Midlife Madness and Musing

All I Wanna Do Is Have Some Fun

2010-03-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Obama,

In the words of one of your supporters, you don't bring me anything but down. I am tired of hearing about health care reform and financial bailouts and unemployment, and I am especially tired of all the ridiculous spending and tax hiking you and your Democrat compatriots are pushing on the people like hoodlums congregating around the corner from school, waiting to sell cigarettes and pills to vulnerable children. But as long as you seem hell bent on spending money, I have an idea for you.

It came to me one day when I witnessed some strange things. I saw a neighbor, who I'd heard had recently lost his good job, riding a bike. I suppose he could have been gritting his teeth against the wind and incoming insects, but I rather think he was smiling.

That same day, I was doing a little grocery shopping, trying to save money on special deals and making sure I was using my coupons wisely, when I saw a grown man pushing a shopping cart, in which sat another grown man. They looked like ordinary guys, not people with some sort of disability. They were laughing.

And then, on my way home from the store, I saw another man riding a bike. He was pulling one of those bike trailers for kids. But there wasn't a kid in it. There sat a grown woman, her hair blowing in the breeze. I kid you not. The man was looking back at her, and she returned his gaze. They were both smiling and laughing.

At first I was convinced the world had indeed gone mad, good material for another Stephen King book. But then I realized that in spite of, or perhaps because of, all the bad news bombarding us every day, these people had simply released their inner children for a few moments or a few hours. Recession regression, I suppose you could call it.

And that's what inspired me to make a recommendation to you: mandate that all Americans are required to have some fun.

You could simply pick a date on the calendar (perhaps your birthday, or - better yet - mine) and declare it to be National Fun Day. But I suspect that would be far too easy, and inexpensive, for your taste. It might be better if you establish a Department of Fun, and install a Secretary of Fun with a sizeable staff. They would be charged with determining how often we Americans are required to have fun, and legal definitions of what constitutues fun, and I'm sure you could squeeze a few billion into one of your House bills to support our cost of fun. Maybe even issue fun vouchers for those seriously in need of R&R.

I'll let you figure out the details, but I do have one specific request. I would like to see a regularly scheduled moratorium on bad news. It might be one hour a day, or one day a week (whatever works best for you) but during that time all news media, corporate PR firms, and other bearers of bad news would be prohibited from discussion or disclosure of anything depressing unless it was a natural act of God. Of course, you'd need to create another agency to enforce this, like maybe a National Fun Guard, with special ops troops dressed in clown suits and toting AK47 water pistols, posted at all major news, internet, and financial corporations just to be sure there are no leaks of doom and gloom. And to pay for this you should probably tax all the naysayers out there. You know, a fee of some sort for every time somebody whines about the economy, or something like that.

Okay, I think I got my point across. I'll let you figure out the rest, like how to define act of God when you can't really mention God in the law, and who's going to write the bill (it should be written by someone who actually knows how to have fun - good luck on that one) and what you're going to do about people whose definition of fun is something that could offend others; we don't want to have the ACLU getting involved here. I'll let you do the rest because right now I've got better things to do. Right now, all I wanna do is have some fun.

With utmost respect from one fun-loving citizen.

PS Thanks to newshopper.sulekha.com for that great photo of you and Sheryl.

After You're Dead

2010-03-10T14:04:00.000-08:00

I had a record number of views on my blogs this past Monday, which is my usual day of posting. But I didn't post that day so it makes me wonder why so many viewers. It's almost as if I have more readers when I don't have anything to say. Hmmm.

It could be a case of absence making the heart grow fonder. Nobody cared about Van Gogh till after he died, and we sure all forgave Michael Jackson his transgressions once he passed on. And then there's Bill Clinton and he's not even gone yet.

I know plenty of mothers who reminisce about how wonderful their children were when it's common knowledge they were, in fact, holy terrors.

There's something about human nature that makes us care more about the individual after the fact. When someone we had right in front of us disappears, we then decide how valuable he or she was and are willing to forgive and forget.

It'll be interesting to see how many viewers I get when I go to the great beyond. They'll probably be clogging up the virtual airways for days. But until then, I think I'll keep yapping about who knows what, knowing full well nobody will care about it for (hopefully) a very long time.

Upside down

2010-03-01T13:02:00.001-08:00

Sometimes things look better when they're upside down. Remember when, as a child, you'd lie with your head hanging off the bed and look up at your mom or your sister or your dog? They'd look weird; their mouths large and distorted, their words even coming out upside down...but it always made you laugh?

