Mac¢aroni

2010-08-14T21:09:00.001-05:00

http://beemp3.com/download.php?file=1325372&song=Oompa+Loompa+Songs

Lady Gaga

2010-03-17T01:47:00.002-05:00

Allison, I wish you were here. We could gaga over Lady Gaga together.

http://www.universityofbox.com/main.html

The Positive Multitasker

2007-06-28T04:32:00.000-05:00

Pepper

2007-06-07T22:27:00.000-05:00

In Jonesboro, my family went through so many dogs. One was a cute Miniature Schnauzer that made the papers by climbing on the roof. It got out one night, and never returned. One absolutely positively could not be housetrained. A cable worker took it for us.

One would not stop barking. Ever. My usually quiet and tender dad with a barely-pumped BB gun, voraciously yelling like a tornado at 2 a.m. at that stupid dog—it still gets me tickled, all these years later. The worst of the dogs we put up with waaaaay too long for Aaron’s sake. He was attached. Finally, we gave it away.

Then a vet’s wife who worked at her husband’s practice called to say she had a sweet Miniature Schnauzer that had been outside too long with mean dogs, and was very loving. Would we like it? Sure!

Pepper came into eager hearts ready for a friend—and a sensible one. We found endless good humor in Pepper. It would “sing” a loud, steady howl when we got it started. It would howl to the piano, howl to singing, howl to howling.

Pepper was protective of the “little guy,” and always attacked whoever seemed the aggressor when we would tickle and wrestle each other (my family calls this a good “wooling”). Pepper was good to children—even small visitors.

Pepper was cuddly, and loved to lay on the couch—preferably in a lap, while being petted. If a hand rested, Pepper’s nose was under that hand, egging it on. It seemed to beg, “Pet me, pet me, pet me pleeeeeeease.”

Pepper seemed to need us, desperately need our love. In return, Pepper was loyal, sweet, and really very low maintenance.

As Pepper aged, she grew incontinent. We had to lock her in a carrier when away from the house. She didn’t mind. It was her cozy spot, replacing the couch, which she had trouble jumping up on. She had bumps on her skin, and she didn’t hear very well. She grew old, very old, in a way that seemed to beg the question how can she make it?

Pepper had trouble with the stairs going outside—a must for a dog. But she gained a new friend, Sergeant, a Toy Schnauzer that brought new life to her. She was Audrey’s favorite the last time we visited, because she was so calm, and loved little hands stroking her body. She didn’t wince or run away too quickly if Audrey was unsteady or not gentle enough. Pepper loved being noticed, and loved being loved.

During Pepper’s glory days, her young days, she reigned in our busy house as the adorable and often-handled family pet, greeting the household and its guests with an eager wag of her stubby tail.

When my parents traveled during the summer, Allison usually cared for Pepper. She didn’t mind bathing it, and she enjoyed having the responsibility—the close bond with a sidekick. Then Pepper was hers alone. They both seemed to have the same sense of play and cuddly time.

Everyone loved Pepper. For some reason, I link Pepper’s passing with the deep sadness of so many memories that spin in my mind like the clatter and crumbling fall leaves at the end of day, hazy, a gust of wind turning them over and over. I think back, and I feel I’m half.

I don’t wish I’d spent more time with Pepper. In fact, I was not close to it. I complained about the way Pepper smelled, and I blamed it for my irritated allergies—which really had nothing to do with dogs. I wasn’t attached to that dog. Still, I want those moments back. Why?

Perhaps, I want to see my brother as a little boy. I was too busy, a busy teenager and college student, through his childhood. Aaron used to play with Pepper a great deal, and I’m trying to remember now whether the dog hindered the building of his backyard hideout, or took some abuse from a stray stick or fallen pear. Maybe that was a different dog. All I can do is shrug: the moments are gone.

Perhaps, I want to hear Allison’s voice and to ask her why she loved the dog so much. I want to notice how she interacted with the dog. I want to focus on her face, to relish her voice. I want to play with her, hear her make a ridiculous voice, and hear her giggle.

For now I think of the beat of Allison’s feet hitting the floor as she pulled a freshly-bathed Pepper out of the bathroom. Then Allison’s feet moved with purpose, contentment, fullness, peace—a vibrant center. Her sense of movement was even with her sense of comfort and rest. She took satisfaction in those moments, and was quietly happy.

It was a good moment—Allison with Pepper. It was a domestic moment, a place in Allison’s life of easy happiness, no fireworks. I didn’t understand her and that dog—or anyone and that dog, really—although I lived in the same house. But I accepted those bonds. Sometimes I barely noticed.

My mom said that as she held Pepper in a vet’s office on Monday afternoon, and Pepper’s last weary heartbeat fell, she knew Pepper was immediately running into Allison’s arms. It makes me sad—so many parts of our family running away, waiting for us. My heart reaches up: I want to say, “Don’t leave me.”

My mom also said that my father wept and held Pepper before it had to be put to sleep. I can hardly picture my father weeping, without crying myself. I didn’t think he was close to the dog, particularly. I thought that like me, perhaps, it wasn’t a particular dog, or neighbor, or couch, or window that filled his heart, but the way time passed and our family lived, connected, grew, changed—so much happening, and now so much lost. He must have hurt all over again, having to let a child go, then the dog from her childhood. Maybe he loved that dog. Maybe the dog stood for something more.

The memory of that footstep—why do I only remember Allison’s feet, like the fragment of a dream? Though I treasure that part, I wish I had savored more. I hope I’m changed irrevocably—and continue to become more so—so that I don’t forget. So that I live with a greater awareness and tenderness for the ones I love—so close, so far away. I fear my own absence from each day, from each loved one. And still life is swirling, the leaves come and go.

Orange Dress

2006-12-04T02:36:00.000-05:00

I've heard several women grow really sad when they talk about their children's outgrown clothes. I don't think I'm materialistic, and that seemed strange to me. But watching others mourn their kids’ changing stages did not prepare me for the deep sadness of switching my daughter’s wardrobe tonight.

It's a weird process, taking down each of Audrey's little dresses, clearing out all her drawers of sleepers and onesies, putting everything in a big plastic tub for some other little girl. It’s as if there has been a death, and a childhood must be cleared out. Up go new dresses with strange colors, patterns, and textures--no memories. It doesn’t go far to heal the hurt of what is now packed away.

I feel very sad, and I'm not sure exactly what it is that I'm having trouble letting go. I know, the obvious, she's growing up. But there's something else.

I want to say, "Wait, wait, I don't have a picture of her in this one yet." or "We need to go somewhere special and have an adventure in this one." Is it memory I'm afraid of losing, or missed experience? Either way, I feel bits of my heart washed away like water through open fingers.

Shame burns. I shouldn't be attached to things. They are just things. I should be more adventuresome, looking to what is ahead rather than clinging to what is familiar and comfortable. Still there is the orange dress with the bohemian print. Why did she wear it only twice?

Why aren't there more pictures? There was so much I intended for her when I bought that dress. Am I creating the world for her that I meant to? Can I go back and create it now? But the dress is too small. It’s silly to put it on her. It’s silly to live unfulfilled, wondering if we’re packing in all the love and experience that I want to share with her.

There’s a reason why this hurts. It forces me to reexamine our days. It is such a chore just to get to the grocery store. And I don’t put Audrey in her cutest clothes to peruse the cereal aisle. I don’t want our lives to be squandered on stressful shopping trips or long, mundane chores. The orange dress is a metaphor. We have to make the next one sing.

Weak

2006-11-21T14:00:00.000-05:00

Is it predatory to need the weak one? The small, the fragile—one can live off her. One can breathe her. She becomes life.

I sniff of my daughter’s head so deeply, so deeply. And I find my soul branching out. My life flutters with the fullness of leaves. There is a quiet rustling—she moves. The verdant corner stirs. No one notices. I am one tiny nose to one bright patch of sun.

Once I realized my dependence on the weaker one—my need for her. I tiptoed into my sister’s room, late, late at night, her body a limp and steadily-breathing mound in the moonlight. She stirred: “Mandy? Is that you?” How could I explain my loneliness, my fear? How could I ask for help? Life crumbled. I was spent, like over-baked cookies, all my expectations of myself breaking apart. I felt unrecognizable. The plastic kitchen trash, ever-overflowing, beckoned me: “You belong here.” There was Allison, half-awake and put out. I asked anyway: “Can I sleep in here tonight?”

