Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser McAlpin

Another Thanksgiving

Well, there went Thanksgiving. 

Started prepping the house weeks ago. Today, it’s a wreck. Dirty dishes on countertops, aluminum cans not quite in the recycle bin, two chairs pulled up to the computer.  Empty coke cans strewn across my desktop along with printouts, pens and pads of paper filled with hard-to-read scribbles.  A stray sheet which found its way to the floor. 

Dishwasher was continuously cranking out clean bowls, beaters, measuring cups, spatulas, spoons, saucepans and sifters which gave rise to new culinary creations──our Thanksgiving fare of turkey, stuffing, gravy, cranberries, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, pumpkin pie with whipped cream and piles upon piles of the family’s favorite cookies.

Thanksgiving revisited football, the Marx Brothers, Mr. Bean, A League of Their Own, Princess Bride and Willow.  It saw phone calls to sisters, brothers, sons, cousins and grandparents from the Big Apple to San Francisco, friends from Arkansas to Florida. Shopping excursions to all corners of the city.  South Side, North Hills, downtown and Sewickley Village. Desperate workouts at the Y.  Anything to process the overload of holiday calories.

A quick trip to the airport and it’s over.

Returning home to my dogs, in a large pile against the front door.  Waiting to greet, waiting to wag, waiting to see who would come.

Just me. 

With a warm yearning and the sweet, savory satisfaction of knowing that this small, precious treasure of a family is well loved.  From the inside out.  Where it really counts.

In Memory of Aunt Jane

In “Doldrums”, I mentioned the passing of my Aunt Jane.  I haven’t written more about her because she was such an exceptional person that I didn’t think I could do her justice with words on a blank page or a computer screen. 

Well, my little cousin, Janie Kaiser, 12 years old, did it for me.  I have the family’s permission to share her tribute which I received yesterday. 

I love you, Janie.  Thank you for sending this to me.

Love,  Weasie

In Memory of Jane Haggart Kaiser

Sept. 24, 1929 - October 8, 2004

Written by Jane Kaiser, 12 year old granddaughter

My Favorite Person

The most important person who has been in my life is my grandma.  I called her gram.  Some people say love and compassion are the most important things in life, that those are the ingredients of relationship. I think that is what made my relationship with my grandmother so special.

Nothing in my life would happen unless I talked to my grandma first. She always seemed to be getting check-in phone calls from me.  I was often bored when I was young and when I called my grandmother I would ask if I could come over and play.  My grandmother could never say no.  She always said that she was free for as long as I wanted to play.  This always made me feel welcome. I spent millions of summer days in her big house on 30 Joy Av.  We would sit and sew together.   We always would sew something for my favorite bear.  I remember these days from so long ago.  I still have the projects now.  I miss those long summer days at the big house on 30 Joy Av. Joy seemed to take place every time I saw her bright shining face.

For a long time I lived at my grandmother’s house while my house was under construction.  Every evening my grandmother would come up to my room and tuck me in. She would not miss tucking me in for anything.  Once when I was sick she sat by my side all day and made sure I got well again.  She was there for all my ups and downs.

Most people have role models because of the things they do.   My role model was my grandmother, not because of the things she did but just because I believed she would always be there.  She was so important to me because she had my name.  I used to think we were the same.   Everyone says they can see the family resemblance because I have her sky blue eyes and heart shaped face.  This always was the greatest compliment because I thought my grandmother was perfect.

I thank you for reading this essay.   It lets me express my feelings about my favorite person who was most important in my life.  I really miss her.  I wonder who my next favorite person will be.

By,

Janie Kaiser

Second Chance

When I read other writers, I find that the stuff I like best is the stuff that is quite intimate, like a confidential conversation at the kitchen table over coffee and bagels, just the two of us, reader and writer; almost like a conspiracy between best friends.  Unfortunately, I don’t think my writing is enough like that, but I am working on it.

My friend Alicia tells me to find the creases and go in.  Trouble is, going into the creases and talking about what’s inside them is just the sort of thing that had me grounded for the first 18 years of my life.

Some of my deepest creases, which I skimmed in “Fall” are a little scary, so I have decided to practice being personal in areas that are smoother, more mundane, more surface.  Another friend, Hilary says, “Break it down into manageable pieces.”  Okay.  Let’s start with what I’m doing right now, today.