When the minority wins the race, it feels right.
But it also feels right when the politician falls off his rung...
When the banker goes bankrupt...
When the underdog wins the medal...
When the world gets turned upside down, even just a little.

I think science has it all wrong; the world isn't round. Round suggests things are equal, fair, balanced.

I think it's a lopsided world, and it needs to be shaken up every now and then.

That's why, when my cat chases my dog, I cheer.

I Am Sick of Doom and Gloom

2010-02-24T08:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, I said in my last post that I was returning to battle because that's what I'm drawn to, that's what I know. But you know what? I am sick of doom and gloom.

I am tired of winter and clouds and ice.
I am weary of broken teenaged hearts and missing assignments and technoholism.
I do not want to see anymore burned out light bulbs.
I wish I could stop worrying about aging parents and pets.
I don't like backaches.
I refuse to read any more poems, for a while, about grief and illness and lost love.

And most of all, I want a break from all the bombardments of economic doom and gloom. It's in the papers, on the internet, and overheard in every coffee shop. Friends need jobs. Panhandlers need money. Creditors need bills paid. The government needs more taxes. Chickens are running in circles proclaiming the sky is falling, and I don't want to hear it anymore.

I want to stick my head in the sand, but I know I can't really do that. Still, enough is enough. I don't need this shoved in my face every day, day after day. I get it. I understand. Now instead of bitching and moaning, let's do something about it, people.

Sometimes it doesn't matter what you do. Just do something. I tell my son that the best way to get over a broken heart is to immerse yourself in other things. Distract yourself with activity. For arthritis, take some medicine for crying out loud. If you don't like the way bigger things are handled, like government spending for example, then get involved. Do something. Just stop whining and stop pointing to all the storm clouds on the horizon.

My father used to say it doesn't pay to worry about what might not happen tomorrow. I like that. He didn't mean ignore risk; he just meant don't drive yourself crazy with doubt. If there's a cloud out yonder, then close the shutters and take shelter, but also have patience and hope. It could be a deluge - that you're surely going to survive; we always do - or it could miss you altogether.

The point is that life isn't all doom and gloom. There are things, even little things, worth celebrating. The sun still shines on occasion, the dog still wags her tail. The birds still sing in the morning. The river still runs. And my coffee is still warm and smooth.

Drawn Into Battle

2010-02-16T08:12:00.001-08:00

I went away. Checked out. Got the hell out of Dodge for a while. We all do it, or at least we all need to. It was heaven: warm and quiet, a Hawaiian womb.

But now I'm back. And what I want to know is: why do things always seem to change while you're gone? The air grows cooler, damper. The list of to do's grow longer. Frazzled relationships are even more frayed when you return. Re-entry is impossibly hard.

I saw The Hurt Locker while I was gone and (spoiler alert) the protagonist found that he was drawn back to battle because it had become the only truth in his life. I wouldn't begin to suggest that my life compares with what our soldiers see, in reality, but as an analogy it's applicable. The battlefield at home has become my truth.

Like the moth drawn to the proverbial flame, and like some soldiers, I am drawn back to battle because it's what I know. The difference for me is that, unlike my winged or uniformed counterparts, I know I'll have the privilege of returning to my flames over and over again.

The Power of Purging

2010-01-22T15:39:00.001-08:00

A couple of months ago I spent a few minutes cleaning the old baking products from my pantry: cake flour, baking powder, etc. I was inspired by a spill I discovered after a few teenagers had a craving for homemade pie and took it upon themselves to make a crust from scratch. For some reason I felt really good after I cleaned that shelf. (Am I weird or what?) I later hinted to a few friends that maybe I'd start a new blog ala Julie and Julia; each blog would discuss and explore the value of cleaning. But I couldn't come up with a catchy title; somehow Gail & Heloise didn't have the same ring. And besides, I don't really like to clean.

To me, cleaning is boring. When I have to clean, I do the bare minimum, sort of like one of my kids approaching a history assignment. You do what you have to do (and I certainly don't like things dirty), but eventually it gets boring and you wander off to something more fun, like eating chocolate or going for a walk. The good news, and the bad news, is that the cleaning project is always there waiting for you when you return.

