Just Like Life

life imitates criminal minds

the tv show

sometimes I can watch

sometimes I can’t

my daughter says

mom its just a tv show

but often the images

hang on too long in my brain

playing out in the middle of the day

or when I walk alone

life imitates art

headlines

bombs blood guns

i drive to owatonna

sleepy owatonna

home of bullies at schools

meth

that kind of typical 

american pain and

violence

i drive into town on bridge street

cars pull over obediently to 

the sound of sirens

a cop car

another

then dark suv’s just like the fbi

just like criminal minds

just like this week

all over the news

i get to my daughter’s home

oh yeah, she says, 

they’re after some guy from faribault

neighboring town

15 miles north

he stabbed his girlfriend

and torched a car

sure enough

they find him in a field

a little after one

in owatonna east off of bridge

we passed law enforcement

driving into town 

at one on a sunday

afternoon

sleepy little town wakes up

to more violence

just like tv 

no one says

mom its just a tv show

The Terrible Truth

Can I Be Free & Happy and Still Eat? 

This is the question that is constantly floating at the back of my head. We are told, life is hard, you work and then you die. We are jealous of the rich bastards that get to relax and travel. We try to make up lies about them to console ourselves. We are told that play is the reward of work, not the necessary part of life that it is. We are told that we don’t deserve our happiness if we are white and privileged, we are told that we are going to lose whatever small prosperity we have if we are too generous. We are told that people are so greedy they will only love us for our money, if we are lucky enough to get some. We subtly believe that lazy people don’t deserve to live, let alone have food and health care, right? Why should I work and break my back so someone else can just goof off and still, still, just exist? And we also are told that we are responsible for the lives and happiness of those across the globe, responsible to feed them (the food unfinished from our plates, a guilty reminder), to educate them, to religiousize them, to free them, to give them all ipads and make them just like us. And these are just some of the ideologies that swarm around me on my path. 

I want to only care about me and my family, really, and if I breathe a word of this, I am looked on with disdain. I know, I have said such terrible things before. People seem to assume that if we carry all the guilty burdens of these ideologies, we somehow help move the planet forward. As if I let go of caring for the whole f------ universe, it will fall apart. Well, I’m letting go, I’m going to leave the developed countries with their violence, dominance and privilege, the developing countries with their financial and political crises, and the undeveloped countries, towns, parcels and peoples everywhere to their own devices. I’m going to turn off the news, I’m going to turn on Pandora to Ella Fitzgerald, I’m going to listen closely to those around me, I’m going to enjoy what I can in life, be grateful and believe that the world doesn’t need me to care about everyone else, but to choose to care about those around me, those I pass on the street who need a smile, this I can give, but I just can’t give up my whole life to passing ideologies, anymore. I want to eat and not feel guilty, I want to be free (enough) and be grateful, and I want to make so much money that I can be generous and not worry that those around me are greedy, but just enjoying my abundance. I don't want play to be my reward, but my life. 

Contraband Cake (redux)

Okay, here is the contraband cake entry, with an amusing back story. I struggle with fear and anxiety sometimes, (really? you noticed?). Part of this fear and anxiety is around success, some is around just keeping things from falling apart, which is the pretty common fear we have which makes most of us try to keep things the same. We hear over and over that people fear change, and I don't entirely buy into that, because, well, we change all the time, and often we crave change, we delight in change, but we say we fear change, because we don't know how to say how much we have internalized rules that rule and well, scare us. So, part of my fear in being part of an organization is the unspoken rules, that wonky part of the cultre that we all feel, but don't know how to put our finger on, and so this, this at time scares me, intimidates me. And so when I first posted this post, I got scared, and I took it down. But then, someone I work with came up to me and said, "Hey I loved your contraband cake post." And I was taken aback, wow, within that maybe short hour that I left it up, someone had seen and read it. And when I told her I had taken it down, she seemed surprised at my fear, or perhaps reticence, to leave it up. Yet when I talked with someone else about it, he confirmed the cultural contraints that made me take it down. So, I was stuck, I want to be brave, I want to be vulnerable and I want to live and work in such a way that we can all have the hard conversations, where some things might not be exactly appropriate, but where most things aren't taboo. Where I'm not dictated to by the rules of dominance and hierarchy, but of love and listening and curiosity. So, here, I cast aside my fear and repost, Contraband Cake:

