I’ve Seen Fire, and I’ve Seen Rain

And I never thought that I’d see… James Taylor seeming like Mister Rogers’ younger brother.  Adorable.  Attractive. Earnest. Not a negative thing, mind you, but just a little surprising.  Blinking.  Hand motions.  Even calling me “special.” Everything but the cardigan.  Not only looking and acting his age, but sedately and winsomely welcoming me to his website and thanking me for “falling by.”  Ah, times have changed.  And I’m thankful my childhood heroes are going with me into the valley of menopause.  Come with us: http://www.jamestaylor.com/

I remember being 10 and showing my grandmother the cover of Sweet Baby James, and I told her, in my prepubescently insistent way, that “James Taylor is the best-looking man alive.”  And she was shocked, mortified, depleted… and replied with a sure-fire deal-breaker (if her intent was to dissuade me), saying “But what about your father?  He’s so handsome.”  It seemed that some unknown part of my future character rested on realizing the error of my ways for finding such a long-haired hippie (and an insouciantly lounging one, at that) attractive.

Anyway, I’m a big fan, and I’ve paid scalpers’ rates, and sat through deluges in lawn “seats,” and I check out his website from time to time, and in short I am — as I said — a big fan. My children even think that James Taylor is the author of the only lullaby ever written, “You Can Close your Eyes,” cause it’s the only one their momma ever sang.

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain…but I never thought I’d compare James Taylor to Fred Rogers.

 

Free Things New Yorkers Value Most

New York magazine posed this question to 100 Soho pedestrians:
“Which of the following nominally free things would you pay for if that was the only way to get them?”

I was interested to learn that “public bathrooms” beat out “the right to vote.”  Not surprising.  But they also beat out “sex.”   And “network television” beat out sex.

And “copies of The Onion” beat out not only all three of the above-mentioned items but also “drinking water” and “air” and “the love of parents and family.”

And one heartening discovery is that 14 people would pay for “subway musicians” if that was the only way to get them.  I agree.  One of life’s great pleasures.

Right up there with The Onion.

Woulda Coulda Shoulda

I once said to a priest, to whom I went for career advice, “You know how people write down ideas all the time for things to write and do?”  And I was met with a blank, but kindly, stare.  Before he said, “No.  Not everyone does that.  That’s a clue to YOUR calling.”

Well I’m buried under the scraps of paper, grocery receipts, margin notes, scrawlings on my own skin, post-its, notebooks with illegible scribblings (done at traffic lights).  And when the pile is growing and the ideas are only forming and not getting expression, I am becoming buried psychically too.

I tell my nearest and dearest, if you don’t see me writing (or see proof thereof), steer clear.  I’m safer to be with when my head isn’t exploding with ideas, images, unexpressed words.  Not that anyone wants to or needs to hear all my words. That’s what writing (and tucking much of the product away) is for.

But while I postpone, let life intervene, delay, wait, get distracted, other people are writing my books.  And I am bugged by that.

Take, for example, Kathryn Stockett’s The Help.  I have talked about that topic (the relationship between white children, their mothers, and the black maids who served in their homes in the South) for 15 years.  I wrote my Masters’ thesis on the topic.  I interviewed, researched, cried, wrote, challenged myself and my culture, excused myself and my culture… and turned in that thesis, duly graduating and going on to the next thing in life… but always wanting to turn my lengthy academic tome into something creative, winsome, right.

So when I went to a reunion of college friends recently, and the subject of that book came up, and they good-naturedly teased me, saying, “Did you ghostwrite that book?  It had to have been you,” I was pulled in several emotional directions, with a headache-inducing “woulda, coulda, shoulda” angst.  I should have.  I couldn’t have (don’t lean towards fiction gifts).  Stockett did it beautifully, and I should just be thrilled that someone did it.  But I wasn’t.  I was jealous.  Mad. Frustrated at myself.  Flattered that my friends knew my passion for the subject, that they thought (if only remotely) that I could have written such a great book.  In short, riddled with regret and disappointment.

We can’t write every story.  But we can write the ones we’ve lived.  The ones that are bubbling up so vigorously and completely that we choke on them.

And chances are that even in the muddle and piles of paper with ideas on them, the ones that have to be written will rise to the top and scream out for attention.

May I be paying attention on that day and not focused on the lesser stories, or those that aren’t mine.

Now Serving Lunch; Don’t Eat Here

I’m sitting in a restaurant performing an act of bravery.  I’m eating the food they serve.  Sushi.  Raw fish.  Uncooked.  Not heated up and boiled to death.  Raw.  Cuz that’s what sushi is – raw fish.  Much of it anyway.

