the colors, the smells in the air and the sounds of boys climbing in and backpacks hitting the seat and maybe a little bickering-and to drink in the full awareness that at that time, without any help from you, an unseasonably warm and beautiful day was living in that sunrise. You see and feel that sunrise anew...you see it's essence and for that moment, your are that sunrise.
We are like that. It's not that we need to be clairvoyant. We just need to be conscious of pure and transformative moments in our lives when we get a glimpse of the depth and truth of a person we see every day-husband, wife, child, friend, mother, daughter, father, son, the clerk at 7-11 or the person you have as a companion in the elevator-and then we must adjust our eyes and look at them in all the ways we've known them in light of what we now perceive that we never expected. To be open to that and to then appreciate it is the gift we give one another when we love. Not romantic love or familial love or any other kind of emotional give and take. This is love in the sense that we are willing to be quiet enough and still enough to allow our essence to shine forth or to absorb that essence of another, we immediately complete one another and for that time, we are not afraid. We are standing in a beam of truth and hope and sheer delight with even that momentary knowledge of what it all really is. We are in a true state of love-the ability to recognize and appreciate that we are one in the deepest part of ourselves with another; that we are whole and that this completeness is the deepest kind of love there is. We see in a way we didn't when we first saw.
...and the sunrise is more beautiful now that we know what it had to give us all along.
Monday, March 14, 2011
just behold evolution (because i'm so tired)-
Hi, All-As I passed around today on facebook, email lists, etc., I totally revamped the blog and turned us around some corners, finding new paths and places for me and for all of you to open up and show and tell what you've created and why and how...
My first picture is of a mosaic I made when I was going through my divorce. The piece is called "Sophie's Hand," because our neighbor, Sophie, had the most beautiful hands I'd ever seen and all I could think of whenever I saw them was how much I was going to miss her and our neighborhood and school and friends and house and zen garden on the other side of 125 year old rose arbor-such a beautiful dichotomy...so she sat in the sun with me for a whole day and I copied every joint and curve of her fingers and wrist and forearm...I love that hand more than anything I've ever made. Then I filed for divorce.
The rest of the mosaic was created while I was getting divorced and was otherwise, in every way, a shrapnel strewn war zone of a person...
I've never figured out why the rest turned out how it did-why I made those shapes and colors or used all those different materials from glass to metal to china to mirror to pottery...
So someone has to be insightful...why did I do it?
p.s. i'm doing everything and more to get the ads off my blog...grrrrrr
Sincerely yours-so show me and everyone else yours and keep on telling stories!
My first picture is of a mosaic I made when I was going through my divorce. The piece is called "Sophie's Hand," because our neighbor, Sophie, had the most beautiful hands I'd ever seen and all I could think of whenever I saw them was how much I was going to miss her and our neighborhood and school and friends and house and zen garden on the other side of 125 year old rose arbor-such a beautiful dichotomy...so she sat in the sun with me for a whole day and I copied every joint and curve of her fingers and wrist and forearm...I love that hand more than anything I've ever made. Then I filed for divorce.
The rest of the mosaic was created while I was getting divorced and was otherwise, in every way, a shrapnel strewn war zone of a person...
I've never figured out why the rest turned out how it did-why I made those shapes and colors or used all those different materials from glass to metal to china to mirror to pottery...
So someone has to be insightful...why did I do it?
p.s. i'm doing everything and more to get the ads off my blog...grrrrrr
Sincerely yours-so show me and everyone else yours and keep on telling stories!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
continuation of the "to be continued"
I thought about this after getting under the covers and wondered why I chose to stop when I did. The end of the story is the least complicated part and requires so little explanation; really, just a brief description of my mistake.
"Fresh start." I was so exited for my sons to have a fresh start. Then I got those calls saying he wasn't doing well and I was blown away. All I could think was "How could he squander his fresh start."
He didn't feel like he'd squandered it at all, though. He was making friends and loved the band and his teachers were cool. They were so anxious to give him some input into what he was going to study, so he wouldn't refuse to do work just because he was told to. He loves being in a bigger group with a more diverse crowd. I think it feels good to him because it affirms his conviction that being different is important and good, so long as those differences enhance the caliber of person you seek to become.
He did get a fresh start. It was his mother that didn't get what she wanted. I wanted his fresh start to mean another chance to do what I've been asking him to do for years: gain immediate self discipline and start getting perfect grades, since he'd realize how smart and capable he was as soon as he got into a new environment. After I got so mad at him when the phone calls came in, I was thinking about it later and arguing about it with my ex-husband and it suddenly hit me like a bat outta hell-I was stealing his fresh start and defining it and pigeon holing him. I kept telling him I wanted him to talk to me about "what was going wrong," when it was all fine for him. It wasn't a conscience thing. I had just assumed this would be the case. Now that I know what I've done and that it was wrong, I've made a supreme effort to admit my failings to him out loud but far more importantly, I've made a choice to tell him that I want him to have his own fresh start. I want him to feel like he can still talk to me and like we're still so close as he develops his ideas and searches his heart, mind and soul for his passion, not mine. I don't want him to dislike me so much for pushing him into something I want, that he doesn't let me in on what he's thinking and when he decides what it is he wants and what makes him feel passionate.
This is a kid who wants to live in a tattoo parlor. He wants to take auto shop. He wants to throw moon pies at the principle and find a way for everyone, including the principle, to have fun. He is who he is and I'm beyond blessed to have him n my life.
I'm going to stop shoving myself down his throat and step back and see what his dreams are; in which directions will he find the concepts and ideas about which he'll be passionate?
I can tell we are both relieved after having this talk about expectations and it's about time we are each allowed to feel relieved because we've both worked so hard and I truly never thought I was stealing anything from him. Now I realize that he's been trying so much harder than I have. I've just been trying to get him to do what I think he should. He, on the other hand, has had to put aside any wondering and dreaming about who and what he loves to constantly hear how disappointed everyone s in him.
I'm not disappointed in him anymore. It went away as soon as those bats came swooping down. No, I am simply so very thankful that I have the time to change this for our love for each other. For a mother and a thirteen year old son who will still hold her hand in public, to have barely avoided this real threat to our future and to the deep connection we've always had was a near miss of what could have been one of those every day tragedies that don't get noticed, but that ruin important relationships forever.
I'm so grateful my son will have a chance to find his wholeness-Spirit healed and intact. Maybe I shouldn't say this as if it were a certainty but it is, not because of who I am or what I'll do as a mother. No, it's because of who he is. And I can see it in his eyes. He's really just been waiting for someone to give him a break so he can figure HIMSELF out. On of my favorite quotes and one I write in notes and letters to my children is: "It's never to late to be who you were meant to be." I believe that for everyone. I believe that for my sons.
"Fresh start." I was so exited for my sons to have a fresh start. Then I got those calls saying he wasn't doing well and I was blown away. All I could think was "How could he squander his fresh start."
He didn't feel like he'd squandered it at all, though. He was making friends and loved the band and his teachers were cool. They were so anxious to give him some input into what he was going to study, so he wouldn't refuse to do work just because he was told to. He loves being in a bigger group with a more diverse crowd. I think it feels good to him because it affirms his conviction that being different is important and good, so long as those differences enhance the caliber of person you seek to become.
He did get a fresh start. It was his mother that didn't get what she wanted. I wanted his fresh start to mean another chance to do what I've been asking him to do for years: gain immediate self discipline and start getting perfect grades, since he'd realize how smart and capable he was as soon as he got into a new environment. After I got so mad at him when the phone calls came in, I was thinking about it later and arguing about it with my ex-husband and it suddenly hit me like a bat outta hell-I was stealing his fresh start and defining it and pigeon holing him. I kept telling him I wanted him to talk to me about "what was going wrong," when it was all fine for him. It wasn't a conscience thing. I had just assumed this would be the case. Now that I know what I've done and that it was wrong, I've made a supreme effort to admit my failings to him out loud but far more importantly, I've made a choice to tell him that I want him to have his own fresh start. I want him to feel like he can still talk to me and like we're still so close as he develops his ideas and searches his heart, mind and soul for his passion, not mine. I don't want him to dislike me so much for pushing him into something I want, that he doesn't let me in on what he's thinking and when he decides what it is he wants and what makes him feel passionate.
This is a kid who wants to live in a tattoo parlor. He wants to take auto shop. He wants to throw moon pies at the principle and find a way for everyone, including the principle, to have fun. He is who he is and I'm beyond blessed to have him n my life.
I'm going to stop shoving myself down his throat and step back and see what his dreams are; in which directions will he find the concepts and ideas about which he'll be passionate?
I can tell we are both relieved after having this talk about expectations and it's about time we are each allowed to feel relieved because we've both worked so hard and I truly never thought I was stealing anything from him. Now I realize that he's been trying so much harder than I have. I've just been trying to get him to do what I think he should. He, on the other hand, has had to put aside any wondering and dreaming about who and what he loves to constantly hear how disappointed everyone s in him.
