The Pitfalls of Perfection

I have a serious dilemma: I want to be perfect. Or at least I want you to think I’m perfect. I’d like to be known as the girl who never says an unkind word, the one who always does the “right” thing. Whether it be paying my taxes, parenting my children, or driving like I really do give a damn about the person in the next car, I’d like for you to believe that I’m the model citizen. And the ridiculous thing is that I probably put less energy in to being a model citizen than I do in making you think I am. It’s all about image management.

I grew up with the Yoda mentality, i.e. “Do or do not. There is no try.” It was that black and white. The unspoken but very real setup was that you either hit the mark or you were a failure. Problem is, the mark constantly changed and there was never any warning or explanation for the shift. I can’t even begin to recount how many times I doubled and redoubled my efforts to avoid a verbal flogging, but I never could be perfect enough to avoid it altogether. The problem, of course, wasn’t my imperfection. All kids are imperfect, and all kids are kids. It was the grownups’ expectations that were off the mark, but when you’re a kid you take your cues on reality from the grownups. I started believing pretty early on that if I made a mistake it meant that I was fatally flawed. And when you’re fatally flawed, people abandon you. For me, that is undoubtedly the crux of the matter.

Trying to be perfect is all kinds of crazy. For starters, it’s impossible. There’s no way any one of us can make a hundred on the life test. We’re going to hurt and disappoint each other, and I think the key is in owning that and making whatever amends are necessary. That’s the high road. But I don’t like to own it; I’d rather hide or make excuses. Why? Well, there’s the yucky ego part, meaning that my pride doesn’t want to bow to anyone else. But the worst of it for me is that it feels like confessing I’m “bad.” I didn’t do something bad, I am bad. And that mindset, according to self-help guru Brene Brown, is the hallmark of shame. I can tell you firsthand that shame sucks. It’s like being boiled in toxic chemicals.

Imagine a paradigm of grace and tolerance, where we all admit that we’re flawed and sometimes do stupid shit. Then we could get on with our lives and look at things more objectively when imperfection rears its ugly head. Unfortunately I think the M.O. on this planet is to pretend that we’re not infected with the universal human ailment, that is, imperfection. We minimize our behavior or actions to the point of becoming smoke-and-mirrors experts. Just call us David Copperfield; we’re all professional illusionists to some degree.

So I’m here to confess that I’m not the most virtuous kid on the block (but then you probably already knew that.) I’ve been known to gossip or lie or betray a confidence. I’ve said hurtful things to others. I’ve let people down. And I can be quite judgmental. But that doesn’t negate what Abraham Lincoln called “the better angels of our nature.” I can be very self-sacrificing, kind, compassionate, trustworthy, generous and accepting. And when I do those things, I do them really well. *

Perhaps the problem isn’t that others abandon me when I show my humanity; maybe it’s that I abandon myself. It’s the equivalent of standing on the side of the road and hurling stones at myself as I’m walking by. When I beat myself up for failing or hurting others, or for making a mistake, the self-talk borders on vicious. At its worst it’s self-hatred on steroids. Maybe the most disturbing thing about it all is how cloak-and-dagger the mental brutality can be. Quite often I'm not even aware of the dialogue going on in the background of my mind. So I’m trying to learn how to own my blemishes without self-destructing, how to humbly confess my failures to others without sentencing myself to death row. I don’t know… maybe for some people that’s not so hard. I think if I spent less time trying to control your perception of me, and more time on readjusting my perception of myself, I'd be a lot happier. Unfortunately, that’s probably the taller order.

* A song I wrote in 2004 nailed this concept for me. As I said in my last post, we're all a mixed bag. Here's a link if you're interested in hearing Here I Am, Anyway.

Photo Credit: Anneheathen http://www.flickr.com/photos/annethelibrarian/

Finding Our Way Through Father's Day

 

Believe it or not, Father’s Day has only been an “official” holiday in the United States since 1972.

Like, in my lifetime.

That’s not to say that a day to honor fathers’ didn’t exist before then. The explanation I hear most often is that Hallmark created it to make billions on Father’s Day cards. (Poor Hallmark; they always get blamed.) The history of it all is too ho-hum to warrant much fanfare, but it basically played out like this: In 1910, a woman named Sonora Smart Dodson wanted to honor her father, as he had raised six children on his own. So she initiated a celebration of fathers at the Spokane, Washington YMCA. In the 30’s, trade groups started supporting her promotion of the “holiday,” including the newly formed Father’s Day Council, which was founded by the New York Associated Men’s Wear Retailers. [It actually wasn’t Hallmark!] A bunch of nondescript stuff happened over the next 30+ years, but in 1966 LBJ issued a proclamation, and then Richard Nixon signed it in to law in 1972. I’m pretty sure that’s when the Hallmark folks popped a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

