My car pooler drove today, so I was able to just sit back, relax, and enjoy the commute this morning. He had is iPod going, and on came a song by BB King. I have no idea which one, but it was good. But, aren't they all good?! I really don't think I've ever heard a BAD BB King song, or a bad blues song performed by one of the greats. They could sing about taking out the trash and it would be amazing, and would more than likely make me cry. But, as I've said before, I'm a crier.
So, I'm listening to this BB King song and my mind is wandering (as it so often does), and I figured out another one of those little "life lessons" that seem to be happening to me lately. I was listening to this song but not really paying attention to the lyrics, and I said to my car pooler, "I should have been born an old, black man because I really love this blues music". My car pooler responded that BB King was once a young black man who is now old, and he's sure paid his dues. Wow....so true, Kenon, so true....
I started thinking about everything that BB King more than likely experienced in his life. It's probably safe to say that just about everything that he's been through are things that I'll never know, first hand. I'll never know what it's like to be born in a one room house to a poor, black, southern family. I'll never know the racism he experienced, the random anger or hatred white people felt towards him. I'll never fully understand how absolutely hard he had to fight to get to this point in his life. The point where his amazing music is playing on a white man's iPod in a white man's pickup truck, as two white middle aged government employees commute to work one morning. I was blown away by that thought. I'm sure BB King, or other poor black children growing up in the deep south, never thought things would change. But they persevered. And thank God they did, I can't imagine a world without BB King's amazing music.
Well, that got me to thinking about how things are now. How lazy we are, in general. How complacent we are, myself included. There are so many of us in this world who have never experienced those struggles, or any struggles. Frankly, I know quite a few people whom I would deem lazy, again, myself included. People of my generation, and especially the younger generations, have no idea. Most of us grew up in our homogenized neighborhoods, were given what we wanted, went to college, now have careers, houses, cars....and it all happened without a whole lot of struggling. I know a lot of people who work hard at what they do, but I don't really know that many people who have that character that BB King has. There really is something to be said for struggling, for paying dues. It changes people. It turns them into survivors.
I had a lot of struggle in my younger years, at one point I was working three jobs. I got up early, commuted to college where I stayed until noon, then I went to job #1. I worked there until 6pm, then I went to job #2. On the weekends I worked at a private hunt club, which required me to get up at 3am, be at the barn by 3:30, and the horses had to be bathed, groomed, and tacked by 5am when the owners showed up to ride. I did it to put myself through college, and then grad school. I worked HARD! Yet, I don't think I would define myself as having character.
I'd like to know the components for character. Obviously it's not solely the struggling, or I'd be brimming with character! There has to be more to it than that. How does one reach a point in life where he or she is content, where he or she doesn't want to slap the crap out of someone at any given moment in time? It seems that a large part of it is having forgiveness. Not harboring anger toward those who caused you the struggle that ultimately gave you the character. Ironic, isn't it? It has to be the forgiveness. Those who fight, who struggle, but forgive, have character. Those who never move beyond it are just bitter.
Maybe when I get to be the same ripe old age as BB King, I'll have character too. I hope so.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Eight cylinders all mine, All right hold on tight, I'm a highway star
Two days in a row! I'm blogging two days in a row!! Don't get used to it, totally a fluke.
Last week the weather warmed up, the snow melted, it was nice and sunny and the air smelled good. Granted, it's still February so I knew it wouldn't last, but for a day or two, it was glorious! I wanted so badly to pull the cover off of my little Porsche roadster and take 'er for a spin. There's something so amazingly fantastic about driving a fast car, top down, wind in my face, scenery whizzing by at embarrassingly fast speeds. I can't get enough of it!
I can her your eyes rolling! I know what you're thinking... "but Cindy, you're a g-i-r-l!". Yea, I know. I'm not supposed to love cars. I'm not supposed to worship the loud roaring engines of those 1960's and 1970's muscle cars with their big block engines. I'm not supposed to freeze in my tracks when I see an amazingly engineered piece of German metal woosh past. I'm not supposed to be able to tell, by sight, the make, model, and sometimes, the year, of a car. But I do. I'm an enigma, don't try to figure me out.
I was born in the 1960's so I saw first hand the evolution of the American muscle car. The transformation from the boxy "grocery getters" with their small, unimpressive engines, to the stealthy, growling, kick-ass big block engines with the posi-traction rearends, squealing down the road. Not to mention, the hunka hunka men driving those cars! For a teenage girl with raging hormones, nothing was sexier than a guy (ugly, cute, it didn't matter!) driving one of those pieces of amazing machinery! I was inspired, to say the least.