I'm not disappointed in him anymore. It went away as soon as those bats came swooping down. No, I am simply so very thankful that I have the time to change this for our love for each other. For a mother and a thirteen year old son who will still hold her hand in public, to have barely avoided this real threat to our future and to the deep connection we've always had was a near miss of what could have been one of those every day tragedies that don't get noticed, but that ruin important relationships forever.
I'm so grateful my son will have a chance to find his wholeness-Spirit healed and intact. Maybe I shouldn't say this as if it were a certainty but it is, not because of who I am or what I'll do as a mother. No, it's because of who he is. And I can see it in his eyes. He's really just been waiting for someone to give him a break so he can figure HIMSELF out. On of my favorite quotes and one I write in notes and letters to my children is: "It's never to late to be who you were meant to be." I believe that for everyone. I believe that for my sons.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Dear Very Much Loved Child-
I am proof positive of every nightmare everyone tells about their children becoming teenagers; saying "where did my sweet little girl go? Who is this monster?"
I started screaming at my mom when I was about 15 and I didn't stop until I was 21. I drank at keg parties in the woods and was often caught doing so by the same police officers who were investigating crimes that my father, the circuit's district attorney, would prosecute. He must have been so proud. It was my mom, though, that got the cold, hard slap of my rage and self loathing on an every day basis. She and I have talked about those years many times. We both find it hard to remember exactly what I was screaming about. I find it hard to understand why she didn't give up on me and, even more so, how she stayed in that house and kept on going, knowing I'd be going at her at some point of every single day. The summer after my senior year of high school, I remember yelling at her and saying I couldn't wait to leave and her responding that she couldn't wait for me to go. One day, I'll write a letter about how my mother and I made our way back to each other.
It seems fairly certain to me that I was the worst teenager in history, though you're welcome to disagree and offer proof that you or a sibling or whomever takes the cake. I firmly believe, though, that there's only one person who even approaches the level of my horrible teenagerness, and that's my ex-husband. He's a very intelligent college graduate that would make any parent proud at 45. I'm pretty sure pride isn't the dominant feeling his parents remember having during his teenage years, though. I try not to tell other people's stories here and I won't tell the entire story of his teen rage and angst. Suffice it to say he dropped out of high school and lived with his girlfriend. I've told you I'm not going to tell his story so you obviously know that those two facts are only the tip of the iceberg.
Together, he and I contributed 50% of the DNA that makes up each of our two children. That should be frightening to both of us and I assure you, it is. God only knows, literally, what rogue genes are wandering around in the two of them. At ten and thirteen, let's just say we've known since they were born that they each had their own "quirks" I guess we'll call them.
We have a video of the younger when he was one-and-a-half or two, sitting inside a laundry basket turned long ways up. When asked by his father who he is, he answers in an exasperated how-many-times-do-I-have-to-introduce-myself voice, "Baby Jesus Dough Boy," quickly followed by a firm "DO NOT TAKE A PICTURE OF ME, DAD!" Maybe I'll pop it up here one time if I ever figure out how to do that. Everyone who's ever seen it has laughed until the crying or pants peeing point.
As for the thirteen year old, it's hard to separate the quirks from the personality, and I'm not sure we're meant to. He's almost as much of an insomniac as I am. To try to help me fall asleep, I use a noise machine that makes many soothing sounds. My favorite is the "rain" setting. I got one of these for him, too. He doesn't use it and I finally gave it away. He falls asleep with headphones on which blare screaming, roaring, pounding music so loudly that my husband and I marvel when we can hear it from our room across the hall. He adores duct tape and covers everything he can with it. His dad and his wife and my husband and I all chipped in and got him a fancy ipod that goes by some other name I'm not remembering. In any event, when I bought it, you could have it engraved for free. I had them put "we love you, teenager" and then all four of our names. A few days after his birthday, I noticed that he had covered the thing in an elaborate pattern of duct tape. When my husband saw it, he asked the kid why he would cover up the engraving. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open. Of course, he'd forgotten all about the engraving. He called from the dentist the other day. He had a cavity and wanted to ask me if he could get a blue filling. I told him to ask the dentist if it was more expensive than a regular filling. Cheaper.
His dream is to live in a tattoo parlor. My friend is a tattoo artist and owns a shop. When my child saw the inside of the shop with crazy posters everywhere and guys wearing denim tank tops and bandannas, chairs filled with Hell's Angels types, so covered in tattoos you can't really tell what the artist is actually adding to all of that, he was stunned into silence. After soaking it in for a minute or so, he announced "I want to live here forever. I will work for free if I can just live here forever."
Granted, he's just entered teenagerhood, but so far, it's confounding. While his dad and I both turned to painful memories of our former selves upon becoming teenagers, this kid seems to have come into his own. He stands up straight and has some self-confidence. He takes some chances and has developed some hard-won courage. Peer pressure exerts little influence on him. He likes being different. I introduced him to the pharmacist at Rite Aid the other day. Bill is a friend of mine and I like him very much. Jacob shook hands, introduced himself, listened attentively to Bill talk about hunting and responded with a very coherent thought on the subject. The whole thing ended with that teenage son of mine saying, "nice to meet you, Mr._______." I just stood there, amazed and grateful that this person was my child.
So why, I've been asking myself since this kid was in kindergarten, can't he just do his homework and remember what he needs to take to school and bring home from school. He's smart. Scary smart. Much smarter than either of his parents and most people either of his parents know. On the other hand, I've actually pinned his homework onto his jacket (with more than one safety pin!) and watched him walk from the car to school with the paper attached, only to pick him up after school and hear that he got a pink slip and would have to serve a "corrective" (the pc name now used instead of "detention"-give me a fucking break...you still have to sit there and write sentences over and over or stay really still while it's sunny out or-if you're a lucky Catholic school kid-memorize bible verses).
I've often been driven to tears doing the laundry and not having any uniform shirts for him to wear the next morning (thank God Almighty they're in public school now and can just dress like the slobs they are in whatever I've managed to get clean). You'd think I'd remember from one incident to the next that all the shirts are in his locker, but give me a break, baby, cuz I've got a lot on my mind just like you. I attended many, many days of 4th and 5th grades with him trying to help him "develop good study habits" (I have to admit right now, I also attended a few weeks...months??? of nursery school in the name of my inability to leave a child screaming "mommy!" like he was being hideously tortured and literally clawing at the door or holding onto my pants, dragging along while I tried to walk out). His dad and I could each have those things other people call retirement funds if we wouldn't have purchased so many "organizational tools" for this child. He's beyond capable of doing his work and getting good grades, but he never, ever has.
Bottom line: he either refuses to do homework or loses it, resists doing anything he's told to do by any teacher (sorry to his dad but I'm going to have to say that's his DNA at work) and generally walks around with rubber bands, gum wrappers and rocks falling out of his pockets and backpack, leaving a trail behind him...so he can find his way home??? The worst part is, we all go at him and tell him he needs to get good grades and be responsible and hurry up about it, and this pretty much sends him into a panic. He starts lying with the first missed homework assignment, immediately gets overwhelmed with the combination of the missed homework and the lie, misses more homework, keeps lying...and by the time he brings home a progress sheet or report card, he's a total wreck and it all comes pouring out. I can't stand it when he lies and neither can his dad. Neither of us, though, wants him to feel like shit all the time.
Recently, to "give him a fresh start," his dad and I decided to switch the boys from the Catholic school (which we hated and the only reason they were staying is because they kept saying they didn't want to leave their friends and their dad and I are both push overs when it comes to stuff like that) to the public school in our small town. They've been there about a month now and I've been meeting with each of his teachers. A few days ago, I started to get calls that he wasn't doing his work or wasn't paying attention. Since these calls started, their dad and I and our spouses have done a lot of talking about the term "fresh start" and what it means to "succeed." I did something really stupid. After that gaff on my part (and it's not that I won't admit what I did, just that it could hurt other people if I did), we were on the phone talking and if anyone would have been listening (like my husband was, and he said it was just painful to hear) they would have easily heard that we were each at the end of our respective ropes, truly struggling to figure out what was best for our son.
***************
Ok. I'm going to have to finish this letter tomorrow. I'll give away that it's a happy ending comin' atcha, but happy or not, it's taken a lot to get there and I'm tired. I'm going to snuggle up with my kids and watch stupid tv at my husband's house since we don't have cable anymore (yes, it's true, we have more than one house, three in fact, and it's not because one is a vacation home...fodder for another letter, and perhaps one of you can give us some suggestion for how we can get out of our housing clusterfuck). I'm going to take Benadryl and go to any lengths necessary to avoid my usual insomnia...I think I might actually be sleepy instead of just tired, though, and any insomniac will tell you that's key.
So...to be continued...but feel free to comment on how badly you think we've messed things up as parents or what the right thing to do in the situations I've described would have been...although you might wanna wait because I haven't even begun to probe the depths of my mishandling of, to use a general term "school."