Today is Sunday.  I have had the week from hell in terms of busy pm hours.  Being a morning person, I can handle maybe two or three night-time commitments a week before feeling the strain.  Well, this week I had five in a row: Tuesday night I had dinner with my volunteer coordinator for an agency I work for, Wednesday night I was in charge of a monthly support group, Thursday night I had an emergency visit to the vet with one of my mastiffs, Friday night I spent with Eleanor and last night I went to a gem show and auction with friends (from which I had to excuse myself early for falling asleep during the bidding).  5 nights worth of commitments, plus a huge Math test on Thursday, for which I was understandably ill-prepared, a dentist appointment first thing in the morning yesterday and another vet appointment first thing in the morning today.  I had it going on both ends.  I feel pulled in a million different directions and my life divided into a million little pieces which aren’t connected to one another.  Fragmented.  Parts of me over here, parts of me over there.  Sort of like what the flying monkeys did to the scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz.”  Even the fun stuff became a chore.  Not like me at all.  I’m all about fun.

It seems that my personal body rhythm is a little off.  It practically killed me to back out of a perfectly lovely dinner engagement from a potential dating prospect to try to recover my senses in order to face a new week starting tomorrow, which includes a major cooking holiday.  A little voice inside me said, “Go!  Go!  The holidays are here!  Everybody gets busy!  You’re going to miss the opportunity!”  But my body said, “Stay!  Stay!  You’ll never get through next week without a crash day.”  So, this morning, when I left my eggs cooking on the stove, forgot all about them and wandered off to sit at my desk to read emails and blogs, and then smelled them burning much later, that was the last straw.  That’s when I knew my body’s voice must be heard.  I could no longer delay the inevitable.  Today needed to be a day of rest.

And so it was.  I had a cheery fire, three mastiffs for snuggling , a soft couch, fluffy pillows and a nice, warm blanket.  I alternately slept through and watched the Steelers game, enough to know that we won and enough to have seen a couple of very unfortunate sacks.  I am counting on this downtime to be just what I need to get me back in the saddle, ready for a new day tomorrow, a new week, the arrival from out of town of one of my sons; a week of baking, cooking, cleaning, preparing for a wonderful day.  My favorite holiday, Thanksgiving.  And the beginning of the Christmas season, which, if I can just remove myself from its clutter, really is a joy to me, in spite of what I wrote in "What Happened To Thanksgiving?"

Now if only I could get a rain check for that cancelled dinner.

What Happened to Thanksgiving?

Yesterday morning, half asleep, I was listening to music while preparing for my morning routine when I heard, “Since it’s the last day before we go all-Christmas,….”  Don’t ask me what the rest of the sentence was because I haven’t the foggiest idea.  I sat bolt upright in bed.  “WHAT!?? NO WAY!  THEY CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! NOT UNTIL AFTER THANKSGIVING!”  Well, they can and they already did, as I discovered yesterday afternoon when I tried to listen to oldies during my usual errands of dropping off dry cleaning, running to the store, going to the post office and zipping into the bank.  It seems that last night was Pittsburgh’s light-up night. And of course, my favorite radio station just had to time its all-Christmas programming accordingly.  Shoot me now.  Please. I beg you.

Every year when this happens (it’s obviously earlier than I realized, but nevertheless….), I go into a period of mourning.  Being a morning person with a rather exuberant way of greeting the day, I get grumpy when someone comes along to crimp my style. 