Ironically, though, it wasn't the guys that caught my eye. It was the cars! I wanted to be driving those cars! I wanted to feel the force of the engine as I stepped on the gas. Oh, the power!! So, I bought myself my first car... a Ford Mustang. Now, before you get all impressed with a girl buying a Mustang for her first car, I have a confession to make. It was a 1974 Mustang. That's a Mustang II. With a four, yes I said f-o-u-r, cylinder engine. I know, it sooo doesn't count. But it was red. And it had shag carpeting. And it was MINE! I had my Mustang! I know I should be hanging my head in shame, who the hell brags about owning a 1974 Ford Mustang II? Especially one like mine. I purchased my 1974 'Stang in 1984, it had over 100k miles on it. It burned oil, it leaked oil....anything that could be done with oil, this car did it. Damn car. But it was MY damn car! And did I mention it was RED?!
This car, MY car, was my link to all things adult. It was my freedom. It got me to school and back, it got me to my job. It got me to parties, and it got me in trouble on more than one occasion. Mostly, though, it gave me that little piece of my heart, the little piece that, to this day, still loves the shit out of cars!
God bless those hunks of nuts and bolts! Can I get an A-Men?!
Last week the weather warmed up, the snow melted, it was nice and sunny and the air smelled good. Granted, it's still February so I knew it wouldn't last, but for a day or two, it was glorious! I wanted so badly to pull the cover off of my little Porsche roadster and take 'er for a spin. There's something so amazingly fantastic about driving a fast car, top down, wind in my face, scenery whizzing by at embarrassingly fast speeds. I can't get enough of it!
I can her your eyes rolling! I know what you're thinking... "but Cindy, you're a g-i-r-l!". Yea, I know. I'm not supposed to love cars. I'm not supposed to worship the loud roaring engines of those 1960's and 1970's muscle cars with their big block engines. I'm not supposed to freeze in my tracks when I see an amazingly engineered piece of German metal woosh past. I'm not supposed to be able to tell, by sight, the make, model, and sometimes, the year, of a car. But I do. I'm an enigma, don't try to figure me out.
I was born in the 1960's so I saw first hand the evolution of the American muscle car. The transformation from the boxy "grocery getters" with their small, unimpressive engines, to the stealthy, growling, kick-ass big block engines with the posi-traction rearends, squealing down the road. Not to mention, the hunka hunka men driving those cars! For a teenage girl with raging hormones, nothing was sexier than a guy (ugly, cute, it didn't matter!) driving one of those pieces of amazing machinery! I was inspired, to say the least.
Ironically, though, it wasn't the guys that caught my eye. It was the cars! I wanted to be driving those cars! I wanted to feel the force of the engine as I stepped on the gas. Oh, the power!! So, I bought myself my first car... a Ford Mustang. Now, before you get all impressed with a girl buying a Mustang for her first car, I have a confession to make. It was a 1974 Mustang. That's a Mustang II. With a four, yes I said f-o-u-r, cylinder engine. I know, it sooo doesn't count. But it was red. And it had shag carpeting. And it was MINE! I had my Mustang! I know I should be hanging my head in shame, who the hell brags about owning a 1974 Ford Mustang II? Especially one like mine. I purchased my 1974 'Stang in 1984, it had over 100k miles on it. It burned oil, it leaked oil....anything that could be done with oil, this car did it. Damn car. But it was MY damn car! And did I mention it was RED?!
This car, MY car, was my link to all things adult. It was my freedom. It got me to school and back, it got me to my job. It got me to parties, and it got me in trouble on more than one occasion. Mostly, though, it gave me that little piece of my heart, the little piece that, to this day, still loves the shit out of cars!
God bless those hunks of nuts and bolts! Can I get an A-Men?!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Behind our glass we'll sit and look at our ever-open book
Why do I always feel the need to start out every blog with an apology? Life can be so demanding sometimes that the length between blogs becomes protracted. Also, why do I always feel like I need to give an excuse? So, OK, I'm sorry it took so long. I was busy. LOL (and I hope you're LOL along with me!)
On Christmas I had blogged about my two little senior citizen mice, Bella and Sweetie. They were the surviving offspring of my wonderful little mouse friend, Martha, who taught me that each and every little being is as alive as I am. Well, I'm sorry to report that Bella died. When she went, her sister, Sweetie, was curled up with her in their nest. Sweetie knew Bella was not long for the world, she would groom Bella, bring her food, and would cuddle her to keep her warm. When Bella died, I was afraid that Sweetie would die along with her. For days, Sweetie wandered around her little habitat, she seemed so lonely. Sweetie has two next door neighbors, Lily and Daisy, who are bonded sisters. I had contemplated putting Sweetie in with them, but I was worried that they wouldn't get along. So Sweetie lives in her big habitat, by herself.
