Kitchen Sink

Golden Chick and the Briar Patch

2011-03-02T17:20:00.000-08:00

It was a gorgeous afternooon for a bike ride, especially since I'd been cooped up in my office all day. One ritual that I have started looking forward to is riding past Golden Chick (it's on my route). The smell is intoxicating. Today I even circled around for a second ride through the invisible cloud of crispy, greasy, chicken goodness. Truth be told I don't even like skin on fried chicken, but I do love getting stoned on the smell.

As is my practice I watched out for anything unusual I could tell you about, but didn't see anything remarkable today besides the absolutely gorgeous sunny, blue sky. When I rounded a corner I thought I saw a guy peeing off the bridge but it was just a mom pressed against the railing, fiddling with her young kid (who was standing in front of her about zipper-high.) I did see the tree you see above, which reminded me of the fabled briar patch. I hate "Song of the South" because I think it's racist, but I can't help but love the story about the briar patch. I decided that this photo would be the show part of my show and tell today.

Here's my playlist.

Because I Told You So Jonatha Brooke

She’s Got A Way Billy Joel Not sure if it still is, but this used to be my ringer on Craig’s phone.

New York State of Mind Billy Joel Okay, this isn't the first time I’ve said this (and it will probably not be the last) but one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to in my life was Billy Joel’s 52nd Street tour in 1978. He played at the Erwin Center here in Austin and it was one of those shows where the sound engineer got things profoundly right. Listening to him play the piano was like having Bose headphones on. Anyway, I remember an elaborate backdrop of the New York skyline that lit up during the show, and it was pretty amazing (especially in 1978!) Hearing this song always takes me back to a fond memory of my teen years.

It occurred to me while I was riding today that probably one of the reasons I love Billy Joel is because he was classically influenced and trained but he had really distinct pop sensibilities. My mom was the same way. She grew up as a prodigious classical pianist and taught piano throughout most of my childhood. But she also became a mainstay in the Austin piano bar scene in the seventies and she absolutely loved musicians like James Taylor, Carole King, The Eagles, Linda Rondstadt and Leon Russell. Because of his jazzy, classical-tinged piano style, listening to Billy Joel play always reminds me of my mother.

Golden Lady Stevie Wonder

Your Head Holds Gold, Your Heart Holds Diamonds Bob Schneider

Losing Heart Brandi Carlile

Hollaback Girl Gwen Stefani There are a host of songs on my iPod that got there as a result of trying to build a playlist for our wedding in Long Beach. All six of our kids and a host of twenty-something nieces and nephews were there, and we wanted to get the dancing started. Craig thought he downloaded the clean version but… he didn’t. When the song came on and everyone was dancing, he kept trying to say, “Uh-huh, it’s my ship, it’s my ship.” Yeah, right.

I’d Be Lying Greg Laswell

Have You Ever Brandi Carlile

When You Walk On Eliza Gilkyson A great song about leaving this planet. My sister, brother and I are still trying to decide what to put on our mom’s headstone. We’ve tossed around several ideas but none have seemed right. Yesterday I walked around in the cemetery on Hancock Drive, thinking perhaps I would get some ideas on how people worded things about those they loved. It was a beautiful day and a really interesting experience. It warrants its own blog post, hopefully soon.

He Waits For Me Eliza Gilkyson

Spark Over The Rhine A great song about John Lennon

A Day In The Life The Beatles One of my favorites

The Long Way Around The Dixie Chicks This song always makes me think of my friend Jan. In 2007 we took a road trip from Los Angeles to Napa Valley and this tune frequently popped up on our playlist. I am going to try and find the DVD I made and do a blog post about it here. Anyway, Jan and I had both recently survived major tragedies and this was our exercise in "I'm gonna live, damn it!" We had a blast.

Frozen Man James Taylor This version is on Taylor’s live album, “One Man Band.” If you’re a James Taylor fan, you MUST get this disc. It’s a combination audio/video package, and is beautifully mixed and mastered. About 18 months or so before my mom died, Craig said, “Let’s invite your mom over, watch the concert on our big screen TV, and I’ll make dinner.” It was one of many get-togethers that I will always treasure because she sat here on the couch while we brought her food, poured her wine, and enjoyed the music with her. I am deeply grateful for a husband who would orchestrate such a wonderful night.

Let’s Get It On Marvin Gaye Oh, what can be said about Marvin that hasn’t already been said? A classic. I smiled as I listened to some of the cheesy lyrics (“If the spirit moves you, let me groove you good…”) Ahhh, the seventies.

Think About You Eliza Gilkyson Favorite lyric in this song: “I’m a sucker for a heart half-closed; a part withheld and a part exposed…”

Turpentine Brandi Carlile

Rockin’ Down The Highway Doobie Brothers

Frisbees, Hello Kitty and Addiction

2011-02-17T19:46:00.000-08:00

Today while I was riding my bike I noticed two guys playing Frisbee Golf (there’s a course in the park by our house.) One of them somehow tossed his to where it landed on its side, rolling across the terrain and then across the street. He had to walk toward me to get it, so I stopped. I thought that since I promised to notice something on every bike ride, this was my chance. As Scott got closer to me I decided to talk to him (which is how I found out his name.) Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: Hey, I’ve always wanted to see inside one of those Frisbee Golf bags. Can I take a picture of it?

Scott: Disc. DISC Golf. But sure – go ahead.

He opened up the bag and I snapped a picture.

Me: Oh yeah. Disc.

Scott (holding up Hello Kitty): I always find interesting things here. I’m going to take this home and put it on Ariel.

Me: Who’s Ariel?

Scott: My car.

Me: Your car’s name is Ariel? (I figured maybe he likes The Little Mermaid.)

Scott: AriAL. As in antenna.

Me: Ohhhh…

We exchanged good wishes for a great evening, and went our separate ways.

Without further ado here’s today’s playlist. I never cease to be amazed at how many experiences and memories music evokes.

1. Barricades of Heaven – Jackson Browne (I love the live album this is on: Solo Acoustic Vol. 1)

2. Scenes From An Italian Restaurant – Billy Joel (Just so you know, I don’t like much of anything he released after about the early 80’s. Anything before then, however, I typically love.)

3. Breakfast in America – Supertramp (The rhythm on this one always reminds me of a soldier marching with arms and legs in sync.)

4. Say Hello, Wave Goodbye – David Gray

5. Gravity – Sara Bareilles (The first time I heard this song, our son Brandon played it in the car when he picked us up from the airport. I liked it okay, but when I saw a dance about addiction that was choreographed to the song, I fell in love with it. The dance is a-m-a-z-i-n-g. The choreographer, Mia Michaels, made the guy the addiction and the girl the addicted. If you happen to have walked down that dark road – either as the one who has a chemical dependency or the one who loves someone who has one – this will blow you away. Every time I watch it I marvel at how tragically beautiful it is. You can see it here. Be sure and pay attention to their faces.)

6. Dream On – Glee Cast (I wouldn’t call myself a full-fledged Gleek, but I watch the show. And I LIKE it. Of course I like Aerosmith's version better, but I'm not in charge of the shuffle, now, am I?)

7. Crash Into Me – Dave Matthews Band

8. Drunkard’s Prayer – Over The Rhine (Such a great love song. First lines: “You’re my water/you’re my wine/you’re my whiskey from time to time/You’re the aching/on my bones/all the nights I sleep alone.”)

9. One of Us – Joan Osborne (I’ve always liked this song; it’s got a raw edge.)

10. Paradise Hotel – Eliza Gilkyson (Beautiful. Just beautiful.)

11. Blue Mind – Alexi Murdoch

12. Because I Told You So – Jonatha Brooke (The one and only time I was in Portland, a friend and I went downtown to get coffee before driving back to her house in Corvallis. We stopped at a big Starbucks that had an amphitheater behind it. While I was paying for my coffee I noticed a sign that had the names of musicians scribbled on it; it was a list of who was playing that day. I did a double-take when I saw Jonatha’s name. “Jonatha Brooke is playing here?” I asked. "Yes," the barista replied. “Today?” I said in disbelief. "Yes," she said again. Jonatha Brooke plays at Starbucks?? Still blows me away. Unfortunately we weren’t able to stay for the show because we would’ve had to wait about 4 hours, and we had to get on the road. Anyway, this song is on Ten Cent Wings, which is an older album but one of my faves.)

Bike Shuffle 2/16/11

2011-02-16T21:20:00.000-08:00

I've decided to try and describe one thing I see each time I ride my bike. Today it was the sky: If there were a trumpet for the eyes (as opposed to the ears) it would be sunlight that shoots through the clouds. This photo doesn't do it justice (it was much more pronounced in person) but all I had to take a picture with was my iPhone. I opted to stop so I could show you.

I think this may be good for me in more ways than one: I wanted to ride again today just to see what would come up on my iPod. In other words, it was a big motivator! I figure I have some stories to tell about music, and if that's what gets me writing, then so be it.

Today's playlist is definitely more representative of my current musical taste.

1. Awake My Soul – Mumford and Sons

2. Be My Thrill – The Weepies (saw them earlier this year at Momo's and they were fantastic.)

3. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds – The Beatles

4. Everybody’s Doin’ It – Bob Schneider (For those who don't know Bob Schneider, he's an Austin guy who can't seem to shake the title "Sandra Bullock's Ex-Boyfriend." Another thing locals know is that you'd better find out who he's playing with before taking people to see him. He does excellent acoustic folk/pop, but he also plays with a band called The Scabs. And when he plays with them the lyrics are uber-raunchy. It takes quite a bit to make me squirm, but some of their stuff will melt your eyelashes! However, he's an incredible musician and some of his music is so beautiful it could make you cry. Here's a video if you want to get acquainted.)

5. Down in Flames – Mindy Smith

6. Comes and Goes – Greg Laswell (Greg Laswell was one of my favorite finds of early 2010. Okay, I didn't find him. My husband turned me on to his music. I wore Laswell's album "Three Flights From Alto Nedo" completely out. And just so you know, my music IQ went up substantially when I married Craig.)

7. Sleeping – Glen Hansard (One of my first dates with my husband was to see the movie "Once." I think we saw it the weekend it came out and I really latched on to the album, before it hit the charts. Later that year we saw The Swell Season at Stubbs and they were *$%#@ amazing! However, once they were all the rage I was over it. I still love Hansard's music, but I'm not on the bandwagon. I hate bandwagons.)

8. Meg White – Ray Lamontagne

9. Get Back – The Beatles (Yes, I'm a big Beatles fan. But I became a super-fan when I saw Cirque du Soliel's "Beatles Love" in Las Vegas. It's on my bucket list to take my girls to see it. If you like The Beatles and haven't heard the Love album, you're missing out. You can read the story behind it here.)

10. The Chain – Ingrid Michaelson

11. Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy – Queen

12. Bad Dreams – Joni Mitchell (I love Joni because I love my husband a lot, and he's the biggest Joni fan I know. No, really. Anyway, any song of hers makes me think of him.)

13. Dream Lover – Eliza Gilkyson (This song was inspired by her husband, Robert Jensen, who is a journalism prof at UT Austin. He wrote a book called Getting Off: Pornography and the End of Masculinity. Both he and Eliza are liberal activists and see this as a feminist issue." Dream Lover" isn't one of my favorite songs, but it definitely showcases her songwriting abilities – esp. lyrically. Here's a link to a recording of it. I have no idea what the site is, but the audio is decent quality!)

14. Looking Out - Brandi Carlile (Favorite lyric in the song: “Some people get religion/some people get the truth/I never get the truth")

15. Make You Feel My Love – Adele (This song was written by none other than Bob Dylan. His version and Adele's version couldn't be on more opposite poles!)

16. Bigger Than My Body – John Mayer

I only rode about seven miles; had an adorable little two year-old waiting for me and I couldn't wait to get to her.

Signs of Life

2011-02-15T17:58:00.000-08:00

Late this afternoon I took an 8-mile bike ride. Sometimes people get all impressed with that, but really it’s not that far at all. I think it took me about 45-50 minutes but it seemed like 10. Why? Probably because it was a gorgeous pre-spring day (what else do you call 73 degrees in February? The air is warm but all the trees are still completely naked and perched on dead grass, spindly limbs reaching for a brilliant blue sky.) I put my iPod on shuffle and for the first time in a long time just lost myself in living. I rode through a very large park near our house and took in the sights as I listened to whatever came through the headphones. Some of the songs made me think of fond memories, though I enjoyed the variety of all the others too. Yes, I skipped a few, but for the most part I let it be.

I. Love. Music.

Love.

I rode mostly on trails and sidewalks (more like a boardwalk) and at one point just thought about swinging my arms around in the wind, so I did. And I sang at the top of my lungs.

I passed a field full of little kids playing T-Ball, none of them probably over the age of six. There was so much life in that wide-open space, children screaming and laughing and looking for their parents on the sidelines. It felt good to be racing down a hill and letting go of all the shoulds and have-to’s of the day, bouncing to the beat as I steered my bike in S’s on the sidewalk. The sun was beginning to set and I realized I needed to go home. But I didn’t want to. I was enjoying being alive, being here, on planet earth. I’m grateful that I can hear music, that my legs work, and that I’m able to lose myself in life again – even if it’s only for a moment here and there.

Grief is a weird thing. Even though I’ve not cried lately or dwelt on the death of my mother, I know it has clogged up my soul somehow. I haven’t been able to write. To read. To pray or meditate much. To create. On my way home I thought about starting to chronicle here what comes up on my iPod when I ride my bike, and suddenly I got excited at the thought. For the last six months I haven’t been able to blog to save my life, possibly because I don’t really know what to say. I feel stuck. So perhaps if I write about my bike rides and the music that fuels them, eventually I will get un-stuck.

I am tempted, sorely tempted, to edit this list because I’m afraid you’ll judge me prematurely. So don’t think you know my musical taste by reading this list.

And don’t be a hater.