During the rest of the year, I start my day at 5:40 am, when my radio alarm goes off.  I usually go off with it. What I mean is that I lie in wait for just the right moment, just the right song and then I start singing.  I have a rapt audience in the form of three English mastiffs who sometimes open half an eye to listen to my performance.  Sometimes it’s “Sherry.  Sherry, baby.  Sherry, Sherry baby”, sometimes “See you in September.  See you when the summer’s through.”  My favorite songs are by our wonderful Aretha, queen of soul.  “Baby, baby, sweet baby.  I didn’t mean to run you away.” You can imagine how lovely this little concert sounds before 6 am, pre-coffee.  After a brief visit to the bathroom where I religiously record my weight and look in the mirror long enough to wonder what happened to my face during the night, I sing and dance all the way downstairs.  I turn on a light or two in carefully choreographed moves, and shake a tail feather in front of my coffeemaker which is filled with steaming, hot coffee, ready for me to pour into a carefully pre-selected mug to take back to bed, where I wait for the 6 am news, sip coffee and think profound thoughts about my life.  What is my schedule?  What do I want to accomplish today?  What is the best way to murder my math teacher?  Kidding.  Anyway, at 6:15, I listen to sound bytes from last night’s talk shows.  After a good laugh (it's usually Leno who does it), I am ready to bravely, with my sense of humor intact, face a new day. 

I love my routine.  Trouble is, it depends entirely upon the regularly scheduled morning program provided faithfully by my radio station, except for six weeks or so out of the year, when it is completely pre-empted by holiday happenings. 

The holiday cheer they dish out is really quite nauseating.  They don't provide the rich tones of the Messiah, or any of the beautiful carols that church choirs perform so magnificently this time of year, no.  Jingle Bell Rock and songs about Rudolph, Santa, Frosty, Alvin and the elves are the meager choices that replace the Supremes, the Temptations, Marvin Gaye and We Five.  I wonder why such babyish melodies are flooding the airwaves from a station that surely markets to an older population.  Stark commercialism!  That’s what it is!  Complete with pressure for everybody to be happy, for God’s sakes.  IT’S CHRISTMAS!!!!

That said, I want to wish anybody reading this a Happy Thanksgiving.  We must never forget the true purpose of this holiday season−a special time set apart to appreciate one’s blessings.  Blessings that exist in all shapes, sizes, disguises and surprises.  Mine are many.

Happy holiday!

Friends Don't Let Friends....

I guess by now everybody’s heard about Anna Nicole Smith's recent television debacle. Since I listen to the best of the late night talk shows every morning on my radio at 6:15, I heard the scoop in three different ways, in three different voices, in front of three difference studio audiences. Sorry I missed it.

My friend Alexis and I are American Idol groupies, disguised as middle-aged women.  We watch every show and discuss each singer's performance in great depth over the phone during each and every commercial.  One of the things we don’t understand is why some of the contestants seem to have no clue that they sound absolutely horrible, being unable to hold a tune and sometimes even the beat.

“How can they not know how awful they sound?” I asked incredulously.

“They grew up with mothers who only told them how wonderful they were, so they never quite got it,” quipped Alexis, an unspoken “duh” at the end of her answer.

Well, that explained their mothers, but what about their friends?  "How could anyone’s friends let them go on national TV in front of millions and millions of viewers and make complete fools of themselves?  Can you imagine for even a minute your friends allowing you to humiliate yourself like that in public? There's no way!  How can their loved ones not tell them the truth?  Where are they?”

That one got her.  She had no answer.

Bob, my friend from Chicago, flew into town earlier this week on business and treated me to a night on the town.  Since he is a regional marketing director for one of the top three drug and alcohol rehab centers in the United States, I was curious to hear his take on the incident.  Yes, he told me he had watched the Music Awards, and yes, he had witnessed Anna Nichole firsthand.  I leaned forward in my seat so that I wouldn't miss a single word.

“She was beyond slurred.  It was unbelievable."  He shook his head.  "I kept waiting for someone to come out and escort her offstage, but it never happened.  I think maybe the network people were afraid of being accused of censorship.”  Well, that explained the network people.  He continued, “What I don’t get is, where were her loved ones during all this?  How could the people who care about her let her go onstage in that condition?”

Exactly.

Friends don’t let friends….  That is truly a wonderful sentiment, but it fails to take into account one small detail--freedom of choice.  It’s one thing to advise, suggest, cajole or tell someone what you think they should or should not do.  It’s quite another to make them comply.  Anyone could have taken Anna Nicole's cue cards away from her that night, but I'd bet $10 she still would've gone onstage drunk, or high, or whatever the heck she was.  Ah, the best intentions.