About a week ago, I gave Sweetie a big, fluffy pom-pom. I thought maybe she'd like to play with it, or tear it up to line her nest. Well, Sweetie did me one better. She dragged this mysterious fluff-ball into her nest, covered it with shredded toilet paper, and she snuggles with it every day. It's her new BFF. If I move the pom-pom, she moves it back to where it "belongs". Children have their security blankets or their stuffed dolls, my Sweetie mouse has her pom-pom. After she "found" this pom-pom, her demeanor changed. She perked up. She started taking treats out of my hand again. She runs on her wheel, she stashes her sunflower seeds for a midnight snack. She is back to being her little Sweetie self. I guess everyone needs a companion, and for Sweetie, this pom-pom is hers.
My first mouse, Marty, also had a little "companion". Marty was a tiny little baby when I found him. I estimated that he was only about a week old. I fed him, and he thrived. He was a contemporary of Martha, they lived in neighboring habitats. Marty was also a single mouse living alone. He loved being petted. When he heard my voice he would come running and I would give him scritches. His back leg would kick when I scratched the right spots...behind his ears, or in his little armpits. He was sweet and friendly and particular and greedy... he was a completely unique being. I loved that little guy. Well, one day a catalog came in the mail and stapled in the center was a fleece fabric sample. It was a little red square of fabric about 3". I pulled the staple out and gave Marty the little mouse-size fleece blanket. Marty was so happy to "find" this little blanket! Marty dragged it into his nest and covered himself up. When it was warm, he'd lay on top of it, if it was cold, he'd burrow underneath. When I cleaned his cage, I had to take his little blanket out, wash it, and put it back in...where he would drag it back into his new nest. It was his companion.
Having these pet mice over the years has taught me that all living creatures have needs. We all need companionship. We all need to love and be loved. We all need to feel safe, to feel warm, to be happy. I hope I'm doing right by these little creatures. I only take them in if they need my help, I only keep them if they want to be kept. Ironically, so far they've all wanted to stay.
Rest in peace, Bella. Tell Martha, Marty, and the rest of the gang I say hi, and thanks for teaching me so much.
On Christmas I had blogged about my two little senior citizen mice, Bella and Sweetie. They were the surviving offspring of my wonderful little mouse friend, Martha, who taught me that each and every little being is as alive as I am. Well, I'm sorry to report that Bella died. When she went, her sister, Sweetie, was curled up with her in their nest. Sweetie knew Bella was not long for the world, she would groom Bella, bring her food, and would cuddle her to keep her warm. When Bella died, I was afraid that Sweetie would die along with her. For days, Sweetie wandered around her little habitat, she seemed so lonely. Sweetie has two next door neighbors, Lily and Daisy, who are bonded sisters. I had contemplated putting Sweetie in with them, but I was worried that they wouldn't get along. So Sweetie lives in her big habitat, by herself.
About a week ago, I gave Sweetie a big, fluffy pom-pom. I thought maybe she'd like to play with it, or tear it up to line her nest. Well, Sweetie did me one better. She dragged this mysterious fluff-ball into her nest, covered it with shredded toilet paper, and she snuggles with it every day. It's her new BFF. If I move the pom-pom, she moves it back to where it "belongs". Children have their security blankets or their stuffed dolls, my Sweetie mouse has her pom-pom. After she "found" this pom-pom, her demeanor changed. She perked up. She started taking treats out of my hand again. She runs on her wheel, she stashes her sunflower seeds for a midnight snack. She is back to being her little Sweetie self. I guess everyone needs a companion, and for Sweetie, this pom-pom is hers.
My first mouse, Marty, also had a little "companion". Marty was a tiny little baby when I found him. I estimated that he was only about a week old. I fed him, and he thrived. He was a contemporary of Martha, they lived in neighboring habitats. Marty was also a single mouse living alone. He loved being petted. When he heard my voice he would come running and I would give him scritches. His back leg would kick when I scratched the right spots...behind his ears, or in his little armpits. He was sweet and friendly and particular and greedy... he was a completely unique being. I loved that little guy. Well, one day a catalog came in the mail and stapled in the center was a fleece fabric sample. It was a little red square of fabric about 3". I pulled the staple out and gave Marty the little mouse-size fleece blanket. Marty was so happy to "find" this little blanket! Marty dragged it into his nest and covered himself up. When it was warm, he'd lay on top of it, if it was cold, he'd burrow underneath. When I cleaned his cage, I had to take his little blanket out, wash it, and put it back in...where he would drag it back into his new nest. It was his companion.
Having these pet mice over the years has taught me that all living creatures have needs. We all need companionship. We all need to love and be loved. We all need to feel safe, to feel warm, to be happy. I hope I'm doing right by these little creatures. I only take them in if they need my help, I only keep them if they want to be kept. Ironically, so far they've all wanted to stay.