Honky Cat – Elton John (Honky Chateau was one of my favorite high-school albums)
Sweet Lorraine – Patty Griffin
Close to You – Carpenters (Yes, THE CARPENTERS! They were the first concert I ever went to. And they remind me of my mother in a big way.)
Way to You – Brandi Carlile (She’s my current singer/songwriter crush.)
While My Guitar Gently Weeps – The Beatles
Dreamboat Annie – Heart (The Wilson sisters have no equals.)
Wrapped Up in You – Wayne Kirkpatrick (One of the most syrupy pop songs on the planet. And it always makes me want to dance.)
Cuckoo’s Nest – Nickel Creek
Cowboy Take Me Away – Dixie Chicks (This makes me think of my daughter Anna, who sang this song in her middle school talent show. I smiled all the way through the song, thinking of her all those years ago.)
Angelina – Dave Berkley
Silver Lining – David Gray
Evil Woman – ELO
One Way or Another – Blondie
English Trees – Crowded House
Winter Birds – Ray Lamontagne
Holy, Holy, Holy – Ashley Cleveland (Over the last few years I haven’t been able to listen to much gospel music. It carries too much baggage from religious circles I’ve been a part of in the past. But Ashley transcends all of that; people who don't even believe in God at all love her. She’s actually in town doing a concert tonight, but I didn’t really have any desire to go. Instead I just put my bike in the garage and stood in the driveway, listening while I took in the nearly-full moon. Here's a link to the recording if you're interested in checking my opinion.)

Blowin' in the Wind

2010-11-15T06:44:00.000-08:00

Earlier this year I made a promise to myself that I would post a new blog entry at least once per week. And for a short while I was able to keep it up. But alas, things fell to the wayside again and now it's been six weeks since I've posted anything new. It wasn't that I didn't want to write, it's that I was trying to pack too much into my impossibly full days. It was only after I graduated from college last summer that I realized that I had earned 48 hours of college credit in 15 months, all while starting a new business, meeting long-lost siblings for the first time, and caring for my increasingly sick mother. The ebb and flow of life's circumstances have been extremely erratic for me over the last few years, and especially the last 12 months. There has been lots of joy mixed with generous helpings of stress and sorrow.

But I digress.

This isn't an "I-must-help-you-understand-me" manifesto. I'm done making excuses to myself and to the world at large for what I do or don't do. Rather, I'm leading up to a confession of sorts, one that will hopefully help me get "un-stuck." The truth is, this is the post I haven't wanted to write. My mother died on October 11, 2010, and I knew that I couldn't just ignore it here. However, I wasn't really ready to write about it either (and in many ways I'm still not ready.) So what did I do? Nothing. And yet I know I can't pick up this discipline again without at least acknowledging the death of my mother. How do I talk about it without really talking about it? I don't know, but I'm gonna give it a try.

Anyone who's lost a parent or a spouse or a sibling or a child or a best friend knows that there's a lot of chaos that surrounds death, especially when it's long and drawn out. Caring for the everyday needs of someone who is terminally ill becomes increasingly chaotic and profoundly draining and difficult. Little by little my siblings and I assumed our mom's life: we dealt with financial matters, paid bills, took care of her house and her dogs, drove her to chemo and doctor's appointments and to and from surgeries and scans. We made sure she had food to eat, that her hygiene was taken care of. We kept in touch with her friends and extended family, keeping them apprised of her condition. We communicated with doctors and nurses on her behalf, we took care of her insurance, we shopped for new nightgowns and underwear, we switched out beds, got a walker and a cane and a shower chair – anything to try and keep her safe and as comfortable as possible. But I've learned that when cancer is ravaging someone's body, the efforts will never be enough.

On many occasions I told people that it felt like death was a powerful vacuum, one that was waiting for our mom to get weak enough to snatch her from the earth. She was a fighter who clung tenaciously to this life, if only for a few more days, hours, minutes or seconds with her family. And while she was the one leaving, we all felt the pull. Big time. The fact that it wasn't our turn to go meant that we were by nature resistant to the sheer force of her transition. And if you've ever been in gale force winds, you have an idea of what I’m talking about. The physics of staying upright takes a lot of energy because the wind wants to sweep you up or throw you down. Such are the metaphysical winds that death stirs up. We knew that when the tempest subsided we would all still be here, but after she died our clothes were tattered, our hair was blown and impossibly tangled, and every muscle in our bodies ached from the fight. It's been a month, and for the most part I feel like I am just starting to get up off the ground.

When people ask me, "How are you doing?" I don't know what to say. In many ways it feels like I was running on a treadmill at 200 miles per hour and then all of a sudden the belt just stopped and I went flying. I think I am still flying through the air. I've remained somewhat on autopilot as we've sorted through her things and cleaned out her house. I've gone through the motions of probate, selling her car, donating things to various charities. As I type this, boxes of her belongings surround me, and in all honesty it is overwhelming. Getting in to those boxes means not only finding a place for things, it also means remembering. And I'm not quite ready to do that. In the meantime, while I was consumed with helping her die, things piled up around here. I need to deal with insurance claims (my own), bank issues, and a host of other items that are piled high in my in-box. I need to work, do laundry, clean out the litter box, go to the grocery store, write thank-you notes, do some yoga. I need to exercise. I need to make a long-overdue dental appointment. I need to start thinking about the holidays. I need to wash my car and get some new tires. I need to unpack my suitcase from being out of town last week.

I need to rest.

And yet I think in a way I'm still holding my breath. I guess I'm confessing that I don't know what I'm doing and I don't know what to do next. I understand why sometimes people just go to bed and pull the covers over their heads. But I do know this: I'll be okay. I have a wonderful husband, kick-ass children, awesome siblings and incredibly loving and supportive friends. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't have to walk through the debris of my mother's death. And to some degree I must do it alone. This could take awhile. At least now I've broken the ice here, which will hopefully free me up to write again. As my mom used to say when she didn't want to commit to something, "We shall see."

Image Credit: layoutsparks.com.

Open Source Activism

2010-10-06T06:30:00.000-07:00

I've always meant to be an activist. Like many Americans I actually do care about this planet and the people on it, and am often disturbed by things like poverty, genocide and toxic waste. I've even gone as far as contacting organizations that are devoted to such causes, hoping to find a feasible way to get involved. But sooner or later my sincere intentions are hijacked by the tyranny of the urgent, and life returns me to my regularly scheduled program. At times it feels something like a cross between The Amazing Race and The Simpsons.

I grew up in an age where the experts and rebels were the ringleaders, and the rest of us mostly just jumped on the bandwagons they sent our way. My kids can hardly fathom a world where ideas were spread primarily through lectures, demonstrations, printed matter and folk songs. To them, it's perfectly normal that a quick Google blog search on toxic waste yields 179,531 results. To me it is astonishing that there are thousands of people all over the world who are speaking out and connecting over this issue. I find it even more remarkable that I can jump into these "conversations" at any time.

Blogs are just one example of what many are calling "open source activism," which is built upon the premise that the problems in our world are public domain. I first heard the term while interviewing Justin Dillon, the musician-turned-filmmaker who made the 2008 movie Call and Response. This thirty-something guy happened to read an article in the New York Times about human trafficking. Some time later he was playing music in Russia and ran into some women who were giddy about job offers they had received from the United States - offers that sounded an awful lot like the ones described in the newspaper article. He said that an alarm went off in his head that sounded much like a summons. This was somehow his responsibility. So what did he do? He wrote a song about it. He did a benefit concert in his hometown. And then he had an idea to put together a "Concert to End Slavery." Dillon approached Walden Media and asked if they were interested in getting behind the effort; surprisingly they said yes, and a rockumentary was born. One day this guy was largely an unknown singer/songwriter playing whatever gigs he could get; when I talked to him he was about to catch a plane to Bahrain to speak at a United Nations conference on Human Trafficking.

What a difference a song makes.

One thing I've noticed about open source activism is that there is no ownership, there are no celebrities, and there are no rules. Nobody calls a meeting to decide who has the "best" idea or approach. No one person gets the credit for making headway. It's a movement where thousands of streams collide to form a river, where a host of stars conspire to illumine the night sky. Open Source Activism exemplifies the ancient Hebrew concept of Tikkun Olam, which affirms each individual's responsibility to repair the world. This ideology flies in the face of the notion that we're obliged to gather enough time or money or bright ideas before we can officially make a difference. In Dillon's case he didn't have a clue where his song would take him, but he had the wherewithal to give what he had at the time.

Open Source Activism isn't a new concept, but somehow it seems new to me. Could it really be as simple as emptying the pockets of our chaotic days and spending the loose change on something that matters? Is it enough for today that I recycle the moldy plastic container in my refrigerator instead of throwing it out? Can I consider myself an activist if I choose to buy products that were made by people who were treated fairly? Yes, and yes. As my friend says, a little bit of something is better than a whole lot of nothing. Contrary to the plural pronoun that regularly graces casual conversation, there is no "they" who are going to fix things.

It's me.

It's you.

We the people.

And a Little Child Shall Lead Them...

2010-09-20T20:18:00.000-07:00

Somehow they know. Maybe God whispers to little kids, telling them things that take us grownups months and years to face. Last Tuesday morning my nineteen month-old granddaughter, Haven, walked up to the refrigerator, held her arms up toward my mother's picture, and said "Please?" Her mom got it down and handed it to her. She proceeded to walk around with it all morning, kissing it as she went about her business.

Who knows? Maybe it was the exact same time my brother and I were with our mom at the oncologist's office that morning, hearing the news that she has two to three months to live.

We knew that this day would come, but that foreknowledge still didn't make it any easier to bear. Last weekend Haven and her mom (my daughter, Amy) came in to town to spend some time with the family as we prepare to say goodbye to my mother (who is also known as Nanos, because that's what my children and grandchildren call her.) Late Saturday afternoon all three of my daughters and both granddaughters stopped by my mom's to see her. Mandy's daughter, Piper (age two and a half) can sense that things have shifted, and she's been a little more prone to stand on the sidelines (rather than referee the game, which is usually a beautiful feature of her extroverted personality!) She just took it all in and apparently came to her own conclusions.

Later that night Mandy was putting Piper to bed. At one point Piper said, "Mommy, I'm sad." Mandy asked her why she was sad. "Because Nanos is tired," she replied. "I need to go and see her."

Two year olds can't comprehend death, but yes, Piper, Nanos is tired. She's been battling ovarian cancer for three and a half years, and she's put up a hell of a fight. Truth is, we're all very tired. Helping a loved one battle the disease is one kind of energy, and saying goodbye is another (though the two undeniably overlap.) Just about the time you're hitting the 26th mile after years of chemo and hospitalizations and blood transfusions and accidental falls and more CAT scans, MRI's and diagnostic tests than god himself should have, the marathon staff changes the road signs and points us in a different direction. They say, "Death: 26.2 miles."

And we are all plodding along. As a family we are blessed to have so many people who are cheering us on and handing us cups of cold water. We've been extended so much kindness and grace; people cook us food, send us texts/emails, and ask if there is anything at all they can do. And it really helps to know we are so loved. My niece posted a video on my Facebook wall today, just letting me know she was thinking of me; it meant a whole lot. But the bottom line is that there's not much anyone can do. We're walking our mom toward death and none of us has ever done it before. It's scary. Sad. And though I can say without reservation that my siblings and I are deeply, fiercely committed to running this race, we still have shin splints, bruised feet, and are out of breath. I'm rarely at a loss for words, but for now I can't figure out how to convey how overwhelming it is to help a loved one face a terminal illness. That said, I can't even imagine what it's like to be the one facing it. And to think: it happens to people every single day.

Music Nirvana

2010-09-09T22:55:00.000-07:00

My husband and I have spent the afternoon, evening (and now wee hours of the morning) listening through Rolling Stone's top 500 songs of all time. We still have 100 to go, but what a great playlist. Check it out here. I need to make myself a playlist from this playlist.

Say Cheese

2010-09-06T08:11:00.000-07:00

It's happened to us all at one time or another: we're walking down a long hallway or sidewalk and we pass a stranger. With all the kindness we can muster, we smile widely and offer a greeting of some sort. And what do they do? Sometimes they smile back. But quite often they scowl or look away. When that happens I often feel like I want to take it back, as though giving a smile away to someone who clearly doesn't appreciate it somehow diminishes me. Really? Giving away kindness is only worthwhile when a person reciprocates?

A few years ago I was falling deeply in love. I had just gone back to school full-time and between classes I would call my boyfriend (now husband) to catch up. One day I was particularly charmed by whatever he was saying and as I was walking across campus with my phone up to my ear, I wore a huge smile on my face. And though my face was only lit up because of what he was saying, I noticed that an unusual number of people were smiling at me. Only later did it occur to me that they were smiling because I was smiling at them first.

I've been trying to practice giving away smiles more often. I still get insecure at times and want to protect myself by looking straight ahead with an aloof look on my face. But I make deals with myself: Smile at the next five people you see, and decide in advance that it won't get under your skin if they offer a less than favorable response. Somehow if I go in to it with that mindset it seems easier. I suppose it has to do with expectations, i.e. "If I am nice to you, you owe it to me to be nice back." Problem is, sometimes we interpret things wrongly. A scowl might be saying, "I was just diagnosed with cancer and I'm scared to death," or "I wonder if my husband is having an affair" or "What am I gonna do if I get laid off?" It may also be saying, "I'm worthless." In short, peoples' unfriendly responses probably have very little to do with me.

Here's my challenge: take an hour or an afternoon or an entire day and purpose to smile at people more. And then see what that does to you. Does it feel draining? Energizing? Do you feel like you've given away parts of yourself that you can't get back, or are you somehow changed by offering kindness to strangers? If you actually do it I'd love to hear what happens.

And if you want to hear a nice rendition of Charlie Chaplin's song "Smile," you can do so here. I love it.

Photo Credit: Muffet on Flickr
Liscensed under creative commons

Cowboy

2010-08-24T21:57:00.000-07:00

Due to formatting issues, I'm directing traffic from this one blog post to one of my photo blogs. What I wanted to post here looks better here.