It was not regular, slipping into her twin bed, clutching her arm like a teddy bear, with tears trickling down my face, trying not to let my desperate, jerking sighs interrupt her even breaths. She was a life ring, and I was drowning. I grabbed her insensible arm and floated for an hour, maybe more. The darkness closed in, but I was not alone.

Depending on my younger sister felt strange. I was the big sister. She was somewhat insecure. Later, she survived a plane crash, then suffered from an eating disorder. As we grew older, I found myself increasingly in need of her opinion, her advice, her ear. I wanted her approval and her understanding.

I would walk into her carefully candle-lit and fragrant house, melt onto her overstuffed couch, and vent. Her music and furniture painted a jewel-toned kaleidoscope across my consciousness. Deeply relaxed, I came alive. She kept straightening picture frames. Finally, she would look at me and say something very honest. I needed her perspective.

Always I was supposed to nurture her, be mindful of her, look after her, my little sister. But it was she who sustained me. I relied on her. I needed her. Not because she was the strong one. Because she was mine, because she was special, I leaned on her.

I leaned on her like a tree in the shade. That tree isn’t as strong as it looks. It is easily destroyed by fire, ax, pest, and time. It rots. It is consumed by greedy fire. But I need it. I hide in it. There it stands, invisibly eating the sun, ignored, perhaps, quiet. A weak little plant (next to eons and catastrophes) comforts me.

When a place goes suddenly empty, how is one to react? A tree—not uprooted, simply disappeared. A house burned with its contents, fragments smoldering. How does one build emotional insurance against void?

Now I have a tiny little girl depending on me. She falls asleep in my arms, nursing, her tiny nose letting out a sigh. She sighs so contentedly, as if the earth was created for that moment. I stare at her, marveling, in celebration. She is beautiful. She cannot feed herself. Yet she is genius at nursing. She cannot dress herself. But she grabs her clothes, playfully, as I dress her. She reminds me to play. She instructs me. She comforts me.

When I think about my sister now, emptiness whips across me. The baby inside her never breathed air. The suddenness of her death disarms and stuns. Her absence is unfair. I needed her. I depended on her. So did others. Her life was vivid and intense. She leaves a strange vacuum. I hold my daughter. I cry.

I want to apologize to my daughter. Your mommy is depending on you. I’m sorry I am crumbling and leaning on you, the weaker one. Can you support me? Am I right to take from you, this smile, this hope, this joy?

It is my lovely place, time alone with her. There is one full tree in the shade. And there is one bright, warm streak beating down on it. It is so cold otherwise. Who could blame me, really, for savoring each little breath she takes?

I can’t tell how long the sun will stay in that one spot, warming. Not forever. Not long enough.

When my sister was in the hospital, her brain not functioning, the baby inside her still moving, I buried my face in her belly and wept. I thought somehow Allison would wake up and heal my hurt. I could not heal her body or save her child. We were both weak.

I think of Allison now when I bury my face in my little girl’s tummy and give her giant zerberts. She squeals with joy. It is a happy occasion now. I set her down. She cries to be held. And it is I, the weak, the frail, who has no magic answers, who carries her, who sustains her. And if we are weak together, then we are strong together, too.

Island Past

2006-09-16T04:20:00.000-05:00

My preconceptions of island living come from the peppy music and campy sets of Gilligan’s Island. They come from the mystery of Fantasy Island and the few clips I’ve seen of Elvis movies (like Blue Hawaii). I can’t say that my experience here is the same or different. Right now I’m just unpacking boxes. But our old house (built in the 60s) makes it feel like we’re stepping back in time, right back into an old movie. It feels ridiculous and fun all at once. Can’t wait to have company!

Finding Center

2006-09-06T05:46:00.000-05:00

If I took every little piece of my past—would that sum up who I am? Those pieces are what new friends want to know. What spin do I put on them? How can I define myself in my new place? Place. How it defines me, sometimes. The way I arrange my house. The things I put in it. The smell outside my window as I drive. How far it is, and whether I can walk to some place beautiful. Place. Self. Past.

Sudden changes always leave me feeling stunned. I smile through them, because I’m absolutely dazed. And what else can I do when I’m feeling stupid and clueless? If you’ve tripped in front of the entire student body, spilling your pathetic lunch all over the cafeteria floor in the seventh grade, it’s better to smile and act like it’s no big deal. It takes the heat off. Anyway, I’m awful at bursting into tears.

Suddenly, my life resembles nothing familiar. I’m constantly working out this new place and my new, adjusting self. I want to create my existence intentionally, to master it and make myself happy. But I’m really not sure what it is that I want, exactly. I find myself getting really opinionated over little things: I want a cup of hot tea now. I’d like to go to the store. It’s time to feed my daughter. When even little elements of will come together, I feel really centered and proud of myself.

What if the whole thing—my time here, a matter of years—turns out to be pointless, fruitless, a complete waste? What if carving intentional meaning out of everyday life proves an impossible failure? I’m already practicing my dazed, hapless smile—just until I figure it out. But I’m really hopeful. No matter what the past, I honestly feel hopeful. And I’ll try to be less clueless than before. Sometimes we do make it past the seventh grade.

Suspense

2006-07-14T00:41:00.000-05:00

It is such an amazing sense of centered flotation--waiting for a baby to be born. In her own time, in her own way, or when she can no longer be waited for...half believing that the stage might be set for a show that never begins, then realizing with a wave of fear that it might actually happen soon--I wait.

I call to her. I've named her. I've shopped for her. Friends and family have showered her with clothes, diapers, and every imaginable physical comfort. Yet she remains elusive. She is a mystery, an almost. Who knows her? Who loves her yet?

First dates, infatuation, the night before Christmas as a nine-year-old child--this is different. The complication of knowing what can go wrong, the weight of mistakes made and tragedies endured, the momentary hope that one little innocent life can break through the dark, complicated world with a simple smile or an earnest cry--all these emotions, fears, and hopes rise when I think of my daughter-in-becoming.

I can wait. She is worth it. She is moving, moving, moving. As she is "past due," I think there is one final message for me, a moment of bonding for us, a connection that has to be strengthened here in the final days--or hours (I hope!). Is waiting really about listening? If listening is so hard, how have I ordered my life?

A Photographer's Philosophy

2006-06-29T23:26:00.000-05:00

Taking pictures:

a way to kill time that feels meaningful, if not urgent (or compulsive)
an effort to preserve what one guesses will later prove important
a way to solidify a feeling or event; a way to offer legitimacy to an otherwise ethereal experience; a way to bring public recognition through undeniable visual evidence to something or someone otherwise ignored
celebrating what is beautiful

Now that I’ve quit my job as a photojournalism teacher, and need a digital SLR of my own, why do I feel it is so important to have a new camera before my daughter is born?

If I wasn’t so scared of #2, I’d boldly prance into the hospital sans camera and just go for “experience.” But then, I don’t remember things months later like I think I will. Hey, buying a new toy for me with the good excuse of having it necessarily for my daughter, well, toys don’t get better excuses that that!

Conflicto de Intereses

2006-06-28T22:15:00.000-05:00

Hoy, a la tienda de comida intermational:

“Ay, cuantos meses?"

“Nueve! Solomente tengo dos semanas mas.”

“Duele?”

“No, no. Pues, cada dia a las siete por la noche, duele mi espalda, estoy cansada, y siento que voy a morir. Pero proximo dia, por la manana, todo esta bien.”

Por que esta duele? Me gusta sentir mi hija adentro. Quiero conocerle, pero quiero sentirle todovida. La vida es extrana.

Portrait Chin-scratching

2006-06-26T13:53:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I woke up (a Sunday morning) and realized, “my baby is due in two weeks. My husband is only home on the weekends. Our opportunities for maternity pictures together are running out.” It was raining. It was Sunday. But JC Penny studios was open. I had a coupon, which we ended up not using. But for under a hundred bucks, we had a few shots done that I hope will be decent enough for a baby album.

The photographer asked, “Do you want your belly to show?” We had not even color-coordinated our outfits. We just came straight from church, my hair wilting by the minute, and hoped for a freakishly okay shot. We certainly hadn’t planned on any especially drapey outfits baring a big belly.

Now I have to wait 3 weeks for pictures to come in that I’m assured from another former customer will turn out very badly. Should we reshoot at The Picture People? I look at prices and locations….