Rest in peace, Bella. Tell Martha, Marty, and the rest of the gang I say hi, and thanks for teaching me so much.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
There beneath the blue suburban skies, I sit
Today is Imbolc. In Celtic tradition, it's the mid-point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Today is a very important day. It's the time to clean out the old mental cobwebs and plan for the future. Spring is the rebirth of the seasons, the awakening of the Earth, it's a time to celebrate and be grateful. Blessed be!
Last week I had an ultrasound done on my thyroid. I have an autoimmune disease that's been wreaking havoc on my endocrine system. Last month, during a routine check-up, my doctor found lumps. Not good. I was nervous. I'm not a good patient, I hate needles, I hate doctors. With my luck this would not turn out well, and I had pretty much convinced myself that I was doomed.
So, last Monday, I was driving myself to my appointment. I play a little game with myself....whenever there is anything that may possibly have a bad outcome, I listen for a Beatles song. If I, by chance, hear one, I know everything's going to be OK. Playing one on my iPod doesn't count, it has to be random. I know... weird game. So far, every time I've been in a stressful situation and I've "needed a sign", I've asked for a Beatles song. If I hear one, I know everything will be fine. So driving to my appointment last week, I asked for a song. Literally ten seconds later, a listener called in to the radio station and requested to hear "Penny Lane". I teared up. Was this my sign? What if I'm deluding myself? I listened and I sang along, but I wasn't yet convinced.
Next, I was sitting in the doctor's office, waiting. They were running late, as usual. An old woman in her 70's struck up a conversation, I think she just needed someone to talk to. She prattled on, and I listened. She told me about her life, her alcoholic, diabetic husband who passed away. She told me about her three adult children, all stricken with diabetes at young ages. Her oldest daughter, Wendy, was seeing the doctor today, she's in bad shape. She's 50, she has a heart condition, a pace maker, she's on oxygen, she has cataracts, and today the doctors were checking to see if a new medication was helping the poor circulation in her legs. If not, she was facing amputation. The old woman said Wendy is the light of her life, being around her makes her smile. I sat there listening to the old woman talk about her family, they have real problems. Not self-induced issues, REAL problems. Wendy came into the waiting room, dragging an oxygen tank behind her. She had a big smile on her face, she was just glad to be here. The old woman asked how it went, Wendy replied. "It's in God's hands". They got up to leave and the old woman came over and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. I hugged and kissed her back. After they left, I sat there by myself in the waiting room, thinking about Wendy. I really hope I run into them again, I'd like to know how she's doing.
The ultrasound technician came into the waiting room to get me, and I followed her back. A deep feeling of impending doom settled into my thoughts. As she was performing the ultrasound, the second one I've had in three years, I just kept thinking that it must be bad, this is taking way too long. Much longer than the last time. This is not going to be good news. She finished, wiped the goo from my neck, and said, very calmly, "The doctor will call you in a week". The Doctor will call me?? She never calls me. Yup. Not good.
I left the doctor's office in a funk. I even forgot to pay the bill. Oops! I made a wrong turn, drove for awhile on on "auto-pilot", and ended up at one of my favorite stores. So, I may as well shop! I didn't go in for anything in particular, I just looked around and ended up buying a few things that just stood out to me. As I was checking out, I had a great conversation with the woman who works there about spirituality, having faith. She brought up the topic, I mostly listened. It was cool though, I like hearing people's opinions on their beliefs. As I've said many times, whatever gets you though the night. Thanks again for those words, John Lennon!
So, feeling a little better, I started my journey home. I was driving on a two lane road that leads to the highway, there are woods along the one side of the road. As I'm motoring along, a Goshawk flies out of the woods, headed straight for me. It makes a right turn and flies right along next to me, at window level. I'm looking over at it, and I swear it was staring in the window at me! I drove, it flew, and we looked at each other. Then, it sped up, banked up and to it's right, and went back into the woods. I was numb, I just couldn't believe what I had seen. Was this my sign? Was the old woman my sign? Was talking to the store clerk my sign? What about hearing Penny Lane?? Do any of these have any meaning, or am I just wishfully thinking?? I was very confused, and still not trusting that any of this had meaning. It could have been a crazy series of coincidences. Life is like that.
Flash forward to last night. I get home and there's a message on the machine, the one I've been waiting for. It's a nurse, not the Doctor. Hmm, that's weird. The nurse says the Doctor told her to call me. I'm waiting for THOSE WORDS... "you need to call the doctor's office right away". Instead, what she said floored me. Everything is fine. I replayed the message to make sure I heard right. Nothing abnormal, the nodules are stable, and everything is fine. They'll be sending me an appointment reminder card in the mail, no need to see her again for a year. Everything is fine. I burst into tears. That's what I do, I'm a crier.