I started screaming at my mom when I was about 15 and I didn't stop until I was 21. I drank at keg parties in the woods and was often caught doing so by the same police officers who were investigating crimes that my father, the circuit's district attorney, would prosecute. He must have been so proud. It was my mom, though, that got the cold, hard slap of my rage and self loathing on an every day basis. She and I have talked about those years many times. We both find it hard to remember exactly what I was screaming about. I find it hard to understand why she didn't give up on me and, even more so, how she stayed in that house and kept on going, knowing I'd be going at her at some point of every single day. The summer after my senior year of high school, I remember yelling at her and saying I couldn't wait to leave and her responding that she couldn't wait for me to go. One day, I'll write a letter about how my mother and I made our way back to each other.
It seems fairly certain to me that I was the worst teenager in history, though you're welcome to disagree and offer proof that you or a sibling or whomever takes the cake. I firmly believe, though, that there's only one person who even approaches the level of my horrible teenagerness, and that's my ex-husband. He's a very intelligent college graduate that would make any parent proud at 45. I'm pretty sure pride isn't the dominant feeling his parents remember having during his teenage years, though. I try not to tell other people's stories here and I won't tell the entire story of his teen rage and angst. Suffice it to say he dropped out of high school and lived with his girlfriend. I've told you I'm not going to tell his story so you obviously know that those two facts are only the tip of the iceberg.
Together, he and I contributed 50% of the DNA that makes up each of our two children. That should be frightening to both of us and I assure you, it is. God only knows, literally, what rogue genes are wandering around in the two of them. At ten and thirteen, let's just say we've known since they were born that they each had their own "quirks" I guess we'll call them.
We have a video of the younger when he was one-and-a-half or two, sitting inside a laundry basket turned long ways up. When asked by his father who he is, he answers in an exasperated how-many-times-do-I-have-to-introduce-myself voice, "Baby Jesus Dough Boy," quickly followed by a firm "DO NOT TAKE A PICTURE OF ME, DAD!" Maybe I'll pop it up here one time if I ever figure out how to do that. Everyone who's ever seen it has laughed until the crying or pants peeing point.
As for the thirteen year old, it's hard to separate the quirks from the personality, and I'm not sure we're meant to. He's almost as much of an insomniac as I am. To try to help me fall asleep, I use a noise machine that makes many soothing sounds. My favorite is the "rain" setting. I got one of these for him, too. He doesn't use it and I finally gave it away. He falls asleep with headphones on which blare screaming, roaring, pounding music so loudly that my husband and I marvel when we can hear it from our room across the hall. He adores duct tape and covers everything he can with it. His dad and his wife and my husband and I all chipped in and got him a fancy ipod that goes by some other name I'm not remembering. In any event, when I bought it, you could have it engraved for free. I had them put "we love you, teenager" and then all four of our names. A few days after his birthday, I noticed that he had covered the thing in an elaborate pattern of duct tape. When my husband saw it, he asked the kid why he would cover up the engraving. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open. Of course, he'd forgotten all about the engraving. He called from the dentist the other day. He had a cavity and wanted to ask me if he could get a blue filling. I told him to ask the dentist if it was more expensive than a regular filling. Cheaper.
His dream is to live in a tattoo parlor. My friend is a tattoo artist and owns a shop. When my child saw the inside of the shop with crazy posters everywhere and guys wearing denim tank tops and bandannas, chairs filled with Hell's Angels types, so covered in tattoos you can't really tell what the artist is actually adding to all of that, he was stunned into silence. After soaking it in for a minute or so, he announced "I want to live here forever. I will work for free if I can just live here forever."
Granted, he's just entered teenagerhood, but so far, it's confounding. While his dad and I both turned to painful memories of our former selves upon becoming teenagers, this kid seems to have come into his own. He stands up straight and has some self-confidence. He takes some chances and has developed some hard-won courage. Peer pressure exerts little influence on him. He likes being different. I introduced him to the pharmacist at Rite Aid the other day. Bill is a friend of mine and I like him very much. Jacob shook hands, introduced himself, listened attentively to Bill talk about hunting and responded with a very coherent thought on the subject. The whole thing ended with that teenage son of mine saying, "nice to meet you, Mr._______." I just stood there, amazed and grateful that this person was my child.
So why, I've been asking myself since this kid was in kindergarten, can't he just do his homework and remember what he needs to take to school and bring home from school. He's smart. Scary smart. Much smarter than either of his parents and most people either of his parents know. On the other hand, I've actually pinned his homework onto his jacket (with more than one safety pin!) and watched him walk from the car to school with the paper attached, only to pick him up after school and hear that he got a pink slip and would have to serve a "corrective" (the pc name now used instead of "detention"-give me a fucking break...you still have to sit there and write sentences over and over or stay really still while it's sunny out or-if you're a lucky Catholic school kid-memorize bible verses).
I've often been driven to tears doing the laundry and not having any uniform shirts for him to wear the next morning (thank God Almighty they're in public school now and can just dress like the slobs they are in whatever I've managed to get clean). You'd think I'd remember from one incident to the next that all the shirts are in his locker, but give me a break, baby, cuz I've got a lot on my mind just like you. I attended many, many days of 4th and 5th grades with him trying to help him "develop good study habits" (I have to admit right now, I also attended a few weeks...months??? of nursery school in the name of my inability to leave a child screaming "mommy!" like he was being hideously tortured and literally clawing at the door or holding onto my pants, dragging along while I tried to walk out). His dad and I could each have those things other people call retirement funds if we wouldn't have purchased so many "organizational tools" for this child. He's beyond capable of doing his work and getting good grades, but he never, ever has.
Bottom line: he either refuses to do homework or loses it, resists doing anything he's told to do by any teacher (sorry to his dad but I'm going to have to say that's his DNA at work) and generally walks around with rubber bands, gum wrappers and rocks falling out of his pockets and backpack, leaving a trail behind him...so he can find his way home??? The worst part is, we all go at him and tell him he needs to get good grades and be responsible and hurry up about it, and this pretty much sends him into a panic. He starts lying with the first missed homework assignment, immediately gets overwhelmed with the combination of the missed homework and the lie, misses more homework, keeps lying...and by the time he brings home a progress sheet or report card, he's a total wreck and it all comes pouring out. I can't stand it when he lies and neither can his dad. Neither of us, though, wants him to feel like shit all the time.
Recently, to "give him a fresh start," his dad and I decided to switch the boys from the Catholic school (which we hated and the only reason they were staying is because they kept saying they didn't want to leave their friends and their dad and I are both push overs when it comes to stuff like that) to the public school in our small town. They've been there about a month now and I've been meeting with each of his teachers. A few days ago, I started to get calls that he wasn't doing his work or wasn't paying attention. Since these calls started, their dad and I and our spouses have done a lot of talking about the term "fresh start" and what it means to "succeed." I did something really stupid. After that gaff on my part (and it's not that I won't admit what I did, just that it could hurt other people if I did), we were on the phone talking and if anyone would have been listening (like my husband was, and he said it was just painful to hear) they would have easily heard that we were each at the end of our respective ropes, truly struggling to figure out what was best for our son.
***************
Ok. I'm going to have to finish this letter tomorrow. I'll give away that it's a happy ending comin' atcha, but happy or not, it's taken a lot to get there and I'm tired. I'm going to snuggle up with my kids and watch stupid tv at my husband's house since we don't have cable anymore (yes, it's true, we have more than one house, three in fact, and it's not because one is a vacation home...fodder for another letter, and perhaps one of you can give us some suggestion for how we can get out of our housing clusterfuck). I'm going to take Benadryl and go to any lengths necessary to avoid my usual insomnia...I think I might actually be sleepy instead of just tired, though, and any insomniac will tell you that's key.
So...to be continued...but feel free to comment on how badly you think we've messed things up as parents or what the right thing to do in the situations I've described would have been...although you might wanna wait because I haven't even begun to probe the depths of my mishandling of, to use a general term "school."
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Prayer
When I used to be really hardcore Catholic, I had prayers I knew by heart that I said every day and night and it was such a comfort. It was what I missed the most when I walked away from a religious institution that had no place in my heart or mind and held nothing I could continue to believe in. So now I'm a lapsed Catholic. That's just one of the funniest things I've ever heard. I'm really not Catholic, lapsed or otherwise, no matter how the church hierarchy wants to characterize me, presumably so they can count me among the dwindling faithful that may soon return to the fold. To the Vatican: Not Happening.
In the last six months or so, I've been having an urge to bring prayer back into my life. My Spirituality is something I try to nurture but as for prayer, it had been a while and every time I tried to pray, I went back to the same prayers I used to say. No matter how many beautiful prayers I tried to say as my own prayers, written by holy men and women the world over, there was no connection and so, of course, no prayer. I was also stymied when I tried to just talk to God like I used to...so I decided I'd just take the prayers I knew so well and re-write them to mesh with my present beliefs and definitions of the sacred, while still giving me that comfort of having said something by heart (there's a reason we use the term "by heart").
I'll share this one with you tonight. This prayer was originally written by Kate Barclay Wilkinson (1859-1928). You can read the original with a google search or in the collection of prayers entitled "Laughter, Silence and Shouting."
I wish for you peace and a calm rest and that you wake filled with love.
I'll share this one with you tonight. This prayer was originally written by Kate Barclay Wilkinson (1859-1928). You can read the original with a google search or in the collection of prayers entitled "Laughter, Silence and Shouting."
