Cracking myself up

My friend Amy A. said to me one day, "you're cracking yourself up, aren't you?" It made me laugh because I was finding some kind of amusement in the smallest of things--so small that I cannot remember what it was, but I do remember Amy's words. She has been my faithful friend, comrade, partner in parental misgivings, and surrogate auntie to my daughters and many other young people. Things in life ARE funny, people ARE funny, I am funny--not in the way of a comedian--my sister Jodi takes THAT prize, but in a way that I am probably very attuned to my own foibles. To me, that is a precious key to the humility I aspire to embrace.

I have been told by mentors that I don't take myself seriously enough and that they are suprised when they try to connect the gravitas of my writing to the person they know. Most of the people I love have reinforced an ethos of never being too full of myself. Trust me (and if you have read any of my posts), I will be constantly subject to a generous skepticism that I think everyone needs. Oscar Wilde wrote about "The Importance of Being Earnest" and the title speaks for itself. He was one of the most clever and humorous writers of his time. While I cannot match dandy Wilde's talents or longevity, I do believe that earnestness is impossible without seeing the funny sides of life and having enough humility to laugh at oneself.

I laugh heartily every time I speak with my family members. It was the bloom in our household that has carried us through everything. It is the glue in my friendships and almost as important as my faith in God. You know, the Almighty has his own sense of humor too. I remember telling a priest I work with, "God's a funny guy." I think I know what I ought to pray for or do and he surprises me, trips me and gives me what I really need at that moment. I would like to have that kind of omnipotence, but I guess that amusement is the byproduct of not being so.

I've taken silly facebook quizzes, including ones that have asked the question, "if you could have a superpower, what would it be?" If the option is there, I check the box that says "read people's minds". I suppose I landed in my profession out of two sources of inspiration:

1) people are fascinating--humorous, interesting and a driving source of curiosity. I am not driven to "know" Angie and Brad's latest moves or silly office gossip, but to "know" the commonalities of humanity. What parts of anothers' life story resonates with mine, what can I learn from it, or how, in earnest, can I feel more humanly connected because they "get it" or have experienced that. I have always been taken aback by people who are inspired to do something for seat belt laws or other civil rules because they have experienced some tragedy in their lives. I don't want to diminish others' grief, motivations or the good work done because of it, but why not do those things BEFORE one is personally affected? No one can do good for every cause or campaign, but to me it's an important part of being human to live that golden rule (that my mother generously and consistently spoke of)with each new sunrise.

2) I grew up in a family of people who all talked at once and there was always a question if anyone was listening. I mean this with the greatest affection, but it's true! Somehow, people knew things, understood each other and laughed together through that cacaphony of banter we habituated as "communication". I've spent my life studying it because sometimes with all the fine details of things that affect communication practices, we all continue our relationships with at least an illusion that we've been heard. How that happens is a topic for another day because this lady needs a chinese massage from Ruby or Lulu or Lisa, who have their own ways. They enter and exit the room, arguing in Mandarin about whose client I am. I lie there amused because I know I belong to all of them.

Desire for Serenity

I had sweet young Vanessa here to help me clean up messes that I alone had created. Somehow, I was much more organized and neater when I lived with other people. I don't know if it's my current empty nest internal drama, work fatigue, a year full of travels, a bad knee or all of them, but I have been an absolute slob over the past couple of months. I am grateful that I am able to get help for a small price (because it is worth six times what I pay her in peace of mind). I had overflowing summer clothes storage containers that would not fit under my bed, so I left them there for myself to trip over regularly. I had papers all over my kitchen desk that I still need to go through, but now they look manageable. I had a fridge with stinky spring rolls and thai sauces that have been in there for a couple of weeks and no "real" groceries to speak of because I cannot bear to shop for food when my kitchen is not clean. The ceiling fan in my room was driving me nuts because it had three of four light bulbs burnt out and about six months' of dust on the fans.