I’m dreaming of baby Audrey with this grandparent, with that great-grandparent…across state after state…with no studios in the right cities on the store locator. Then I decide, “Am I a photographer, or what? What can I do with my own camera? Wait, what camera should I buy? What simple background(s) can I put together and travel with?

If you have highly road-worthy ideas for backdrops that I could use in Missouri, Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado on our highly adventuresome first two months of our daughter’s life, please let me know! I’d like some element of sameness in shots that are taken at different times in different places with various relatives.

Uncharted Territory: Pregnancy

2006-06-23T09:11:00.000-05:00

It doesn’t matter how long women have been getting pregnant, or that my mother and her mother and most of my girlfriends have gone through this. It’s still a mystery to me. I’m in awe of how big my belly has gotten, the way it sticks straight out, and the way it has trumped every other “big” part of my body. I’m amazed by my body’s changes—the swelling in my hands, legs, and feet; the oilier hair; the “rash” on my face; and the way fat coats my frame like a mother walrus wallowing in the sun. I’m not complaining: I’m amazed.

After shopping for darling baby dresses, I consider a mommy counterpart—chic, summery, sporty, hip. I see one straight hot pink dress with a flower on the shoulder and a halter top neckline. It’s not my usual style. But I’m trying all kinds of new things at Gymboree. Why not give myself a makeover? Then I remember that there is no way I can fit into that size 8 dress. I should look for the big sign that says “tents” and hope for a sale.

Even after hours of shopping I need to exercise. But my feet—my poor double-wide feet that I can no longer see but I do feel painfully burning with every step—need a rest. I’ve heard swimming is good. So tonight I headed back to the mall and tried on swimsuits.

All the maternity suits were two-piece. Granted, they were long in the top, but how could they possibly be long enough? I’m not heading to the pool to bare my white belly to a pool full of Master’s Swimmers. I don’t even want a drapey top to ride up during lap swim. So I headed to the “Women’s” section of JC Penny (talk about a stretch), and relished the idea of comfortable, dowdy, fat-lady suits.

The size 8s didn’t even say “hi.” Instead, a gorgeously subdued navy and green size 22 jumped out to say, “pick me!” I tried it on, and it fit! Well, sort of. My big belly fit. Then the suit drooped at the breast and sagged with extra folds of fabric at the buttocks. It strained in the crotch, revealing more of that area than I care to share. In short: it was made for a regular size 22 frame, not a pregnant body. Oh, well. At least I can say I went from a size 8 to a 22.

I may not get to hit the pool yet. But I can still sit in bed and watch my belly grow. When I finally get up, I can be thoroughly amazed at myself in the mirror. It may be frightening, but it is still marvelous, and it will be over very soon. Perhaps I should have my picture made.

Uncharted Territory: Grief

2006-06-22T00:04:00.000-05:00

All it takes is a random trigger--the part of a movie where everyone bands together, a song by Enya, or a childhood memory. I can either accept a short burst of tears and move to the next thought. Or I can really focus on where that trigger comes from, all that it means, the finality of what has happened. And then I'm throwing up again. I can't concentrate on anything. The world is a blur. I cannot move.

Why am I surprised that my heart can break so profoundly, over and over again, with fresh pain--months after my sister died? I felt numb for so long. How is it that I could stuff grief down? I made it wait outside my door like it might leave if I neglected it. But grief waited for my life to calm down, waited for me to peek outside at the life I used to have. There she sat on my porch, like a package I've been waiting for. Instead of a happy surprise, she swallowed me whole. Just when the movie swelled to a happy ending this evening, my face contorted again and hot tears burned my cheeks. It makes no sense to me, and I'm sure my feelings make even less sense to others. But I'm living in a nightmare. I still can't believe she's gone.

Nothing really prepares one for grief--no internalized code for how to behave--except to simply accept it and stuff it down, or be lost in it.

Is that how my grandparents got through World War II, the Great Depression, and over 85 years of experience? Did they just say, "Well, this is so. This is how it is," and go on? Did they really feel the tragedies, the debilitating power of grief? Or did they simply accept that they could not change what happened, so they had to move on. They had to keep moving, keep working, working posistively, plowing forward. Did they feel silly to stop and cry for no reason, with no answers? Was it a sign of strength, wisdom, good sense, and practicality to be removed from that hurt?

I saw my Grandma H. cry once--at her brother's funeral. I remember feeling how odd it was, seeing the tower of strength of my grandma crying for a man I barely knew. Was he that dear to her? Was she remembering her childhood? What loaded memories and feelings rushed forward in her mind? What was her childhood like? I tried to picture her as a child, but all I could see was the grandma I had always known, the one who had no siblings--only her children and grandchildren.

No one grieves Allison in the same way, and no one can understand my grieving of her. We all experienced her differently. We mourn her differently, and for different reasons. Everyone feels a different loss. I can't explain my own feelings. I certainly can't explain why she had to die.

Torn between denial and dismay is not a good mode for constant operation. I wish there was an answer for how to feel. But I don't want a magic answer, a quick fix, or an easy word of advice. I just want her back.

The Evolution of Space

2006-01-31T19:36:00.000-05:00

I shouldn't need a scapegoat for the angst of junior high, but here's one, anyway: sharing a room with my little sister. In the sixth grade, I was shy, over-protected, and depressed. How could I bring friends home to spend the night? There was no place to escape her intrusion. How could I be alone with my thoughts? Her personality was as sporadic, zany, and loud as the vivid crayons she left scattered on the floor.

In our shared room, my sister was a slob. She had clothes bunched in the corner and random Barbie doll pieces scattered in tall carpet. Her pens, hair bands, and dirty socks popped up everywhere. On the other hand, I was neat. My bed was made. My papers sat in neat piles on the card table I used as a desk. I could not stand clutter. I could not think in clutter. And thinking took great effort—I always tried very hard to clear my mind—until I walked into my room. Then I became frustrated and angry. There she was, her mess everywhere, her eye watching me always, her loud laugh following me everywhere.

The summer before my ninth grade year, my family moved from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Jonesboro, Arkansas. We were moving into an older house, but a bigger house. This house had four bedrooms and three baths. In this house, I would finally have my own room. Nothing else mattered—not the bland paint, the rotting carpet, the hideous allergens, the nonexistent curtains. I cared about those things, but what really mattered was done. The huge relief of independence and selfhood came with that room—my room—four square walls and a walk-in closet. I felt like royalty—almost. My room was a deep sigh.

In this new house, I kept my room clean, most of the time. My sister’s room, however, was spotless—all the time. She folded her underwear and kept it in neat piles by color in her drawer. She lined bottles of perfume across an antique Victorian dressing table. She sat in front of it on an elegant bench and re-arranged the bottles, smelled of them, straightened them again. Her shoes were perfectly straight across her closet floor.

My sister began drawing more fervently in her new room. She had her own desk, and she composed fashion sketches for hours. Then, in a fury, she crumpled them up, tossed them in the trash, and stormed downstairs. She became reflective, particular, exacting. In her new room, my sister became an adult.

Now that we had our own rooms, we fought over the bathroom. What wars ensued over that space! It was the one thing I felt the most guilty about, years later, in an odd moment of grief. Of all the neglect I had shown her, for all the distance between us, for all the space I should not have insisted upon, guarded so defiantly—what I first felt guilty about were those damned bathroom wars. Later, I saw in pictures how we had existed in two worlds. We posed together in Halloween costumes, with Santa, in Easter dresses, for the first day of school. But we had different smiles, different agendas, different lives. When did our hearts meet?

The times I felt closest to my sister were the times I invaded her space. And she welcomed me—every time—with open arms. I crawled into her bed as an adult one night, afraid of being alone. I spent the night at her house, visiting her in our hometown for my high school reunion. Her rooms smelled sweet. Her house was immaculate, warm, and inviting. She had the perfect color of red walls in her dining room. She placed elegant lamps just so. Her deep couches invited conversation and repose. Her floors were always clean.

When I think of my sister now, I want to be in her house. I want to be in her space. She triumphed: even when I was less than hospitable, she found a way to create her own comfortable place. I wish we had done that together, years before, with adventure, as comrades, full of love.

On My Sister's Birthday: January 17, 2006

2006-01-22T15:10:00.000-05:00

I dream. Snow is falling, while child-angels sing. It is a gray, New York City day, and large snowflakes drift dreamily in the near-light. Soon the sky turns black, and snow begins to shoot head-on behind a windshield. Wipers swish thuddingly, an unwelcome rhythm that is silenced by occasional swells in music. Allison would love this music. All music belongs to her now.