But every once in a while, I do like to purge, which in my mind is different from cleaning. And that's what I really did in my pantry that day anyway. I purged powdery substances. Then, last week I purged a whole lot of shoes, which was horribly painful, but in the end, when I looked at my less-cluttered closet, I realized it was a cleansing ritual and I felt okay.

Now I'm hooked, and today I decided to attack my spice cabinet. Fortunately, I didn't have any more old McCormick's spice tins (if you do, your spices are more than 15 years old), but I know some of mine were seriously aged. Depending on who you believe, herbs and spices can last from 6 months to 4 years. Whole/dried herbs last longer than powdered ones. Of course most spice brands don't bother putting an expiration date on the jar, and of course I have not been very consistent at marking the date purchased when I buy them. So I had to resort to the tried-and-true method of determining whether they were salvable...the sniff test, and when in doubt, taste.

Turns out I was able to save more than I'd expected, but I dumped a lot too, from bay leaves we brought home from Grenada several years ago to the orange peel I rarely use. The onion powder was clumped somehow, so that had to go. The ground thyme and sage were actually dated, by me, and the year of purchase was, well, too long ago to mention. And then there was the mace. Who uses mace? Why did I even have it in my pantry? I have no idea when or why I bought it, and the sniff test was inconclusive (what the heck is mace supposed to smell like, anyway?) so out it went.

One thing that came of this project is that I now get to replenish, and although I don't like to shop for most things (other than shoes and boots), I do like to shop for spices. I love those pretty glass jars lined up in alphabetical order in the store, filled with gold and red and green leaves and powders and pods, with names that evoke images of faraway places, like Jamaican ginger and szechuan pepper or madras curry or zydeco dust. And this exercise of going through the spices also brought back memories of parties and people of my past, like the thyme, sage, and poultry seasoning in Grandma Ruth's Thanksgiving dressing recipe and the sesame seeds in my old favorite hummus recipe that showed up as an appetizer numerous times. But the best part of today's purging exercise was getting to sniff and taste all those spicy, pungent, aromatic leaves and powders. Wow, what a rush.

So now the spice cabinet's clean, and the baking product shelf is orderly, and there are no longer jumbles of shoes in my closet. I feel a little cleaner, a little lighter. Life looks a little clearer now. But I'm afraid I am hooked. Hi, my name's Gail and I'm a purgaholic.

I look around at my kitchen, my closet, my office (oh dear), and my kids.

The question now is, what's next?

Terror in the Shoes

2010-01-15T16:56:00.001-08:00

I am not Imelda Marcos, but I did have 56 shoes at last count. I am not Richard Reid, but I am a bit of a shoe terrorist.

You see, I had a plantars wart. There, I said it. It's so hard to admit; sounds so ugly. But it is a pretty common problem, I've learned. It started out as no big deal, but last year it started to mutate into a giant alien. My podiatrist and I waged a ferocious war, knowing full well it was a weapon of mass destruction that must be destroyed. After several months, lots of money, a fair amount of discomfort and much inconvenience for my entire family, it seems that the monster has left my body, although I don't want to jinx anything so I won't say that aloud or even begin to celebrate.

Besides, I don't feel much like celebrating because I'm in mourning. My podiatrist suggested I throw away all my shoes just in case the HPV that causes plantars warts lives on, even without a host, in my footwear.

Throw them ALL away?

You've got to be kidding. There are thousands of dollars wrapped up in those babies, and furthermore a lot of them are actually comfortable. They've traveled to China and Alaska and Chicago with me. They've attended weddings and parties and school plays. They've been splashed by chlorinated water in Idaho and they've been sucked into quicksandlike mud in Texas. It's not that they're gorgeous Prada creations; most of them are actually Danskos and Merrills and Ariats and Uggs and Keens. But they're mine, all mine. They represent me.

They've been loyal to me; I've been loyal to them. They're like kids but they don't talk back. (Okay, some of them do, and that's why I never wear them. And those are the ones I don't mind pitching.)

Yes, I'm attached to my shoes, but I was also raised by a survivor of the Great Depression and I'm living in the midst of the Great Recession, which means I don't like to throw away anything, least of all fantastic shoes in great shape. But I can't donate them because I can't bear the thought of passing on the alien HPV to an unknowing victim.