The Essence of Life

2010-07-22T21:45:00.000-07:00

One day I kept my [then] two-month old granddaughter, Piper, while her mom was at work and her dad ran some errands. She arrived snugly tucked into her car seat, eyes wide, not sure where she was or how she had gotten there. She'd been asleep in the car and apparently woke up while her dad was carrying her in. I've often thought about how it must seem to babies that they're continually traveling to Oz, because so often the people, places and things have completely changed when they wake up from a catnap. They're put in their car seat at home, they sleep on the road, and then they wake up in an entirely unfamiliar place. The looks on their faces seem to be saying that they're not ruling out munchkins or flying monkeys.

That day I stood over Piper and caught her eye, telling her softly that I was so glad she had come to see me. She smiled widely. And then the second after her father left, she decided to exercise her lungs. Big time. I reached to get her out of the car seat but I couldn't figure out how to unhook one major piece of the harness. The harder I tried, the harder she cried. I finally had to locate my glasses so I could see the blasted thing, but by the time I figured it out and sprung her she was inconsolable. She screamed. She cried. She stiffened her legs and clenched her fists. She pulled her own hair (which she had a head full of.) She sputtered and gasped and pushed so much air through those tiny baby lungs it could've inflated a moonwalk. Usually I was able get her quieted down within a few minutes, but this time she was not even remotely responding to my tricks. Five minutes passed. Then 10. Then 20. By that time I was afraid the neighbors might call Child Protective Services. Finally, after 25 minutes of non-stop shrieking her eyelids began to flutter closed, as if Tinkerbell had laid fairy-sized bags of sand on each lid. I rocked her from side to side while she was doing what my mother calls snubbing: sucking in tiny involuntary breaths that echoed the wails that preceded them. Piper finally succumbed to her siesta, and as I turned her over to lay her on a blanket I noticed the onesie she was wearing. It was decorated with colorful embroidery that spelled out two words:

"Love Me."

I stopped and stared. Amidst all the howling I hadn't even noticed it, and for some reason it hit me hard, as though someone had pounded me once with a blunt object. I stopped what I was doing and within a matter of seconds it occurred to me that we all arrive on this planet with those two words indelibly tattooed on our being. "Love me!" We crave it, so much so that as we get older it often drives what we do, what we reach for, what we demand. In America we are bombarded with messages - spiritually, materially, emotionally - that tell us we can be whole, we can be satisfied, we can be loved "if." In many church circles, it's if you follow the rules. According to advertisers, it's if you drive this car, if you wear this cologne, if you lose the weight, if you drink this beer. Sometimes our parents or family members tell us if we're "good" we're worthy of love, but if we dissent from the family "status quo," we deserve to be castigated and abandoned. Love is often conditional at work, at school and in various types of relationships, whether they're friends, colleagues, or lovers. No matter where it's coming from, the message is the same: If you'll jump through the hoop that's being held in front of you, you'll finally get what you came for. It's no wonder that we often get tangled up in things that promise to supply that precious commodity, but profoundly fail to deliver it.

Today my husband and I were in a crowded airport and I started looking at everyone I passed as though they were wearing a sign around their neck that said, "Love Me." And it was a pretty eye-opening experience. Among other things it left me feeling a little more compassionate and tolerant. Could it be that the people who are the most difficult are those who've not known much love? Might their unkind actions and obstinate ways be nothing more than their version of a 25-minute screaming fit? Certainly it's not healthy to tolerate abuse or to stay in close relationship with someone who is rude or obnoxious. And I don't think that our happiness should depend on how people treat us. But I wonder how often I would put my dukes down if I could just recognize that some people are simply angry and hurt because they're not loved well.

Image Credit: SharonaGott on Flickr
Licensed under Creative Commons

Blue

2010-07-16T12:00:00.001-07:00

Climbing on the bed
I reached for the treasure
in the top drawer
of her dresser:
a blue velvet drawstring bag
resting in my hand
like a rare bird,
like a memory
eager to fly.

My transformation began
with the clunky, chunky bracelet
trimmed in rhinestones:
some as dark as sapphire
others
infused with an azure ocean
the kind where you can stand waist deep
and still see your feet.
It was a Caribbean vacation
for my wrist.

I riddled through her bulging closet
to find evening wear:
a long silky nightgown
a black felt hat with fishnet blusher
high-heeled shoes that slapped my heels like a flag in a furious wind.

Once attired
I stretched my arms toward the sky -
perched on tippy-toes
to reach the ultimate accessory:
her prized mink stole.
I wrapped it around my shoulders
and buried my face in the welcoming fur,
a simulation of the embrace
I regularly craved.

Afternoon soap operas
were my theme song
as I walked the tiny runway
in my grandmother's living room.
I was an eight year-old supermodel
fueled by the glorious certainty
that my presence on planet earth
really mattered
to her.

Suddenly
she looked up from the television.
The doctor's prognosis,
the woman's affair,
and the chronic ache for revenge
all droned on in the background,
but all eyes were on me.
All two of them.
And she adored me.
Each and every gaze
repaired a sliver of my brokenness.
Time stalked us like a shadow
hungry for years,
and before I knew it
she was gone.
But I still have the bracelet.
And I hope she somehow knows
that her fervent love
saved my life.

2010-07-09T08:04:00.000-07:00

I think nature has a lot to tell. From time to time I wake up and realize that I've been on autopilot, deafened by the demands of everyday living. A few months ago we took my mom to see Thornton Wilder's play, "Our Town." The plot is too much to fully go in to here, but to understand the context of the quote below, all you need to know is that a young mother, Emily, dies during childbirth. She gets an opportunity to go back to earth for one day, and immediately starts trying to think of the best day she ever had. Her guide strongly encourages her to select one that is uneventful and ordinary, but she persists in her quest to relive a special day. They finally agree on her twelfth birthday. She lands in her family's kitchen as they're getting ready for the festivities, though they cannot see her. She sees her brother and aches to reach out and touch him. She longs to hug her mother, to be back in the mix of what's going on in front of her. She sees the beauty of everyday, ordinary living. At one point she exclaims,

"Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you." Then she turns to her guide and says, "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it -- every, every minute?" He replies, "No. Saints and poets maybe...they do some."

And then Emily eventually returns to her "afterlife," painfully aware that she let the beauty and wonder of her once-mortal state escape her.

I can relate.

I wrote a song many years ago that starts out,

Winter turns to spring
And we don't blink an eye
The sun wakes and warms
As we pass on by
The mountains and the hills
Burst forth in song
Bellowing with beauty
As we hurry along.

That's the story of my life. In the chaos of everyday living I often completely miss the joys of living on planet earth. My family and friends are so precious to me. I can't imagine being in Emily's predicament, where I am no longer able to laugh, cry, celebrate with or hug those around me. But without a doubt, it will happen.

Since the dawn of time people have speculated and argued about what happens when we die. I wouldn't dream of trying to unpack all that here. But I do want to say that I think nature strongly hints that there's something beyond what we can see. Elton John's "Circle of Life" song from The Lion King comes to mind because it speaks of a life/death/life cycle. Here are some of the things that I've observed in nature:

• The sun. It rises (birth), sets (death) and rises again (birth.)

• Mortal sleep patterns. We wake up in the morning (birth) we go to bed at night (death) and we rise again (birth.)

• Regarding sleep, when we go to bed (die) we reside in an alternative world -- dreams. It's on a completely different plane than the "awake" space we live in, and other than the sketchy details that we remember (and soon forget) we have very little access to it. Think about it: every night we are ushered in to and "exist" in another world.

• Butterflies. They are born as caterpillars (birth), retire to a tomb-like cocoon (death) and then they emerge as a completely different creature (birth.)

• The seasons. Living things bloom in the spring (birth), expire in winter (death), and are reborn in the spring (birth.)

I know there are many more, but I can't think of them right now. I'll add them as they come to mind. Can anyone out there think of another example of birth/death/birth in nature?

Photo Credit: Daniel Garcia Neto
Flickr
Licensed Under Creative Commons

Learning to Talk

2010-07-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

Here's a little video of when Piper (our two year-old granddaughter) was about 20 months old. Her mom and I were trying to get her to say stuff on camera. And despite our noisy attempts to extract words from her, she managed to think about what she was trying to say, and blurt it out. You can totally see the wheels turning in her head. She even asks her own questions (mom translates.)

I took a linguistics class a couple of years ago and one of the units was on language acquisition, also known as language development. I had never really thought much about how babies acquire the ability to communicate, and became pretty fascinated with the theories (especially because at the time my granddaughter was just learning to talk!) Experts disagree on how we "learn" to speak. Some theorists say that it's strictly learned or imitated, but that doesn't account for the fact that kids put sentences together that they've never heard. It also doesn't account for the fact that kids make mistakes in predictable ways. For example, it's common for kids to say, "I goed home" instead of "I went home." And they've likely never heard anyone use the term "goed."

Noam Chomsky, one of the most famous American linguists, believes that language is an innate thing, that somehow our DNA gives us the raw capacity to learn verbal communication. So a child who is born into a Spanish-speaking family will use the innate characteristics she has to learn the Spanish language, and a kid in Japan will do the same thing with the Japanese language.

I kind of believe that it's a mixture of innate ability and learning. All things considered, kids aren't given much information (i.e. stimulus) but they're still acquiring new words and phrases all the time. Yes, they hear us label things and learn to imitate that, but we don't teach them how to structure a sentence, they just eventually learn how to properly arrange nouns, verbs, prepositions, etc. And really, little kids can understand so much more than they can say when they're about a year old. If I say, "Haven, where are your eyes?" my genius little seventeen month-old granddaughter points right to them, even though she can't formulate the sentence.

Watching kids figure the whole language thing out can be so fun. A few personal examples:

• About three months ago Piper and I drove through Sonic. I was going to get her a kiddie ice cream, and I said, "Piper, which do you like better: chocolate or strawberry?" She replied, "No, I don't." She got strawberry; easier to clean.

• Last weekend Craig asked her if she was tired, and she said, "I don't tired."

• I recently went to pick Piper up so I could take her to the park. I said to her mom, "Maybe we can get ice cream while we're out!" Little did I know that Piper had asked her mom to pack some creamy yogurt in a cooler so she could eat it at the park. She heard me make the ice cream remark and had a startled look on her face, as if to say, "Listen to me!" I waited for her to formulate the sentence, and it came out haltingly, like this: I! Have! Yogurt! And then she smiled from ear to ear, because she was so proud of herself for telling me.

• Recently Piper spent the night with us. The next day she kept saying she wanted Popeye's.

Popeye's?? Fried chicken and biscuits??

Craig told her no, that we had stuff to eat at home and weren't going to Popeye's. She threw herself down on the ground and started crying. Later on I called her mom and said, "Do you guys take her to Popeye's a lot?" She replied, "Mom, she's saying "Pop Ice, as in the frozen popscicle things." Piper didn't have the ability yet to separate the two words, especially when there's a "p" at the end of one, and a vowel at the beginning of the other. The "p" and the "I" run together - try saying "pop ice" and you'll see that you do it too. The difference is that as adults we know to enunciate them separately if we need to.

Here's a video from a few weeks ago. You can see how much she's progressed. She even knows how to tell me that she's not going to do what I'm asking her to! Her phrase "No, I don't" has become somewhat iconic around here. I baited her to try and get her to say it, but when that failed I just flat out asked.

My Excellent Adventure on the Circus Train

2010-06-24T09:32:00.000-07:00

About four years ago my youngest daughter Anna was turning18. At the time a lot of things in our world were turned upside down, and I wanted to do something completely different for her birthday. It just so happened that my dear friend Michele has a Russian friend named Zhenya, who is tight with a bunch of Russian circus acrobats (top THAT, Kevin Bacon!) So when we learned that the circus was coming to Austin, Michele called Zhenya, who contacted the performers, and they arranged for us to get free tickets to the circus. (To my animal-loving friends: I in no way condone how circuses treat animals, but I needed to wipe the celebration slate clean and was out of tricks!) Knowing what a difficult time we were all going through, Michele's friend also had the acrobats somehow fix it to where Anna would "win" a picture painted by an elephant during the pre-show. In other words they bent over backwards for us. Mega generous. The seats were great and we laughed a lot (which we desperately needed.) The whole experience was a mini-oasis in a season of personal drought.

The day after the performance Michele called and asked if I could swing by and pick up one of the acrobats named Sergi; he wanted to go shopping. And I jumped at the chance. Yes, I wanted to return the favor because Sergi and his friends had done some really nice things for me. But if I'm keepin' it real, I've got to admit that that wasn't my only motivation. Did I want to spend a few hours hanging out with a Russian acrobat who lives on a circus train? Heck yeah! Who wouldn't? (Well, I can think of several people, but my adventurous spirit nearly always trumps caution and rationale. Besides, I had heard lots of stories about Zhenya's friendship with the Russian acrobats, and I knew in my heart that they were good people.)

So at the prearranged time I drove up to the Frank Erwin Center, and sure enough there was Sergi, standing on the corner waiting for me. When I waved he raised his hand and smiled, as though hailing a cab. As he opened the car door and got in I realized that he was a lot bigger than I thought he would be (aren't acrobats supposed to be small?) He also had really huge biceps. I found out later that he is the one who hangs upside down on the trapeze and catches the little people who do tricks in the air. Anyway, you might say that Sergi had a stereotypical Russian look about him. A generous head of blond hair framed his square face, and his features were chiseled, which made him look distinctly eastern European. I'm guessing he was around 40.

Being the extrovert that I am, I started in on the small talk right away.

"Hi! How are you?"

"Fine, fine."

"Hey, thank you for the tickets last night. My daughter loved it."

He nodded once, firmly, like I Dream of Jeannie when she's granting a wish. He wore a hint of a smile.

[Crickets chirping.]

"Are you having a good time in Austin?"

Sergi nodded his head affirmatively (I later found out that circus performers see little more than the train and the venue in any given city.)

We sat in silence at a very long stoplight. Or was it the silence that was long?