Spruce trees line the road. The yellow lines blur and twist. A diamond-shaped sign points left. I slow and turn onto a long narrow drive. At the end rests a tall gabled house, white on white, warm lights glowing in the windows. It is picturesque, a country house, although shadowed. Dark trees constrain it, and the blackness of the night is unbroken except for downstairs lights. New York was days ago, I think—or maybe not. I’m not sure how far it is. Now we are in the country, starless. Even the porch is dark, I think, until I approach it. I find tiny lights lining the walkway, little dots shimmering in the snow. She has a large pot with a candle burning on the brick porch.

She greets me at the door with hot chocolate. She grabs me and hugs me like I’m her favorite dog. We take our mugs to the den.

She wears fuzzy pink socks and black yoga gear. Her lithe body floats across hardwood and tile. Her blonde hair softly halos her perfectly-proportioned face—large green eyes gazing above full, happy lips. She does not need movie credits to prove she is a star. She is everyone’s favorite, the beautiful one, the talented one, the one who sings, who acts, who can impersonate anyone, but who has to do none of these things. She is a star. She burns. I am always a child in her audience, in awe of her.

I stretch out on her deep couch and we talk for hours. The fire dies down, and it’s time to get my luggage, to settle in for the night. My sister takes me to her bedroom. In the master bath, a gilt mirror hangs above the sink. It reminds me of my grandmother’s house. I’m glad she carries on the tradition of grandeur, my only sister, the one I count on to keep family traditions, memories—magic—alive. In my sister’s house, I can finally breathe.

Allison has a way of making a space both elegant and comfortable. She breathes luxury. It seeps out of her pores into every nook of her home, from lush carpets to beaded lamps. “I’d like to live here,” I tell her, and she laughs. She is proud. She always laughs, then makes an absurd face, snorts, becomes incredibly silly. Even for her hyper bursts of hilarity, it is I who cannot sleep.

As we lie in bed, I bring up every relative, every flit of conflict from the past, and try to work out issues with her at the bow, sailing at high speed through weather-beaten thoughts. I can trust her perspective. I decide to act on her advice. Then I bring up another issue, invent one, just to keep the conversation going. But after an hour, this has become too taxing. Soon I speak, and she does not reply. I look across the bed, and she is breathing deeply, so distant, completely unaware. I think there is only so much I can lean on her—until tomorrow. I only have to wait a few hours. You never know what she’ll say tomorrow. When she comes alive, her vibrant thoughts and personality could take me anywhere. Regardless, I will not have to sort through anxieties and secrets alone.

The next day comes and she is making coffee, lighting candles, playing music. She starts the day with clarity and ease. She is precise. It takes us two hours to leave the house. By this time she has shown me neck and face exercises, talked about mixing colors for dying hair, and shown me how to use her cosmetologist’s curling iron. She is generous. But she is exacting; I cannot keep up with her.

No matter, I think. I don’t have to spend so much energy on my appearance. I can just be. But when I look at pictures, I agonize relentlessly—if only I would bleach my teeth, color my hair, tan a little. Why are my glasses crooked—why am I wearing my glasses? Why is it that her t-shirt looks more polished than my button-down, off-kilter and half-ironed? I’m a mess, I think.

She dresses me. Five times she re-dresses me. Finally we find a top that scoops just so in the front, a wide, wide belt with enough metal to make a statement, pants that hug every inch of me, and shoes that do not look like they came off a camel. We look like sisters now. And I feel pretty. We go out, meet old friends, and I pretend I am always so stylish. My personality grows, and I think I am bold, zany, rich, savvy, wise. My sister diminishes, until it is time to go home. She says she has had a good time. But her face is far away. She is thinking about herself, her peers, the course and expanse of her life. She takes out her nail kit and begins a new color—pale, misty blue instead of French manicure. I wait for her. She begins to giggle, then goes outside for a cigarette.

Another night we are quite a pair again. This time, she has decided to be entertaining. She leaves with five phone numbers, and the phone rings incessantly the next day. She is obviously annoyed on the phone, hangs up, and snorts. We laugh. She does not have time to slow down. She never moves too fast. She is strong, hardly broken, and I marvel at her, like a stately horse galloping in the sun. That is as close as I come to traveling with her, some days.

When I drive away, she is smiling. Her face is washed clean of make-up, flawless skin, adorable freckles. I see her disappear behind her door. She is going to make her house perfect, as she always does, to set it in order for any one who happens by—Veranda might stop in for a photo shoot, you never know. But she is not in a hurry. She turns the music louder. She’s back in her fluffy socks. She straightens this and smells that.

Before long she has disappeared into her yoga pants again, wandered to the back of the house, absorbed in a magazine, flopped on her bed. She leaves three lights on: one in the hallway, one in the living room, and one by the kitchen sink. I am welcome to drop by. She’ll be there, nails done, coffee ready. Catching her smile or her ear will take patience. I must visit as often as I can.

Weather

2005-08-22T01:49:00.000-05:00

Several nights ago, a dry evening spread wide its hands to reveal, like a model on a game show, an amazing display of light. Rapid lightening echoed in dense trees surrounding my deck, flashed down the street. Each blast shook me. But not enough. I wanted to be struck, the way a child hopes for attention from tragedy. In my protected little world, I wanted a truth to hit me from the vital encounter. Life is only as acute as what I’ve recently read, and that night I’m ashamed to say my mind was blank. Still, I sat alone in the darkness, sure that the weather could heal me. I strained for it.

Momentary flashes of light, a cool breeze in the midst of summer. I thought of my failures, my blandness, revealed in blinding fury. I thought of secrets and hidden faults—sins brought to light. And I thought about death, inescapable, inevitable, brilliant. My mind flitted and mustered, then fell back to the comfort of darkness. I tried to push down the yearning question in my heart: Why do I stay bundled in normality, asleep inside my thick skin, and unaffected by whatever resounding experience is out there? Do I fear getting burned? Am I dull?

The wind picked up. Rain flew in. Thunderclaps boomed mere feet from my house. I stood outside, held my aching ears, and wondered what it was that had suddenly littered my lawn. Leaves? Specs filled the newly-mowed grass as if fall had come suddenly, early. I raced down the porch steps in the pelting rain, worried I might be struck by lightening, and grabbed the first of identical objects. Ah! I had to laugh, terrified, disappointed, and radiant.

It was a white piece of Styrofoam, broken apart from a once-large form. The trash lid had blown open. What had been a very bad wrapping job from a well-meaning E-bay seller turned into a snowy nightmare across my formerly neat lawn, just in time for company the next day.

I could not blame the weather. It was too marvelous. And though I was at fault, I could not blame myself either. The scattered specs of wreckage across my lawn was the perfect reminder: plans are disrupted, the world turns over, and we are left to marvel, unable to pick up the pieces until the light of another day.

A Ring

2005-07-30T18:57:00.000-05:00

At eighteen, what did she know about rings? Getting away from her drunken father, from poverty, from shame and loneliness—the hope of starting over, getting out, becoming free—these things exhilarated her; not a ring. There wasn’t time for a ring; there wasn’t money. He probably used a bottle cap. Later, that changed—with everything else.
She sewed and cooked and cleaned, wept and stood her ground, went to church and taught Sunday School, weighed tender melons and read labels, gave to charity and spoiled her grandchildren, bought fancy clothes and traveled the world in a new ring, a gold mound with two rows of diamonds. This new ring sparkled and became an old ring that sang.

The diamond ring sang at the World’s Fair for her three wily children. It sang at the breakfast table for eight giggling grandchildren still in pajamas. It sang during turkey, stuffing, and raw cranberry salad. It sang at huge dinner parties, fifty people gathered around her hearth. It sang as she made root beer floats for her grandkids. It sang during luaus and it sang amidst luminarias. It sang as she made bran muffins for women in nursing homes, women who had just given birth, and women mourning their mothers. It sang as she fit women for prosthetic bras. It sang on airplanes, in taxi cabs, and on boats. It sang in Dillard’s and it sang in Foley’s. It sang in Spain and it sang in Morocco. It sang on her back porch, lemonade clinking in a Libby glass and watermelon being slurped from a colorful plastic tray. It sang until her hands grew weary, until she could no longer pretend she didn’t hurt so much. It sang until her heart grew more calloused, but no less proud.