I’m all for honoring fathers and mothers and grandparents. And I don’t even mind buying cards now and then. But there’s no getting around the fact that this day makes a whole lot of folks want to go hide under a rock. And I’ve found that there are varying levels of discomfort among them. Some people wander up and down the card aisle looking for something, anything, that would be even remotely apropos. There are no cards that say, “Don’t worry that you weren’t ever around; I turned out okay anyway” or “You beat me and harshly criticized me as a child, but now you’re pretty alright.” These are the folks that still have enough of a relationship with their father to be buying him a card, but can’t find one that doesn’t gush about him. If you ask me, Hallmark is supremely biased toward the “good father” crowd (which in my estimation has been shrinking for a very long time.) Of course a Father’s Day card isn’t going to adequately express everything you have in your heart about dear old dad, so even if they had cards that offered a little more truth-telling, they probably wouldn’t sell.

One of my biggest “a-ha” moments about tricky relationships came when I was working on my bachelor’s degree a few years ago. My favorite history professor assigned a lot of reading from primary sources, and I found myself studying a document entitled, “On The Jews and Their Lies.”  It’s an anti-Semitic treatise that disturbed and shocked me so much, I made an appointment with my prof to talk about it. Of course anti-Semitism isn’t new, and so reading historical texts that document that prejudice is something you might expect in a Western Civilization class. But what threw me for a loop was its author:

Martin Luther.

The father of the protestant reformation. The guy who’s practically considered a saint in evangelical Christendom (if Evangelicalism even had saints.) I was so taken aback by the vile and hateful content of the text, I had a hard time reconciling it with all of the things Luther did to introduce an alternative to the Catholic Church. Is this even true, I wondered, or did Luther just somehow get framed as the document’s author? Surely he didn’t really say that the Jews are "full of the devil's feces ... which they wallow in like swine," and that the synagogue is an "incorrigible whore and an evil slut." Surely he didn’t recommend that Jewish synagogues and schools be burned to the ground, and that Jews should be forced into slavery.

But I found out that, yes. Yes, he did.

“How in the world can we trust anything that came out of this guy’s mouth if he spewed so much hate?” I asked my professor, when we finally met up in her office.

“Why would millions of Protestants hold him up as reliable source of spiritual guidance?”

“The short answer is that people are a mixed bag,” she replied. “No one is all good or all bad.”

“Yes, but this is extreme!” I argued. “If he were to write something like that today, he’d be put in the same category as Westboro Baptist Church!”

“Probably. But that was then, this is now,” she patiently replied. “We’ve come a long way. And Luther was known for taking extreme stands.”

We sat in silence for a minute. I had a narrative of “But, but, but, but…” playing in my head. She had clearly accepted that he was an extremely complicated individual. And I couldn’t swallow that. On account of this document I wanted to discount everything I’d ever respected about Luther’s teaching. And truth be told I’ve still not been able to reconcile it at all. I’m grateful that he liberated scores of oppressed Catholics, but this whole scenario makes me want to trash him altogether.

The point is, of course, that things aren’t always black and white. I can certainly, categorically, say that “On The Jews and Their Lies” is an evil treatise. To me, that’s black and white. What I can’t, say, however, is that Martin Luther—as a person—was 100% evil. Though he was clearly an extreme racist, he did a lot of good for a lot of people. And quite honestly, that pisses me off.

You probably know where this is going, but the same is true about all of us. Yes, there are varying degrees of discrepancy in our character, but at the end of the day everyone is a mixed bag. I have friends that had extremely wicked fathers, men who sexually abused their daughters and battered their wives. I would imagine that those adult kids don’t wander the card aisle on Father’s Day. They just wander through another 24 hours of collective dad worship trying to find some shred of peace about their past.

There are those who had physically or emotionally abusive dads who are now the kindest, sweetest grandpas to their grandchildren. These men are drastically different people than they were back when they were raging around and verbally decapitating their own children. But to the new generation, they’re the picture of paternal love. 

And then of course there’s the multitude of kids who were abandoned by their fathers and never got the chance to go card shopping.

Obviously I’ve left out one demographic, those people who have (or had) amazing fathers. These folks enjoyed persistent love, advocacy, protection and presence from their dads, and love the opportunity to honor them with a special day. To those folks, I say, “We’re happy for you.” Envious, maybe, but then somebody’s gotta win the lottery. To those who have lost beloved dads, I say, “Grieve, but cherish your memories. You don’t know how fortunate you are to have them.” And to those for whom this day brings up the dad-shaped cavern in your soul, I’d recommend staying off of Facebook and doing something really, really nice for yourself. Something you wish your dad had done for you. And the truth is he might’ve, if he hadn’t been such a mixed bag.

 Image Credit: Peter Hurford, http://www.flickr.com/photos/peterhurford/

Golden Chick and the Briar Patch

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.