I asked him where he wanted to go, and with a very thick Russian accent he told me that he needed food and some alcoholic beverages. I mentioned a few places we might go, and his eyes lit up when he heard "Wal-Mart." So even though I am morally opposed to Wal-Mart on a number of levels, I figured I didn't have the right to deny someone else the choice to shop there. So off we went, into the wild, blue yonder my friend Michele calls the seventh level of hell. Wal-Hell.

As we drove to the Supercenter I continued to make small talk, because he clearly wasn't going to initiate any conversation. I also made small talk because I am the type of person who fills awkward silences with babble. Don't get me wrong: Sergi was nice and was clearly grateful that I agreed to shuttle him on some errands. But he wasn't as interested as I was in cross examination: What's it like to ride with the circus? Did you go to trapeze school? What do you think of the United States? How is it different than where you live? Do you have a family? Do you have circus friends? Do you ever get to hang out with the animals? Are the clowns as nice and fun as they appear to be on stage? These are just a few of the things I wanted to ask him. Instead I turned on the radio, reminding myself that I'd have other opportunities to chat with him later. He seemed a bit relieved to hear the background noise.

When we arrived at Wal-Mart I followed him in, though his stride was brisk. Once we were standing in front of all the checkout lines he very carefully and politely told me that he'd meet me at this exact spot in about 20 minutes. I was disappointed. What? He doesn't want a nosy American woman following him around and talking his ear off while he buys snacks and toiletries and whatever else Russian circus people buy? Clearly, the answer was no. As he walked off I weighed my options. Theoretically I could've browsed and shopped, but I wouldn't because I don't buy things at Wal-Mart. I could've wandered around and pretended to shop, so that maybe I'd run into him and see if he needed help finding anything (yeah, right. Like I know where anything is in Wal-Mart.) Or, I could've done some people watching while I sat on the bench in front of the checkout lines. Reluctantly I decided on the third option and plunked myself down on the hard metal bench. I was a little irritated that I was watching greeters and cashiers and coupon hoarders while there was a real live circus acrobat walking around the store.

About 20 minutes later I spotted him at the checkout. He was buying quite a lot, maybe six or seven plastic grocery bags full. When his transaction was complete I strolled up to him and casually asked him how it went. How it went? How does grocery shopping usually go, Laura? When we got in the car he told me that the one thing he couldn't find at Wal-Mart were alcoholic beverages. I quickly got the drift that he wanted hard liquor, not beer or wine. (Duh! Perhaps it's a myth, but almost every time I hear of Russians drinking, it involves Vodka or some other equally potent spirit.) I told him that in Texas you have to buy such things at a liquor store. He stared at me in disbelief. A store that only sells liquor? I started thinking about where I could take him because I figured we didn't have a lot of time. At some point he had to get back to the train in time to leave for the show, and I probably should've been getting back to work. Costco, I thought. They're cheap, they have everything, and it's not too far from where we are. So I told him where we were going and he seemed pleased that he'd be able to get what he needed.

As we fought our way through traffic Sergi opened up a little more. As it turns out, he has only a few friends in the circus. Mostly the performers just keep to themselves (or at least those in his unit do.) I also found out that he had a wife and a twelve year-old daughter, though he and his wife were currently separated. I could tell he missed them both, which is understandable given that he travels with the circus 42 weeks per year. The crazy thing about it all is that he only gets to perform 10 minutes per show. Now I've never been good with numbers, but I just had to do the math: if he performs seven times per week (which takes into account travel days and matinee performances) he is away from home 294 days per year so that he can "work" just over two full days (49 hours.) Wow! What would motivate someone to do that? Without thinking I snapped into journalist mode and asked him if it was worth it to be away from his country and his family for that long. He told me that the money is better than what most people can generally earn in Russia, and then added that the trapeze something he's good at.

After circling the lot we finally found a parking spot and headed in to Costco's liquor store. It's a smallish building so Sergi was stuck with me. He walked up to the only clerk in the store and asked him where they kept the cognac. Cognac? I wondered. Isn’t cognac what men in smoking jackets drink out of a brandy snifter? Though I'd heard of it many times I couldn't think of what it was. (It's like when someone mentions Kyrgyzstan, you know it's a country but have no idea where it's located.) The clerk walked toward a shelf that was stocked with quart-sized bottles of liquor and picked up the cognac. He handed it to Sergi, who studied the bottle as though he were Sherlock Holmes and the velvety amber liquid was a prime suspect. I imagined that made me Dr. Watson. I stood with the clerk and waited for a response. After a few moments, Sergi tucked the bottle under his arm and asked for something else, signaling that the only cognac Costco carried would suffice.

We didn't stay long. Within 10 minutes Sergi had made his selections and we were back in the car. As I turned on to the Highway 183 frontage road I casually mentioned that I had never tasted cognac. You might've thought I had just confessed to having twelve toes. He looked at me as though he expected Ashton Kutcher to come out of nowhere and say he had been Punked. Never tasted cognac? He reached for his bag in the back seat and started pulling out the bottle. "You must taste it," he said. I told him that I'd love to. As he started to open the cognac I suddenly realized that he was going to try and give me a swig right there on 183. "No!" I said, anxiously. "That's illegal here. You can't have an open liquor container in a moving car, much less drink it." He seemed surprised. He gave me his best ambivalent shrug and put it back in the bag.

I suddenly realized that I had no idea where to take him. I was hoping he'd want to go back to the Erwin Center because I could probably drive there in my sleep. But no. He wanted to go back to the circus train. "Alright," I said. "Where is it?" It dawned on me that I was about to let a Russian who spoke very broken English tell me how to get somewhere in a city he had never been to. What are the odds we'll end up anywhere near that train? I wondered. While I was having visions of a wild goose chase, he was racking his brain for a street name. Finally he blurted out, "Seventh Street."

"Do you mean east Seventh?"

"Seventh Street," he reiterated.

So I headed downtown. When we got to Seventh Street I turned east, because I couldn't imagine a circus train being anywhere west of the highway. As we drove slowly down the road it appeared that he was looking for anything that might seem familiar. I could tell by the look on his face that so far there was nothing. As is almost always the case on east Seventh Street there was lots of construction going on, so the ride was bumpy and slow. We must've traveled a mile or so before coming to a bridge. Sergi's face lit up. "There!" he said. "Right there." As we drove over the bridge I looked to my left, and sure enough there was the circus train, stretched out like a massive silver snake. Once we crossed the bridge I turned on a side street, which took us to a dead end ― a stone's throw from the middle of the train. I couldn't believe we had found it. I pulled up and started to help him get his groceries out before I left. As I picked up the bags he motioned to the train and said, "You come try cognac?" Is he inviting me to get on the train? My heart started beating faster as I realized I'd have to make a split-second decision. "Yes," I said casually, as though I often visited people who lived on circus trains. Being the no-nonsense Russian that he was, he grabbed about 2/3 of the bags and started walking toward the train. I juggled the ones I had in my hands so I could lock the car, and then started out after him. There was no path, only rocks. He deftly maneuvered the terrain while I took it more like an obstacle course. I probably looked something like Bugs Bunny when he was walking over hot coals.

We passed about five long cars before Sergi jumped aboard. I followed him down a corridor that felt somewhat like a midget's hotel. Inside the train there was a hallway of separate doors, which were not much bigger than the door of an airplane bathroom. Each one led to someone's living quarters. When we got to his unit he turned the key and invited me in. I'm not sure what I expected, but when I stepped in I was taken aback by how small and cramped it was. There was a built-in bunk bed high up on the wall across from the window, and a little hot plate "kitchen" below it. I can't remember every detail (and I'm horrible with size calculations) but I'd guess the entire footprint of the room was less than 100 square feet.

Sergi motioned for me to sit down on a little one-person bench across from a miniature table that jutted out of the opposite wall. He opened the door of a tiny refrigerator and pulled out a lemon. A very small built-in TV was on in the background, though the volume was turned all the way down. The reception was horrible. Sergi began slicing the lemons and then laid them out on a bright white paper towel. He opened the cognac and poured us each a shot. The time had come, and he was ready to explain the process. He started out trying to tell me what to do, and because he was at a loss for words he decided pantomime it. He picked up a slice of lemon and gestured as though he were popping it in his mouth, and then grabbed his shot and pretended to down it. I don't know why he didn't just do his first, though maybe he was just trying to be polite by letting his guest partake before he did. Anyway, I was ready to get on with it. I took my lemon, popped it in my mouth and bit down. As lemons tend to be it was super pungent, and I involuntarily screwed my face up. It probably left me looking something like a subject in one of Picasso's paintings. Sergi became alarmed. "No, no!" he cried. I spit out the lemon and both of us started laughing.

"That's what you told me to do!" I said incredulously.

"No," he said, shaking his head, smiling. "I don't know how to say it in English."

I grabbed the shot and tossed it down. The tangy acid taste in my mouth and throat turned to fire. I'm not much of a shot person, and I don't even really like hard alcohol. But I wasn't going to pass up a chance to get on the circus train, and the cognac was my ticket in. Though it burned going in, the cognac went down smooth. Sergi licked his lemon and downed his shot, and all that was left of my first cognac experience was two empty glasses on a table that might have fit in Barbie's Dream House. He picked up the bottle and motioned to my glass, as if to ask if I wanted more. I nodded my head no, but thanked him graciously for the offer.

I would've loved to ask Sergi a lot more questions about life on the circus train. It was a culture I'd never encountered, and probably never will again. But he wasn't the chatty type. Though the journalist in me wanted to hang out and observe circus life from the inside, I knew it was time to go. The space was so small it would’ve been uncomfortable if we weren't drinking cognac or playing cards or something. I thanked him for introducing me to his favorite alcoholic beverage, and he thanked me for taking him to run his errands. In order for me to leave he actually had to step out into the hallway. I waved goodbye as I walked down the tiny corridor, toward the afternoon light at the end of the tunnel. I stepped off the train and onto the rocky ground. I wasn't drunk or even tipsy by any means, but the trip back to the car seemed easier than on the way in. I walked past car after car of circus performers, but never once saw anyone other than Sergi. I guess they really do keep to themselves. For that reason I count myself lucky to have been able to get a glimpse of what I consider to be an alternate universe. It never ceases to amaze me how many different facets there are to the human experience. Who knows? If Sergi had come back to the office with me, perhaps he would've felt the same way.

Looking Back

2010-06-16T16:56:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile.

Yeah, I'm really stretching the "awhile" definition since the last time I posted on here was in January. I imagine I was wearing a sweater when I wrote my last blog entry, probably had the heater on, and might've been looking forward to hot soup for dinner. It was cold outside. As I type this it's 93 degrees in Austin, which is still pretty mild for a Texas summer. I'm wearing a sleeveless dress made out of t-shirt material, and I have both the air conditioner AND the ceiling fan cranked up. I think I'll have a Popsicle for dinner. In other words, it's not been days or weeks since I've blogged; it's been two whole seasons!

In January I finally gave up trying to keep my writing blog current (though I managed to attend to my photography blog here and there.) I had just finished my hardest semester in college and was headed into another one. In fact, within twelve months I earned 48 college credit hours, while at the same time running my own business, getting married, moving, meeting siblings I had never known, starting another business, and helping care for a mom who has cancer. As I just re-read the last sentence I was hit with the weight of it. Am I crazy? Apparently so. Who in their right mind thinks they can do that many things at once? That would be me (though I question the "right mind" part.) Anyway, all that to say I was so covered up in academic reading and writing, I didn't have the energy or the time to write for pleasure. Yes, for me, blogging is a pleasure (at least it is today; ask me in a month or two and I might be singing a different song.) Why might I change my tune, you ask? Because I'm turning over a new leaf. No, really. I'm tempted to make a pledge to write a new blog entry every single day -- even if it's just a few lines. But that sounds like a trip to Ball and Chain-ville, and I've vowed not to visit there this summer. No, I'm going to tone it down a little. For the next month I'm going to try and offer something twice per week. And if I don't deliver, well, I'm going to forgive myself. I don't think I have many regular readers anyway (two, perhaps?) We shall see how it goes.

In the meantime I am happy to report that I've finished my coursework and in August will officially graduate from St. Edwards University with a Bachelor of Arts in English, Writing and Rhetoric. Whew. It's been a wild ride but completely worth it. I wouldn't change a thing, except that maybe I'd divide the last twelve months into equal parts and give myself two or three years to get it all done. But that's hindsight now. And I'm just not that in to rear-view mirrors anymore.

Image Credit: Littledan77 - Flickr
Licensed Under Creative Commons

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2010-01-17T22:45:00.000-08:00

Man, I love my church. Journey is so out of the box, but not just for the sake of being out of the box. I am completely put off by churches that try too hard to be relevant, trendy, or weirder-than-thou (which is usually just a mask that covers up an agenda.) For the record, Journey is a weird place, but not because it's necessarily trying to be. It's a place where it's OK to be who you are, where you are, and what you are. Not only do I get to hear people like Darden Smith, Grace Pettis and Dave Madden play (they all happen to be a part of our little community) I regularly learn things if I'll just keep an eye on the little kids. About a month ago I posted a Facebook status from where I sat in the warehouse, saying, "Overheard in church: A five year-old telling his father, "Dad, I love ZZ Top." Today I sat behind a girl of about eight years old, long dirty blond hair, cute as a button. She had an American Girl doll, but since my kids are grown I've lost track of their names (plus they've added several over the years.) But I do know this: her doll was not white, as in Caucasian. She may have been black, but I suspect she was either the Latino girl, or the American Indian. And it delighted me to no end. In a culture that is often homogenous, where grown-ups tend to congregate around people of like mind, color, socioeconomic background (especially when it comes to churches) this kid picked a doll who was different than she was.

And I really smiled when, during a prayer, I looked up and she had her hands in, for lack of a better term, a modified "Ohm" meditation position (making a circle with the thumb and index finger.) She was swaying her arms back and forth while most of the rest of us just sat still.

Diversity. It does a body good.