So today is Imbolc. A day to move forward, to focus on the future, and to clean out the cobwebs. My cobwebs? I need to trust. I need to believe what I see, all of those little signs that have so much meaning. I need to....I WILL... pay attention. I will have faith in this Universe. These little signs are surrounding me, surrounding us. I asked for a sign, the Beatles song, and I got it. I didn't trust, so the Universe gave me another sign, then another, then another.... It takes me a while sometimes, but I get it now.
Merry Imbolc. Thank you for today. Everything is fine.
Last week I had an ultrasound done on my thyroid. I have an autoimmune disease that's been wreaking havoc on my endocrine system. Last month, during a routine check-up, my doctor found lumps. Not good. I was nervous. I'm not a good patient, I hate needles, I hate doctors. With my luck this would not turn out well, and I had pretty much convinced myself that I was doomed.
So, last Monday, I was driving myself to my appointment. I play a little game with myself....whenever there is anything that may possibly have a bad outcome, I listen for a Beatles song. If I, by chance, hear one, I know everything's going to be OK. Playing one on my iPod doesn't count, it has to be random. I know... weird game. So far, every time I've been in a stressful situation and I've "needed a sign", I've asked for a Beatles song. If I hear one, I know everything will be fine. So driving to my appointment last week, I asked for a song. Literally ten seconds later, a listener called in to the radio station and requested to hear "Penny Lane". I teared up. Was this my sign? What if I'm deluding myself? I listened and I sang along, but I wasn't yet convinced.
Next, I was sitting in the doctor's office, waiting. They were running late, as usual. An old woman in her 70's struck up a conversation, I think she just needed someone to talk to. She prattled on, and I listened. She told me about her life, her alcoholic, diabetic husband who passed away. She told me about her three adult children, all stricken with diabetes at young ages. Her oldest daughter, Wendy, was seeing the doctor today, she's in bad shape. She's 50, she has a heart condition, a pace maker, she's on oxygen, she has cataracts, and today the doctors were checking to see if a new medication was helping the poor circulation in her legs. If not, she was facing amputation. The old woman said Wendy is the light of her life, being around her makes her smile. I sat there listening to the old woman talk about her family, they have real problems. Not self-induced issues, REAL problems. Wendy came into the waiting room, dragging an oxygen tank behind her. She had a big smile on her face, she was just glad to be here. The old woman asked how it went, Wendy replied. "It's in God's hands". They got up to leave and the old woman came over and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. I hugged and kissed her back. After they left, I sat there by myself in the waiting room, thinking about Wendy. I really hope I run into them again, I'd like to know how she's doing.
The ultrasound technician came into the waiting room to get me, and I followed her back. A deep feeling of impending doom settled into my thoughts. As she was performing the ultrasound, the second one I've had in three years, I just kept thinking that it must be bad, this is taking way too long. Much longer than the last time. This is not going to be good news. She finished, wiped the goo from my neck, and said, very calmly, "The doctor will call you in a week". The Doctor will call me?? She never calls me. Yup. Not good.
I left the doctor's office in a funk. I even forgot to pay the bill. Oops! I made a wrong turn, drove for awhile on on "auto-pilot", and ended up at one of my favorite stores. So, I may as well shop! I didn't go in for anything in particular, I just looked around and ended up buying a few things that just stood out to me. As I was checking out, I had a great conversation with the woman who works there about spirituality, having faith. She brought up the topic, I mostly listened. It was cool though, I like hearing people's opinions on their beliefs. As I've said many times, whatever gets you though the night. Thanks again for those words, John Lennon!
So, feeling a little better, I started my journey home. I was driving on a two lane road that leads to the highway, there are woods along the one side of the road. As I'm motoring along, a Goshawk flies out of the woods, headed straight for me. It makes a right turn and flies right along next to me, at window level. I'm looking over at it, and I swear it was staring in the window at me! I drove, it flew, and we looked at each other. Then, it sped up, banked up and to it's right, and went back into the woods. I was numb, I just couldn't believe what I had seen. Was this my sign? Was the old woman my sign? Was talking to the store clerk my sign? What about hearing Penny Lane?? Do any of these have any meaning, or am I just wishfully thinking?? I was very confused, and still not trusting that any of this had meaning. It could have been a crazy series of coincidences. Life is like that.
Flash forward to last night. I get home and there's a message on the machine, the one I've been waiting for. It's a nurse, not the Doctor. Hmm, that's weird. The nurse says the Doctor told her to call me. I'm waiting for THOSE WORDS... "you need to call the doctor's office right away". Instead, what she said floored me. Everything is fine. I replayed the message to make sure I heard right. Nothing abnormal, the nodules are stable, and everything is fine. They'll be sending me an appointment reminder card in the mail, no need to see her again for a year. Everything is fine. I burst into tears. That's what I do, I'm a crier.