When the diamonds were too heavy, when they could not stand the weight of dirty dishes and feet that hurt to walk to the front door, when she was too tired to ignore her own unhappiness, when she was sixty-eight years old, he had made for her a wide gold band, no diamonds. It flared at the ends. She wore it like a shield. It proclaimed that she was married, had position. But it didn’t have to say too much. Its simplicity was its beauty. Its asymmetrical design like a scarf on a windy day enveloped her long, strong fingers. Those fingers, knobby at the joints, were more expressive because of the wide gold ring. She was conscious of it always: the shield of years, of power gained, of poverty beaten.

No one thought about her rings when she wore her white gloves, insisted on white gloves so often the last two years of her life. She hated her beautiful hands. Her hands worked so hard. Her hands painted scenes from her childhood, and the childhood she wanted for her granddaughters. Her hands were talons, grabbing us fiercely for immense hugs as we rolled into her front door. Her hands gestured like a connoisseur, like an artist, like a mentor, like a guru. She meant for us to learn as she made us listen. She held the world and its marvels acutely and dramatically in each gesture of her hands.

Yet when her hands rested one on top of the other, clad in delicate white gloves, hovering above her silk-lined casket, no one thought about her ring. We thought, bewildered, about what we saw. Someone straightened a string of pearls around her neck over and over again. It slid on her satin blouse, rebellious and awkward. No one knew that what we could not see, her ring, would rise again.

Sitting in a pink folding chair on a Saturday morning, listening to vows I never expected, it was hard to see my grandmother’s ring slip onto another woman’s finger, only 8 months after my grandmother died. Deep breaths heaved my body as I fought back angry tears. I was determined to be polite. Only deep breaths. How does Grandmother’s ring feel on this new woman’s finger? How can this elderly bride carry around the weight of the first wife’s sixty-four years and nine months of marriage? The old rings were melted, only slightly altered, into a new one, the past twisted, presented to children and grandchildren as “Mrs. B. J.”

Strange. Devilish. Deceitful ring. In the past, that ring hailed raw elegance, rugged beauty, and hard-won affluence. It sparkled and shone even when anger bellowed and flew. It endured. It came out on top. Now that ring is changed. It does not mean that everything is okay between my grandfather and the rest of us. We have barely met a woman who wears a historic ring—our ring, by memory, by love. How can it fit on her finger?

Does a ring not revolt? It rests there, icily adorning another hand, no doubt beautiful in anyone else’s eyes. But we family members finally project our loss in this one object. It says that our grandmother’s memory was discarded too quickly. It says that we, the comforters, have been replaced. It says that something is confused in this new woman who sounds too much like our grandmother used to, but is not her. The ring is bent now, disfigured. Who can straighten a shield to its former glory?

Summer

2005-06-17T22:42:00.000-05:00

Summer wakes inside me. It does not happen every year. The miracle emerges more precious for its unpredictability. If I pretend summer is a mere extension of a long, heavy year, summer sleeps; she ends, and I go unrefreshed. I cannot let that happen. And I cannot force summer to bloom, not by angry determination.

Summer opens delicately, satisfyingly, when she is invited quietly for an extended weekend. She and I both know what that means: she could be here for a while. We keep our secret together: she nourishes me, and I worship her. It’s a love affair of the utmost satisfaction and mystery. I never know what summer will bring.

One year she brought a messy job I never dreamed I would love: a pizza place, smells of dough and tomato lingering in my sticky, sweaty clothes at night, stale from laughter, shared stories, hard work. The oven blasted my face, and I felt a wave of excitement thrill my body: in that humble routine, I knew I was alive.

One year summer quit teasing. The screams of mating frogs always told me that severe love and deep passion were hiding in the dense foliage of hot summer nights. One year I did hear them, smell them, taste them—moments of love so delicious, no one speaks of them. They bring reverence to the heart. To be young and to feel love in summer—every old heart wants it again.

One summer I found a breezy kinship, an easiness among new family, open arms, guttural laughs, walks with snow cones, the lake under fireworks, two little girls giggling past bedtime, my first introduction as “Aunt M.” I remember their wet hair from swimming, bangs too long, combing it into pony tails, the thrill of girlhood and prissiness. Their knobby knees bent to play skee-ball. They could not know the wonder they inspired in adult hearts. How could I invent a game for them? What they remember must be nothing I could invent. Summer and her enchantments can not be forced.

Summer must be lured by a few early mornings, too early. She must be hailed with afternoon runs, so hot I might die, I might fall over, but I keep going, smelling honeysuckle and grass, listening to crickets and the buzzing of indiscernible communities hidden in the brush. Summer awakens with fresh strawberries in yogurt, iced tea, a small sandwich, a big bowl of ice cream. Summer does not have air conditioning.

Summer gets a little raw. She creeps under my clothes and drips down my back, leaving a trail of sweat. Summer makes me move, more agile, more aware. Summer is not polite. She makes me feel every inch of myself. She is honest. If I have put on weight, she lets me know. I have to wear smaller clothes, sometimes take them off just to get cool. Summer says, “Go ahead,” tells me I’m beautiful. And I try to be, just to please her.

Heart Home

2005-05-08T16:30:00.000-05:00

I’m not sure why I like Santa Fe so much. It must be all the small things put together. The big things I tell people—over 200 art galleries, outdoor opera, plenty of hiking, kayaking, skiing, and other outdoor activities within reach, multicultural, artsy, great place to find a good rug, a handmade pot, or a unique piece of jewelry.

What I don’t say is this: I love the smell of sage and mesquite. The landscape’s hills seem to hide ancient secrets. When there aren’t Indian Paintbrushes or other equally vibrant flowers in bloom, snow covers everything in a hush so steady, so mysterious, that had Inuits lived in New Mexico, they would have invented yet another name for “snow,” which would mean “Northern New Mexican Mystery Blanket.”

Someone happy and contented must have lived and died at Bandelier, at Chaco Canyon. The ancestral Puebloans—indeterminable yet undeniable—haunt the land. Rocks adorned are front doors to ancient souls; full, happy bushes spring out from cliffs like welcome wreathes. The sun is full of knowingness, sapping and sustaining its progeny like a parent. The openness of sand after sand, red clay upon red clay, pine after pine tells a story. I’m always listening, yet I never hear it out. It leaves me waiting for more, elusive and wild.

I’m always disappointed when I actually touch rock, bark, cactus. Each one holds a roughness that belies the water that shaped it, a coarseness that hides soft murmurs underneath, or a sharp pain that warns: you must be dead to make love here, to marry this land without being torn apart.

Rounded doorways greet me like a womb. Come in, they say, and have a home you won’t forget. Be forever here, no matter where you journey, and quit looking for yourself, a past that is best forgotten. Dark wood beams jut out from adobe structures emphatically, making each room serious, bold. Fires blaze from patio fireplaces, and even in the summer this provides a warm comfort among friends, in the cold that haunts a desert night.

There’s a saying in New Mexico, “It’s all good.” It’s supposed to ease the foreigner’s mind when lines are too long at the DMV, when laws don’t make sense, when repairpersons refuse straight answers about when, exactly, utilities will be fixed. When too many people die from drunken drivers, despite the glorious beauty of a New Mexican night. When education lags to the lowest in the nation, despite the rich culture that permeates the region. When most folks don’t have enough money to get their teeth cleaned or to repair a tire, despite the breathtaking mansions nestled in the woods, resting atop cliffs like Christmas tree angels. When one can’t find what one needs, when directions lead one to exactly nowhere, when instructions make as much sense as the smile on a donkey, we say, “It’s all good.”

What Feeds the Soul

2005-05-04T21:47:00.000-05:00

I can never be too grateful when I look at my flower garden; it's my favorite part of owning a home. Even as I prepare to leave this place, I cannot resist shaping it. I watch fragile shoots give way to other fragile shoots, the whole plant indiscernible from its original, season after season. The plants creep, flower, and seed. I am a glutton for movement and abundance; the plants cannot develop and multiply fast enough.

Spring planting melts away my exhaustion and fear, invigorates and inspires me. I imagine new beds, more plants, butterflies buzzing around them. The lighting is always perfect in my mind. My heart fills with an other-worldly happiness that leaves no room for loneliness or angst. This is the safe place I build for myself amidst a few struggling bushes and flowers.