Image Credit: thetasha - Flickr
Licensed Under Creative Commons

2009: Laura's Top Ten List

2010-01-01T21:38:00.000-08:00

A few people have asked me what the highlights of 2009 were for me, so I'm gonna go for a top ten list (which is really mostly just a gratitude list.) I am a very fortunate woman. So without further delay, here they are in no particular order.1. Getting married. Up until a few years ago I never saw a second marriage in my future. I was married for 25 years to my first husband, and after our divorce I knew that though I needed to be single for a while (turns out it was 2+ years), I definitely did not want to spend the rest of my life "alone." Going back into the dating scene after a 28-year hiatus meant that I hadn't had a date since I was 19 years old. I remember one day, after having moved through a whole lot grief, uttering a really spur-of-the-moment prayer. I said, "Hey, could we perhaps just skip the whole singles scene? If it's in the cards for me to find love again, would it be too much trouble to let us find each other sooner rather than later?" I didn't necessarily expect an answer, and I certainly didn't expect an affirmative one. Enter: Craig. Wow. Never in a million years did I dream that I would find a man who was such a perfect fit for me. We joke sometimes that we are TOO much alike. Those who know me well can attest to the fact that I'm wacky, adventurous, weird, and often irreverent. Craig is moreso. I knew I had found my male twin the day he went shopping with me and disappeared, only to come sauntering up to me with gangster clothes on (over his clothes) grabbing his crotch and talkin' smack. He makes me laugh like no other. We both love music and the arts in general. (We have a game we play most every time we get in his truck, which has satellite radio. We shuffle through the stations and try to be the first to identify the artist of the song that happens to be playing. To put it mildly, we're pretty competitive. You get one fist bump if you identify it correctly, two if you identify it before there's any singing. We once played this for two hours straight while we were traveling, and would've continued if we hadn't reached our destination.) We have many of the same spiritual ideals and struggles. We both have a dark sense of humor. We place a high value on family - especially our six kids. We're both extroverts, love people, and also love our solitude. We are fond of good coffee, fine wine, cooking together, independent films, a handful of TV shows, and have a desire to travel and see the world. He is without a doubt my best friend. We got married July 3rd in his brother's backyard in Long Beach, with all of our children and grandchildren present (which was a feat to get them all out there!) Then we went on a weeklong trip up the California coast, stopping in Big Sur for a few days, and on to San Francisco. The whole experience was wonderful. Speaking of marriage, I not only found the love of my life, I also got…

2. Three new sons. Okay, technically they're "stepsons," but I agree with the oldest one when he says he's not a fan of the "step" label. They're awesome. For those who don't know, my three girls and Craig's three boys are nearly the exact same ages. And yes, we're aware that we're the Brady Bunch. Anyway, Brandon, Nathan and Cameron all have vastly different personalities and their own unique takes on life. Knowing them has enriched my life tremendously. Like their dad, they make me laugh a lot, and have introduced me to cool music, interesting people, and…drumroll please… Bon Qui Qui. (Thanks, Cameron.) One really wonderful thing has been to see how much they love their dad, and how much he adores them. In today's world, that's not terribly common. Oh - almost forgot… this means that my children now have brothers, and my granddaughters have more uncles. They think that's way cool, and so do I.

3. My mom's courage and fortitude. She has been fighting ovarian cancer for nearly three years, which is certainly nothing to celebrate. But her resilient spirit is definitely an ongoing source of inspiration to us all. It has been a horrendous road. She has endured hair loss, nausea, and a host of unimaginable side effects from the different courses of chemo. She has been in and out of the hospital, weathered pneumonia, and recently suffered a fractured knee, stitches and a possible broken nose as a result of a fall. And this was all just in the last month! Throughout it all she has managed to live her life to the fullest. She has been a part of family functions and celebrations (and was even able to make the trip to California for our wedding!) has enjoyed many different activities with friends, and even worked full-time up until about six months ago. She has struggled mightily but has a strong determination to live the life God gave her. I love her a lot, and am so glad she has fought so thoroughly and nobly. Thanks, mom, for showing us the true meaning of courage. I look forward to 2010!

4. The birth of my second granddaughter. Haven Kathryn Kelley Hauck was born on February 4, 2009, and I got to be in the operating room when she was delivered by caesarean section. I couldn't watch the procedure (for fear that I'd come unglued at the sight of someone slicing open one of my children) so I sat on a stool behind the drape, holding Amy's hand and talking to her as they brought Haven into the world. Her husband, Johnny, was behind the drape too, but he stood up and watched the whole thing! Haven weighed in at 11 pounds, two ounces, the exact same weight as Anna, so Amy and I now share the record. She is such an incredible gift, and I'd describe her personality as equal parts sunshine, wonder, and holiness. I love her fiercely, and I think she gets that. On Christmas Eve I was holding her and Amy held her hands out to take her from me. Usually she immediately leans in to her momma, but this time she turned away and clung to me. My jaw dropped; Amy and I were both stunned!! I couldn't have felt richer if you had given me all the gold in Fort Knox.

5. Watching my oldest granddaughter morph from baby into little girl. Where to start with this little genius? Piper is the cutest toddler on the planet. She has gone from cherub-faced baby to long and lean toddler, and has acquired some pretty impressive skills in the process. I will never forget the day she finally said my name, which was like hearing all the symphonies in the world gather for one resonant chorus. She's got personality pouring out of her, and is showing signs of having a few unique quirks (which delights me to no end because that means she's at least in part a little like her Gia.) On Christmas morning as we were all chattering away, she started with me and worked her way around the breakfast table: "Hi Gia. Hi Gia. Hi Gia…" She kept on until I finally put my conversation on pause and said hello. "Hi Happy. Hi Happy. Hi Happy…" "Hi Teenie. Hi Teenie. Hi Teenie…" etc. When she came over on Halloween to trick or treat, we walked outside to a full moon and she pointed up and emphatically said, "BALL!" (but now shouts, "MOON!") She loves the movie "UP" and is extremely affectionate - even known to walk up to strangers, lay her head down on their knee, and pat them sweetly. She dances to the Sesame Street theme, loves to torment our cat, and runs to hug me when she sees me. I won the lottery with this kid. She is rocketing toward her second birthday.

6.Three beautiful girls. I blinked and they were grown-ups. I am so proud of each one of them, and have deeply enjoyed their friendship and company this year. As a mother it makes me so happy to see them moving toward their dreams and goals. If I were to list everything that I admire about them it would take pages and pages. So I'll try to keep it compact and concise to avoid droning on and on (which I'm happy to do if you want to give me a call.) Amy: She's a new mom, but continued her quest to earn a graduate degree. Even though it's sort of cheating, I love talking about my daughter, the college professor (she's a T.A. at UTSA). Amy is also really involved in the lives of college students, and regularly has a kitchen full of kids who need hot chocolate, a kick in the pants, or a compassionate listening ear. She's simply one of the kindest people I know. This year I have loved seeing how much motherhood agrees with her. Mandy: My middle one never ceases to amaze me. After being one of the millions of Americans who were laid off from their jobs in 2009, she found a way to return to school while being a full-time mom. (Warning: I'm about to do one of those parental boasting things.) She made straight A's her first semester back, and is heading into another full load in the spring. Out of all my kids she got the keen crackshot business sense that is certain to take her far, wherever she may be headed professionally. She is an amazing mother, and Piper adores her. Can you tell I'm proud? Anna: if I didn't love her so much I'd kick her little butt for getting to spend some time in Europe this year (while I've never been.) But she worked hard for it, and totally deserved the amazing time that she had. Among other things she held down her job at the UT History office, and has been a professional violinist with the Temple Symphony. She is without a doubt one of the most creatively gifted people I know, and though it's been an exhausting year in many ways for her, it does my heart good to see that she consistently chases her dreams. In many ways, I think they chase her.

INTERMISSION: Yeah, I'm aware that the last three entries read a bit like a braggy Christmas letter, but anyone who has children and grandchildren understand that if there's anyplace to gush, its here. Don't hate.

7. My family. I love my sister and my brother. A lot. It's been a hard year for all of us, and I wish it hadn't been. But it's really brought us closer. I'm well aware that good sibling relationships aren't a given, which makes me all the more grateful for the many times we've been able to laugh and cry together. They are two of the most caring, kindhearted people I know, and I am incredibly fortunate that I get to be their sister. Beyond that, I'm really thankful that my dad has been in good health, and that he's tearin' up the road in his beloved vintage Jeep pickup truck. And on July 3rd I got another family… Craig's! Some people tolerate in-laws; I hit the jackpot with the Jenkinses. I truly adore them all and am looking forward to spending the rest of my life getting to know them.

8. A new sister. This could be an essay in and of itself (and probably some day will be.) But for now I'll keep it somewhat brief. I knew I had another sister out there somewhere, and in 2009, with my husband's help, I found her. But that didn't mean that I was brave enough to contact her. It was my sister Leslie who encouraged me to send her a message on Facebook - the introvert compelling the extrovert… go figure! So with knees knocking I went for it, and I am SO GLAD I did! Laurie is my "sorella maggiore," which simply means that she is my Italian big sister (age, not size.) I knew that contacting her was a risk - I'd heard wonderful stories about people finding long-lost biological relatives, but I'd also heard just as many horror stories. Mine turned out exceptionally well. Laurie is absolutely delightful, and I have loved every minute of our emails and phone conversations. It's mind-boggling how alike we are even though we've never met (other than on Skype.) We have tentative plans to meet in person in 2010, so stay tuned…

9. I made it through the hardest semester I've ever had in college. And I only have ONE MORE TO GO! I'm finishing my degree in English, Writing and Rhetoric, and love, love, love what I'm doing. But I'm very tired of being a student, especially amongst twenty year olds. When I went back to school in 2007, I was in a class with a girl who hosted my youngest daughter at a slumber party when they were in the fifth grade. The humbling part is that I had to work hard to keep up with her. Take note, all of you old folks who are considering a return to college. It ain't as easy when you've lost twenty more years worth of brain cells (yes, I said ain't.)

10. I love my church. That one sentence has the ability to conjure up a thousand different images in a person's mind. Go ahead and throw them all out. Journey Imperfect Faith Community is by and large comprised of people who are burned out on organized religion, and just want to learn how to love people the way one might hope God would. I have a long way to go. But I have never in my life felt like I fit in a spiritual community the way I do here. Here's a clue about the church: awhile back they put out a bumper sticker that said, " Journey IFC: Love. Healing. No B.S." I knew I was home when I looked up one day and saw an Anne Lamott quote on the wall.

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope 2010 is the year that your wandering hopes and dreams make a U-turn, and head straight for the center of your life.

Emmanuel

2009-11-29T07:19:00.000-08:00

Make a puking sound. Go ahead - humor me. Now exaggerate it - bump up the volume and do it more slowly. Once you've got that down, do it from your toes - as though the heave is springing from your very soul. That's what I heard when I was leaving the hospital yesterday. My mom has been battling ovarian cancer and is in the hospital with pneumonia. As I left her room to go home, I heard some poor woman across the hall heaving so deeply, so loudly, that I wondered if it was a prankster pretending to be sick. Then I remembered that I was on the oncology floor. The nurses at the other end of the hallway looked up as if to say, "Is that for real?" I'm horrible with distances, but they were further away than the person who lives three doors down from our house. My heart absolutely ached for her. What a horrible, heinous thing to have to go through; I cannot even begin to imagine what it's like to be chained to a drug that leaves you like that. As I was walking toward the nurses (away from the sick woman) a nurse behind me said, "She's throwing uuup." I could be wrong about this, but she sounded a bit put out. And it pissed me off. Seriously? I don't like cleaning up vomit at all, which is one of the gazillion reasons I couldn't ever be a nurse. I have the utmost respect for those who put their whole heart and soul into caring for a sick person. They are the true good Samaritans. But in any field, there are a few who not only don't have the gift, they're grumpy and cold and rude, and let it be known that their heart isn't in the work. Maybe she was having a bad day, but I wouldn't doubt that the puking woman heard the tone of her voice between heaves. What's worse than throwing up your toenails when there's nothing coming out? Dry heaves + a caregiver who makes you feel like a burden.

It's been interesting observing what happens on the 7th floor of Seton Medical Center. Some of my mom's RN's have been absolute gems. Sarah is my favorite. She's very kind, soft spoken, easily engaged, and leaves you with the impression that she would do just about anything for you. I even know that her favorite dog is with her parents in Alaska. While she went about her routine - flushing my mom's port, taking her blood pressure and temperature, she shared some of her life with us. It was a very nice distraction, as we had been sitting in darkness and silence trying not to think about the seriousness of our situation. Lisa is the same way. She looks you in the eye and listens intently to your concerns, your questions and your incessant rambling. That's what people do when their loved ones are gravely ill - they ramble. We hate seeing our moms and sisters and friends suffer so. We are worried we will lose them. And we feel profoundly helpless because we're not powerful enough to neutralize the effects of the disease that is tormenting someone we love.

In contrast, there are also a handful of nurses who have been snippy. They give staccato answers, and act like you're putting them out when you ask for an extra pillow so you can prop up your mother, who is battling bedsores. One nurse came in and completely ignored me. She was talking to my mom, and when I politely interjected something - a question or an observation about something - she completely blew me off. She wouldn't even make eye contact. I can imagine that nurses have a lot to deal with in terms of demanding, meddling family members, but I was neither. Why do some people have to be so stingy with kindness?

By far, the most amazing person who has been a part of our hospital care-giving equation is Courtney. She is a CNA (certified nursing assistant). My mom was weak from having pneumonia right after a particularly brutal round of chemo, and she couldn't take a shower. Standing up for any length of time made her hyperventilate. So Courtney came in with her bag of goodies and gave my mom a sponge bath. She's an African-American woman, probably in her mid to late twenties, and is what my late friend Nita would call "sturdy." She had a smile that lit up the room, and her spirit was even brighter. (I am not even remotely a fan of "The Shack" by William P. Young, but I deeply appreciate the author's depiction of God as a loving black woman. I have always hoped that God is a lot like many of the African-American women I know.) Courtney lovingly and gently went about her task, though she worked with the swiftness of a racing gazelle. When she talked she had a song in her voice, affirming my mom, encouraging her. It almost seemed like she'd rather be doing nothing else. Come to find out that was true. When I commented on her incredible bedside manner she told us that she lost her mom to cancer seven years ago, and that she went back to school in order to be able to care for those who were battling the dreaded disease. As I watched her it occurred to me that God was giving my mom a bath. I don't know if Courtney is spiritual or not, but she sure did a stellar job modeling what I think true religion is. Screw theology and religious programs and endless striving to somehow lay hold of "the truth." Enough with all of the grandiose plans to save the world. How about we just care for each other, the way we hope God would care for us? Emmanuel - God with us. Could it be any simpler?