And yet at the front door of this restaurant, one I frequent (especially when my daughter is in residence), there is a sign warning me in huge word-processed letters (Cambria, probably, if you are wondering):

WARNING…EATING RAW FOOD CAN CONTRIBUTE TO FOOD-BORNE ILLNESS.

I know that.   And I count on sushi chefs to know it and handle their fish accordingly.  Yet it’s a bit unappetizing to be met with the sign at the door.

It reminds me of a Chinatown spot I saw recently, the “Eat First Restaurant.”  What could that name mean?  That it’s advisable to eat before you arrive?

 

Enticing, huh?

 

Just like it’s not advisable to eat the food at my favorite sushi place?

Life’s too sanitized.  Too litigious.  Too safe.

I’m going to sing along with Mary Chapin Carpenter, the patron saint – whether she meant to be or not —  of women stuck in the suburbs, “I take my chances.”  Woo hoo!

Intention vs. Passivity

What if we actually did what means the most to us instead of just letting things happen.  What if we actually spent time with the people we love the most instead of just letting things happen.  What if? What if?  What if?

Somebody I really loved died recently.  He was my plastic surgeon who put me back together after breast cancer.  I considered him a friend.  I considered him a God-send in the midst of the ordeal of cancer.  The appointments with him were a bright spot in a dark sky.  I occasionally ran into him at community functions or around town, but hardly ever.  I stopped by to visit him this summer but he wasn’t in the office.  Yet I considered him a favorite person. And he’s gone now, having died young and suddenly and unexpectedly.

I don’t know what to do with the fact that we have favorite people that we barely know and — sometimes — close friends that we don’t even like so much and we don’t do anything about it.  In terms of where we put our time and energy.  Or bothering to express to people that they are favorites.  Or working on the relationships that should be more but, frankly, aren’t.  We let it be.  And then it is.  And then it was.  And then it’s over.  A waste.

Or the issue of how we spend our time.  I’ve got wiggle room I don’t use.  ”The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places,” as Psalm 16 says.  Yet I live as if I have no choice.  Up against the wall.  Tired.  Resentful.  Burned out right now.

Makes me think of that Bible verse about those who trust in men vs. those who trust in God and how they “don’t see prosperity when it comes.”  Ouch.  Jeremiah had it right.  Drought-resistant tree by a stream or parched bush in the desert… those are the results depending on which source of nurture and nourishment we choose.

I think it relates to living life in reaction to outside forces vs. intentionally choosing (based on freedom and in-touch-ness with our hearts) where we’ll go, what we’ll do and with whom.

Before it’s too late.

Warning: Graphic Information (Health Information, That Is)

Today I watched Oprah.  And the news follows Oprah.  And during the 42 minutes that I watched her show, there were at least 6 ads for the upcoming news, and they included dire warnings that “actual breast self-exams would be shown on the news” so we should take cover, run and hide, be discerning, throw blankets over our children and husbands… basically, we were instructed to “prepare to freak out” or “dare to see if you can handle this.”  WHAT?  This will save lives. A breast self-exam is how I found my own cancer.  This matters.  This is life and health, not lurid information.

And yet anytime I look through the cable guide to see if one of my cooking shows is on, I am barraged with titles of shows that I didn’t ask for.  And that’s just the titles; I don’t now how many years it would take me to get the images out of my brain if I clicked on these shows.  Lest my blog become a go-to site for racy keywords, I’ll not go into the details… but suffice it to say that I am exposed (or so it feels) to shows about every manner of sex, not just extramarital but extrahuman.

Hmmm… prudish America.  Breast exams are threatening.  Sexual fantasy and explicit content come without warning and are marketed to kids.

Just Gotta Share Some Gospel Music

There’s a competition going on for the best gospel choir in America… and I recently went to the DC-area regional finals. There were seven very good choirs, and then there was WORSHIP like I expect in heaven.  Check this out, and don’t cut out before the end: http://www.howsweetthesound.com/media/video_player/2009/67/2009+washington.  This group won for our region.

And one of last year’s winners makes me happy to watch.  Nerdy, delightful, powerful.  Check them out too: http://www.howsweetthesound.com/media/video_player/2008/48/2008+v-cast+peoples+choice.

Muzak it’s not.