Where I work (my day job), word came down recently that there were to be no more celebratory cakes paid for with organizational funds. I wouldn’t say this was a crack down, in that rampant cake eating parties were happening daily, weekly, or even monthly, but it had become custom to say goodbye to those moving on to either more expansive opportunities, or say the chance to rest (retirement); with a gathering of colleagues around cake and coffee. A far cry from the going away gift I’d gotten at another University job (a leather briefcase), but at least it was a send off, a chance to say thank you and goodbye, and well, eat cake. 

So, recently when a couple of people retired, there was cake, however, it was jokingly referred to as contraband cake. And as I got to thinking about it, I’ve wondered, really, if this is the place for me anymore, where the most wildly creative, and rule-breaking thing we could do is eat cake? This is an organization that sells knowledge and leadership skills, and doesn’t recognize human capital, and the importance of ritual and celebration. An organization that is cutting back on cake. What gives? There are many many little signs in our lives that signal when it is time to move on, strangely, mine is cake. I wonder, is it possible for a cake without anything un-cake like, baked into it, an inexpensive grocery store cake, for Pete’s sake; to be contraband, really? When I leave, I will still most likely be deeply in debt, I will not have taken in millions like this organization, but I will buy my own cake, and it will be sweet. 

Moving Back from Mommy to Me

This morning as I meditated, my adult daughter popped her head in to ask a question, realized I was meditating and popped out. Her response, “oh” to my non-response. In my meditative state, I was still a bit torn, torn between her and me; my mama instinct to drop all for my own child. But she is grown now, all my children are grown, and I have no spouse to “return” to, no plans to make for our retirement years, so where do I go now? Back to me; and once again, I’m on the move, as I’ve noted before, change doesn’t just happen seasonally, or every year, or even in linear, measurable chunks, change is continuous, fluid, and it requires a sort of dance with ourselves, with others, with time itself. 

So how do I remain connected to that mama life source energy, how do I parent adult children? I’ve strayed from the typical developmental timeline for both myself and my children, sharing power instead of yielding it, encouraging curiosity instead of dogmatic compliance in my children and it is paying off in spades. I have read the literature, poked it full of holes and thrown away the manifesto of left brain dominance. How I ask now, do I live whole in a half brain dominated world? How do I move fluidly into a future which is full of possibility that I can only partly imagine? How do I allow my integrated hemispheres to burst forth a fertile and imagined future? Part of this imagining is having to take place also, outside of gender constructs, for if I look to the past of what women could have or are accomplishing, much of it is with denouncing their right hemisphere for the traditionally masculine left, which only leaves them once again with half a brain, half their power, disconnected from their whole, and especially their right, innate mama wisdom. 

I have focused so much of my energies on parenting, on preparing, on providing and even on cleaning up that this shift is happening slowly. Some of the shift that I’ve already created was to educate myself, to fill my head in some ways and to empty my head in others. This in-out, process, sort-through information has had the effect of a physical work out; my brain, I believe is a mean, lean, understanding machine. Now I need to get back to work on my body. The sun is out, the treacherous ice is melting and I need to walk, I need to shake out the fear, I need to connect my feet to solid ground, while I walk, getting out of my own way. Finding my future in myself, still mom, still me, still yet to be. 

Lies Crazy Lies (or No Comfort There)

No Comfort There

There are just some days that seem dark. Today is Good Friday, the sky is gray and I remember as a child my mom telling me that it is always gray and rainy on Good Friday, because this is the day that Jesus died. This was not a historical day, this was not a mythological construct, this was real, and this was if not the very day, then the anniversary day of the day this beloved, perfect man chose to be nailed upon a cross to die an agonizing death for me, a mere child, yet imperfect, and so sinful, that this torturous death was the only way to make me good enough, lovable enough to be accepted by God, both Jesus’ and mine only real and true father. 