So today is Imbolc. A day to move forward, to focus on the future, and to clean out the cobwebs. My cobwebs? I need to trust. I need to believe what I see, all of those little signs that have so much meaning. I need to....I WILL... pay attention. I will have faith in this Universe. These little signs are surrounding me, surrounding us. I asked for a sign, the Beatles song, and I got it. I didn't trust, so the Universe gave me another sign, then another, then another.... It takes me a while sometimes, but I get it now.
Merry Imbolc. Thank you for today. Everything is fine.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Baby, I'm amazed
I'm home today, sequestered by the first real snow storm of the season, and of the year. We've had other, smaller storms, but this one is for real. Last night was cold and blustery with sideways blowing snow. Today is calm and sunny and sparkling. It's always such an amazing, magical time of the year. Things are quiet and peaceful, and, for me, it's a time of thought and introspection. Just what I need, more introspection.
So, last night I was holed up in my living room, bundled in my Snuggie, cats on my lap, watching TV. An ad came on for Disney World. Parents, a mom and a dad, surprised their kids, a little boy and a little girl, with a Christmas Miracle. We're going to Disney World! Is it horrible of me to hate them? Perfect little kids in their perfect little house with their perfect parents. Hate. Them. I steamed as I watched the kids jump with delight, mom crying tears of joy, dad getting it all on video so they can watch it again and again and again. Yup. Hate. Them.
But why? Why does this commercial make me angry? Because it's not real? Because no one is that perfect? Or, is it because there really are families that are that perfect?
When I was a kid, I was obsessed with reruns of the Brady Bunch. Again, perfect freakin' family. In reality, Dad's gay, Greg is having sex with step-sister Marsha, Cindy's on drugs. But in TV land, life was awesome, and I was so darn jealous!
So, it is jealousy that makes me so angry at those perfect little snotty kids in the Disney commercial? Probably. I'm not jealous from the adult's perspective, though, I'm jealous from the kids' perspective. I want to be that little girl. I want to be the one jumping up and down, mom crying tears of joy, Dad taping... I want to be that family, I want to be that kid. But I'm 44. Now that's just weird. Then it hit me...
Adults are just fucked up kids that got old. We're all bearing our crosses, dragging along our baggage, blaming our parents, resenting our lives. Adults "fix" their own broken childhoods by giving their kids the things they wanted, being the "best" moms and dads, and giving their children the things they wished they'd had. It's like kids are generational duct tape, patching holes, putting broken pieces back together. We fix ourselves by having kids. Now, I know that most people are good parents, they listen to their kids, they pay attention, and, for the most part, they mean well. But I don't have kids, so I can only judge others'. I'm good at judging others.
But, my epiphany last night.... I don't have kids. I'm still broken. I don't have that duct tape that other adults have, so I'm still dragging around that baggage that I've had since my own dysfunctional childhood. I don't have that next generation that I can dote on, that I can take to Disney, in order to fix my own feelings of "my parents never did that..." I don't have nieces or nephews, and my oldest and dearest friends don't have kids either. And Disney won't let me bring my cats. I'm screwed.
I don't regret my decision to not have kids, I like my life. I enjoy other people's kids, and then they go home. I'm living the life of a grandmother! Sour grapes? Perhaps.
I don't know what I'm going to do with this new-found clarity. At 44, I'm certainly not going to be birthing any babies. But, the good news.... There's a gorgeous layer of 10 inches of freshly fallen snow to keep me sequestered for another day or two, so I have plenty of time for introspection.
So, last night I was holed up in my living room, bundled in my Snuggie, cats on my lap, watching TV. An ad came on for Disney World. Parents, a mom and a dad, surprised their kids, a little boy and a little girl, with a Christmas Miracle. We're going to Disney World! Is it horrible of me to hate them? Perfect little kids in their perfect little house with their perfect parents. Hate. Them. I steamed as I watched the kids jump with delight, mom crying tears of joy, dad getting it all on video so they can watch it again and again and again. Yup. Hate. Them.
But why? Why does this commercial make me angry? Because it's not real? Because no one is that perfect? Or, is it because there really are families that are that perfect?
When I was a kid, I was obsessed with reruns of the Brady Bunch. Again, perfect freakin' family. In reality, Dad's gay, Greg is having sex with step-sister Marsha, Cindy's on drugs. But in TV land, life was awesome, and I was so darn jealous!
So, it is jealousy that makes me so angry at those perfect little snotty kids in the Disney commercial? Probably. I'm not jealous from the adult's perspective, though, I'm jealous from the kids' perspective. I want to be that little girl. I want to be the one jumping up and down, mom crying tears of joy, Dad taping... I want to be that family, I want to be that kid. But I'm 44. Now that's just weird. Then it hit me...