Liquid, Fragile, Perishable or Hazardous

You approach the post office window, in a hurry to mail the too-tight jeans back to Lands’ End (or if you’re hipper than that, i.e. hip at all, maybe you’re sending something back to the Sundance Catalog or Wisteria).  You just want to send it parcel post, or priority mail.  It’s not complicated.

Yet under penalty of law, you must endure a barrage of questions about whether the “contents of your package are liquid, fragile, perishable or hazardous.”  They’re not.  And if there did happen to be a chocolate chip cookie or two in there, does it mean that you can’t send them?  Not sure.  And then you have to decline delivery confirmation, teddy bear sales, mailing supplies.  All in the name of full disclosure about what options there are at said post office.  And why does anyone want to own a teddy bear advertising mail delivery (or anything else for that matter)?

And it gets me wondering about adequate labeling or adequate representation about exactly what IS in the packages that bear us humans around this blue ball of earth on our appointed rounds.  What exquisite stuff our complicated, magnificent bodies are made of!

Yet I reflect on how much of my make-up really is liquid, fragile, perishable and/or hazardous on any given day.

• Liquid — uncertain, squishy, lacking solidity, form or definition
• Fragile — prone to falling apart, easily broken or shattered
• Perishable — of the stuff of earth, temporal-minded, not made to last
• Hazardous — gonna bite your head off (or, more likely, cower in silence or withdraw) if you catch me in an unguarded moment

I’ve got two modes — 1) natural me and 2) Holy Spirit-influenced.  Prayed up and emptied out and Spirit-filled, there is a major difference.  And any time I think I’ve lived long enough and outgrown the worst of me, I come up against the realization that I haven’t really …but instead have just had a decent run of being connected to God, leaning on Him enough that my better self (relatively solid, less fragile, imperishable, safe) prevails sometimes.

Left to my own devices, I’m a postal clerk’s worst nightmare.  Watch out.

Playfulness

This is a photo of one of my major treasures:

My treasure

Yes, it’s blurry.  Yes, it’s dirty.  Yes, it’s trash too actually.  But it’s a treasure.

This Tootsie Roll wrapper was given to me by a flight attendant on an Alaska Airlines flight from Seattle to DC.

She had worked the flight I’d initially taken from DC to Seattle, three days before, and she recognized me when I boarded in Seattle. And she ceremoniously said something like, “I remember you.  You smiled all the way to Seattle, and I’m glad to see you again.  I have a prize for you.”  Thinking I might get mini-pilot’s wings or something, I froze in my tracks.  But no, she gave me a Tootsie Roll and declared it “Happiest Passenger Award.”

She wasn’t weird.  She was delightful.  And playful.  And I think of her often when I open my drawer and see this twisted wrapper, left over from the candy that I — of course — ate instantly.

And I wonder why we all tend to act so cool when we could be playful.  Encouraging.  Engaging.  Involved.  Even a little socially awkward if necessary.  Which the flight attendant wasn’t, for the record.  But I might be if I handed out candy.

Why are we so dignified?  Dignity is overrated.

Play.  Seriously.

Dispatches from the Empty Nest

This is the place where we’re singing, halfheartedly, an endless chorus of “I’ve always looked forward to this time in my life,” or “Look, I hardly ever have to unload the dishwasher any more!”  And we keep insisting, “I miss ‘em but I’m so proud that they are ready to launch into the world as competent adults.”

But my brain protests too much.  Cause my heart’s not buying it.

Yesterday I burst into tears over the wide-openness of my days and weekends and life, the horrific freedom of it all.

Today I watched my husband begin to paint over the horrible Pepto-Bismol pink paint in my daughter’s former room, so that I can have it as an office for my new career-woman self.  Mind you, this is a pink that I wince over, a pink that should be illegal.  And as I took my last look at it, I sobbed, “A little girl picked this out.  My little girl. And she is MARRIED!”  And I had to photograph the timeline she marked off on the walls, to help her (lo these many years ago) through AP U.S. History… before it was gone forever, as it feels that she is (though she’s a 12-minute drive away).

And when I was in the very process of applying under-eye concealer (a necessity on my good days), I realized that my husband’s random-shuffle iPod offering was the very song that we sang at my other daughter’s baptism, while we walked around the sanctuary with the minister 20 years ago, showing her off and lifting up our future attempts at raising her well into God’s hands.  And the concealer washed on down to the corners of my mouth in a stream of tears.

I am feeling so much over something I knew was coming, more or less welcomed, and compartmentalized in my brain as a good and appropriate thing.

Grief comes in waves they say; that’s what this is, isn’t it?