Dedication
May the mind of love itself
Live in me from day to day
Only love and its sweet power
Inspiring all I do or say.
May a world of hope dwell richly
In my heart from hour to hour
So that all may see I triumph
When I surrender to that power
May the peace of my Creator
Rule my life in everything
That I may be calm to comfort
The sick and sorrowing
May the truth of my heart fill me
As the waters fill the sea
Truth exalting, ego forgotten
This is victory.
May I run the race before me
Strong and brave to face the foe
Looking only unto real true love
As I onward go.
I wish for you peace and a calm rest and that you wake filled with love.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Things Don't Always Turn Out the Way You Intend Them to...
So, I started this blog to act as a companion to the new path I'm starting down, that of a freelance writer. I have this great guy building my website and I'm really excited about it but as far as this blog, it's evolved in another direction. When my website is done, my designer is going to create a new blog for me there because this one just isn't the one that belongs...
Over just the few weeks since I've started posting, I've realized that the letters that were writing themselves in my head were letters to and about women. When a few women asked me to write about journaling and how to start and how to keep going, that just thrilled me. Writing the letters I have leading up to International Womens' Day has simply fed my soul.
After my first posts, a couple of people I trust told me "you shouldn't swear on your blog-if potential customers see that, they might be put off." So I deleted all the swear words in my past posts and haven't said a curse word since. The thing is, that's not me at all. When I'm writing for an audience of potential customers-and I mean directing a blog right at them, connected to my website-I'll be as proper as the day is long. Here, though, the letters I'm writing and the stories I'm telling about myself and other women need to be told in my voice and the truth is, I swear a lot and I'm not sorry for that. In my opinion, as long as you're not directing swear words at another or name calling, the word "fuck" can be the most effective therapy you can get for free-even more so if you scream "fuck!" while sobbing.
I decided all of this today...when I woke up...which I was really surprised to do after last night. Yesterday was a bad day. Remember the kids' book "Alexander and the Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day?" (Judith Viorst and Ray Cruz)-I strongly recommend ordering it from Jill at Saturn because it's good for adults and kid alike. In any event, that book is what I think of when I have a day like yesterday. I've just extricated myself from one of the worst professional situations I've ever been in and while I thought that was going to be an immediate relief...not so much and not so immediate. Massive shift. Healthy or not, massive shifts don't just happen overnight and leave you smilin', ready to conquer the world and doodling hearts and peace symbols on your post-its. Silly woman. Did I really think that?
Oh, I've been keeping that positive attitude, though. Thoughts become things and I've been choosin' the good ones, yessiree. I've been repeating the refrain (as I wrote in an earlier post) "to all that has been, thank you. To all that will be, yes." By the time I went to bed last night, it was more like "to all that has been, I'd like to stomp on everything you are and then back over you in my icy muddy driveway," and "to all that will be, fuck you because I'm not up for anything that will be...go foist some godforsaken future on some other little girl that's too stupid to have become cynical and bitter."
Yesterday's events were those that make up a day that can leave any of us reeling, and we've all had those days. Last night though, I just felt I had reached my limit. I told my husband that I had been fighting long enough. I've fought every asshole man in this town who, for no reason I've ever been able to understand, has disliked me before meeting me and has actively tried to harm my professional reputation. I've fought every inch of the way to build up a client base and make a living, albeit doing something I hate, but a living all the same. I've supported my kids, for some period of time (though no longer-big shout out to their dad, Steve) on my own. I bought the first house I've ever purchased on my own and I've kept it. I've put food on the table. On top of it all, I've been able to give my kids things they want once in a while, too, rather than only things they need. All the way, it's been a bloody-take-no-prisoners fight. I'm so tired of fighting it God honestly makes my eyelids droop, while at the same time making me have that fight or flight feeling. Ex. Haust. Ing.
So I was prone on the floor sobbing, tears and snot mingling with the fuzz and cereal crumbs my kids left on my bedroom floor because I'm a too lenient mother who lets them get in bed with me and watch stupid shows on my computer. Gary was rubbing my head and I wasn't going to stop that to ask him to get me kleenex, so I wiped my eyes and blew my nose with a bra (rarely do I wear one so I'm not sure where this one came from) that happened to be on the floor. Call me ecologically irresponsible, but that baby's going straight in the trash. I'll do some extra composting to make up for it but I'm not wearing that thing again and I think it would be soooo mean to give it to Goodwill. I told the hubby that this was the end of the line. Everyone had been going at me for five years and I was tired of hanging from a cliff by my fingernails. End of story. He could feel free to leave me because I knew he couldn't have anticipated me taking complete and final leave of my senses, wholly losing my shit when he married me. I'm telling you, I was so, so serious.
Would I have told a friend who had just been through the helluva crap I've been (loosely) referring to as a job, "Sistah, you're going to feel perfect when you wake up tomorrow? You'll thank God for that sunrise and be ready to make your dreams come true?" Only if I didn't like her and wanted her to have a horrible surprise in the morning. And what if she had the kind of day I did-the terrible, awful, no good, very bad day? Would I say "quit whining and deal-we don't ever say 'can't' or 'give up' woman?" No. I would take my friend in my arms and hold her and tell her that it's ok to decide you're giving up once in a while. Let's face it-the whole world, every last bit of it sometimes, can just be such a kick you while you're down proposition, no silver lining in sight. No one, though, especially if you're a woman, is allowed to want to toss in the towel when the chips are really down. Stop wallowing and pull up your big girl panties. Huh? You've reached your limit-or rock bottom-and you're supposed to "keep your chin up" every fucking time or "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" (if I ever hear anyone say that again for real, I will punch them...same with "I'm sorry for your loss-we all have to accept God's will"). Incidentally, I'm now 42-years-old and I keep wondering how many times a person can hit rock bottom-"this must be it-the lowest-you're pre-disastered," as Garp would say...and then I crash on a rock at the bottom of an endless pit and think "well, obviously more times than I already have because here I am again,"
I decided this morning that since I'd conveniently beaten myself to a bloody pulp in my dreams, thereby taking care of that woman's work that's never done, I'd drink my coffee the way I like it-strong enough to float a horseshoe in-and then take a hot shower and go see my pal Ashley Hinton at Citizen's Bank. I chose to trust that, true to her past actions above and beyond the call of duty, she would help me unravel the banking nightmare that was all a part of yesterday's kick in the face. All I could think was that I'd gotten up, I hadn't said anything horrible to my boys or husband and had even managed a Stepford Wives "bye-bye sweeties-have a great day-I love you!" Then I puked...no, not really, but I really had to force that one.
As I sat across from Ashley and she sorted everything out and it all got organized and manageable and I started to breath semi-regularly again, we started talking. She told me what a difference it had made to her when I had said this, that and the other thing and I told her the same and we got teary eyed and THEN, we started talking, and not about sad, day wrecking stuff, either. We jumped over the desk telling each other about all of these cool things we were both doing and showing pictures of all of it on our cell phones. Then we both said "Oh my God, we could combine forces and do some of these great things together" and I mean it when I say, we were jumping up and down! I thought about what an amazing, kick-ass chick she is and she gave me a good strong boost and there I was. Out the other side. Shaky but landed...all because I had to go to the bank because I used the checkbook from the wrong account to pay a whole goddamn month's worth of bills. I'm pretty sure one of the sweetest men in the world, the one who plows my driveway for an incredibly reduced price, since I'm his son and daughter-in-law's neighbor isn't reading this, but I wish he were so I could say "I truly didn't bounce your check on purpose." Ditto the office staff at Gaylord Intermediate and Middle Schools, where I bounced my lunch payment checks for my sons who started there three weeks ago. Nothing beats that good first impression. DTE I can handle but friends and neighbors, awwww geeze.
Now Ashley and I are makin' plans, Stan. Then I saw all these women I love and respect at the WAR party tonight and got another boost and heard more great ideas and got a beautiful chain for my glasses-like an old lady because I lose them and sit on them. I felt good about even our small step towards helping a good cause. No one said "you're such a fucking loser for missing the past two Zonta meetings." Nope. Lots of women hugged me though. Now the day is ending and I'm in my bed next to my ten-year-old. He's fallen asleep beside me (he'll tell me "by accident" in the morning). He has his blanket covering his face like the Shroud of Turin-he's been sleeping that way since he was born and it used to scare me and I'd sit and watch him to make sure he was breathing, crying to my mom long distance. She would say "get a grip, Margaret...he's fine...you're going to be real sorry when you wake that sleeping baby." No one ever accused Jan of being a June Cleaver kind of mom (though I have this to add-Jan left a comment and feels that perhaps she was June Cleaverish after all...all I can say is that she's on vacation and having a blast and though totally out of character, perhaps she's been taking street drugs-oh, I'll now have to share with my siblings the mental picture of my mother on the corner in some seedy back street in Florida, furtively glancing around and hopping from foot to foot while she waits for her dealer-HA). Well, the head covering son lived and I guess there's no problem there, since he's snoring away and playing footisies with me in his sleep. I've got my candle and my dog...and I still feel pretty raw but I'm not blowing my snot into a bra or contemplating crawling under the bed (talk about fuzz and God knows what else-ugh) and not coming out. Ever.