Since friends can’t always prevent friends, I guess I can imagine Anna Nicole’s not stepping in to save the day,  and I can certainly see the network people not intervening.  As for Anna Nicole herself--well, she has sort of attempted to kind of take responsibility for her stage appearance.  She has given a couple of pretty lame excuses, capitalized on the extra publicity and gone on with her life.  That sounds like a good idea to me.  So I think I'll go on with mine.

Wherefore Art Thou, English?

Yesterday, as I fought to sit attentively through another painfully boring lecture in College Algebra, I could feel myself involuntarily beginning to fidget, reminiscent of a similar struggle I had in the 9^th grade during lessons devoted to the exciting field of study known as Ancient History.  Back then, I sincerely wanted to know why we were studying Mesopotamia.  Didn’t the teacher know it no longer existed?  Since she apparently did not, I believe that I was coerced into fidgeting. I had no choice in the matter, no control over the limitless supply of complete and utter boredom that attacked my body in restless waves and spurts.  I think I may have been able to handle it, if allowed to get out of my chair from time to time, stand by my desk, and wiggle and shake; but since that was considered socially unacceptable (if not downright bizarre) classroom behavior, it was not an option.  With my only avenue of relief removed from me, the fidgets moved in, successfully executed their mission against me, and prevailed.  Here are some of the behaviors that resulted, many of which incurred a teacher’s reprimand, public humiliation or trips to the principal’s office, or any combination of these, or all of these at once.

1. swinging my leg (the top one, which was crossed over the other one) and accidentally kicking my neighbor
2. biting my fingernails until they bled
3. asking to be excused to go to the nurse’s office for a band aid
4. compulsively scratching areas of my body which didn’t really itch
5. asking to be excused to go to the nurse’s office for another band aid
6. writing notes and passing them around (ALWAYS  confiscated at some point by the teacher)
7. biting the corners off pieces of paper and chewing on them till they were digested
8. asking to be excused to go to the nurse’s office for a TUMs for my new stomach ache from digested paper
9. twirling my hair
10. twirling my neighbor’s hair
11. raising my hand to ask questions about other school subjects
12. staring dreamily out the window
13. spontaneously erupting into loud laughter
14. sighing loudly
15. yawning loudly
16. clicking my tongue loudly
17. forgetting where I was and singing loudly
18. making excessive trips to the bathroom
19. refusing to leave the bathroom, even when told to do so

Truth be told, I see little difference between my adolescent fidgets and the ones I battle today in my College Algebra class.  As an adult, I do not feel so powerless against them, but all my fidgets are fueled by courses of study which I consider to be excruciatingly and innately boring.  The fault lies not with me, but with the horrific classes I've been forced to endure.  It makes no more sense to study Algebra for a degree in English, than it does to study Mesopotamia when it no longer exists.  Why do I keep having to veer off course to God knows where, to satisfy some tedious requirements imposed on me by God knows whom?  It’s a wonder people still go to school! 

As a result of this ongoing battle, I have come to the very inevitable and perfectly correct conclusion that the only truly unforgivable sin is the sin of boring people half to death.  It creates so much pain, so much suffering and (oh, how I know it!) so much fidgeting.

The Mighty Metaphor

  “I’m in love with my toothbrush,” announced Eleanor.  Normally, a statement such as this might alarm me, but since I knew she was teasing, and since I was collecting metaphors, I simply laughed and made a mental note of it under the heading, “Best Metaphor”.

In my Critical Reading class, I was writing a 2 page paper on the use of the metaphor in everyday language.  The primary assumption of our class had been that discourse in art arises form discourse in language.  Since the metaphor is a major component of formal literary style, I decided to examine its usage in our everyday language.

I found metaphors everywhere.  Some of them snuck by me unrecognized until much later, after I had a chance to think about them.  The more obvious ones were used to describe the two hurricanes which had just hit Florida, one of which was still a threat, even as I was writing my paper.  Listening carefully when people around me talked about the storm, I heard words and phrases such as “plowing through”, “slamming into”, “threatening”, “ravaging”, “looming”, “lingering”, “destroying”, “unleashing its fury” and “stalling”.  These words were much more suitable for  machines, villains, enemies, military entities, devils, assailants and other powerful, menacing forces beyond are control. 