Adults are just fucked up kids that got old. We're all bearing our crosses, dragging along our baggage, blaming our parents, resenting our lives. Adults "fix" their own broken childhoods by giving their kids the things they wanted, being the "best" moms and dads, and giving their children the things they wished they'd had. It's like kids are generational duct tape, patching holes, putting broken pieces back together. We fix ourselves by having kids. Now, I know that most people are good parents, they listen to their kids, they pay attention, and, for the most part, they mean well. But I don't have kids, so I can only judge others'. I'm good at judging others.
But, my epiphany last night.... I don't have kids. I'm still broken. I don't have that duct tape that other adults have, so I'm still dragging around that baggage that I've had since my own dysfunctional childhood. I don't have that next generation that I can dote on, that I can take to Disney, in order to fix my own feelings of "my parents never did that..." I don't have nieces or nephews, and my oldest and dearest friends don't have kids either. And Disney won't let me bring my cats. I'm screwed.
I don't regret my decision to not have kids, I like my life. I enjoy other people's kids, and then they go home. I'm living the life of a grandmother! Sour grapes? Perhaps.
I don't know what I'm going to do with this new-found clarity. At 44, I'm certainly not going to be birthing any babies. But, the good news.... There's a gorgeous layer of 10 inches of freshly fallen snow to keep me sequestered for another day or two, so I have plenty of time for introspection.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
And the visions that were planted in my brain, still remain
OK, so I'm the worst blogger ever. EVER! I'm hanging my head in shame. I want to blog, I just feel so overwhelmed lately with all of the little bits and pieces of my life that won't let me sleep, finding the time to sit down and prattle on about nothing has become difficult. I really need to do this more, I owe it to myself. And I owe it to my thousands of adoring fans! You know who you are. :-)
So, I'm crying uncle. I just can't do it all. I thought I was able, and maybe I could if I were younger, but, alas, I'm old. So I'm throwing in the towel. I can't save them all. I need to learn how to say no, and I really need to learn how to put myself first. I'm not Jesus, this ain't no cross... I need to get out of this martyrdom I've knowingly created, most likely due to a lack of self esteem, and I need to...say it with me...put myself first.
I've recently received a crazy gift of strength. I tossed a simple note in the fire asking for it, and, whadya know? Strength. I should have asked for something more simple, like winning the lottery. At least I'd know what to do with that. Maybe I need to toss in another note asking for wisdom, or clarity. (Wo)man can not live by strength alone. Yea, I know, I'm misquoting the Bible, but I've already said I'm not a Christian so stop acting so surprised.
I apologize to those who are reading this. I'm very tired, and no, I'm not inebriated. Although that's not a bad idea. It makes perfect sense to me, and to those who know me and the pains that surround me, you understand too. This world is intense. I'm dealing. I'm a survivor. Now I just need to live for me, and, I'm realizing, it's OK to be selfish. Wow, you have no idea how liberating it is to say that.
So, in honor of my apparent nonsensical ramblings of the evening, I'm including a poem I wrote. Again, nonsensical to the layperson, but I understand every word.
Written October 10, 1993
Such a hard language to decipher
Is that of which I do speak.
For the noises of the drums
That do other noises cover,
Render my shouts silent
And my meanings weak.
And the true intent of those surrounding
Leaves me nothing, other
Than the needing of a
Thought so tender-
In the well is does fall deep.
Sleep tight. Don't let the little bits keep you awake.
So, I'm crying uncle. I just can't do it all. I thought I was able, and maybe I could if I were younger, but, alas, I'm old. So I'm throwing in the towel. I can't save them all. I need to learn how to say no, and I really need to learn how to put myself first. I'm not Jesus, this ain't no cross... I need to get out of this martyrdom I've knowingly created, most likely due to a lack of self esteem, and I need to...say it with me...put myself first.
I've recently received a crazy gift of strength. I tossed a simple note in the fire asking for it, and, whadya know? Strength. I should have asked for something more simple, like winning the lottery. At least I'd know what to do with that. Maybe I need to toss in another note asking for wisdom, or clarity. (Wo)man can not live by strength alone. Yea, I know, I'm misquoting the Bible, but I've already said I'm not a Christian so stop acting so surprised.
I apologize to those who are reading this. I'm very tired, and no, I'm not inebriated. Although that's not a bad idea. It makes perfect sense to me, and to those who know me and the pains that surround me, you understand too. This world is intense. I'm dealing. I'm a survivor. Now I just need to live for me, and, I'm realizing, it's OK to be selfish. Wow, you have no idea how liberating it is to say that.