Bottom line? I think we all have to stop telling ourselves that we've failed if we have a bad day. If the shit's raining down on you and you don't think you can take another second of it, why isn't it ok to feel like giving up? Why is it then the mandatory penance of every woman to flog herself (in my case, while sleeping-how restful) for admitting that her heart is broken, even if just for a few hours? We can't say we regret anything either. Really? You've got to be fucking kidding me. If you're a woman who can say you've never wanted to give up and have no regrets, God love you, but I'd watch out because most saints meet a pretty painful end. You won't care though cuz you'll be dead and kids in Catholic Schools all over the world will be reading about you and your martyrdom.
We all give up. We all have regrets. Don't lie to yourself or anyone else for one more minute. What's the point? Who do we help with that kind of dishonesty and plain old garden variety bull shit? Not ourselves, for sure (please refer to further explanation, above). Not the woman sitting next to you who would be able to let out a breath the size of a hurricane if you just said "I know how you feel...I want to give up sometimes, too." I give up sometimes and I don't think the good thoughts that become the good things all the time and I have regrets and I've made mistakes and I've done things I'm not proud of and that's so hard to admit, but it's better than being a liar.
Today, I didn't feel like giving up. Very busy repairing the damage done between yesterday's banking debacle and my childrens' whopper of a lie they told, all compounded by the leak that developed at the bottom of the stairs. I then added insult to injury three times over when I filled a three inch crack with that expanding foam stuff (note to potential users-they ARE NOT kidding when they say expanding...a little really does go a long way...it makes me sorry I shut my eyes and sprayed almost the whole can on that crack-there's sort of a science project volcano looking thing at the bottom of my stairs but that leak is STOPPED and I mean it's scared to fucking come back) and all the other stuff I had to fix, but I wasn't prone and sobbing even once all day.
Sometimes, not prone and sobbing is an accomplishment...sometimes breathing is an accomplishment. That's the way it is and no matter how we all try to say we never get there-we are the embodiment of strength and poise-WE ALL DO. Rock bottom may suck but when you hit it, you'll have PLENTY of company. Next time you're falling, try your darndest to remember you won't be the only one at the bottom. Slightly comforting. Slightly. I'm going to try just allowing myself to have the breakdown I so richly deserve every six months or so-more if necessary-and then I'll carry on. It's gonna happen so might as well go the give-myself-permission route. It's shorter...and when I see another woman (or man but they don't break down like this-they usually just start a war to get a handle on their stress) on the verge, I'm going to say "ok-it's alright to lose it now-I'll even sit with you and bring you kleenex and you can spend the night and I can hold your hand and be that comforting warm presence you need without having to have sex first."
We interrupt this life to bring you late breaking news about blowing your nose into your bra...
Love and Peace to All
Dedicated with love, love, shiny love to Ashley Hinton, God bless her and give her an A+ for being a good "sistah."
Quick but exceedingly necessary edit cuz I forgot my second and third "dedicated to" lines. So, this post is also dedicated to Jill at Saturn. How many towns this size have an independent bookstore? How many women run a business because they think it's an important contribution to their community? Sistah's, Ms. Jill is feeling down. Businesses are closing up and down the street and she was having one of those shitty days yesterday. Maybe not rock bottom-or maybe so and she just hid it well-but shit for a day anyways. Get your ass into Saturn and buy a book or two or just say "hi" and "keep on truckin' cuz what you're doing does matter." How many independent bookstores in towns this size have book signings with nationally recognized authors? We gotta support that store or lose it. Keep going, Jill. You are fabulous and so is Saturn and your contribution to this town in immeasurable.
Also, Pamm Quinn. She's having her own struggle and I'm not going to tell her story. Suffice it to say that next time you see her, she needs a hug and kiss and to know that she's loved. So here's a dedication to you, Pamm. You're a fabulous woman, friend and mother.
K. Done. Really.
Over just the few weeks since I've started posting, I've realized that the letters that were writing themselves in my head were letters to and about women. When a few women asked me to write about journaling and how to start and how to keep going, that just thrilled me. Writing the letters I have leading up to International Womens' Day has simply fed my soul.
After my first posts, a couple of people I trust told me "you shouldn't swear on your blog-if potential customers see that, they might be put off." So I deleted all the swear words in my past posts and haven't said a curse word since. The thing is, that's not me at all. When I'm writing for an audience of potential customers-and I mean directing a blog right at them, connected to my website-I'll be as proper as the day is long. Here, though, the letters I'm writing and the stories I'm telling about myself and other women need to be told in my voice and the truth is, I swear a lot and I'm not sorry for that. In my opinion, as long as you're not directing swear words at another or name calling, the word "fuck" can be the most effective therapy you can get for free-even more so if you scream "fuck!" while sobbing.
I decided all of this today...when I woke up...which I was really surprised to do after last night. Yesterday was a bad day. Remember the kids' book "Alexander and the Terrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day?" (Judith Viorst and Ray Cruz)-I strongly recommend ordering it from Jill at Saturn because it's good for adults and kid alike. In any event, that book is what I think of when I have a day like yesterday. I've just extricated myself from one of the worst professional situations I've ever been in and while I thought that was going to be an immediate relief...not so much and not so immediate. Massive shift. Healthy or not, massive shifts don't just happen overnight and leave you smilin', ready to conquer the world and doodling hearts and peace symbols on your post-its. Silly woman. Did I really think that?
Oh, I've been keeping that positive attitude, though. Thoughts become things and I've been choosin' the good ones, yessiree. I've been repeating the refrain (as I wrote in an earlier post) "to all that has been, thank you. To all that will be, yes." By the time I went to bed last night, it was more like "to all that has been, I'd like to stomp on everything you are and then back over you in my icy muddy driveway," and "to all that will be, fuck you because I'm not up for anything that will be...go foist some godforsaken future on some other little girl that's too stupid to have become cynical and bitter."
Yesterday's events were those that make up a day that can leave any of us reeling, and we've all had those days. Last night though, I just felt I had reached my limit. I told my husband that I had been fighting long enough. I've fought every asshole man in this town who, for no reason I've ever been able to understand, has disliked me before meeting me and has actively tried to harm my professional reputation. I've fought every inch of the way to build up a client base and make a living, albeit doing something I hate, but a living all the same. I've supported my kids, for some period of time (though no longer-big shout out to their dad, Steve) on my own. I bought the first house I've ever purchased on my own and I've kept it. I've put food on the table. On top of it all, I've been able to give my kids things they want once in a while, too, rather than only things they need. All the way, it's been a bloody-take-no-prisoners fight. I'm so tired of fighting it God honestly makes my eyelids droop, while at the same time making me have that fight or flight feeling. Ex. Haust. Ing.
So I was prone on the floor sobbing, tears and snot mingling with the fuzz and cereal crumbs my kids left on my bedroom floor because I'm a too lenient mother who lets them get in bed with me and watch stupid shows on my computer. Gary was rubbing my head and I wasn't going to stop that to ask him to get me kleenex, so I wiped my eyes and blew my nose with a bra (rarely do I wear one so I'm not sure where this one came from) that happened to be on the floor. Call me ecologically irresponsible, but that baby's going straight in the trash. I'll do some extra composting to make up for it but I'm not wearing that thing again and I think it would be soooo mean to give it to Goodwill. I told the hubby that this was the end of the line. Everyone had been going at me for five years and I was tired of hanging from a cliff by my fingernails. End of story. He could feel free to leave me because I knew he couldn't have anticipated me taking complete and final leave of my senses, wholly losing my shit when he married me. I'm telling you, I was so, so serious.
Would I have told a friend who had just been through the helluva crap I've been (loosely) referring to as a job, "Sistah, you're going to feel perfect when you wake up tomorrow? You'll thank God for that sunrise and be ready to make your dreams come true?" Only if I didn't like her and wanted her to have a horrible surprise in the morning. And what if she had the kind of day I did-the terrible, awful, no good, very bad day? Would I say "quit whining and deal-we don't ever say 'can't' or 'give up' woman?" No. I would take my friend in my arms and hold her and tell her that it's ok to decide you're giving up once in a while. Let's face it-the whole world, every last bit of it sometimes, can just be such a kick you while you're down proposition, no silver lining in sight. No one, though, especially if you're a woman, is allowed to want to toss in the towel when the chips are really down. Stop wallowing and pull up your big girl panties. Huh? You've reached your limit-or rock bottom-and you're supposed to "keep your chin up" every fucking time or "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" (if I ever hear anyone say that again for real, I will punch them...same with "I'm sorry for your loss-we all have to accept God's will"). Incidentally, I'm now 42-years-old and I keep wondering how many times a person can hit rock bottom-"this must be it-the lowest-you're pre-disastered," as Garp would say...and then I crash on a rock at the bottom of an endless pit and think "well, obviously more times than I already have because here I am again,"
I decided this morning that since I'd conveniently beaten myself to a bloody pulp in my dreams, thereby taking care of that woman's work that's never done, I'd drink my coffee the way I like it-strong enough to float a horseshoe in-and then take a hot shower and go see my pal Ashley Hinton at Citizen's Bank. I chose to trust that, true to her past actions above and beyond the call of duty, she would help me unravel the banking nightmare that was all a part of yesterday's kick in the face. All I could think was that I'd gotten up, I hadn't said anything horrible to my boys or husband and had even managed a Stepford Wives "bye-bye sweeties-have a great day-I love you!" Then I puked...no, not really, but I really had to force that one.