So I've spent the last few days dividing them into categories: the ones I never wear, the ones that can be washed in hot water, the ones whose insoles can be replaced. The ones I can bear to part with and the ones I can't let go of. The ones I know were never exposed to the wart and the ones who have been intimate with it. And then I recategorize them again, and again, trying to find some way to save the favorites from the dump. All the while, the shoes are lined up one next to the other, looking all innocent, but I know that at least one of them, if not more, is a terrorist waiting to attack once again; like a little rogue band, plotting to reinfect me and recreate yet another episode of podiatric terror.

So here I am, mourning the loss of my little terrorist wonders, waiting for the strength or divine intervention to let them go.

It's Not Just the Keys, Dear

2010-01-12T11:30:00.001-08:00

"You give me the slip between garlic and lilies, as if this is what comes of my unprotected loves..."

This is how Sarah Barber begins her poem about lost love in To a Ring I Lost Planting Bulbs. Whether it's a lost ring, a lost game, or a lost job, loss is so much more than just a thing that goes away.

I discovered a few days ago that I'd lost a set of car keys, but I couldn't just shrug this away. I had to spend hours combing through pockets and drawers, peeking under sofas and pillows, and even inspecting the puppy's crate, and then I went on to interrogating everyone but the mailman about whether they'd seen my keys. I had to retrace and then retrace again my steps on the last day I'd seen them, trying to figure out where they might have given me the slip. At day's end, there was no sign of the buggers and I was emotionally and physically drained.

Because it's not just about the keys. Clearly I can get a new set made. It's about having to admit it's my fault, which means I've lost my reliability. It's about the day-long search that produced gum wrappers and dust bunnies and pine cones tracked in by the dog, which means a lot of lost time. And it's about giving in and giving up, admitting defeat, which means a loss of dignity.

We all know those jangly little creatures didn't exactly get up from the dinner table, pack a bag, and runaway. They're not teenage kids, for crying out loud. More likely they're sitting exactly where I left them - not in a pocket of my favorite jeans or in a zipped compartment in my purse, and certainly not in the pot where my keys are supposed to be - but surely they're sitting right where I left them in some completely ridiculous and illogical and forgettable place, and some day (maybe weeks or months from now) I'll stumble upon them and feel totally stupid.

Until that day comes, though, I won't be able to rest completely. I'll continue to search my memory for a clue, and check behind furniture and inside shoes I hadn't thought to check before, and suspect everyone who comes and goes that they might have my car keys, and therefore the keys to my inner peace, in their posession.

And now that I think about it that way, I guess car keys - especially lost keys - are a lot more like teenage kids than you'd think. Especially the way you need them more than they need you, and the part about feeling stupid. The big difference, as I see it, is that I can get a new set of car keys made.

Those (Un)friendly Skies

2010-01-05T18:12:00.000-08:00

Today on NPR I heard a comment that the skies will never be safe 100% of the time. The comment didn't surprise me; I'm a realist. I'm also a mom, and I learned long ago that if someone - whether he's 3 or 23 - wants to circumvent a system, he will do so provided he has a strong desire, a decent plan, and a bit of good fortune. It doesn't necessarily mean he's smarter than the authorities he's trying to beat (at least that's what I've reminded myself whenever my kids have pulled the wool over my eyes) but it does mean that shit does happen. That's life.

I've also heard a lot of banter since the botched terrorist plot on 12/25 about whether our security systems are failing us. They probably are. But that doesn't mean that I won't fly ever again, because besides being a realist I'm an idealist, someone who still believes in the goodness of mankind. I believe there are more good guys out there than bad ones, and there have been numerous terrorist plots stopped because of good people who stepped in and did what they had to do.

So it seems to me (and others too) that there must be a way to harness, maybe even capitalize on, this goodness in our global attempts to combat terrorism. We still need to keep on beefing up the airport security; we need to keep trying to outsmart the terrorists. But we have some safety measures right in front of us we need to deploy: each other.

Think about all those times you've heard flight attendants ask the people in the exit row for verbal confirmation that they're able and willing to assist the crew in the event of an emergency. Granted, I am also a cynic (while being a realist and an idealist) and I do actually wonder how many people say "yes" because they don't want to give up the extra legroom and the opportunity to sit behind someone who can't recline his seat. I wonder, too, how many people say yes but in an actual emergency would just open the hatch and jump out to save their own skin.