Tired but never finished, I walk inside and peel off muddy layer after muddy layer, including my oh-so-official men's Dickie's jeans. When I shower, I finally realize how tired and sore I am. I stretch under the water, closing my eyes, and see Hostas, White Nancys, Azaleas, Live Forevers, Red Dragons, Hydrangeas, Johnny Jump-Ups, Lava plants, and Geraniums. I see flower pots and mulch, root systems and caterpillars.

As the hot water pelts down on me, begging me to relax, I am just resistant enough to keep from drowning. If I was a good girl, I'd go to bed right away. But I dabble in other projects first, though nothing else satisfies as much; nothing feels finished.

By the time I finally pull the covers over me, my mind again fills with pictures of plants. My rest-seeking body unfolds the way Hosta leaves untangle from tight cocoons. Plunging into the darkness of soil, needing nourishment, I let myself go blank. I discard my thoughts like the tumbled Bermuda grass now filling a small ditch in our backyard. I cannot work any more today. I cannot write any more today. I cannot talk any more today.

With sleep, I die. I give myself over to the inevitable and sustaining darkness of subconscious waking. Ambition drains out. I breathe more steadily. Here the strangeness of life and death marry. They lovingly touch each other and look with contemptuous, impenetrable eyes at foolish slaves who try to understand their desire, their intimacy. It all churns on, one breath after the next, in vibrant dreams, peacefully asleep.

Thirty Part 2

2005-05-01T03:17:00.000-05:00

I lied. I lied by omission. Yes, on the morning of my 30th birthday, I had a great rush. I suddenly felt unconquerable, proud, strong, promising. But I always feel that way on my birthday. My mother rightly instilled a tradition of unabashed and cleansing celebration around birthdays—no matter what year it was, and *especially* on the biggie years.

But my lie had to do with the day after my 30th birthday, and every day after that. I still feel strength in age, like I have less to prove. Now I am no-kidding an adult. But I also feel loss. Something is gone forever—dead. I put her to rest, and I mourn her a little bit every day. I think, “What did I do with her? Not enough. What a waste.” I wish for her back. In the bittersweet wetness of gloom, I wonder who I am, anyway. I’m not Thirty. I’m just wearing her shirt.

Mine’s lost. Somewhere. Maybe it’ll turn up. I’m looking, okay?

Whispers

2005-04-13T23:12:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time I decided to get my mind straight by shaving off the baby hairs on the back of my neck. I found myself absentmindedly twisting and pulling them too often. It was distracting me and annoying others.

In a flash of brilliance (ehem), I grabbed my razor from the shower. In one swift, decisive stroke, I eliminated a three-inch patch of hair on the back of my head. “Oops,” I thought.

On the left side of my head, in place of those few baby hairs, grew a strange bucktooth of hair totally and bizarrely unencumbered by my pony tail. For months, this wisp of hair haunted me. It giggled behind my back. It mocked me. It spread gossip. Folks could believe its wild lies. After all, they could see it, and seeing is believing.

Something’s still not right with my hair. That patch has been trimmed and evened out, but inevitably it goes back to looking like an old man’s untrimmed beard. It remains a lopsided, unruly, odd bunch of hairs. I twist it and pull it more furiously than before. If only I could be rid of it. Where is my razor???

My love sweetly calls those irksome hairs my “whispers.” The endearment is deceiving. I am an idiot, and up or down, my hair is always laughing at me.

Far

2005-04-13T23:10:00.000-05:00

It’s been six months since Grandmother J. passed away. As the summer approaches, I get antsy for a trip to Lubbock, Texas to see her smile, wide as the plains, beautiful as the sunset. Her teeth alone could have pulled me from 900 miles away, out of the car, and into her arms. Upon each long-awaited return, her eyes told me that she had not forgotten. She studied my face anew—what changes had taken place, what was I hiding, what was I going through? She took a hard look and in her mind, we caught up. Still she was never ready to let me go.

I feel guilty now for having lived so far away. At the time I considered myself lucky to escape her too-penetrating gaze, the judgment that could bend my life away from itself. I was special twice a year. Distance kept a fresh intensity between us, preserved a certain magic.

All her excitement, anticipation, and projection got jumbled up. She thought I was her sister, my sister, her neighbor, or my mom. She couldn’t wait to see me, but when I arrived, suddenly she wasn’t sure who I was. She wondered if she had ever known me. And I wondered what part of her stories and warnings had ever been true.

She flashed the same spellbinding smile the last time I saw her. She charged me, weaving a colorful tapestry of memories as enchanting as Aladdin’s carpet, though each retelling was as different and nuanced as a hand woven rug. As far as her memory sailed, as tangled as her mind became, it’s impossible to believe that she was the one who left.

She never quit. She just couldn’t keep looking for me forever.

Johnny Jump-Ups

2005-04-13T22:25:00.000-05:00

Deep velvet purple and tropical-fish-yellow burst up from our drab little plot of land like a kid wearing googlie eyes. How can stems and petals so delicate be perennial?

When I bought Johnny Jump-Ups, I was told that they reseed. They don’t have bulbs that multiply. No, these frail-looking plants drop barely perceptible seeds and return, year after year, flourishing in an otherwise neglected garden. I was proud to have found such a marvelous plant, to have soil that would house glass angels.

This year my Johnny Jump-Ups did not entirely come back in the garden. Two plants popped up under the porch. Three or four junior versions arose where one used to be. But on the gravel walkway, a small river of purple and yellow shimmers. At a certain angle, it looks like fans congregating to cheer on the antics of Spring.

Do I replant these miniature Jump-Ups now? Are they already dropping seeds? Do I wait until they get bigger? *Will* they get bigger?

How long does it take for miracles to mature? What care boosts their potential? What ceremony takes place in my heart as I plant, water, fertilize, hope, wonder, marvel, and smile? What if these gentle, hardy Johnnys are here next year, but I am not?

I wish I could stay in one place long enough to watch my garden become established. I want to walk amidst graceful lines of ever-widening, ever-expanding beds. I want to take tea in my own fragrant, abundant yard. But, alas, I’m already deciding which plants to leave and which remnants of our small successes and pleasures to carry with me.

Thirty

2005-03-31T13:15:00.000-05:00

For one solid year Jack’s giant thundered above my head, threatening that my inevitable climb to thirty would bring heartache, weariness, and wrinkles. I would be ragged and unwanted. I would smile at children, and they would blink in return. Fright loomed over my head. Whenever Thirty’s boots banged on reality’s floor in my mind, I shuttered. There was no turning back. There was no escape. I was doomed.

I tried to tell myself that many writers, actors, singers, sculptors, politicians, and all-around great folks made great strides in their thirties—did their best work, had the best sex, had handsome children, quiet security, deep love, endearing friendship, and success. I, too, could look forward to my thirties.

But the reality of being only semi-employed and certainly falling short of my expectations of myself inevitably hit me. I was not seeing a personal trainer. My skin was getting drier and more wrinkled, even as new bouts of acne sprung up in unexpected places. I was not traveling the world. I was not making loads of money. I wasn’t even writing enough to leave a trail of words behind each day so that a young one could find me, leapfrogging across my thoughts into the pool of my existence. There was nothing hopeful about turning thirty.

Accepting this pain as a realist, I still suppressed the exact weight of it. I’m essentially an optimist. There had to be some out.

Finally, the day came.

As soon as I opened my eyes on my thirtieth birthday, a revelation hit me. I could be fat, frumpy, mean, frank, and unsmiley. I had earned it: I was old. I realized that when I'm hot, fit, hip, funny, and good-humored, it's icing—pure icing on the cake. Kindness is still important, only because it’s a good way to live—not because it brings approval.

With a basic love of humanity and security in age, I can be honest—even a bit abrasive—and still foster a loving community. It’s the best part of reaching adulthood—a balanced look at what is really important, mixed with a healthy awareness of one’s mortality. I hope that age brings more security, more awareness, more honesty, less hate, and less fear.

I may not be as pretty as I once was. But I never thought I was thin or pretty enough anyway. Now it doesn’t matter as much, and that is a wonderful reward.

One Idol

2005-03-25T08:45:00.001-05:00

I went on a Sentimental Journey at the Kennedy Center. Joel Grey, Dwight Yoakam, Harolyn Blackwell, and Johnny Mathis—those performers alone would have made it a memorable evening. Mathis burst into “Brazil” for his encore, and I was elated. Yet there was one act left.