As I sat across from Ashley and she sorted everything out and it all got organized and manageable and I started to breath semi-regularly again, we started talking. She told me what a difference it had made to her when I had said this, that and the other thing and I told her the same and we got teary eyed and THEN, we started talking, and not about sad, day wrecking stuff, either. We jumped over the desk telling each other about all of these cool things we were both doing and showing pictures of all of it on our cell phones. Then we both said "Oh my God, we could combine forces and do some of these great things together" and I mean it when I say, we were jumping up and down! I thought about what an amazing, kick-ass chick she is and she gave me a good strong boost and there I was. Out the other side. Shaky but landed...all because I had to go to the bank because I used the checkbook from the wrong account to pay a whole goddamn month's worth of bills. I'm pretty sure one of the sweetest men in the world, the one who plows my driveway for an incredibly reduced price, since I'm his son and daughter-in-law's neighbor isn't reading this, but I wish he were so I could say "I truly didn't bounce your check on purpose." Ditto the office staff at Gaylord Intermediate and Middle Schools, where I bounced my lunch payment checks for my sons who started there three weeks ago. Nothing beats that good first impression. DTE I can handle but friends and neighbors, awwww geeze.
Now Ashley and I are makin' plans, Stan. Then I saw all these women I love and respect at the WAR party tonight and got another boost and heard more great ideas and got a beautiful chain for my glasses-like an old lady because I lose them and sit on them. I felt good about even our small step towards helping a good cause. No one said "you're such a fucking loser for missing the past two Zonta meetings." Nope. Lots of women hugged me though. Now the day is ending and I'm in my bed next to my ten-year-old. He's fallen asleep beside me (he'll tell me "by accident" in the morning). He has his blanket covering his face like the Shroud of Turin-he's been sleeping that way since he was born and it used to scare me and I'd sit and watch him to make sure he was breathing, crying to my mom long distance. She would say "get a grip, Margaret...he's fine...you're going to be real sorry when you wake that sleeping baby." No one ever accused Jan of being a June Cleaver kind of mom (though I have this to add-Jan left a comment and feels that perhaps she was June Cleaverish after all...all I can say is that she's on vacation and having a blast and though totally out of character, perhaps she's been taking street drugs-oh, I'll now have to share with my siblings the mental picture of my mother on the corner in some seedy back street in Florida, furtively glancing around and hopping from foot to foot while she waits for her dealer-HA). Well, the head covering son lived and I guess there's no problem there, since he's snoring away and playing footisies with me in his sleep. I've got my candle and my dog...and I still feel pretty raw but I'm not blowing my snot into a bra or contemplating crawling under the bed (talk about fuzz and God knows what else-ugh) and not coming out. Ever.
Bottom line? I think we all have to stop telling ourselves that we've failed if we have a bad day. If the shit's raining down on you and you don't think you can take another second of it, why isn't it ok to feel like giving up? Why is it then the mandatory penance of every woman to flog herself (in my case, while sleeping-how restful) for admitting that her heart is broken, even if just for a few hours? We can't say we regret anything either. Really? You've got to be fucking kidding me. If you're a woman who can say you've never wanted to give up and have no regrets, God love you, but I'd watch out because most saints meet a pretty painful end. You won't care though cuz you'll be dead and kids in Catholic Schools all over the world will be reading about you and your martyrdom.
We all give up. We all have regrets. Don't lie to yourself or anyone else for one more minute. What's the point? Who do we help with that kind of dishonesty and plain old garden variety bull shit? Not ourselves, for sure (please refer to further explanation, above). Not the woman sitting next to you who would be able to let out a breath the size of a hurricane if you just said "I know how you feel...I want to give up sometimes, too." I give up sometimes and I don't think the good thoughts that become the good things all the time and I have regrets and I've made mistakes and I've done things I'm not proud of and that's so hard to admit, but it's better than being a liar.
Today, I didn't feel like giving up. Very busy repairing the damage done between yesterday's banking debacle and my childrens' whopper of a lie they told, all compounded by the leak that developed at the bottom of the stairs. I then added insult to injury three times over when I filled a three inch crack with that expanding foam stuff (note to potential users-they ARE NOT kidding when they say expanding...a little really does go a long way...it makes me sorry I shut my eyes and sprayed almost the whole can on that crack-there's sort of a science project volcano looking thing at the bottom of my stairs but that leak is STOPPED and I mean it's scared to fucking come back) and all the other stuff I had to fix, but I wasn't prone and sobbing even once all day.
Sometimes, not prone and sobbing is an accomplishment...sometimes breathing is an accomplishment. That's the way it is and no matter how we all try to say we never get there-we are the embodiment of strength and poise-WE ALL DO. Rock bottom may suck but when you hit it, you'll have PLENTY of company. Next time you're falling, try your darndest to remember you won't be the only one at the bottom. Slightly comforting. Slightly. I'm going to try just allowing myself to have the breakdown I so richly deserve every six months or so-more if necessary-and then I'll carry on. It's gonna happen so might as well go the give-myself-permission route. It's shorter...and when I see another woman (or man but they don't break down like this-they usually just start a war to get a handle on their stress) on the verge, I'm going to say "ok-it's alright to lose it now-I'll even sit with you and bring you kleenex and you can spend the night and I can hold your hand and be that comforting warm presence you need without having to have sex first."
We interrupt this life to bring you late breaking news about blowing your nose into your bra...
Love and Peace to All
Dedicated with love, love, shiny love to Ashley Hinton, God bless her and give her an A+ for being a good "sistah."
Quick but exceedingly necessary edit cuz I forgot my second and third "dedicated to" lines. So, this post is also dedicated to Jill at Saturn. How many towns this size have an independent bookstore? How many women run a business because they think it's an important contribution to their community? Sistah's, Ms. Jill is feeling down. Businesses are closing up and down the street and she was having one of those shitty days yesterday. Maybe not rock bottom-or maybe so and she just hid it well-but shit for a day anyways. Get your ass into Saturn and buy a book or two or just say "hi" and "keep on truckin' cuz what you're doing does matter." How many independent bookstores in towns this size have book signings with nationally recognized authors? We gotta support that store or lose it. Keep going, Jill. You are fabulous and so is Saturn and your contribution to this town in immeasurable.
Also, Pamm Quinn. She's having her own struggle and I'm not going to tell her story. Suffice it to say that next time you see her, she needs a hug and kiss and to know that she's loved. So here's a dedication to you, Pamm. You're a fabulous woman, friend and mother.
K. Done. Really.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Dear Readers-
For all that has been, thank you.
For all that will be, yes.
I've always said that if reincarnation is the way the Universe will work for me, if I come back a hundred times, I'll come back as a woman every time if I have any say in it.
I love how being a woman gives us permission to talk about emotions and ideas and dreams and our children...and to encourage one another rather than just nodding thoughtfully; we can take hold of the hand of a friend or another sistah and draw her to ourselves to offer comfort, encouragement, shared joy or sorrow. I love how my body is so angular, and yet still feminine, as compared to my husbands, which just seems impossibly engulfing. That's part of the masculine: to engulf. Women are hungry and can be so strong, yet I know very few women to whom I could apply the concept of engulfing words, ideas, people...most women seem to feel as I do and try valiantly to taste each different ingredient of the dish of life.
It fills my cup to the brim to give my husband the gift of understanding and permission to talk about his emotions, his past, his feelings and dreams. I watch as the invitation to be truly in communion with another lets his shoulders relax with each word he speaks, his forehead smooth out a little at a time.
These moments remind me that I'm privileged to have been born a woman. Not that alone, though, but a woman who was raised to appreciate her gender...a woman who watched circles of women always drifting along with her mother through life, enfolding her within, gently, each one investing more of herself in the other and her children as time continued. And then one day, I could see and feel that these women felt like they had a stake in me, they had hoped for me as part of that circle. They celebrated with me and cried with me, along with my mother, who had her place in that circle, too.
Now I know that the light of the Universe has shined on a path for me to follow as I leave the cool, dark, humus rich woods of youth.
To all that has been, thank you.
To all that will be, yes.
Sincerely Yours.
For all that will be, yes.
I've always said that if reincarnation is the way the Universe will work for me, if I come back a hundred times, I'll come back as a woman every time if I have any say in it.
I love how being a woman gives us permission to talk about emotions and ideas and dreams and our children...and to encourage one another rather than just nodding thoughtfully; we can take hold of the hand of a friend or another sistah and draw her to ourselves to offer comfort, encouragement, shared joy or sorrow. I love how my body is so angular, and yet still feminine, as compared to my husbands, which just seems impossibly engulfing. That's part of the masculine: to engulf. Women are hungry and can be so strong, yet I know very few women to whom I could apply the concept of engulfing words, ideas, people...most women seem to feel as I do and try valiantly to taste each different ingredient of the dish of life.