But really, why not take that a step further? Why not ask for verbal confirmation of all passengers if they're able and willing to assist the crew in the event of a terrorist emergency? If you say no, the flight attendant can either re-seat you so that the good guys are evenly distributed in the plane, or they can re-seat you right out the door. Better yet, why not have a special passenger class for the good guys who are willing to fight off terrorists; you've got first class and elite mileage class and anti-terrorist class ahead of the coach passengers. In fact, let the anti-terrorist fighters board first ahead of everyone else. Let them get the aisle seats. Give them oodles of pretzels and plenty of soda and even a free snack pack or two. Hell, give them a discount and lots of free miles. Just make sure they're evenly scattered throughout the plane, including coach - where most of the terrorists seem to fly - and by all means don't give them any free, cheap sparkling wine.

While you're at it, why not include this in the airline marketing plan? We have the government-employed federal marshalls on flights every now and then, but why not offer anti-terrorist training to all passengers? The passenger pays a nice fee, attends some classes on what to watch for and how to take down the bomb-laden lunatic, and then gets a bunch of perks from now until eternity on his or her travel plans.

Sound like capitalist vigilantism? Maybe. But if that's what it takes to make our skies friendly again, then maybe it's the way to go.

Sometimes I don't feel like sitting in the exit row because I'm not sure I want to, or should, be responsible for everyone else. I probably wouldn't sign up for the anti-terrorist classes either for the same reason. The perks wouldn't be enough for me. But I think there are plenty of dudes out there willing to give it a try. And I'd gladly sit in a center seat and be the last one to board if it meant I was giving up my privileges to one of the good guys: someone able and willing to save my life by stopping terror in the skies.

There is Judgment, and There is Love

2009-12-30T14:55:00.001-08:00

I guess it's human nature to form opinions about other people. He is smart, she is pretty, he is shy, she is messed up.

But I wonder why.

What good did it do for those cave men to judge others way back when? I guess if you were worried about your survival, and somebody was heading out to hunt sabre tooth tigers, and you knew he couldn't throw a spear two feet, it would be good to recognize that weakness and, hence, pass judgment. Food, and safety, and survival, would be good reasons to pass judgment.

But our society has taken this way too far. We judge people by whether they're too fat, or by how they spend their time. By who their friends are, and by what profession they choose or which college they attend or even which sport they play. We judge them by which cell phones they have, and how they dress, and how they talk. And of course we judge them on their religious beliefs and their sexual preferences and skin color, and I fail to see how all this has anything to do with food or safety or survival.

And the worst part is that we don't just judge people we don't know. We judge our friends, our neighbors, and our family members...sometimes them even more than others.

Of course we are concerned for our loves ones, but there is a big difference between concern and judgment. Concern means we are hopeful for their survival and safety and happiness in life. Judgment is really just another word for egotism; we judge our loved ones not from concern but from that insatiable need to stroke and nourish our hungry egos with lofty opinions.

What we need more of around here is love. Pure unconditional love. Love that doesn't care about what you eat or how much you exercise or who you marry. Love that transcends the ego.

Yes, we need a whole lot more love, and a whole lot less judgment. That's one of my hopes for the new year.

Oh Glorious Foot

2009-12-23T16:07:00.000-08:00

Ten days later I am still sitting with my leg up. Actually, I got doctor's permission to hobble around for a week and then she rescinded. Back to crutches and bedrest for my foot.

What I find amazing is how much an incapacitated foot impacts the emotional center of the brain. I am tired, lazy, bored, and depressed. I am tired of not being able to walk the dog, go shopping, stand in the laundry room on two feet folding laundry. Tired of not being in charge of cooking and cleaning and chauffering kids around. Tired of not chasing them down to nag or say goodnight. Tired of not being able to just go out and see the world comfortably, in a vertical position. Tired of shoulders hurting from the crutches.

And it's not just present tense. Because I don't know how much longer I'll be this way, I am already tired in the future. I can't get excited about making plans, like seeing old friends or setting up workshops or whatever. It's like I'm stuck in a void in time and space, watching from a different plane and noticing for the first time just how the foot is connected to the mind.

I know (or at least I hope) that this is just temporary, but it gives me new insight into what millions of people endure in times of illness or old age or both. Being unable to move and do the things you want to do is infuriating and depressing, so how do people do it for months and years on end? Poor Aunt Dottie used to get "stuck" where her feet just wouldn't move when she wanted them to. Later, she was in a nursing home in her final years and got to the point where she couldn't even speak. But what we never knew was what was going on inside her heart and her brain. Was she a vegetable who didn't know any better, who didn't care? Or was she trapped inside her own body, wishing she could claw her way out to see the world again, feel the sunshine on her skin, listen to the train's whistle? Could she remember those trips to Hawaii? The sewing machine humming as she pressed the pedal beneath her foot? Was she longing to once again feel the cold fingernail polish against her nails? Wishing she could go on those five mile morning walks, just once more, on her two healthy feet with her friends at her side?