Just yesterday I started reading a book called Willful Blindness: Why We Ignore the Obvious at Our Peril, by Margaret Heffernan, an intriguing read, one that makes sense in some ways and one that makes me want to send Margaret an email and argue some of the assumptions that she makes about us, as humans. So much of even our research-based academic assumptions are based on the worldview we’ve held for so many hundreds of years, that that in itself is willful blindness, and then I get myself into this making sense mode that leaves me feeling very alone. Who thinks this way? Who cares? Who can I talk to about these thoughts in my head? Because all of us, in so many ways, love our comfort in wherever it lies, usually in keeping our lives the same, over and over again. Well, ok then. 

And earlier this morning, my oldest daughter, Kathleen calls me to share her concerns and challenges in raising her teenager, Elliot, whom, of course I love dearly. She worries that he is lying to her, and I challenge her construct of lies and truth, which is probably not very comforting to her, when she is merely worried. But aren’t lies, both to ourselves and others, our own way of trying to keep things the same, to avoid conflict, both within and without ourselves? Lies, we believe, keep us safe, as the lies we believe, such as that we are unworthy of love, just as we are, fresh out of the gate, without someone dying a horrible death to somehow make us alright. Well, not alright with me, I mean that a mom would tell her kid this weird shit. But we do it all the time, right? 

And so after talking with my oldest daughter, I call my own mom, to let her know I will be by this afternoon to visit, maybe, we can go out for tea and cake. But before I can let her know, she has to tell me about a friend of my brother who died this week. He fell on the ice this week, hit his head, went to bed and died. This is sad, very sad, and just weird, in that I am nursing a bruised knee from a fall earlier this week. Megan also fell this week, and a co-worker also fell on his head, ending him up in the emergency room. The ice this week has been literally treacherous. And so, my mom, in her way, does not tell me she is sad, does not acknowledge the loss, but instead of emotion words, says, “It’s crazy.” And in this moment, I realize that my 86 year old mother uses the word “crazy” as a substitute for any word that might illuminate or communicate emotion; something my oldest sister does also. 

I too then, fall into the sameness, and I don't call my mom on this. I don't ask her about it, I just tell her I will be over in a little bit, and I know that she is happy  and excited to look forward to me coming over; this I know, but we don't talk about this, either. I also don't tell her that it messed  with me, the weird stuff she taught me about the church, because I think she will equivocate, or change the subject, and there will be no comfort there, no validation, again, just a river to cross between her and me. I will swim it, braced for the current. And this is my legacy, to struggle to comfort and affirm my own daughters, in their emotions, in their integrated bodymind emotional whole selves. I struggle to affirm myself. 

And in this illumination, in this Good Friday “Aha Moment” I know why I find solace so hard to come by. I was not given tools to self soothe, and so I write. I was not given words for my feelings, for my emotions, other than crazy, and so I read, and read, and read all that I can on feelings/affect/emotion. I don’t want to miss this part of myself, this part of my life, this part of our history. The part that some crazy people thought we could cut ourselves off from and live our lives rationally, which, ends up irrational, right? Someone, please. tell me I’m not crazy. But I am sad, sad for my brother’s loss in his friend, sad for this man’s close family, and sad for my mom, that she can’t tell me what she feels, other than to say, it’s crazy. 

Downton Abbey Dress

In November, on Thanksgiving to be exact, when Erin (middle daughter) and Andy, (partner of over five years) announced they were engaged, I was surprised. I had wanted my daughters to go to college and be able to take care of themselves, and I’d quit praying for them to have “godly” husbands when I left the Baptist church, years ago. So this past weekend, it was a treat to go wedding dress shopping, a chance to just have fun with all my grown daughters.  Erin had made appointments at two bridal salons, and Megan had mapped out the route and found a place to stop for lunch and made reservations for the four of us for dinner. Kathleen, of course, drove up from Owatonna. 