When Aretha Franklin walked on stage, the audience erupted like a fountain turned on after winter. Refreshed hearts marveled at her presence—Aretha was among us. Her low-cut dress trailed the floor, swishing like a favorite aunt’s curtains caught in magical wind. White fur extended up from her back, creating a majestic collar fit only for a queen—American royalty at the Kennedy Center.

When Franklin addressed the audience, I felt like an old friend was speaking. She asked how we were feeling—if we were ready to rock and roll. Then she burst into “Chain of Fools.” I found myself crying—crying from anticipation, crying for an idol, crying for the woman who made me feel human. The First Lady of Soul made me real, Velveteen Rabbit-like, just for listening, for being there, for joining my soul to her music.

Greatness touches down in amazing thunder. Then she radiates like a child, simple, beautiful, essential.

Explosive Tea

2005-03-01T00:11:00.000-05:00

The package says to drink twice a day for pounds to shed without starvation or hyperventilation. Sweet. I always knew the world could be saved by tea. If only I could find just the right one.

So I bought it, of course, just to try a new tea. Since the Latino market in my small town always makes me feel briefly transported to a far more exotic place where I speak only Spanish and cultivate a plethora of colorful tropical plants on my tiled balcony which is perpetually warm and which provides brief moments of fresh air between rapid-fire earth-shattering decisions that I make and wild, passionate sex that I have, I decided to take a bit of the Latino market home in the mysterious promise of chiseled thighs, a slender waist, and gorgeous skin that I was sure this tea would give.

The package held a warning: some may experience increased bowel movements in the first couple of days. Well, I’ve got no delicate constitution. Besides, anything’s worth it to be the next blonde, Latina Sophia Loren living la vida romantica en la Zona Rosa de la Ciudad de Mexico. I’m sure I can handle it, I thought. I was already picturing my new short-shorts and tan legs as I drove home.

Like I always do, I sipped my hot tea at first. But as it began to cool, I began to gulp. And I sorta guzzled on it all day. That’s my tea philosophy: if some’s good, more’s better.

So when I found myself atop a toilet at 3 p.m., crying out for mercy like a thief who had been tricked into an early death by torture, I remembered that warning. Gripping the sink, pulling the towels down, groaning in pain through blast after blast, I thought, “What’s in this stuff? It’s amazing!”

My most recent trip to the Latino market revealed that there are many brands of tea that challenge you and your feeble bottom to a match of wills to the thin. Just look for a blend of Senna and Chinese High Mallow. You won’t be disappointed.

My polite friends drink tea. It’s hard to share such a subject when discussing delicate leaves of tea and various varietals available online (one friend shared a pot of tea with me that goes for $85 per ounce!). But I *had* to open my mouth about my amazing tea, because I like attention. To my surprise, the conversation didn’t die an awkward death. My polite friends all wanted to try it.

I’m still waiting to hear the results. In the meantime, maybe I should start drinking my weight loss tea again—this time finishing the hard medicine beyond two days. After all, I only woke up in a mad, explosive-assed panic twice in the night.

Perhaps this exceptional tea holds the power of the near-death experience. I’ve never felt so alive. It could be addictive. I’ll just have to get into the habit of bleach-cleaning my entire bathroom after each flush. Bottoms up!

Baby A.

2005-02-21T13:23:00.000-05:00

I stood my ground at the foot of a blue hospital bed, halogen glow spotlighting One Hope—One Hope for peace, unity, survival, accomplishment. Would she breathe?

An ashen head—grey and white, looking pudgy and shriveled, like a bottled brain in formaldehyde—emerged from between two legs, her mother’s soft shrieks a blessing, even for the two-year-old son already perched on a pillow above, calmly listening, then eyes glazing over to the distant TV screen to watch A Bug's Life.

Finally, a wail. Glorious pink. Baby A. has come.

Holding her, she told me she wants to be a painter. She imagined herself on a dark wooden ship, at sea under a full moon. She voyages through forest and mountain, ocean and sky to find stars and laughter, color and love.

Her little fingers held the bold intention of her dreams. As they fell to her side, her body went limp with sleep. One Hope has no fear.

M.’s New Weight Loss System

2005-02-11T00:06:00.000-05:00

Late at night, when the freezing wind is howling, and the moon is hidden behind frozen, miserable clouds, the kind that only smile from behind windows or parkas, please join me in revolutionizing the flabby American.

Just Dance.

If you have a cramped apartment, I’m sorry. There’s no hope for you. I know you’ll never move the coffee table your feet are resting heavily on.

I have a whopping big basement—much bigger than a gal would ever need. And it has a small radio, which plays a cheesy station I did not choose. Turns out this station is perfect for gettin’ my groove on. I have a low mirror tilted up to get a full-body shot of my squishy, chunky form waddling to and fro like a Middle Eastern preschooler mixed with a dolphin side show at a water park. I rock.

Everything I read about weight loss these days stresses that simple activity keeps the pounds off over the long haul. One doesn’t have to suddenly begin a four-hour aerobic routine in order to stave off old-body weight. Nay, nay.

And because moving counts, when otherwise I’m idly blogging or hopelessly commuting, let me say that dancing *rocks*! I feel overjoyed (not to mention nicely sleepy) after a can-you-believe-it hour has passed. Can you believe it? An hour has passed! And we were only dancing. And lifting our puny little upper body weights. Like weight posers. We like it. We’re toning. We’re beautiful. We’re Sexy.

Swish Swish (that was my enormous butt peeking out from my graceless hips). Moves. I got ‘em. You can even do this while drinking cosmopolitans.

On Lemony Snicket’s A Tale of Unfortunate Events

2005-01-30T20:36:00.000-05:00

I watched the Adaam’s Family over and over again, until it just wasn’t funny anymore. I even saw the very disappointing Adaam’s Famiy Values, and was disappointed. Then I saw The Nightmare Before Christmas and was renewed. Not to mention The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Batman, Edward Scissorhands, and anything that might have a drop of dark humor.

So when I saw the previews for Lemony Snicket’s A Tale of Unfortunate Events, I was hooked before I ever entered the theatre. Yet I let my naiveté keep me from knowing exactly what to expect. In this case, going in with low expectations meant big rewards. I’ve already seen the movie twice—something I never do. And I can’t wait to go again.

The Baudelaire children wormed their way into my heart with their incredible good looks (let’s stay shallow), delightful acting (Liam Aiken stole my heart with his “I’m going home” scene—can I get dibs on him now for when he’s older?), and well-written “jobs”—inventing (like it, chica), reading (only Liam Aiken makes this sexy—I mean, cool), and biting (oooh—finally somebody made this mainstream! Yummy!).

Orphaned, homeless, and relentlessly pursued by evil, the kids are ever-building for themselves a sanctuary. Ahhhhh.

Even as the kids go zen, I go zah! at the delicious hyper-aesthetic. Every square inch of the screen is crammed with carnivalesque gadgets and gismos, all made from the most zany, rust-encrusted pieces of junk, dimly lit. A car phone has an old, black receiver. A dashboard’s sound system is reel-to-reel. Six rear-view mirrors monitor children in the back seat.

Jim Carey fans and foes, rest assured that his over-the-top comedic style is put to good use as the Count. Actually, he plays three distinct characters, each with delightfully outrageous sub-characters (his rendition of a dinosaur wearing high-waisted, black-and-white striped, 1920s style pants—well I wanna go jurassic!).

So if you’re not into the Happy Little Elf, take a minute to visit the totally rotten and horrible website, http://www.unfortunateeventsmovie.com.

Close

2005-01-24T13:23:00.000-05:00

It’s as if she isn’t gone. I still feel the grip of her judgment, her wit, her laugh, her expectations. Yet I feel lost; she’s dead. She wasn’t allowed to die. She never let go of me.

Who can determine closeness? Certainly it has nothing to do with distance—physically—or time, or even secret-worthiness. I suspect my closeness to her was secret in itself—the best secret she ever gave me.

Some ties are too big to be noticed at first. And some ties are too strong to be taken for granted. The influence runs deep. This indeterminable closeness can go virtually unnoticed until it’s threatened or gone.

My expectations, in retrospect, include Sunday afternoon painting lessons, sewing lessons, and tea. Long conversations. Working through things. Comfort. Advice. Assurance.