So, in honor of my apparent nonsensical ramblings of the evening, I'm including a poem I wrote. Again, nonsensical to the layperson, but I understand every word.
Written October 10, 1993
Such a hard language to decipher
Is that of which I do speak.
For the noises of the drums
That do other noises cover,
Render my shouts silent
And my meanings weak.
And the true intent of those surrounding
Leaves me nothing, other
Than the needing of a
Thought so tender-
In the well is does fall deep.
Sleep tight. Don't let the little bits keep you awake.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten
I woke up yesterday morning, December 31, 2010, with the words "It was a labor of love" floating through my head. Those words resonated with me throughout the day, attached to fabulous memories that flooded my thoughts. It's always so overwhelming when I have days like that, but I seem to learn a little bit more each time, if I pay attention. Yesterday I was paying attention.
When I was 18, I had bought myself an old Ford Mustang. It was a pile of junk, but I loved it. It was the car I wanted, so I indulged myself and bought it, despite my parents protests. I drove this car for about a year until one day the engine seized. It needed a new engine. So, I gathered some friends, bought a new engine, and we spent a week disassembling the old engine and dropping in the new one. When we were finished and had it running, my friend said to me "It was a labor of love". And it was. I loved that car. In retrospect it was nothing but a money pit, but if I had it to do over...I wouldn't change a thing.
As I was driving home from my horseback riding lesson yesterday I was haunted by those words, "It was a labor of love". I began thinking of my older horse, Hallie, who is soon to be 28 years old. She is another of my many labors of love. When she was 23, she was playing in her field and somehow injured herself. She came in the next morning with a deep laceration to her right hind leg, her tendons were partially severed, her muscle was peeled back exposing the bone. It was bad. Everyone said to put her down. I couldn't. It took over a year, but my little horse recovered. I spent exponentially the dollar value of what she was "worth"...but I labored on. I loved her. When I bought my old girl I made a promise to her, and I had to keep my word. I've been tested several more times since then, she's now arthritic and missing an eye (a blog for another day!), but she's healthy and happy. Owning Hallie has filled this past decade with one labor of love after another, but I wouldn't have done anything differently. I gave her my word.
Driving home yesterday, it occurred to me that never have other words resonated so strongly with me. It was a labor of love. I've spent my life laboring, struggling, fighting, accomplishing....and it has all been a labor of love. A forty four and a half year long labor of love. Everything I've done, regardless of the outcomes, have been labors of love. I've guided my life, or maybe my life has been guided, out of my love, my passions. Not all have been successful, not all have made sense to others, but to me, this is my life. These are my labors that have made me who I am and have guided me to where I am now, and I wouldn't have done anything differently. I pray I can continue this amazing labor of love for a very long time.
My epitaph: "It was a labor of love". It sure was!
When I was 18, I had bought myself an old Ford Mustang. It was a pile of junk, but I loved it. It was the car I wanted, so I indulged myself and bought it, despite my parents protests. I drove this car for about a year until one day the engine seized. It needed a new engine. So, I gathered some friends, bought a new engine, and we spent a week disassembling the old engine and dropping in the new one. When we were finished and had it running, my friend said to me "It was a labor of love". And it was. I loved that car. In retrospect it was nothing but a money pit, but if I had it to do over...I wouldn't change a thing.
As I was driving home from my horseback riding lesson yesterday I was haunted by those words, "It was a labor of love". I began thinking of my older horse, Hallie, who is soon to be 28 years old. She is another of my many labors of love. When she was 23, she was playing in her field and somehow injured herself. She came in the next morning with a deep laceration to her right hind leg, her tendons were partially severed, her muscle was peeled back exposing the bone. It was bad. Everyone said to put her down. I couldn't. It took over a year, but my little horse recovered. I spent exponentially the dollar value of what she was "worth"...but I labored on. I loved her. When I bought my old girl I made a promise to her, and I had to keep my word. I've been tested several more times since then, she's now arthritic and missing an eye (a blog for another day!), but she's healthy and happy. Owning Hallie has filled this past decade with one labor of love after another, but I wouldn't have done anything differently. I gave her my word.
Driving home yesterday, it occurred to me that never have other words resonated so strongly with me. It was a labor of love. I've spent my life laboring, struggling, fighting, accomplishing....and it has all been a labor of love. A forty four and a half year long labor of love. Everything I've done, regardless of the outcomes, have been labors of love. I've guided my life, or maybe my life has been guided, out of my love, my passions. Not all have been successful, not all have made sense to others, but to me, this is my life. These are my labors that have made me who I am and have guided me to where I am now, and I wouldn't have done anything differently. I pray I can continue this amazing labor of love for a very long time.
My epitaph: "It was a labor of love". It sure was!
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