My place is clean underneath now and the fan blades are free of dust. I have four donation bags sitting neatly by my door to take to the Junior League Thrift shop because women from the YWCA who are homeless shop there for free. I have grapefruit scented oil flowing from a wonderful lamp I bought a couple years ago. I used to always have music going on my stereo and fresh flowers on my kitchen table, especially through long winters, but have not had them there in months because of the clutter. I have an organized pile of fun valentine treats waiting to be packed and mailed. Lateness in those sorts of things is not my usual mode, and it concerns me. I am working hard, but not THAT hard. I have weekends free to do chores, but I am somehow unable to get up, gather myself and move through it all. I have no children at home, boarders to blame or animals who take up my time. I DO not know where it goes except to the extra sleep I seem to need when the workweek is done. This is a fresh start, thank goodness.

There is something about having one other person in my space or expecting someone to come by that creates the inspiration in me to keep my spaces in order. Absent that, I regress to the sloppy teenager that my poor sister had to share a room with. My alarm goes off, I'm up and dressed, out the door by 8:00 am and away until 6:00 pm. or later. I come home, get into my warm and beloved grubbies, eat because I have to and stay up too late working on the computer, escape through the television or fall asleep on the couch, only to wake at 3:00 am to inject myself with insulin and get to bed. None of that makes for a peaceful existence, but I am in the driver's seat. Eeeeek! Dear readers, I will let you know how I progress. I think maybe I'll get some fresh flowers tomorrow.

Being Known

My posts are leading somewhere, and tonight it is toward the blessing of what it means to be "known" and recognized in a way that is consistent with things I know about myself, but also that I may not be able to see. It's like trying to look into your own ear. It can't be done without a mirror, and even then only from a particular angle. Other people become that source of reflection. I don't mean to sound self-important, but the greatest gifts I have received in life have come from people in whose eyes, voices and actions I recognize myself.

In other words, they "see" "me". Amy tells me the truth no matter how frank or critical her comments might be. Dad "gets" me. Steffie loves me anyway. Shawna sees her future in my past. My teaching mentors saw more capability in me than I ever did. My students see a "professor," (I think) but not the mousey little housewife that walked into Dr. Freeman's office in 1985 saying "I think I might want to go to grad school".

Kwame sees everything about me; he has an artist's eye that finds beauty in the darkest and most human places where past sufferings live. Neville sees a "bossy" woman who enjoys life (Jamaican "bossy" means a woman who carries herself well and tastefully.)

Jodi sees me as auntie, sister, mother of her nieces, alike and unalike as we are--taking our respective places as strongholds of our families, looking above at the generations that produced us and below at the offspring we have worried over, cared for, been proud of and guided in dedication and genuine intention.

My girlfriends of earlier times know me as Bam, the slightly wild one who streaked through a park in the middle of the night at Dana's slumber party and threw up those five tall Coors I drank. The boys saw me as "Bam", Mike's sister who looked too much like him to kiss.

Gary saw me as his wife, the mother of his daughters and as part of a loving family. We have returned to that good place where I feel "known" by him again, appreciating his respect and acknowledgement. My mother sees me under flourescent lighting--a bit harsh but loves me under the soft light of daybreak, bosom to bosom in comradery and understanding founded in motherhood. I am unsure how Amanda sees me. It is possible, likely and even natural that she sees in me things she wants to change for her daughter--to do better, differently and in ways that suit her worldviews. I admire her courage and aspiration, even if it sounds paradoxical. She knows the goodness in me and as well, how it feels to live under the harshness of flourescent lights that mark a first daughter's upbringing. In equal measure, those lights are reflected back to me in flashes, stares, words and inconsistencies that are the cruelties of growing into adulthood as your child helps you do it out of pure and substantial need.

It is never clear what events, doings and sayings will mark memories and which will be forgotten. There is some predictability in foresight and a leap of learning in afterthought. Yet being "known" in the fullest light, and "seen" with generosity, humor and forgiveness is the greatest gift in time.