Image Credit: C. A. Muller
Licensed Under Creative Commons

ABCDEF...G

2009-11-15T06:42:00.000-08:00

I think a lot about writing things on this blog, the operative word being think. I am doing so much academic writing in this last push to finish school, I have very little time or creative energy left over. However, I will admit that I tend toward perfectionism when it comes to writing, and I'm reminding myself today that something is better than nothing. Just recounting some of the funny, random, delightful things that happen along the way reminds me that I'm alive, and that I don't have to take life as seriously as Plato and William Wordsworth did (or as seriously as I think I have to!)

That said, I want to tell you about my grandmother name. When Mandy and I started talking about what Piper might call me, we were at a loss to find something that "fit." While I'm ALL about being a grandmother and will talk on and on about it to anyone who will listen, I just don't think I'm a typical, "Grandma." The name doesn't seem to fit. Neither does Meemaw, Granny, Grammy, or Mimi. I don't mind Mimi, but my grandmother was Mimi, and in my estimation there's only one of those. And I'm also not really in to the trendy alternatives, such as "GG" and "Ya-Ya." So one day I was in a night class at St. Edwards and there was a beautiful, twenty-something African-American girl sitting a few seats away from me. The professor called on her and said, "Please tell us your name." She replied: "Gia." The first thing I thought was, What a pretty name! Then I thought, "Wait a minute. Starts with a G...ends with an A... Maybe that would be a short and sweet grandmother name! My kids liked it, and so it was decided.

Fast forward about 16 months. Piper knew who I was, but never could say Gia. She could say "Mommy," "Daddy," "Happy" (Craig's grandpa name)and even "Nanos" (my mom's grandmother name.) But when we'd try and teach her to say Gia, she'd just point at me. Craig and I tried to walk her through it.

Craig: "Say G"
Piper: "G"
Craig: "Say UH"
Piper: "Uh"
Craig: "Say G-UH"
Piper: points at me and smiles

We worked with her on this, but it didn't do any good (or so we thought.) Then one day Mandy called me and said, "Piper and I were working on her alphabet today. I would call out the letter and she'd echo it - "A" "a", "B" "b" - and so on. But every time we get to "G" she replies with an emphatic "UH!" Oh no, I thought. We've confused her!

But finally last night - FINALLY - she looked up at me and out of nowhere said, "Hi Gia." Imagine the best fireworks scene you've ever seen, and that's what exploded in my heart. She said my NAME!!! Being a grandmother ROCKS. I couldn't even begin to tell you how much light and love my two granddaughters bring in to my world.

The Good Samaritan

2009-09-02T09:18:00.001-07:00

So I wasn't quite sure what to expect from my Psychology of Religion class at St. Edwards. It satisfies two of my degree requirements, so it was more or less mandatory. When I was deciding between the Psychology of Religion course and Human Rights/Social Justice, several people chimed in with warnings that the Psych class could really mess with my head. While I appreciate their concern, I had a hunch that this course could be really good for me. After just one class I think I may have been right.

I want to say up front that I’m a novice in terms of psychological thought, so I may at times sound like I don't know what I'm talking about. And that is for good reason ☺. Still, I want to try and convey this experience.

The professor started out by defining both religion and psychology. We tossed around a whole lot of stuff about beliefs, practices, rules, deities, houses of worship, etc. But the bottom line is that talking about religion is by and large reification, i.e., taking things that are abstract and non-tangible and somehow engaging or examining them in concrete terms. For example, you can say you have "faith" but I cannot see it. I can see your actions, I can see you read your Bible, I can listen to your beliefs and ideals, but I can't take your faith, put it on a table, and say, "there's her faith."

Psychology, on the other hand, is scientific. Scientists rely solely on empirical data, meaning that they draw conclusions based upon observation. Deductions are made from information that is publicly verifiable. For example, if a group of scientists were considering what effect daily exercise had on cholesterol levels, they would likely do a controlled study where individuals were put to the test. After a determined amount of time they would compare the cholesterol levels of those who exercised daily and those who didn't. Then they could chart it and put it in a medical journal for all to see. It would all be more complex than that, of course, but you get the gist.

So according to my professor, one of the things we'll be doing in this course is examining the behavior of religious people and systems, and then pondering what that means. The first lesson really knocked my socks off. The assignment was to read Luke 10: 25-37 (the parable of the Good Samaritan), and then read a nine-page study conducted by two psychologists from Princeton University. Their aim was to observe what Christians would do in a scenario much like the Biblical parable. Among other things, they wanted to get a better idea of what drives people to certain decisions in such situations. Theories abound as to why the priest and Levite in the parable didn't stop and render aid, and why the Samaritan did. But in real-life situations today, why are some people more Samaritan-like and others aren't? How do their beliefs affect their behavior, or DO their beliefs affect their behavior at all? What were they thinking in the process? What outside forces played a role in their decisions?

So they got a group of seminary students together and invited them to participate in a study on religious education and vocations. They were asked to fill out a questionnaire that would reflect some of their ideas and beliefs. Then they were placed in an environment where they had to travel from point "A" to point "B", and along the way they planted a person in need. There were some controlled circumstances, i.e. one group was told to hurry, and another group was told they were going to be discussing the parable of the Good Samaritan when they got there. So the psychologists sat back and observed what people did. The findings are too extensive to list here, but they are fascinating. I will say, however, that many of the seminary students who knew they were going to be talking about the Good Samaritan still walked right on by the person slumped in the chair!

One of the reasons I am so excited about this course is that it's a way to look at the connection (or discrepancy) between our beliefs and our actions. Though I've probably read this parable hundreds of times, last night it really hit me: this was Jesus' answer to a man's question about how to inherit eternal life. He didn't launch into systematic theology, or rattle off a list of things you must believe or do to find favor with God. Instead, he said, "Love God. Be a neighbor." I think sometimes we trick ourselves into believing that we're good neighbors, when really we mostly just walk on by.

Clueless

2009-07-09T15:36:00.000-07:00

So, I'm on a roll. There have been several situations in the last 24 hours that have left me feeling like an idiot. Today we were looking for a way to get tickets to see Wicked in San Francisco, and I trotted over to the concierge next door and asked him for inside info. He told me to just go to the box office, that you couldn't get tickets over the Internet or phone the "day-of." I ran back out to the car (Craig got it from valet and picked me up) and he said, "Do they have a map?" So I jumped back out of the car, ran into the hotel and asked the concierge where I might find one. He, of course, had one, and circled the civic center for me. I cheerfully thanked him, and was surprised that he seemed stand-offish and didn't crack a smile. I thought, "Aren't concierges supposed to be nice??" I got back in the car and Craig asked me if I tipped him. Oops. Was I supposed to tip him? DUH! Apparently everyone knew that but me. Sorry!

Second, we drove down to the civic center and of course in downtown San Francisco there is no parking. So Craig jumped out and I got in the driver's seat to circle around while he got tickets. BIG MISTAKE! If you're keeping a list of things Laura does not want to do, be sure and add, "Drive in San Francisco." What a confusing experience! There are all of these lanes, some of which are for buses and taxis only, and then there are bike lanes, but quite often they meld with the only other traffic lane, which left me guessing where the hell I should go. And then there are signs galore - about not parking here during these hours, about when and where you can turn, about cable cars, about pedestrians, about street washing, etc… I was trying to read them all and make sense of what I could and could not do, all the while motorcycles and bikes and people were darting out of nowhere, right into my path. Seriously. Two guys on bicycles cut in front of me much like an SUV would nose its way into a traffic pocket the size of a smart car. My bumper was less than 6 inches from their wheel when they cut in. I was so stressed out, because people kept looking at me, like, "Don't you know how to DRIVE?? Geez, lady, get a clue or get off the road." And I wanted to say, "I've never been here! I don't know how this works! I'm trying!!!"

Finally, I've been feeling very disjointed and disorganized and scattered lately, drained, foggy, way-too-much-on-my-plate, and that I cannot possibly keep up with everyone and everything that vies for my attention. One of the things that adds to this is Facebook. I've added friends and been added as a friend sometimes just to communicate about something quick. For example, a woman who is a friend of a friend of my daughter's in another city (yeah - that far removed) wanted to inquire about my shooting her sister's wedding. Within minutes we had determined that it wasn't a good fit for either one of us, and that was that. Except that we just stayed friends. Multiply that by at least ten or twenty, maybe more. And then there are folks that I've accepted a friend request from, or requested as a friend, and then we never even said two words to each other. Ever. We don't really communicate at all over Facebook and yet there's info on about 100 such people that filters through my news feed, and I get a headache trying to process and sort through it all. Having 550 friends makes me feel overwhelmed! I joined facebook for two reasons: to keep in touch with folks I have had a relationship with in the past, and as a business networking tool. When I got married and changed my name, I thought I'd just go through my friends and let some of the ones that I never communicate with go. It was an attempt at regaining some feeling of control over all of the chaos that is swirling of late. With very few exceptions, my removing someone as a friend had nothing AT ALL to do with whether or not I think they're a cool person, or worthy of being a friend. It was sort of like when you start cleaning out a closet and you get a little over-ambitious, not thinking about the ramifications of what the purge will do. Anyway, I heard through the grapevine that a relative of a family member somehow thought that my removing her was a bit of a slap in the face, and I was shocked. I mean really, why wouldn't I even think about how that might be taken by someone? I'd like to chalk it up to my age (i.e. us old folks don't quite know the lowdown on facebook etiquette.) But maybe just for that day I was clueless, not thinking about how it would feel to be removed. So with this person, I blew it. And now instead of feeling lighter for having cleaned out my "facebook friend" box, I feel heavier - like I have somehow offended folks. Man, isn't technology supposed to make our lives easier? Anyway, I sent her a note apologizing and asked to be her friend again, but I'm not holding my breath that she'll say yes.

All this to say, I wonder where we get the idea that we're supposed to know everything. I have this secret rule in my head that I should always "get it," and if I don't I'm a loser. Truth is, I don't get it sometimes. And I'd like to think that's just a part of the human condition. Problem is, when someone like me doesn't "get it," others often turn that in to a statement about them. And you know what? I can't blame them… I do it too. Like when I'm behind someone in traffic and they're being uber slow or changing their minds about turns - I'm inwardly ranting, "GEEZ! Go people! Why are you doing this TO ME??" But in reality maybe they're from another city, in another state, that is much smaller than where I live, and they're scared and confused.

To some degree, I think we're all scared and confused.

Applause

2009-03-26T18:25:00.000-07:00

When was the last time someone spontaneously clapped when you walked in the room?
I honestly can't think of a time it's ever happened to me (except when introduced at a show I was playing.)

That is, until recently.

The last few times I've gone to Mandy's house my oldest granddaughter claps when she sees me. A big, wondrous smile spreads across her face and she bangs her hands together as she's walking toward me. I guess you already suspect that I'm going to say that there are no words to express the joy that brings, and you're right. Trite as it may seem, I can't wrap language around the sheer delight I feel when that little termite is happy to see me!. And I got to thinking today: isn't that what we all long for - someone who lights up at the very sight of us? Don't we all want to be that "special someone" - whether it be a romantic relationship, a cherished friendship, or - in this case - the love between a granddaughter and her grandmother?

My maternal grandmother would've been 100 last year. She died in 1995 and I always feared that when she left she'd take a part of me with her. And she did. Mimi was someone that I knew ALWAYS loved me, ALWAYS believed in me, and I am sure, if it had come down to it, she would've given her life for me. She offered a depth of unconditional love I have never since known, even though I know I am deeply loved. I remember going over to her house and playing dress up with all of her costume jewelry and hats, and of course that old mink stole. She lived in an apartment complex on North Loop, and the great majority of them housed retired folks or senior citizens. Usually when I'd visit we'd go swimming in the pool - she in her white bathing cap covered in floppity flowers, and me, a waterlogged prune who dragged her feet when it was time to get out. But I always knew that getting out around dinnertime meant that we were going to walk over to Luby's, and she always let me get Jello even though I rarely finished it. She'd chastise me for wasting perfectly good food and would also remind me she paid good money for it. But the next time I'd promise to eat it all and then inevitably left some of it on my tray. We did this dance for years. Bright yellow cubes of Jello just looked so enticing, so HAPPY, so full of promise; but they never quite delivered what I was longing for. I've discovered that there are a lot of things in life like that.

But Mimi delivered - even when she probably shouldn't have. She brought things to school that I had forgotten, she drove me to piano lessons, she took me shopping (which I'm certain was a nightmare for her) and she made me open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches on really thin bread. She'd slather mayonnaise all over the melted cheese (could that have been a factor in my chubbiness?) and and then put a big slice of tomato on top, peeled tomato, mind you. Then she'd put it on a white Corelle plate with a radish, a few celery sticks, a pickle or two, and a little bag of Fritos. She'd pop the top off of one of those little glass bottles of ice cold coke and my meal was complete. MORE than complete. I absolutely loved that lunchtime combination, and to this day I sometimes recreate it just to remember her.

I have so many fond memories of my grandmother, though there are a few bad ones. When I was about eight years old I thought it would be funny to sneak into her car and turn everything on so that when she started the car the radio would blare, the blinker would click, and the A/C would blast her. I hid and watched as she got into her car and it startled her so badly she just laid her head down on the steering wheel and cried. A chasm opened up and swallowed me - I was in anguish that I had caused her to cry. And to this day I'm not sure I've fully forgiven myself for it, even though I had no idea that it would harm her in any way. Of course today I understand how stressful life can be and how little kids have no idea how hard the grown-ups are working to keep things afloat.