I promise, yes PROMISE, that when I get my foot back again I will savor the steps I take, through the wet sand and surf on the Big Island or along soft pine-needle blankets on Cascade trails or even on the moving walkways in Ohare International. I will be thankful for how quickly I can get dressed in the morning and for how many times I have to trudge upstairs to wake up my son for school. I will gladly go out in the rain to take the dogs for a walk and I will sign up for a yoga class and show up every time.

How beautiful my sandaled feet will be once more! What strong foundations for me. They connect me to the earth and they move me where I need to go. They give me my life. Oh glorious foot, I can hardly wait for you to get better because then I will regain my energy, my joy, and my freedom.

Remembering Aunt Dottie

2009-12-12T14:38:00.001-08:00

Hearty breakfasts, beaming faces, leaflike coasters, hide-and-seek;
Ceramic cats and wooden cats, cats on blankets, Dusty Blue;
Skirts and heels and short brown bangs with handbag always at her side;
Watching us with her brown eyes.
Spiese eyes.

Sewing projects, knick knacks, weddings, whiskey drinks, Hawaiian trips;
Downtown office working woman, notes sent in italic type;
On the train with Mom when younger; later carpool rides with Dad;
Muted peachy lipstick shades.
Warm smile.

Organized, meticulous, straightforward, honest, to-the-point;
Christmas Eves and Christmas grab-bag, waving camera girls away;
Faithful wife and loving sister, loyal to big brother Stan;
Loving aunt, always caring.
Always there.

Getting a Leg Up

2009-12-11T10:39:00.000-08:00

Sitting around your house, with your feet up, watching stupid television shows, and having your family wait on you sounds heavenly. For about five minutes. Then, it's pure torture.

Under doctor's orders following minor foot surgery, I've been doing just that for three days now. I finished a book, edited a couple of chapters in my under-way novel, checked email a bazillion times a day, and occasionally ate something. I have asked my kids to return the remote control to me at least seven times a day. I have hobbled to the bathroom only when absolutely necessary. I have endured those pitiful, wanton stares from my black Lab who will never forgive me, I suspect, for abandoning our daily walking ritual.

And I find this whole 'sit back and relax' concept to be a bit overrated.

But I also find that it forces me to take a look around, and a listen, and so on. By sitting here I realize the fireplace needs to be swept and the floors desperately need vacuuming, and it reminds me of how much I hate housecleaning, and dust. I listen to the sounds of water in the pipes after someone's taken a shower or flushed a toilet and it makes me worry: with all the subzero temperatures we've been having, what if a pipe burst? I hear a distant dog bark, somewhere in the back of my subconscious, and it dawns on me that someone (me?) has left the dog out for too long.

I feel the cat rub against the back of my head as she creeps along the top of the sofa behind me; her fur and my hair generate static electricity, and she too wonders about my sudden fit of laziness, as though I had turned into a cat like her. I hear the clacking of my laptop keys; I am thankful my arms are no longer than they are else the thoughts in my brain might dissipate before they get to the keys. The sparkling water, I notice, tastes a bit sweeter than I recall.

Outside, the pine needles quiver as the branches bounce around in the breeze. How often do I even look at those trees? The snow looks like a frozen souffle about to collapse. The sun is shining and the sky is blue but I know they're fooling me; it's still bitter cold and for a brief moment of insanity I am grateful I am stuck inside.

But then I listen to the tense voices, observe the creased foreheads, feel the thickness in the air. The cupboards are almost bare. Christmas is still in boxes. Everyone is tired of the slavery.

The expression 'getting a leg up', I've read, originally referred to the help offered to a horseback rider when mounting her horse. In a way, I feel like that rider. Climbing a big horse can be a challenge for the inexperienced rider; climbing a big mountain poses obstacles for the inexperienced mountaineer. And climbing onto a sofa, to just sit around as a blob, is nearly impossible for the inexperienced couch potato. She needs help.