Blogging, grammar and style

These posts are full of typos and sentence structure errors. Since it is an important way to communicate with and alongside my daughters, it is possible that polished, perfectly constructed entries would make me unrecognizable to them:) Thanks for stumbling through them with me.

Tight Spaces

I'm claustrophobic.

The positive way to put this is that I like wide open fields, large, lapping bodies of water, the beach before and after everyone has come or gone, empty elevators and 360 degrees between me and the last person who made the door revolve. That list would be much longer if I thought about it for another hour, day or week. I back up when someone in a grocery line stands too close whether they're in front of or behind me. I'd rather pull my car over and let another pass than suffer through a tailgating episode. I board planes after others cram and hurry to arrive frantically at an assigned seat. It will be there whether they're first or last to get on.

I am not antisocial, but solitary, and this arm's length need extends roundly to all my senses. I am downright intolerant of slamming doors, incessant public cell phone conversations, gum cracking,"outside" sounds taking place inside or television-as-background noise. Some of these are futile intolerances in a new media/digital age. I am attuned to quiet. To others' voices and my memories of them, to the kaleidescopic variety of sounds that water can make--splashing, running, breaking on a shore, drip-drip-dripping, rain's changing textures and temperatures, the quiet of a snow "storm"; I have never heard a snowstorm make any thunderous noise. My aural preferences are rooted in meaningful and natural things, earth's seasons and the delightful side of our shared humanity.

When I look, I like a moment to engage what I see--not to experience anxiety I associate with millisecond half-shots followed by unidentifiable things from different angles that appear in music videos, avante-garde films and new commercials. If I am listening to the news, I do not appreciate "ticker tape" borders running interference against my senses, competing for the status of "first to tell" as both anchor and border create their own kind of attention deficit disorder. When I look I want to see--to be able to identify a lovely frame, face, unique profile, beautiful wool or fine linen, a still image that changes every time I see it, a moving image I can associate with pictures I know, a baby's face that morphs with every mood and age, yet retains traces of it from birth to maturity. Looking and merely "seeing" are different experiences. Looking is neutral, curious, perceiving and making an effort to understand. Seeing is experiencing the passing of an object through the biological mechanisms of vision.

I realize how retrograde this post sounds. It may also seem cheesy and nostalgic. But sometimes convictions are borne out of the most cheeseball kinds of sentimentalities others have disposed of through time and "progress". I like an orange off a tree, a 100% cotton garment, a pen and paper, getting slowmail, sending a package wrapped in brown paper, Crest "original" toothpaste and "band-aid" bandages. Walnuts are filled with specially shaped nut meat and memories of cracking them with my Granny, ecstatic to preserve a "whole" half. Ice cream tastes so good because Dad would take us to Thrifty's ice cream counter for a scoop. I always had orange or rainbow sherbet. Homemade cookies and goodies reveal my sister's cooking talents and my love for receiving them each Christmas. Enchiladas have become a celebratory "home fixin'" because they remind me of California and my mother made them well. Plain spoon size shredded wheat is somehow all mine.

Night Quiet

I have trouble going to bed. I like this time of night because everything is still and peaceful. But I pay for this pleasure every morning. I am trying hard to sleep at a reasonable hour, but not doing it. My busy mind will not let me stop. I imagine that if I bring the day to a halt that I have somehow missed out on all that is tranquil. I would like to find that tranquility at a different hour, but my waking moments are filled with medical management, putting on my "work face" and finding clothes that feel right for the day's meetings and current state of my body. Lately my sartorial abilities have been limited by the giant knee brace I've been wearing, hoping to avoid the orthopaedic doc's office. I am short, so I get crabby about being limited to flat shoes. The weather outside demands boots and tights under layers to keep me warm. I am also busty, so this is not a good combination. I like my toes to be free; I like sweatshirts and blue jeans; I like the warmth to come from sunshine, not heaters, wool and down coats with sensible boots. I compensate for this discomfort with hats. I have acquired a tan wool cap, a black velvet beret and one the same style in red.