And keep things afloat, she did. I am still stunned to know that when she gave birth to her first child at 18, she was alone. And the baby died. How does one recover from that? She endured being married to a violent alcoholic (two times to the same man!) and went on to give birth to two beautiful, strong women, one of which is my mother. Mimi's indomitable spirit has been passed down to her, and my mom has passed it on to me. Sometimes I look at my daughters and see the faces of the incredible women who came before us, and I am so incredibly grateful to be in the mix.

I like to imagine that someday when I leave this earth I'll walk through a door in the distance, and there will be Mimi, clapping.

Trust Me

2009-03-15T14:17:00.000-07:00

TRUST: –noun
1. reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence.

This morning I was reading something about the concept of trust, how hard it is in this dog-eat-dog world to know whom to trust. There are those who trust too much - i.e. they just assume the Pollyanna position, which is to say they give up too much of themselves to people who do not, after all, have their best interest at heart. I have done my fair share of that. It's a game that leaves me wishing I could go back and gather up all of the pieces of myself that were scattered like seeds in the wind.

Live and learn.

What I was most struck by, however, is that the writer believes one of the most detrimental things that can happen to us is that we lose the ability to trust ourselves. She mentioned that sometimes others try and convince us that our view of things is wrong, which, if we believe them, leads to self-doubt. Doing that is a pretty effective strategy if your aim is to control someone. When my oldest daughter was in high school she had a friend who had a two year-old brother. As is often the case in families that house both teenagers and toddlers, the teen was babysitting, and she and my daughter took him to the park. He fell off of a swing and hit is head really hard, and his sister's response was to rush in and authoritatively tell him, "That didn't hurt. That didn't hurt!" I understand not wanting to listen to him wail, but to keep him from erupting she tried to convince him of something that was the complete opposite of what his body was loudly telling him. I wasn't there, but I imagine that at the very least that kid was confused. What do you do when someone tells you that what's right in front of you doesn't really exist? It's sort of like the Emperor's New Clothes. I love that the kid in that story had the balls to shout out what everyone else was afraid to say. Sometimes we don't want to suffer the consequences of telling the truth, because the emperor may get furious and make our lives hell. And so to keep the peace, we stand by the side of the road and admire non-existent clothes.

I think it's extremely common for people to manipulate others by trying to convince them that their perspective is flawed. It's probably somewhat like brainwashing. If you tell someone something often enough they begin to believe it. I think that was largely true in my marriage, and I also think that was true in the religious circles I ran in. My ex-husband was a master at making me think I was crazy, using circular reasoning that always led back to his agenda, his beliefs, his ideas, his plans, and his superior ability to see what was really true. The problem was, however, that he was the one acting crazy. Of course, in the religious climate we were living in that was the setup. Men know. Women don't (remember Eve?) It is your job to support your husband's views and assist him in his plans. Nevermind that he may be walking down the street without a stitch of clothing on.

Likewise, I think a lot of my spiritual journey has been lived out in that type of environment. There's this idea that the people in power know better than you do. If you don't agree with them, you're not seeing clearly. Don't trust your feelings, they say. You'll be led astray by your lower nature, your lack of devotion, and - of course - the devil. I remember it being drilled into me that according to I Samuel 15:23, "rebelling" was just as bad as idolatry and getting involved in the occult. How convenient that when all else fails spiritual leaders can pull out the rebellion card to get their way. Of course I'm not saying that all spiritual leaders are guilty of that, but some are. I remember having a V-8 moment during my Western Civilization class last semester when I recognized a pattern. Over and over and over again I read about the role Christianity played in social and political structure. And what I found was that a great deal of the time leaders used the religious system to further their own political and financial advantage, or to feed their insatiable thirst for power.

Duh.

I want to believe that people are considerate and humane. I want to believe leaders are selfless and have my best interests at heart. I want to believe that no one would take advantage of me in order to perpetuate their own aim. But that's not the world we live in. On the flip side I don't want to live as a suspicious, jaded, cynical person who doesn't trust anybody. I think the idea of trusting ourselves is a good middle ground. I might trust you. I might not. But I'm gonna stay in touch with what my Spidey-sense is telling me. I think Irish writer Emmett Fox said it best:

"You should gladly take advantage of helpful teaching wherever you may get it; go to churches or meetings that help you; listen to speakers, and read books that inspire you to find yourself; but do not surrender to anybody your own spiritual judgment."

2009-03-08T07:12:00.000-07:00

So today is International Women's Day and I've been invited to join in with other bloggers who are reflecting on women in the Bible. This is an interesting exercise for me, one that I'm afraid may be somewhat pointless because I honestly don't know WHAT I think about Biblical women. I don't really know them.

Oh, but that doesn't mean that I haven't "studied" them. Ever since a conversion experience at the ripe old age of 19, I have been infused with a myriad of ideas about the women in the Bible. I have sat in sermon after sermon, Bible class after Bible class, where certain things have been drilled in me:

- Eve was bad. She is the spiritual ancestor of all who are female, and if we're not careful we'll f*%# up the world just as badly as she did. Stick with the men… they are the ones who are endowed with the wisdom and authority to run this place.

- If you want to be beautiful and commended as "right," then you'll be like Sarah, who called Abraham her master. (1 Peter 3:4-6)

- There's a logical explanation for all of the abuse of women in the Old Testament. It was somehow culturally acceptable for Lot to offer his daughters to sexual predators; for a man in Judges 19 to not only save himself by letting his concubine suffer rape and horrid abuse, but also to dismember her (literally cut her into pieces) to somehow make a point. No need to be outraged, just trust that it's not as bad as it seems and there was a divine purpose behind it.

- Despite the fact that in both the old and new testaments women rarely had legal rights or a status of their own (it was always conferred based upon her relationship to a man - her husband or father) she has immense power in the "higher status" given her by God to serve and help men. This is the proper "Christian" order of things, and if you don't buy in you either don't understand it properly, or worse, you're a rebellious and sinful woman.

I could go on, but quite honestly I don't have the energy to. I'm already imagining the protests from some of my conservative friends, who apparently need these ducks to line up or they will feel threatened. Don't start talking about the feminist uphill climb, they say, because you're just not getting the big picture. And maybe I'm not. But I also don't need to perpetuate some sort of ethereal, blanket explanation that, in my opinion, is mostly smoke and mirrors staged by a long procession of men who like the setup. I'm no stranger to that; I marched in that parade for nearly 25 years.

The other night I spent a few minutes reading blogs and websites about different perspectives on women in the Bible. That in itself was problematic because I haven't been reading the Bible lately. That's because I've been feeling like I can't read it anymore without the words being attached to a mass of ideas that have been drilled into me by well-meaning but intensely dogmatic people. As my boyfriend would say, back then I was drinking the Kool-Aid. But I've given up that toxic beverage and for now all I'm trying to find is some clean water. Anyway, about 10 minutes into my search I grew weary because most of what I found was people squabbling over the meaning of words. There is talk about the Greek and Hebrew languages, how they have been translated, how they should be translated, what the Apostle Paul meant, what the context was, blah, blah, blah. Don't get me wrong - I am grateful for people who will take the time to delve into the deeper meaning of things and challenge long-held systems of belief. But I'm not there. I'm tired of my gender putting me in a position of defense - especially in circles where the Bible comes into play: defending my worth, defending my value, defending my intelligence, my spiritual significance, my competency and my ability to navigate my own life without having to check in with those who have penises to make sure I'm not whistling off to Eden to consort with Eve. And no, I'm not a man hater, a Nazi, or a militant feminist. It's just that this whole exercise has left me sad and a little angry.

In short, I don't really care about Biblical women right now because I have very little hope that I'll ever know their true stories. Yes, I have heard 101 sermons or lectures that take extreme license in "interpreting" these women's hearts and minds. But I'm weary of it all. I am sure there are a myriad of inspiring narratives from the lives of women like Sarah, Zipporah, Bathsheba, Esther, Naomi, Ruth, Mary, Elizabeth, Mary Magdalene and Martha. But today they seem hopelessly lost behind centuries of thick, sealed walls, walls designed to cast women in the dingy light of the sub-status assigned to them by an unrelenting patriarchy intent on maintaining control. What did Sarah really feel when her husband passed her off as her sister? What did she do with that? What was it like for Ruth to have to lay at a man's feet and hope to be "redeemed" because without a husband she had no social worth? How did Bathsheeba deal with the death of her infant son? What really went through Mary's mind when she found out she was pregnant? How did she handle the public shame? How did Elizabeth deal with a son like John the Baptist - especially when he was an adult? Why was Martha the "busy" one?

Today I suppose I'm grieving that their nitty gritty stories are lost. We'll never really know. And that, above all, is why I want to tell stories.

A Plastic Sea

2009-03-07T07:38:00.000-08:00

I am a part of this problem...
Enough said.

And the worst Christmas decoration award goes to...

2008-12-08T21:43:00.000-08:00

Craig and I went for a walk last week and were admiring all of the Christmas decorations on the houses we passed. Some were quaint and understated; some were gaudy (think 17 blow-up figurines in one yard), some were classy, and then... we came across this. I just don't even know what to say. Are they SERIOUS?? guess there's nothin' like a trash bag to proclaim the birth of the savior of the world. Sheesh!

Oh Say Can You See?

2008-11-09T12:49:00.000-08:00

Sometimes things come out of the blue, or, in the case of last night, the red, white and blue. My youngest daughter is in the Austin Civic Orchestra, and Craig and my mom and I went to her first concert of the season last night. We got there early so we just visited with each other, made last-minute trips to the bathroom, read the program, and I passed the time by eating some Starburst. The lights finally dimmed in the Reagan Performing Arts Center (great acoustics, by the way) and the orchestra began tuning. The conductor walked out to hearty applause, lifted her baton, and that's when the surprise came. I thought they were starting the concert, but about one measure in I realized they were playing the national anthem. As we're conditioned to do, everyone stood. Now let me interject here that over the last 20 years I have been to 10,001 events where the national anthem was played: football games, basketball games, volleyball games, soccer games, dance recitals, awards ceremonies and a whole slew of other things I can't recall at the moment. Following the activities of my children has afforded me ample opportunity to pause and recall that I am fortunate to live in America. But to be honest I'm usually not plugged in. Every now and then I've put my hand on my heart, and occasionally I've even been known to faintly sing along. But for the most part it's become a lifeless ritual for me. No, I don't hate our country, and contrary to what some of the recent political candidates have alleged, I consider myself a true or real American. But going to rote when a long-held tradition pops up is sort of like any other thing that has deteriorated into sheer ceremony - you're doing it but there's an interior disconnect. It's like a couple that genuinely care about each other, but somehow their incessant "I-love-you's" have blended in with the scenery, rendering them somehow less powerful than they used to be. Anyway, as we stood there in that dim auditorium I noticed a small handful of quiet, even mumbling, voices singing along. It grew louder. With each phrase the orchestra seemed to be playing more forcefully, loudly, the strokes of bows against strings becoming more pronounced and distinct. I started singing, still somewhat unaware of what was happening. By the time we got to, "…and the rockets red glare…" the majority of the audience was singing enthusiastically, fervently, loudly. I, too, was singing near the top of my lungs. It was phenomenal - like seeing my granddaughters face turn from gray to bright pink when she took her first breath. With the exception of the aftermath of 9/11 - when we all clung to each other out of shock and fear and devotion to a badly bruised America - last night was the first time I remember being in an audience that was vitally, dynamically, joyfully connected to that song. When the last note was played the audience erupted into thunderous applause. I marveled that I was at an orchestra concert, not a football game. Craig and I turned and looked at each other, eyes wide. "That was cool," he said. I nodded in agreement. This morning I'm still savoring that little burst of fresh air, and am grateful that, regardless of its size, there has been a slight shift since the November 4 election. The audacity of hope, indeed.

pet peeves

2008-10-19T20:39:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's been two months since I've posted to this blog. I'm so covered up in school work I can't seem to find the energy or the time to write. Today, however, I vowed to mention a few things to the one or two of you who actually read this thing! First, I am so sick of hurting myself trying to open things. What's up with the manufacturers?? Do they really think I'm going to steal cat litter while I'm in the store? I had to get needle nose pliers to remove the plastic strip around a gargantuan bucket of kitty litter. And I had to pull HARD. So hard, in fact,that when my pliers slipped I pinched the fleshy pudge on the palm of my hand where my index finger connects. Buy anything electronic and if you don't open it right, the jagged hard plastic will cut the hell out of your hand or finger. Right now I can't seem to think of all of the times lately when I've been trying to open something and thought, "I've GOT to rant about this - it's ridiculous." Do you have any things to add to the impossible-to-open list?

Second, what are the designers thinking? WHAT? The majority of the clothes on the rack have the poofy pregnant look (not so good for those of us who need to lose a few pounds,) or a gathered or tapered band that's supposed to cling to your hips (also not great for the anti-super-skinnies.) Most of the fabrics are hideous - think 1960's curtains meets Jackson Pollock, meets bad acid trip. Seriously. Who thinks up these things? And what are they smoking? News flash: not even the starved models on your runways look good in this crap.

There's one more rant I thought of today (which inspired this long-overdue return to blogging.) But I can't think of what it is because my brain is fried to a crisp and I need to put it to bed. I'll let you know if it ever resurfaces...