And with that help, the world begins to look a little different, whether sitting atop a steed or sitting right here on my sofa. Things look and sound and feel and taste (and even smell) a little different right now. And maybe that's a good thing. Sometimes it's good to tweak your perspective on your world. So I think I'll stay put, with my leg up, for a few more days until my doctor gives me permission to put my foot down...and do things my way once again.

Ultimatums Are Not For Winners

2009-12-07T08:47:00.000-08:00

I recently watched the movie Thirteen Days, about the Cuban Missile Crisis, and it (among other recent events in my life) gave me reason to think about ultimatums. In this case, the USA gave Russia an ultimatum: remove the nuclear missiles from Cuba...or else. After much stress and feather-fluffing and bluff-calling, the Soviets did what they were told to do. You might say the USA won the battle because a nuclear war was avoided. But there were costs and losses too. Russia and Cuba were deeply shaken and temperamental egos were riled up. Khrushchev was ousted. Cuba, because of the American promise to never invade, would remain Communist for decades, maybe forever. Allies, including Turkey, felt alienated. Within our own country, the strength of the Democratic party was shaken,and some believe this crisis paved the way for a defeat in Vietnam.

Ultimatums are demands, for one party to get what it wants and usually for the other party to have to give up something it wants or values. They are high-pressure strategies that look for tangible results, and usually are used as the last possible, final, uncompromising requirement with an implied threat of a very serious penalty. They are often used when one party is stronger than the other, though not always. The Austrian ultimatum to Serbia, which some say actually triggered WWI, was shocking to many because the ultimatum revealed Austria's self-perception of being greater than Serbia. Ultimatums are used widely in politics, often as a threat for one result but that actually creates unintended results too, such as widening existing rifts or alienating countries who aren't even involved directly.

Ultimatums are also used in business; in fact one consultant specializing in sales force management suggests that they are appropriate to achieve desired results, but only if the recipient of the ultimatum is adequately supported to achieve success, and if both parties to the ultimatum are committed to the same end result. But here's the rub: he also suggests that ultimatums are embraced by Type A managers who thrive on pressure, challenge, and urgency and are used to determine whether type B's can become type A's...and also to get type C's to leave the company. Obviously a manager has the right to tell a subordinate how to do his/her job, and obviously a failure to perform is grounds for termination. But it seems to me there is a fine line between natural performance measurements and results and ultimatums. Besides, not everyone is, or can be, or should be a Type A. A manager issuing an ultimatum, like the USA did to Russia, might think he has "won" when an ultimatum results in an employees' departure. And maybe he has. But there is also a cost: it could be employee morale, it could be a decline in productivity for a temporary period, or it could be signficant family or financial hardship for the person on the other side, who was forced to leave.

And then we come to relationships. Take a look at the self-help books or peruse the Internet. Ultimatums are used all too frequently in this arena, too. Relationships should be founded on equal footing between two adults, like two countries, except perhaps in the parent-child situation, which is similar to the manager-employee structure. Either way, ultimatums in relationships - as in government or business - serve as a means to establish control (the opposite of freedom). This might make sense in business or government, but this is not an ingredient for healthy interpersonal relationships. Ultimatums set boundaries, which are useful, but they do it in a manipulative way, thereby destroying the climate of love and cooperation that should exist between individuals. In fact, one psychologist describes them as tactical nukes.

So whether we're talking countries or individuals, ultimatums are nuclear. They might start with good intention, but they are a powerful form of assault. They may be non-physical, but they are still assaults.

I'm reading The Help right now, by Kathryn Stockett. It's set in the 1960's when civil rights movements were strenghtening. Blacks and whites alike were given ultimatums to change their behaviors, or else... And we all know there were huge losses and costs that stemmed from those ultimatums. It was a complicated time, and I can't say unilaterally that we all would have been better off without any of those ultimatums, because I can't say I've done enough extensive research to make that claim. But I am quite sure that some lives would have been saved, and some families much happier, and some relationships would have been free to evolve naturally, if people had been able to work together to address their concerns and their needs and their desires, without threats of control or violence.

And that's really what our time on this planet is all about, according to our country's forefathers. And according to me. Life. Happiness. Freedom.

So let's avoid those nuclear ultimatums and figure out how to cooperate with one another, shall we?