My hats make all that is under those layers me. It's good to have one little signature that carries me through slushy snow. Having grown up in California, I still cannot abide by wintertime's demands. It does not agree with me or the blood running through my veins, my soul or trite preferences. Yet this season of indoor self-protection is a good time to work, nest, think and write. When the clock changes and the collective activity that echoes until the sun goes down, I will have to find my bicycle, my rock at Lake Michigan, a good book and seek out that quiet I have right now.

arrgh

My last post makes no sense because I accidentally deleted a two hour writing session entitled "Channeling Simone, Dorothy, Anais, Virginia and Madame Bovary". I posted it before I had written the last paragraph, then turned it into a "draft" and then lost it altogether. There ARE advantages to putting pen to paper.

Anyway,it was about being "one", not "two" and wondering how I came to it in a world of "Pat and Smitty" and "Dale and Janet", etc. I don't claim to have any expectation of leaving the same kind of historical writing these ladies did, but wrote about my appreciation for them "knowing me" though I would never meet them. It was also about the importance and respect I place with those "twos" who've made it through decades side by side. Maybe someday I'll reconstruct it because I was kind of proud. . . but definitely not today.

m'ladies continued. . .

I need reassurance right now. That it's okay not to "settle", that I am not deprived or depraved, that my faith in God's plan for me is not misplaced and that my life has been as rich as I feel it has been. I could not have survived without every woman on this page. That is the lesson of this pondering--that brave mothers, daughters, sisters, aunties, grandmothers, girlfriends and women I didn't know, but who knew me sustain confidence in the worth of a life of one.

Living in Time

I went to get a haircut today and was surrounded by cute young stylists rocking adorable clothes and perky bodies. Greek George cuts my hair and that of many other women and men trying to stop time. The ticking of the clock is a double-sided reality. With age and time comes perspective, a hope of wisdom and momentary "pauses" when you can feel the change of seasons that inevitably haunts us to live a new day, adopt a new attitude and when new songs become necessary.

The older I get, the less I know "for sure", but I do know these things. My mother and father are the foundation for everything that is good in me and I need them now as much if not more than I ever did. I am slightly ashamed to admit that surprises me, but I have watched my friends lose mothers and fathers in the past few years and am so grateful I have them both. Coming to terms with my own mortality and theirs has made them more perfect and charming and me more desperate to hold onto all that is good in them. Old hurts are pale as the morning sky in comparison to the thought of what a dark night it will be when I am left without their mortal presence and only my memories.

I also know that in the end, accomplishment is hollow unless it's infused with passion and meaning not only to the person striving, but to others whose lives are touched by one's gifts. What I mean by this is that in each of us lives a reason for being and life is the daily testing ground for finding those reasons, trying to be true to them and doing your best along the way. I am full of my own failings but not overtaken by them. I am also full of the little patches of time where everything fits together and the failings fade away. Growth becomes the product of not knowing or doing better. While I would never go back in time, I have regrets, but none would be so great as if I hadn't tried my hardest, done my best and fixed the troubling experiences for next-time. With or without companionship, each of us faces that mirror found in the faces, tears and words of others. I alone am responsible.

At the same time, life has little meaning if you don't matter to anyone or if others don't matter to you. The bricks of time are built on chance meetings, detours, open doors, closed gates, entries and exits, fulfillment, disappointment and sea changes that arise from each turn. Opportunities narrow and choices expand.

But time is always there, chasing us with its shadows and memories, sustaining this day. My granny had 29 grandchildren and I had more cousins and second cousins than I could count or know. But Granny gave every one of her grandchildren a hand sewn patchwork quilt made of fabric scraps that became whole blankets to warm us and remind us of her. She had little money and great faith in God. She gave us all the time it took her to piece together work founded in bountiful love. She also gave us our names in embroidery, which signalled our distinct places in her life, on that quilt and in our own travels warmed by its meaning. This is what my Granny taught me, my parents lived and I aspire to embody while putting one foot in front of the other, racing against the shadows of time that will inevitably take me home.