Eleanor sat and watched the weather for hours as the remnants of Hurricane Frances blew through our area.  She was the only person I heard describe the storm in objective terms:  “First it got real dark, then the wind blew like crazy, it got real loud, the trees bent and it rained and rained.  Then it got light and everything quieted down.  Then it got dark again….”

In reality, a storm cannot do or be anything other than a storm.  It is not able to decide what it will do, how, when and to whom.  Still, our rich descriptions of it enable us to express our sense of awe and perhaps fear of its power and unpredictability, especially in relation to our vulnerability.  It becomes the subject of our story having all the capabilities of any hero or villain.

In my monthly investment club meetings, I hear one of my favorite metaphors on a fairly regular basis.  “This stock just isn’t very sexy.”  I love hearing this when we are doing nothing more than looking at numbers and discussing the stock market.  Even more amusing is that we all understand exactly what this means.  The sexy stocks are the riskier, more volatile ones, the ones that keep us on the edges of our seats, watching to see what will happen next.  Like a seductive, wanton woman, these stocks are enticing and exciting, though perhaps not the most stable in the long run.  Then there are the growth stocks, our staple items, which sit there uneventfully, growing quietly and steadily during high times and lows, without which our club would have a negative portfolio.  These are the ones that bring us our pipe and slippers while we sit in front of the fire, reading our newspaper, dog resting happily at our feet.  Surely, the metaphors make the whole thing come alive.

Which brings me back to Eleanor’s toothbrush.  Eleanor’s son recently presented her with her first electric toothbrush.  She was delighted that it was so easy for her caregivers to use, and that it so gently massaged her teeth and gums.  She announced to me with a wink and a smile, one Friday night, the minute I walked through the door, “I’m in love with my toothbrush.”  Now if that isn’t a rich (if not startling) metaphor, I don’t know what is.

My paper was a joy to write.  I saw how the use of metaphors in everyday language gives us wonderful ways to express the imagery that we have in our hearts and minds.  A strong tool for sharing passions, feelings, thoughts, beliefs, images and ideas; and as such, is a fundamental component of English literature and literary discourse.

Quest for Balance

I  have found myself unable to resist yet another personal growth group called, “Your Relationships and You”.  Our group of eight, a colorful assortment of men and women from all over the city, have signed up to meet weekly for six sessions under the care and guidance of our facilitator, Matthew.  We are examining shifts in the balance between two people which can be very hard on their relationship.

Consider cheating, for example.  Definitely hard on a relationship.  But according to Matthew, what we do with this serious breach of trust often provides a much deeper rift.  If the wounded partner offers blanket forgiveness to the offending partner, then the forgiver has shifted into a position of superiority and innocence, while the forgivee has shifted into a position of inferiority and indebtedness.  The hero and the scoundrel, polarized roles.  We listened to this in stunned silence.  None of us had ever heard it before.  This new idea of a shift in balance is what we are exploring in our group.

“How would the person doing the forgiving feel?” asked Matthew.

“Cheated, ripped off and very, very wary.  Mistrustful,” we offered.

“How would the person being forgiven feel?”

“Certainly not better.  Worse.  More guilty.  He would try to avoid the other whenever possible.  He's acted like a rat and he knows he's acted like a rat.  And since he's been forgiven, he's gotten away with something he shouldn't have.  He knows he doesn't deserve forgiveness and that probably makes him feel worse."  The group was getting the point, and getting excited.

“Exactly,” said Matthew.  “The forgivee has no way to bear the consequences of his behavior, or to make reparations, while the forgiver has clearly become the master, calling all the shots, the one to whom the forgivee is truly beholden. “

In my car, on the drive home, I began to mull this over.  How would I act if I was in a situation where my loved one cheated on me?  As the gracious forgiver, the so-called "master", I have no doubt that I would milk the situation for all it’s worth.  “Honey, do you mind running to the store for me and picking up a few things?  I need a Sally Hansen emery board with coarse on one side and medium on the other, some red hot cherry Revlon nail polish, Almay Radiance blush with 15 SPF, super long-lash waterproof, hypo-allergenic mascara, black, some Maybelline high gloss nature-nude lip gloss with the bronze tint and Cover Girl sapphire blue eye pencil, not the thick one, the thin one.  Can you remember all that?  Oh, yeah.  Don't forget a large box of super size tampons.  Thanks, dear.”