The night before, Kathleen called, as she was driving home from Faribault and her windshield cracked. It had gotten hit with a rock on the way to Faribault, and it decided to crack on her way home. Between calls to me, and Andy, and looking up online if it was illegal to drive with a cracked windshield, we all figured it out. She’d be fine to drive up in the morning, since the crack didn’t obstruct her vision (guidelines for legality of it all). 

It was cold but sunny when we all ventured out, ready for our wedding dress excursion. Throughout the day it was hard not to remember when I bought my dress, worn it and felt like a princess for a day; and then I’d had it cleaned and boxed and put it away for someone else to wear someday. Sooner than one day, I’d worn the dress again, when a friend of mine started doing bridal photography. I posed for a photo shoot, and I was in an ad for his business. A strange segue-way for a dress. Then, one halloween, when Erin was around 10 or 12 she thought maybe she’d wear my dress, but she got it stuck on, and I had to break the zipper to get it off of her. Eventually, I just tossed it. 

While shopping we had the most fun at Andrea’s Vintage Bridal salon, they had an amazing selection of vintage gowns, from turn of the century gowns to a funky mini, and the ambience was fun and charming. Kathleen and Megan and I all sat down on a big comfy white sofa, while Erin tried on dresses, and we gave feedback, noting the pros and cons of each dress. The young woman who helped Erin, creates magic with a sash “see it pulls it all nicely together this way” and she knew her fashion and her fabrics. There was a huge old wooden radio that was tuned to a station that played oldies love songs, like The Raspberries singing, “please baby go all the way”  which I told my girls was a great summer-time, driving around the lake song and they were like ok mom. We all agreed Elvis was still great as one of his love songs played. 

Erin was beautiful in the gowns, and the one that made me cry when I saw her in it was not the one she ended up with. She would not try on the mini, even though I asked. I did not cry as much as I thought I might. For this woman, and for this wedding, I have no worries, so perhaps no reason to cry. I’ve wanted my daughters to grow up and know the world is big and beautiful and that love is important, but romantic love is not the most important part of life, and much of it is a myth. Real love though, that is important, real love as in companionship and commitment and even in the ability to love lightly, rather than tightly, and in all these things, Erin and Andy hold the keys. 

A dress was put "on hold" at the vintage salon. At the second salon it was more traditional, with traditional (big) gowns. Kathleen and I reminded Erin of how tired brides could get in the huge dresses, the long trains. (Kathleen has had one too many turns as a bridesmaid.) Between trying on newer gowns, and the retro gowns, the difference became clear that it was between wearing a dress and dressing up as a bride. Some of the gowns simply looked like marshmallows with heads and feet. 

The fun for me was that I was surrounded by three grown, beautiful, smart and sometimes headstrong daughters. At dinner I told them how proud I was of them, and I shared that I was so often worried for them while I was caring for them; worried I wasn’t doing a good enough job, worried about how they would “turn out.” They acknowledged the stress of mothering, and we all laughed, together and fine. And really, really, I could not have asked for more. An Old Testament verse declares: “Her children rise up and call her blessed.” Proverbs 31:28. I felt blessed and safe in the company of my wild women. I am blessed, for sure. And the old gown from the vintage salon was bought, and well, it will be remade into something new, with a beautiful sash; and it will be a surprise, a beautiful Downton Abbey sort of surprise. 

Grown Ups

we are grown ups now

we are not in third grade

we are not on stage

unable to be comfortable

singing “we are the world”

we are in our tall bodies

walking the streets

without a grown up hand to hold

we are not in junior high

uncertain, gawky, on edge

we are all going to be ok

when we look around and 

see that no one is watching

there is no measuring stick

there is no gradebook

except the one in our heads

toss it out

look around and see

no one is watching

except your third grade self

still wondering when it will be so great to be 

a grown up