But with Grandmother J. I shared no regular domino games or cooking. Her paintings held secret yearnings I couldn’t begin to comprehend. Her talent for creating a home echoed of heartbreak in a past I yearned to know. But there is never enough time to recount every aspect of a life.

I couldn’t tell her my secrets or even the obvious parts of my life; she wouldn’t have approved. I could hardly find where to put each strange, worn utensil unloaded from her dishwasher. Her house was a series of mysteries, her sternness a reproach from some dark demon she overcompensated for in an effort to save her progeny. What was she afraid I would become? Why was she desperate to save me, to save herself?

Her fearfulness, her judgmental approach (to me and everyone else), in some ways kept us from ever being close. In other ways, it formed a secret glue of hope and longing that held us together—a ferocious bond of love so fierce it’ll destroy one, even as it burns to keep one alive. I still feel the ache of that brittle love torn away, broken off, shattered in the quiet residue of life’s regular cycle into death.

It doesn’t seem natural. If someone lived so fiercely, she should never die. No painting or photograph or story can sum up her intensity, her brilliance, her laugh. I’m still looking for the lady I was sure I knew, who maybe never knew me, despite my feeling that we were close.

The Sauna

2005-01-15T03:21:00.000-05:00

Clock staring, treadmill grinding, repetitive weight lifting--the gym gets boring. Faced with the monumental task of self-improvement, heightened health, and weight loss, I become self-reflective. Just how far will I take this treadmill that is my life? Tonight I disrupted an already tenuous routine. Still in street clothes, I took off my shoes and headed to the sauna. I was tired in many ways. The sauna called to me like Mary’s open arms beseeching the troubled to prayer.

I relished geometric order in the cozy, lowlit room. Tiny floor tiles marched neatly in square after square. Rows of wooden slats held the benches together in a tight “u.” Entering the dark wooden cave--so private, so quiet--I was alone. But not totally alone.

Anyone could have entered at any minute. The semi-public nature of my visit lent more vitality to my thoughts. Looking around the room, imagining where people would lay, sit, talk, I was surrounded by spirits. Ancient tribal men, their skins drooping in the chest and waist, and fat ladies with gray hair and bright floral bathing suits sat shimmering in the heat, ethereal.

I gave in to that heat and left every conscious thought at the door. In this remote place I could breathe deeply, like a child. A half-smile crossed my face. Every pressing thought took a delirious, happy quality.

My mind became a tiny wooden boat at sea, each wave of thought pushing it up and down, up and down. Perhaps a reward for taking time to rest, or the sauna-fairy's gift to visitors, this semi-unconscious state lent me the impression of being in complete balance. I made enough money. I had enough time. I was full of love. I was happy in my work, writing each day with a sense of purpose.

My words trickled onto webpages like mountain water from a natural spring. I tuned into myself and found that at the core of things, I was able to connect with people who were otherwise strangers. Meaning and significance filled my heart like the thick tangle of branches on an old tree. I knew the satisfaction that only comes from rich, wide experience, from being outside oneself long enough to love oneself.

In that place, the world was a manageable enterprise, a great celebration of connection and fulfillment. I could feel them. They could see me.

First Kiss

2005-01-09T01:58:00.000-05:00

My niece desperately wants her first kiss. She wants it to be romantic. It is a rite of passage, and I think she wants to grow up more than she actually wants her boyfriend. Still, she’s asked me about my first kiss. She’s in the sixth grade, and I’d like to be honest.

At first, I thought, no, no no—you should not be kissing boys! You’re only 12. But my own experience was definitely out of the norm, and I have no reference for when a young woman should pass this rite. I had my first kiss when I was twenty years old and in college. I thought I was in love, although the truth is that I felt desperately out of synch with all my “experienced” dorm mates. I knew that not having had a real kiss kept me hopelessly in the dark about a major part of adult life.

My first kiss was an exercise in not puking when someone is proud of what they give. Like being offered chicken and ass casserole by a blue-haired lady, I tried to be polite, and to get information. My beau was too enthusiastic about my performance to have been faking how great he thought I was. And it was a little awkward to create an endearing silence rather than false ravings for what I did not enjoy in the least.

I felt dismayed. This was what my gal pals were so excited about? This is what kept them out at all hours? Frankly, it took me several hours of paying bills, sorting through junk mail, and playing the boisterous soundtrack to Pulp Fiction over and over again before I felt my mind was clear enough to go to sleep.

I don’t like to talk about first kisses or even the subsequent good ones, because I’m generally squeamish about my sexual history. When I look back, I see a series of mistakes and failures, though they may have been great fun at the time. Recently, I read an article on guilt in a Buddhist magazine. As I read on and on, the author told me that the self did not exist, so to feel guilt was misplaced energy, trying to create a self, focusing on it.

She said that I am inherently innocent—we all are—that mistakes are the result of confusion and ignorance. We can separate ourselves from our wrong doing because we are inherently innocent. We can simply recognize when we’ve been ignorant or confused, and apologize to offending parties when necessary. We need not feel guilt.

Guilt is useless and destructive, even debilitating. Too often I find myself amuck in negative thoughts in general. There is too much beauty to enjoy, so why? Why not just focus on what is gorgeous in the world?

And it is in that spirit that I would like to bask hedonistically in my first real-real kiss. My first beautiful wonderful kiss. Because of all the kisses I received before or since, this one stands out. I’m not even sure when it happened. But it marked my life so that all other kisses are measured by that one.

It happened unexpectedly. I had been hanging out with my good friend, M. It was time to go. He escorted me outside, and before I got to my car, we both stopped to enjoy the night, not quite ready to say good-bye. The concrete below our feet glowed, awash in dreamy moonlight. The sodden Arkansas heat had lifted, allowing a breeze to playfully brush our faces. There was silence. Neither of us had anything to say. But my heart was full from his good company. Although I enjoyed him very much, I’d never fantasized about kissing him. I just stood there, held by something left unsaid, something unfinished.

M. said what a beautiful moon it was, and I was tickled at his attempt to be romantic. Usually self-confident, I saw him suddenly vulnerable, and I blushed. He leaned in to kiss me, and I let it happen, just to see what it would be like. I don’t remember his lips, exactly, or what he did. But the feeling I had from that first truly wonderful kiss is burned into my body.

The night exploded. A large boom went off in my head, my heart swelled, and the night was marked as “marvelous” by two connoisseurs of beauty and art, all that is gorgeous. My own private fireworks show—only I could see it—spent colors all over the sky. I floated home, my mind stunned and lifted. Inside, my body marched full of frenetic ants, each dancing with parasols. But on the outside, I was lost in a dream, unusually calm, quiet, and still.

My niece didn’t ask for advice, exactly. She wrote, “When did you get your first kiss?” But as an adult, I feel the annoying compulsion to end each letter with some sage gift from my infinitely wide experience (gag!). I can’t keep it, I have to say it: it will come, if you let it. If you don’t rush it, if you are not in a hurry, love will grab you like an unexpected hello, and you’ll decide what to do with it. I wish the rites of passage could be erased, so that beautiful moments alone could come as they do, and be savored by hearts willing to love and to remember.

Night Runner

2005-01-07T21:48:00.000-05:00

One of life’s rich pleasures is the night sky. It looms overhead like an old friend, neglected (by most of us). It begs for long, longing looks and deep breaths.

I always feared running at night—unsure of my footing, of motor vehicles, of animals. Sometimes, even afraid of human predators. But tonight as I ran under a moonless, cloudy night sky, I passed Scott, who said, “enjoying the weather.” I hadn't thought of enjoying the cold, the dark. But he was right: the air filled my lungs more sweetly than indoors. I felt less strange and more a part of the silhouetted trees, the soft leaf-covered earth, the grey clouds suspended overhead.

The strings on my red wool beanie flopped around, my ears protected with ear flaps. My long, loose running pants dangled like bells; my long sleeved t-shirt hung like a ghost costume. The night was brisk, and as I ran, I heard a soft trickling sound. Then I realized it was the patter of gentle rain drops. Like getting pats on the back from a third grade teacher, I was delighted and content as a child--nurtured, grateful, proud, satisfied.

The night sky had opened its arms and spilt tears of joy on the ground, embracing me like Grandmother J. when I’d been gone too long. “Come here,” it said, “I can hardly wait to get my arms around you.”

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For an exhiliarating read, "The Night Runner," by Bill Shralow, go to http://www.runningtimes.com/issues/02nov/nightrunner.htm.