Conversely, since the undeserving, cheating forgivee might resort to groveling, I would surely turn into something less than a slave.  “Honey, what would you like for dinner?  Prime rib au jus with mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, tossed sesame seed salad, with a tiramisu for dessert?  But I have to drive 35 minutes to the specialty store downtown to pick up some of the ingredients.  And work time and half for the next two weeks to pay for it.  But don’t worry, dear.  I'll do anything for you.  Would you like a finger bowl at the end of the meal with rose petals floating in it?  Fine.  I’ll stop at the florist’s too.  Before I go, may I bring you the newspaper and your slippers?  Here’s the remote.  I’ll be back as fast as I can.  Love you.  Bye.”

In some of my former groups, we would call this co-dependency.  In others, it would be, “a woman who loves too much”.  What I see is simply a person who needs to go to counseling, find out how to be and how to choose someone who is trustworthy, and try again.  Or Plan B:  If he cheats, make him pay!

Watch Out For The Little Ones

Yesterday on the radio, I heard a LORD OF THE RINGS advertisement with Cate Blanchette’s breathy voice telling me, “Even the smallest person can change the world.”  Our hero, Frodo, certainly proved her point, even if it did take him three movies to do so.

One of the things I always say is, “You gotta watch out for the little ones.”  Being 5’1”, that’s easy for me to say.  And believe.

My son, Nicholas, a natural junior athlete, played sports with incredible ease, excelling right away with hardly any practice and certainly no struggle.  Even though he was always the smallest, he was picked for first teams, first strings, miscellaneous demos, travel teams and select sports.  Yet he provided the biggest surprises within the sports that were especially suited for large people, such as basketball.

At school games, I could see from my perch in the bleachers that the other team paid virtually no attention to him.  He was so small, that as a guard, he seemed to pose no threat.  And I think Nicholas played along with this for awhile to nurture their complacency, and to increase the power of his punch.  Which was quite effective.  He would bide his time, becoming easier and easier to overlook; and then at just the right moment, he would appear from nowhere, steal the ball and  zoom down to the other end of the court for an easy two points.  After having successfully executed this move once, the pretense was dropped, and the big steal was repeated over and over again, much to the dismay of the opposing team.  At some point, I would inevitably hear the words that were music to my ears, “Watch out for that little guy!”  That same little guy earned many MVPs, was invaluable to his team and provided wonderful entertainment for us parents.

In ice hockey, it was much the same thing, except that his moves were not delayed.  At around 5’ tall, and on the front line, he found himself nose to nose with other kids as tall as 6’4”.  Obviously, at some point this became too dangerous; but until that time arose, he certainly did his share of damage, scoring many goals on fast breaks and earning another collection of MVPs.

Of course, Nicholas’s speed, natural ability, coordination and sense of timing were remarkable; but more importantly, he was known for his hours and hours of practice and the heart with which he threw himself into the game.  Being a true team player, with unquenchable enthusiasm, he built and maintained strong, positive connections with his teammates.  Plus, once the game began, he never, ever gave up.  His coach confided to me once that he wished he could take Nicholas’s heart and transplant it into his big hockey players.  His team would be virtually unbeatable.

They say size doesn’t matter.  But apparently it does.  But it’s the size of what a person has on the inside, that gives meaning to whatever he has on the outside.  I think that without the heart, the stuff on the outside is simply that.  Stuff on the outside.

My Mission Statement

I am a personal growth seminar junkie.  I can’t help it.  I thrill to the nitty gritty of hashing over all sorts of my most intimate, frightening issues with perfect strangers, who provide unexpected feedback and a fresh, new perspective.  Over the years I have participated in a wide variety of workshops, retreats and classes with names such as “Intensive Inter-Personal”, “Eliminating the Clutter In Your Life”, “Having the Relationship You Want”, “Healing Shame”; the list goes on.  I eat this stuff up.  And there is something to be said for taking time out of one’s busy life to step away from it long enough to take a good, hard look.  I find the different viewpoint refreshing, inspiring and incredibly valuable.