It fills my cup to the brim to give my husband the gift of understanding and permission to talk about his emotions, his past, his feelings and dreams. I watch as the invitation to be truly in communion with another lets his shoulders relax with each word he speaks, his forehead smooth out a little at a time.
These moments remind me that I'm privileged to have been born a woman. Not that alone, though, but a woman who was raised to appreciate her gender...a woman who watched circles of women always drifting along with her mother through life, enfolding her within, gently, each one investing more of herself in the other and her children as time continued. And then one day, I could see and feel that these women felt like they had a stake in me, they had hoped for me as part of that circle. They celebrated with me and cried with me, along with my mother, who had her place in that circle, too.
Now I know that the light of the Universe has shined on a path for me to follow as I leave the cool, dark, humus rich woods of youth.
To all that has been, thank you.
To all that will be, yes.
Sincerely Yours.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Dear Women All Over the World-Sistahs, That Is-
I think I've been writing some pretty good pieces here but I'm not getting any feedback so I guess I'll just keep writing and hope someone reads what I have to say one day.
One of my most closely held values as a human being is that women have an obligation to teach one another what we've learned. If we all did this at every opportunity, we'd be lifting one another up. Instead, we allow ourselves to be portrayed in the media in ways that debase our gender. We let ad executives and cosmetics companies and weight loss supplements show us pictures of bodies that most of us don't have, while telling us (and all the men in the world) that those pictures represent the only acceptable form of a woman's body. Women with influence or stardom often feed into this, producing sound bytes, music, books and news reporting that pits women against women-reinforcing the whole "cat fight" stereotype many men love to fantasize about-or that portray women beaten down, without ever turning the corner and letting us see or hear about the woman who overcomes, grows, learns and then teaches.
This letter was going to be about domestic violence, but then I heard this song on the radio (proof positive to me that my policy of never listening to the radio unless it's tuned to NPR is now and always has been correct). When I got home and found the lyrics on the Internet, I decided that this song is the best example of a woman allowing herself to be denigrated and abused for money; willingly subjecting herself, an incredibly popular musician, to the manipulations of the PR Machine.
Girls are the ones who listen to pop music. I had a picture in my head of the young girls I know and love downloading this song onto their ipods and listening to it over and over. I felt very powerless and sad enough that I just sat in Glen's parking lot and cried. I just kept thinking "there's nothing I can do-I can't get millions of girls to stop listening to this song."
You be the judge.
GRENADE
Send "Grenade" Ringtone to Cell
Working and Praying for Change.
Sincerely Yours
One of my most closely held values as a human being is that women have an obligation to teach one another what we've learned. If we all did this at every opportunity, we'd be lifting one another up. Instead, we allow ourselves to be portrayed in the media in ways that debase our gender. We let ad executives and cosmetics companies and weight loss supplements show us pictures of bodies that most of us don't have, while telling us (and all the men in the world) that those pictures represent the only acceptable form of a woman's body. Women with influence or stardom often feed into this, producing sound bytes, music, books and news reporting that pits women against women-reinforcing the whole "cat fight" stereotype many men love to fantasize about-or that portray women beaten down, without ever turning the corner and letting us see or hear about the woman who overcomes, grows, learns and then teaches.
This letter was going to be about domestic violence, but then I heard this song on the radio (proof positive to me that my policy of never listening to the radio unless it's tuned to NPR is now and always has been correct). When I got home and found the lyrics on the Internet, I decided that this song is the best example of a woman allowing herself to be denigrated and abused for money; willingly subjecting herself, an incredibly popular musician, to the manipulations of the PR Machine.
Girls are the ones who listen to pop music. I had a picture in my head of the young girls I know and love downloading this song onto their ipods and listening to it over and over. I felt very powerless and sad enough that I just sat in Glen's parking lot and cried. I just kept thinking "there's nothing I can do-I can't get millions of girls to stop listening to this song."
You be the judge.
Bruno Mars
GRENADE
Easy come Easy go
That's just how you live oh
Take take take it all
But you never give,
Should of known you were trouble
From the first kiss had your eyes wide open,
Why were they open?
Gave you all I had
And you tossed it in the trash,
You tossed it in the trash, you did.
To give me all your love is all I ever asked cause what you don't understand, is id catch a grenade for ya.
Throw my hand on the blade for ya,
Id jump in front of a train for ya.
You know I'd do anything for ya.
See I would go through all this pain take a bullet straight through my brain.
Yes I would die for ya baby, but you won't do the same.
Black, black, black and blue beat me till I'm am numb tell the devil I said hey when you get back to where you're from.
Bad women bad women
That's just what you are yeah
You smile in my face than rip the breaks out my car.
Gave you all I had and you tossed it in the trash, you tossed it in the trash yes you did. To give me all your fucking love is all I ever asked but what you don't understand is id catch a grenade for ya.
Throw my hand on the blade for ya, Id jump in front of a train for ya. You know I'd do anything for ya. Listen babe I would go through all this pain take a bullet straight through my brain. Yes I would die for ya baby. But you won't do the same. If my body was on fire ooh you would watch me burn down in flames. You said you loved me you're a liar cause you never ever ever did baby...
That's just how you live oh
Take take take it all
But you never give,
Should of known you were trouble
From the first kiss had your eyes wide open,
Why were they open?
Gave you all I had
And you tossed it in the trash,
You tossed it in the trash, you did.
To give me all your love is all I ever asked cause what you don't understand, is id catch a grenade for ya.
Throw my hand on the blade for ya,
Id jump in front of a train for ya.
You know I'd do anything for ya.
See I would go through all this pain take a bullet straight through my brain.
Yes I would die for ya baby, but you won't do the same.
Black, black, black and blue beat me till I'm am numb tell the devil I said hey when you get back to where you're from.
Bad women bad women
That's just what you are yeah
You smile in my face than rip the breaks out my car.
Gave you all I had and you tossed it in the trash, you tossed it in the trash yes you did. To give me all your fucking love is all I ever asked but what you don't understand is id catch a grenade for ya.
Throw my hand on the blade for ya, Id jump in front of a train for ya. You know I'd do anything for ya. Listen babe I would go through all this pain take a bullet straight through my brain. Yes I would die for ya baby. But you won't do the same. If my body was on fire ooh you would watch me burn down in flames. You said you loved me you're a liar cause you never ever ever did baby...
Easy come, easy go
That's just how you live, oh
Take, take, take it all,
But you never give
Should have known you was trouble from the first kiss,
Had your eyes wide open
Why were they open?
Gave you all I had
And you tossed it in the trash
You tossed it in the trash, you did
To give me all your love is all I ever asked,
'Cause what you don't understand is
I'd catch a grenade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Throw my head on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I'd jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah , yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah) Oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby,
But you won't do the same
No, no, no, no
Black, black, black and blue beat me 'til I'm numb
Tell the devil I said 'hey' when you get back to where you're from
Mad woman, bad woman,
That's just what you are, yeah,
You'll smile in my face then rip the brakes out my car
Gave you all I had
And you tossed it in the trash
You tossed it in the trash, yes you did
To give me all your love is all I ever asked
'Cause what you don't understand is
I'd catch a grenade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Throw my head on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I'd jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah , yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah) Oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby,
But you won't do the same
If my body was on fire, ooh you' d watch me burn down in flames
'Cause you never, ever, ever did baby
But darling I'll still catch a grenade for ya
Throw my head on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I'd jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah) oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby,
But you won't do the same.
No, you won't do the same,
You wouldn't do the same,
Ooh, you'll never do the same,
No, no, no, no
That's just how you live, oh
Take, take, take it all,
But you never give
Should have known you was trouble from the first kiss,
Had your eyes wide open
Why were they open?
Gave you all I had
And you tossed it in the trash
You tossed it in the trash, you did
To give me all your love is all I ever asked,
'Cause what you don't understand is
I'd catch a grenade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Throw my head on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I'd jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah , yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah) Oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby,
But you won't do the same
No, no, no, no
Black, black, black and blue beat me 'til I'm numb
Tell the devil I said 'hey' when you get back to where you're from
Mad woman, bad woman,
That's just what you are, yeah,
You'll smile in my face then rip the brakes out my car
Gave you all I had
And you tossed it in the trash
You tossed it in the trash, yes you did
To give me all your love is all I ever asked
'Cause what you don't understand is
I'd catch a grenade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Throw my head on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I'd jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah , yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah) Oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby,
But you won't do the same
If my body was on fire, ooh you' d watch me burn down in flames
'Cause you never, ever, ever did baby
But darling I'll still catch a grenade for ya
Throw my head on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I'd jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah) oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby,
But you won't do the same.
No, you won't do the same,
You wouldn't do the same,
Ooh, you'll never do the same,
No, no, no, no
These lyrics are not available for printing.
Send "Grenade" Ringtone to Cell -and no, I don't want to download grenade to my cell as a ringtone, but I'll bet lots of girls do and will
Sincerely Yours
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Dear Mothers, Sisters and Daughters-
Tonight, I was reading "The Miniature Earth" with my 10 and 13-year-old sons. In case you haven't seen it for a while or never downloaded it, I've printed it below so as not to interrupt the flow of this letter to you, dear women of all walks of life.