Here We Go Again

2008-08-21T06:05:00.001-07:00

We're getting ready to move. Again. I think I used to take my house for granted - the one that I owned for 12 years, and the one that I owned for 10 years before that. Roots are a wonderful thing, and when you can't put any down you feel like a hefty wind or a good hard rain might could uproot you at any second. Exposed roots suck. Still, I think I'm faring better than my daughter, who is always traumatized by moving ever since her dad split and we were forced to make the first move (due to his financial indiscretions.) Still, I can't complain. The places where we've lived have been perfect for what we needed at the time, and now we will be living apart again. But for the first time since becoming a college student, my daughter has traded dorm living for an apartment in our neighborhood. And I'm staying in our neighborhood. That feels a little like "home" but not as much as I'd like it to. At the same time, I'm thinking about all of the people all over the world who don't have shelter, running water, electricity, and indoor plumbing (much less wood floors, slate tile, new carpet, track lighting, and state of the art appliances.) As Pee-Wee Herman might say, the secret word for today is "gratitude." I'm thankful for my new condo, for my daughter's apartment, for all of the luxuries I sometimes take for granted. I'm thankful for being able to make a living doing something I enjoy. I'm grateful for my loving boyfriend, my amazing children and grandchildren, my family, and the fact that I am able to walk and talk and hear beautiful music, and see breathtaking things. I'm thankful for the strong, sweet cup of coffee I'm drinking right now. I'm so glad I don't have to worry whether or not I'll eat tonight, or if my children will have enough. If I've learned anything over the last 3 years, it's this: It's all going to be o k a y. I will have what I need at any given time, whether it's able-bodied people to help us move, strength to pack boxes, friends to confide in, or wisdom to make the choice that is right for me.
Peace. Be still. That's my mantra for today.

A good ache

2008-07-18T07:22:00.000-07:00

My body is in a bit of a shambles after a physically demanding two days. On Wednesday evening I swam a mile, then kept my granddaughter for about 4 hours. She's the sweetest baby but I carried her around a lot and she's probably about 15 pounds now (yeah, I know, it doesn't sound like much but try picking up a 15 pound weight and carrying it around with you for a couple of hours!) Then yesterday I picked up Craig's nieces from the airport and we spent the day together alternately shooting senior photos and sightseeing. We finished the day by gathering at Waterloo for burgers - Anna, Brandon, Katie, Jennie, Craig and me. What a fun, incredible, amazing day!! I love those girls!

But when I got home I knew I was in trouble, and I'm moving VERRRRRRY slowly this morning. The keyword today is R E S T. Tomorrow is the big day (Craig's 50th.)

I came across a Thomas Merton quote this morning that really resonated with me.

“Whatever new direction God opens up for me - my job is to press forward, to grow interiorly, to pray, to break away from attachments and to defy fears, to grow in faith, which has its own solitude, to seek an entirely new perspective and new dimension in my life.”

That's so easy to swallow when it's not your life that seems to be falling apart. I'm not saying that my life is falling apart right now, but there are several curve balls coming at me, things I didn't see on the horizon. My challenge as a person who believes is to TRUST that whatever's going down will scoot me on down the path toward a higher good. Instead, sometimes I'm like Chicken Little running through the minutes and hours screaming, "The sky is falling! the sky is falling!" It all boils down to the issue of perspective. Either I believe God is running this show or not. Period. You may have to hold me to that tomorrow...

Happy 4th, Pipsy!

2008-07-05T21:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was July 4 and I was intent on getting some sparklers so that my three-month old granddaughter could see them. Actually, that's not true. I wanted to get a picture of her seeing one. This one is my favorite and a friend made the comment that it was symbolic. She mentioned something about how it was hopeful and patriotic, which made me take another look at the picture (i.e. get my mind off the image and the light and color, and look more deeply at its artistic value.) What is it saying to me? I guess the first feeling I had was sadness, in that here's a beautiful, fresh little soul who is mesmerized by a celebrative symbol of what it means to be American. There is so much good about being an American - I'm definitely not about trashing our country. But I couldn't help but think that that little ball of fire represented all she's inheriting from those of us who have come before her. We, in many ways, are defining our children and grandchildren by what we're handing them. I'm concerned that Piper is going to parent her children in a much more polluted and stripped planet than we have. I read recently that Americans throw away 2.5 million plastic water bottles per day. I also learned that landfills are closing at the rate of one per day. How can all of our trash not affect the living space of those who will come after us? I'm also disturbed that we're handing our descendants crippling debt, as our current national debt is around nine trillion dollars! I am troubled by our oil guzzling and can't help but feel that over the last 100 years - since the industrial revolution - we have used up way more than our fair share of the earth's resources… not to mention wasting them. There's a kick ass song on the new Eliza Gilkyson CD called "The Great Correction." Really makes you think. Looking at Piper gazing at that sparkler makes me want to be more aware of how my choices will affect her in 20, 30, 40 years, and how they will affect her children who come after her. I hope we all wake up before it's too late.

Love it!

2008-05-26T08:37:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Las Vegas to see the Cirque de Soleil's "Beatles Love" show. What an incredible event! It was my first Cirque experience and I am an instant devotee. The best way I can describe it is that for nearly two hours you're living inside someone's dream. There are seemingly no limitations - beautifully costumed people are flying, dangling high in the air by one foot, swirling, twirling, dropping, climbing, soaring, falling, dancing, singing, embracing, strutting, lunging, longing. The acrobatics are breathtaking; I've never seen a more stunning group of athletes and artists. The sets, choreography, make up and props are all delicious. And to top it all off, the show is accompanied by the remixed/digitized music of the Beatles. If you're even remotely interested in seeing this show, make whatever sacrifices are necessary to get there… it's worth it.

Customer Service Representative : A Triple Oxymoron

2008-04-24T12:49:00.001-07:00

So here are three oxymorons:

Customer + Service
Service + Representative
Customer + Representative

I spent the day in automated CSR hell yesterday. I'm really surprised I let it get to me as much as it did... I was ready to seriously hurt somebody; I was also ready to cry my eyes out.

The first dispute? $4.59. Yes, that's four dollars and fifty-nine cents. It's a late-payment charge from Sprint, from February, when their site was down and wouldn't accept my payment. In other words, it was late because of their screwed up website. I called and they said they'd remove the charge. I don't remember the name of the person I talked to because (shame on me) I believed him! Of course he didn't do anything about it.

So it showed up on my March bill. I called again and talked to Alvaro, CSR #422467 (I thought I was smart by asking for his ID No., but in the long run it did me no good.) First of all I thought Alvaro was a nice Hispanic name. This guy was NOT Hispanic. He had a thick eastern accent and to make matters worse our connection was not good (Hint: he's not on our continent!) So I softly shouted my story, word for word, slowly, to try and help him understand my dilemma. This took a long time. He repeated it to me, and it took me a long time to understand him. He assured me it would be taken care of.

I'll give you one nanosecond to guess what happened. Yep: nothing.

So I got a notice on my April bill that told me my account was overdue and I needed to pay the $4.59. By this time I was really mad. By this time $4.59 seemed like liquid gold to me. By this time I would dip those dollars and cents into hot tar and EAT them, rather than hand them over to Sprint.

So yesterday I called and talked to Kelly. She, too, had a very thick accent and sounded like she was at the bottom of a well in Timbuktu. (Side note: I really get a kick out of outsourced CSR's halfway around the globe saying, "This is Barbara Smith, how may I help you today?) Anyway, I went over my story again with "Kelly". Slowly. Pronouncing each word with perfect diction so she would understand me. She put me on hold for a long time. She came back and said, "My supervisor, Maricel, will take care of this for you." I said, "I'd like to talk to her." She said, "She's in a meeting."

Yeah right.

How stupid do you think I am? They were passing me off again! Her only offering was a guarantee that the ever elusive Maricel, who lives God knows where, was going to tap into the system with her magic management powers and finally remove the $4.59. She even told me that I'd get a text message within two hours confirming it. I thought, "I don't want a text message, lady, I want fireworks, I want writing in the sky, I want a PARADE for all the hours I've put in to this freaking $4.59!"

At this point I didn't believe any promises. But what else could I do? I went about my business. After 7 hours passed and I didn't hear anything, I wasn't mad. I was LIVID. I sifted through Sprint's website to find somewhere to email a nasty, nasty letter. And the fact that clicking on "contact us" does not link me to an address, but rather puts me through a series of questions to see if their FAQ can answer it, REALLY pissed me off. As if automated phone systems weren't bad enough.

Breathe, Laura, breathe.

So I fired off a you-are-the-scum-of-the-earth message, telling them that I couldn't wait for my contract to expire, and that they were going to lose a lot of money as a result of this ordeal (because I'm going to take my children with me when I go!)
I was shaking my fist in the air when I hit send. (Okay, not literally, but definitely figuratively.)

Not long after I got a message from "Ricky," whose communication skills were undoubtedly acquired in the school of cut and paste. And after the canned, "We're so sorry" message, he said, "I am happy to assist you with this matter. But I do not see where you were charged a late fee for March or April."

At that moment I wanted to personally hunt him down - even if I had to buy a plane ticket to Nepal - so I could throttle him. You know those dolls whose eyes bug out when you squeeze them? Yeah...

I wrote "Ricky" another response, outlining AGAIN that it was a carryover from February. I numbered the items. I capitalized the words I would've strongly emphasized if I were talking to him. I waved my arms around, crossed my eyes, said ten "Hail Mary's," and turned around three times while I clicked my heels together.

And then I sent it.

And while sitting in front of my computer in a daze I had a thought. On a whim, I consulted the cyber-god that I suspected may be able to finally help solve my problem.

Google.

Within minutes I had stumbled upon a blog of another guy who had had the same sucky experiences with Sprint, and right there in front of me - like an epiphany rising from the computer screen - were the email addresses of the top Sprint executives. I felt like I had just stumbled upon some sacred code, a treasure that Indiana Jones himself could not have found.

So I copied my email from Ricky, pasted it in a new email, and wrote at the top: "This is what is happening on the shop floor. Does anyone care??" I fired it off to about 6 or 7 executives. Within two hours (I sent this at night, mind you) I had a personal email from Jerry Adriano, Vice President of Customer Experience. He said he'd have someone get in touch with me today, apologized for the mess, and signed it "Jerry." No automated form letter. No prepackaged let-me-get-rid-of-this-person response. A real person. A real person in the United States, who probably spoke good English and had a decent phone connection. Wow! Jerry - where have you BEEN all my life?

For the sake of brevity (ha! What's that?) I'll condense the rest of the story. I got an email today from a guy named Steven Shoecraft. He said to call him and gave me his phone number along with a case number. When I got him on the line he apologized. Again. And then he made a shocking admission:

"We are well aware that our Customer Service is a mess."

I wanted to feign surprise, but I restrained myself.

So... Sprint KNOWS their customer service problems are legion.

The $4.59 has been removed," he continued. "That's IT??" I said. He told me he could see how frustrating it must have been and assured me they were working on the problem. "That does nothing for me," I said nicely, but dryly. I told him that taking up hours of my time, leaving me at the mercy of CSR hell, and then brushing me off with a "sorry" was not only unjust, it was just plain bad business. I told him they should compensate me somehow.

He said, "I don't know how to quantify your time and frustration."

I said, "Steven, how much do you make an hour? I have spent at least FIVE HOURS trying to get someone to listen to me over $4.59. The least you can do is give me a month or two of free service."

And just like that, he took off all of my charges for this month. I should've said two or three months.

And then he gave me his direct line and said that if I ever have any other problems like this I can call him and he will personally take care of things for me.

So, there you have it. That is ONE of my customer service nightmares from yesterday. I'll spare you the details of my Bank of America and Quicken sagas (which were also snarly.)

So will I stay with Sprint when my contract expires in October of this year? I'm not making any decisions today. Even though I'd love to stick it to "the man" (remember that commercial?) by giving my money to one of their competitors, somewhere deep down I know that Cingular, Verizon, AT&T and T-Mobile are no different. The term "Customer Service Representative" will, on some level, always be a triple oxymoron no matter who my cell carrier is.

Besides, now I have Steven's phone number.

A separate space

2008-04-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

So, I’ve felt conflicted about writing extensively on the blog that’s linked to my website. It’s mainly a place to display my recent photography work, and posting some of my poems and musings just didn’t seem like a good idea. That’s why I now have a separate blog for my writing. Since I completed my creative writing class Thursday night I’ll start with a couple of poems I wrote recently.
And from there?
Who knows?

The Secret
I am the air of success
oxygen deluxe
a card-carrying marvel.
I’m richer
bitchier
sleek
and dead.

I am the king of the suburban
caste system
one leg brashly climbing
over another;
the haves and the have-nots shimmying
up ladders
elbowing past others
bragging and shoving
parading money (or kids) down
the runway
like a taped-up
beauty pageant contestant who is certain
to win.

I am a best seller
an epic
whom everyone has read
a fiction account
of how you wish your life
could be.

I’m a number one hit
a catchy tune
that everyone’s humming.
I am the flying colors
That everyone passes with.

I am a grand slam
the winning point.
I am the 10th inning
of a nail-biting game
and you
You
are on the edge of your seat.

I am Easy Street
a long lane of luxury
you wish you had the money
and the guts
to stroll down.

Are you an art dealer?
A PhD?
Don’t bother applying
if you don’t have the credentials.
You may stand outside, though
gazing from afar,
marveling at the power
I brandish
like a make-believe musket.

Nostrils flared
chin raised
eyes narrowed and set
I picked my team.
I have posted the list
on the locker room door
and your name is nowhere
to be found.

Canvassing
The brushes
swirl and twirl
turn and churn
blotting our lives in strokes
impossible to understand.
Some are stout and bold
others wispy, like a single strand
of hair swept up
in a capricious wind.
It’s a gradual becoming,
light and color melding
in hues of deep sorrow
unimaginable joy
colliding
in an extraordinary blast
of splendor.
Every canvas has a jagged edge
a crown to wear
a cross to bear
a hungry hope that we do matter
after all.
These lines can’t be traced
sloppy patches of indigo and auburn
striking the page
like a hammer pounds a nail
like a whisper
that rolls softly
into your ear.

Sometimes it’s a thick mess
a story with no rhyme or reason
mostly treason.
It’s a debit card that
allows you passage
to whatever is next
toward whatever is behind the wood and cloth
the great mystery of disarmed time.
We are incandescent flies
buzzing around the earth
looking for ointment to land in
somewhere we can make our mark
finally
exchanging our days
for a chance
one opportunity
to take our place in the sun
and beat down
on this terrestrial template.
What is your plate
your matrix
the imprint of you
the world needs to see?
How many will be signed and numbered
before you take your place
in the recycle bin
nourishing the earth
with your matter
what matters
to you.