One of the little gems I picked up along the way came as the result of an exercise which was quite different from any assignment I had ever tackled before.  Each person was to write a one line sentence describing his or her life’s mission.  It took a minute or two us to take this in.  The facilitator continued, "This statement is to be general and vague enough to accomodate errors, flaws and growth, and specific enough to reflect your actualized selves."  Since we had already spent hours and a couple of days defining our actualized selves, it was now time to put our definitions to work.  We were given a certain amount of time to work on this before moving into a group discussion. 

The mission statement that I came up with was effortless, requiring almost no thought at all.  It was an expression of all I ever really wanted for my life anyway.  And it was the only statement presented by the students that was not edited in some way by our facilitator.  “My life’s mission is to promote love, joy and healing in the world,” I said timidly.  Although it fit the assignment parameters, I was embarrassed to say it out loud.  Somehow it seemed terribly grandiose.  But our leader loved it, the group approved, and I came to accept it as my very own.

My little sister can vouch for the fact that I am not a terribly organized person.  Yet, once my mission was firmly planted in my mind, I became absorbed in recycling my unwanted belongings, and sorting miscellaneous items into well marked folders, notebooks, boxes and plastic bags, which I placed neatly on shelves and in closets.  My logic was simple.  How could anyone promote love, joy and healing from the middle of a mess?  How indeed!  As I mulled this idea over, I heard myself say, “This house should at least look like someone actually cares for it.” That thought stopped me dead in my tracks.  I put the box down which I was carrying to the car and straightened up to think.  I loved how that sounded and felt. I still do. It is so wonderfully purposeful and to the point. And naturally, it gave rise to, “I want my home to look like someone cares for it” which ultimately led to, “I want my  life to look like someone cares for it.” This little sentence can be applied to a million different things that need looking after, and is especially handy when I simply and quite frankly don’t want to do them.

In this way, my big, huge mission statement became a practical matter in my daily life. I hadn’t considered the possibility that the promotion of love, joy and healing would begin with the act of spring cleaning, which I have come to consider one of the fundamental components of self-care and self expression. I was too busy imagining myself heroically pouring my energy into a life of service to others. And yet, a life well lived, with a positive impact on those around me had to begin somewhere.  It seemed only natural that it would begin with me, right here where I live.

Fall

Last night, I put my coat on for the first time this year.  I now officially recognize and accept the fact that fall has arrived.  I greet the season with a myriad of mixed emotions.

My most poignant memory of fall includes a sense of being wrenched from my blissful summer activities to plunge headlong into a sort of dreariness.  My summers, as a child, and well into my teens, were filled with close-knit friends, swimming, long volunteer service hours, sneak-smoking, first kisses leading to first makeout sessions, boyfriends, tight groups, tag, swim meets, dates, parties, full moons and a wonderful, mystical sense of belonging.

Oh, that feeling of belonging.  How I love it.  Particularly as it has eluded me for most of my life.  I have spent whole decades unable to be a star, unable to conform and unable to be quiet. Not an easy combination.  I had always been somewhat of an anomaly.  Sometimes I still feel that way.

Thankfully, summers suspended all that.  I had the opportunity to be on a different side of my life, able to feel the comfort of being in a group, which nurtured my sense of self and enabled me to experience my value as part of a community.  Those precious feelings attached to those few short summer months carry forward to the present; so that whenever June arrives, I feel a sense of joy and magic, as surely as I experience those glorious summer full moons, the flashing lights of fireflies, the humid, sultry heat of August, the smell of freshly cut grass,  the sound of crickets, the June bugs bouncing against my screen at night, and the sweet, cool damp of morning dew. 

Not surprisingly, when the leaves start to turn and the evening chill begins to fill the air, I can ache with an inconsolable sadness.  A sadness not attached to anything present, a sadness that frightens me.  So, in order to safely skirt it, I laugh and do my best to shake it off.  “Oh, it’s just my usual pre-winter blues.  I hate it when the days get so short.”  Actually, I could care less about the length of days.  I buckle under the weight of what those short days represent.