In a surprising turn of events, both boys asked me "what's a Sikh?" Mortified that all I knew about Sikhs and their religion was that 1) they don't cut their hair; and, 2) they wear distinctive turbans; and 3) Sikhs and Hindus have a whole lotta fights. So we "searched it up," as my kids say. We came across a lot of information but here's what I thought was relevant to the topic of women and the fact that, in my opinion, justice towards women in their communities and around the world is our only path to peace.
We read a lot of history and we're talking 15-1600's here. Not repeating. My letters are already too long so you'll have to bust out and do some of your own research. There are gurus coming out the ears of every Sikh in the world and I can't imagine how they keep track. It's not like saying the "Hail Mary," I can tell you that. In any event, here's just a tiny excerpt that made all three of us catch each other with our mouths hanging open and one or the other of the boys clamoring to take over the reading out loud. Here's the first biggie:
Seriously? Some guy was saying this in the 15th century and people listened? The "one God" Sikhs embrace is the only one without a woman by his side and NOT because to have a woman would taint his purity, but because he is making the ultimate sacrifice in giving up his best friend. Finally, someone admits the implausibility of the "Adam's rib" nonsense and tells it like it is-no women, no babies, and oh, by the way, no "you," Mr. Man. She's considered nothing less than nobility for her creative powers, so strong that she becomes a co-creator with God!
I'm not real keen on the reincarnation idea (maybe lapsed Catholic baggage), and the fighting with the Hindus may be just, but Indira Ghandi trusted her Sikh body guards and they assasinated her...not so much to love about that, no matter who the actors are...but there's not much else I can't accept and I'm making a literal statement when I say that both of my sons went to bed tonight announcing that they were Sikhs and would discuss the ramifications of their decisions with me in the morning. That's really how they talk. They read too much.
And why not wouldn't they decide this might be the gig for them? It's basically embodies everything I've tried to teach them about tolerance, respect for all and the willingness to stand up for anyone subjected to injsutice, not just "their own," as in God loves everyone, no exceptions.
I must admit/disclaimer, that I haven't researched this religion in any sort of depth. I like and believe in karmah and darmah much more easily than I've ever been able to accept "it's God's will." Oh, nonsense. God gave us free choice-darmah, but he's still present in the natural order of things-darma.
What do you think about what Guru Nanak, a very trusted and even revered Spiritual leader, saying what he did, even in the context of a religion that holds equality and justice at its core?
What do you think?
Sincerely Yours
Miniature Earth
Visit the Miniature Earth site to see great videos and learn about the impact Donella Meadows made with her simple document, and what her Foundation continues to accomplish. I'm sorry to be sexist here, but at least I'm being honest about it-only a woman could have had this kind of a vision; to take the facts down to a level that a small child and the most cynical adult can't help but understand.
http://www.miniature-earth.com/#www.sustainer.org/dhm_archive/index.php?display_article=vn338villageed
It's a great thing to read to boys, even boys who've heard it before, when they're complaining because their xbox is broken and they don't have any new music on their ipods (as opposed to calling them selfish and berating them for their failure to understand how blessed they are-take a timeout and do that in private and then come out and try to be a parent who doesn't name call, right?).
In a surprising turn of events, both boys asked me "what's a Sikh?" Mortified that all I knew about Sikhs and their religion was that 1) they don't cut their hair; and, 2) they wear distinctive turbans; and 3) Sikhs and Hindus have a whole lotta fights. So we "searched it up," as my kids say. We came across a lot of information but here's what I thought was relevant to the topic of women and the fact that, in my opinion, justice towards women in their communities and around the world is our only path to peace.
We read a lot of history and we're talking 15-1600's here. Not repeating. My letters are already too long so you'll have to bust out and do some of your own research. There are gurus coming out the ears of every Sikh in the world and I can't imagine how they keep track. It's not like saying the "Hail Mary," I can tell you that. In any event, here's just a tiny excerpt that made all three of us catch each other with our mouths hanging open and one or the other of the boys clamoring to take over the reading out loud. Here's the first biggie:
Sikhism teaches that all of humanity was created by the same God, who has many names and many forms. Sikhism teaches equal respect for all other religions and that one should defend the rights of not just one's own religion, but the religion and faith of others, aa human right. At the end of every Sikh prayer is a supplication for the welfare of all of humanity.
Sikhism teaches the concept of a human Soul (Self (spirituality) or consciousness or spirit or astral body). Sikhs believe they can unite and become one with God in this life, as the consciousness merges with God through truthful living and actions. Sikhs always greet each other with "Sat Sri Akaal"which literally means "Truth is Immortal". Truth, Truthful living, Equality, Freedom and Justice are really the core principles of Sikh philosophy.
As soon as I know for sure that I'm saying it properly (sanskrit, though I revere it for so many reasons, is not a language I can speak, read or understand, though I look at the characters and feel my heart quicken, as I did when congregants in a temple or would chant from the ancient Torah in Hebrew, rocking back and forth, totally immersed), it may replace wishes of peace and even Namaste for me as what I say to others in greeting or as a farewell. We'll see.
Guru Nanak sought to improve the respect for women throughout all religions and as members of humanity, by spreading this message: "From woman, man is born; within woman, man is conceived; to woman he is engaged and married. Woman becomes his friend; through woman, the future generations come. When his woman dies, he seeks another woman; to woman he is bound. So why call her bad? when she gives rise to nobility. From woman, woman is born; without woman, there would be no one at all. O Nanak, only the True Lord is without a woman." In so doing, he promoted women's rights and equality, a remarkable stance in the 15th century.
Seriously? Some guy was saying this in the 15th century and people listened? The "one God" Sikhs embrace is the only one without a woman by his side and NOT because to have a woman would taint his purity, but because he is making the ultimate sacrifice in giving up his best friend. Finally, someone admits the implausibility of the "Adam's rib" nonsense and tells it like it is-no women, no babies, and oh, by the way, no "you," Mr. Man. She's considered nothing less than nobility for her creative powers, so strong that she becomes a co-creator with God!
I'm not real keen on the reincarnation idea (maybe lapsed Catholic baggage), and the fighting with the Hindus may be just, but Indira Ghandi trusted her Sikh body guards and they assasinated her...not so much to love about that, no matter who the actors are...but there's not much else I can't accept and I'm making a literal statement when I say that both of my sons went to bed tonight announcing that they were Sikhs and would discuss the ramifications of their decisions with me in the morning. That's really how they talk. They read too much.
And why not wouldn't they decide this might be the gig for them? It's basically embodies everything I've tried to teach them about tolerance, respect for all and the willingness to stand up for anyone subjected to injsutice, not just "their own," as in God loves everyone, no exceptions.
I must admit/disclaimer, that I haven't researched this religion in any sort of depth. I like and believe in karmah and darmah much more easily than I've ever been able to accept "it's God's will." Oh, nonsense. God gave us free choice-darmah, but he's still present in the natural order of things-darma.
What do you think about what Guru Nanak, a very trusted and even revered Spiritual leader, saying what he did, even in the context of a religion that holds equality and justice at its core?
What do you think?
Sincerely Yours
Miniature Earth
If we could turn the population of the earth into a small community of 100 people, keeping the same proportions we have today, it would be something like this...
61 Asians
61 Asians
12 Europeans
08 North Americans
05 South America and the Caribbean
13 Africans
01 Oceania
50 women 50 men
47 live in an urban area
12 are disabled
33 are Christian (Catholics, Protestants, Orthodox, Anglicans and other Christians)
21 are Muslims
13 are Hindus
06 are Buddhists
01 Sikh
01 Sikh
01 Jew
11 are non-religious
11 practice other religions
03 Atheists
43 live without basic sanitation 18 live without an improved water source
20 people own 75% of the entire world income
14 are hungry or malnourished
12 can't read
Only 12 have a computer
Only 8 have an internet connection
01 adult, aged 15-49, has HIV/AIDS
The village spends US$1.24 trillion on military expenditures UN and only US$ 100 billion on development aid
14 are hungry or malnourished
12 can't read
Only 12 have a computer
Only 8 have an internet connection
01 adult, aged 15-49, has HIV/AIDS
The village spends US$1.24 trillion on military expenditures UN and only US$ 100 billion on development aid
If you keep your food in a refrigerator And your clothes in a closet
If you have a roof over your head And have a bed to sleep in
You are richer than 75% of the entire world population
You are richer than 75% of the entire world population
21 people live on US$ 1.25 per day or less
Appreciate what you have And do your best for a better world
Visit the Miniature Earth site to see great videos and learn about the impact Donella Meadows made with her simple document, and what her Foundation continues to accomplish. I'm sorry to be sexist here, but at least I'm being honest about it-only a woman could have had this kind of a vision; to take the facts down to a level that a small child and the most cynical adult can't help but understand.
http://www.miniature-earth.com/#www.sustainer.org/dhm_archive/index.php?display_article=vn338villageed
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