Once I am used to summer being gone, I adopt a more comfortable peace with fall.  I love the fresh, clean slate of a new schedule, the excitement of football season, the sound we make when we walk through leaves, fireplaces, early darkness for cozy evenings, hot chocolate, pumpkin pie, apple cider, Halloween and Thanksgiving.  I love the yellow, gold, orange and cranberry hues that the season provides so effortlessly.  Summer has its arms wide open, while fall feels more like a hug, its gray days representing a neutral backdrop against which we showcase our lives, that we must design and fill with our own colors.  In this way, I see fall not only as a time of change, but also of hope.

It never ceases to amaze me how one human being can feel so many different things, often diametrically opposed to one another, and often at the same time, without imploding.  We truly are complicated, deep, baffling and wonderful creatures who take life as it is given, and then manage to fashion our own individual lives within the great whole.

Summer is gone.  Fall is here.  Winter is approaching.  I say, “Bring it on!”

Political Statement

It seems to me that in the present-day political climate and in light of the enormously important presidential election which just took place, I have a patriotic duty to submit something on my blog of a somewhat political nature. Being that it is my personal policy to NEVER discuss politics with family or friends, or with anyone else for that matter (except for Patrick, Alexis, Ingeborg, my dad and my cousin Julie), it is a momentous occasion when I decide to publish some sort of statement about American politics. Especially if I am going to divulge my own political leanings.

Up until now, I have made a point of not openly ridiculing my candidate’s opponent, not pointing out his wife’s bad hair days, not gloating over wins and losses, and not leveling personal attacks on anyone disagreeing with me. But all that has changed now, as I prepare to speak my views honestly and without shame for the very first time.

My personal stance on politics is simply this. My opinions are correct and everybody who disagrees with me is obviously completely insane.

Nuff said.

“Because when real people fall down in life, they get right back up and keep on walking.”

Any “Sex And The City” fan knows exactly who says this and where it comes from. (Season IV, episode 2)  Here's the scoop for the rest of you.

In this episode, our heroine, Carrie Bradshaw, has been reluctantly recruited to participate in a fashion show/fundraiser, which is to be a mix of professional models and well-known New Yorkers. Carrie looks forward to the event with fear, anxiety, girlish delight and excitement, all at the same time. She needs a great deal of support and encouragement from her friends (plus a swig or two of champagne backstage) to manage the crippling self-consciousness that plagues her. "Honey, you're a model!" gushes girlfriend Samantha, clapping her hands.  "You look absolutely beautiful!"  This is just the reassurance she needs.  One last look in the mirror and she is ready to go.

When Carrie steps onto the stage, she is poised, heavily coifed and positively stunning. There is not even a hint of all the fretting that has just taken place behind the scenes. As her song begins, “I Got To Be Real” by Cheryl Lynn, which Sarah Jessica Parker now owns, in much the same way Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze own “(I’ve Had) The Time of my Life”, she takes to the runway. The crowd gasps.  All eyes are upon her.

After three sexy, triumphant, confident, purposeful steps before her enraptured audience, her arms fly into the air, she loses her balance, her shoe, her dignity and down she goes for the full count. I’m not kidding. She cannot get back up. “Oh, my God! She’s fashion road kill!” cries friend Stanford, horrified. Time for damage control. The show coordinator barks into her mike, “Heidi, go!” Heidi Klum instantly appears, awkwardly steps right over our struggling heroine and starts down the runway.

As everyone waits to see what will happen next, we hear, “I had a choice. I could slink off the runway and let my inner model die of shame, or I could pick myself up, flaws and all, and finish.” And of course, “So that’s just what I did. Because when real people fall down in life, they get right back up and keep on walking.”

And she does just that.  Apologetically at first, then confidently, then joyfully. To wild applause. That girl, with shoe in hand, struts her stuff down the runway, grinning, laughing, with the crowd cheering, does a high five with Heidi Klum and even executes an extra turn or two at the runway’s end, chin up, mugging straight into the camera. The scene ends with Carrie practically dancing off the runway, shoulders swinging, hips swaying, head held high. The perfect ending. It really is quite touching. I hope you have an opportunity to watch it for yourself.

Of course, real life isn’t usually, if ever, this neat and tidy. However, this message is compelling enough for me to write down, memorize and tuck into my pocket for one of life’s many rainy days. And anyway, this is just the sort of thing that my dear Aunt Jane would have said. So, on that note. . . .

(fading footsteps walking in time to "I Got To Be Real")