When Believing is Seeing

2009-11-15T18:47:00.000-08:00

Annie Dillard wrote an essay called "Seeing" in which she talks about how difficult it is to see the things right before us. She describes a time she couldn't see the hundreds of blackbirds in a nearby tree until they flew off in a flapping frenzy. It reminds me of countless vacations where somebody saw something - an animal, a shooting star - and tried to point it out to someone else to no avail. Whales, in fact, are perfect sources of this sort of frustration, when everyone else seems to see them blowing water or breaching and I never seem to be looking in the right direction.

This also reminds me, though, that sometimes we have to really believe in something in order to see it, because we are preoccupied in seeing that which we are programmed to see. This is especially true in our children. We have hundreds of parenting books telling us how to raise our children, and a competitive society where children are compared with one another from toddler-time on, and an education and employment system that rewards overachievers and ignores the rest of the bunch. I've spent seventeen maternal years looking for things that I didn't find in my own children, while unexpected things popped out at me, and I've had to adjust my focus every time this has happened. And, as my kids became teens, this re-focusing became the norm.

What I wish I'd done, what I wish I'd known and been strong enough to do, was to see what I believed deep down was there, and what deep down was important, rather than to see the superficial things that society told me to watch for, to search for those things that were supposed to be there, according (once again) to society.

I saw lackluster grades. I saw defiance.I saw priorities that didn't match up to mine. I saw a lot of things that weren't on my original agenda, that weren't in the "perfect parenting" books, that weren't showing up in the lives of my neighbors' kids.

I didn't believe, enough, in my kids to see what was underneath all that. And I didn't believe, enough, in my own convictions to turn my back on society's ideas and look for what I should have been looking for all along.

On a recent trip to Utah, we were looking for pictographs in the red rock. Every shadow, every marking, seemed to represent something to me but not to anyone else.

"Come on, let's get going," they'd say to me. But I'd stand and stare at those rocks just a few minutes more because I believed something was there that we'd missed. Something important; maybe not as important as reservations or meeting times or other societal things, but important to me. And eventually what I'd believed in became clear. The images on those rock walls were really there, and although it might not matter to 99% of the population, it made a difference to me and, more importantly, to the individuals that created the artwork in the first place.

With all the pressures on us today, it's hard to know what to believe in. But what I've learned is that deep down I do know, and I have to trust myself to believe in order to see what really needs to be seen. My hope is that it's not too late.

Robbed!

2009-11-02T09:22:00.000-08:00

You are going about your daily life, with all your dreams and hopes and plans, and you walk into your home and go about your business. But then something starts to feel wrong, and you can't quite figure out what it is, so you go about your business but with an impending sense of dread, and finally you realize what's happened: you've been robbed! First there is the pure surprise, followed by some mixture of disbelief and anger and grief, depending on what it was that was taken and what its value might have been. And then you call the authorities and report it. If you're lucky, the culprit is caught and your posessions returned and justice served.

But what happens when it's not material posessions that are stolen? What if the theft involves those very dreams and hopes and plans that were part of your daily life yesterday and are gone today?

I know women who have been robbed of their lives through cancer and women who have been robbed of their security through abuse and women who have been robbed of their self-esteem through, well, all kinds of society's flailings. These women had also been going about their daily lives when one day the bottom fell out. And then there are the moms.

Almost every mom I know once had a plan to watch her baby walk his first steps and bat his first baseball and learn how to swim and go on school field trips and go to school dances and graduate from high school to go on to college and have a job and maybe even get married and have a family. Whether deliberately or subconsciously she prepared for those events when she picked up his dirty socks and packed his lunches and reminded him, by text of course, of his orthodontist appointment. She went about her daily life organizing those plans and hopes and dreams the same way she stacked the clean dishes in one cabinet, separated the spoons from the forks in the silverware drawer, and filed pictures in photo albums and scrapbooks.

But some moms are robbed. It's not just that some things don't go according to plan. It's that things go terribly awry: the proverbial train wreck. Her train, and her child's train, are derailed. There's horrible damage, and much pain and injury, and, in the chaos and looting that follow, her plans and hopes and dreams are stolen as onlookers turn away .

At first she doesn't even know what happened, but as things become clearer and she senses the loss she also knows it won't be forever. She's always been able to kiss the knee and make it all better, so things will get better this time too. Right? After all, everyone else seems fine, their plans still intact. Her pain will heal, her losses resolve. She clings to hope.

But things don't improve and one day the hope is shaken by anger..the anger that reminds her how she spent years preparing for a day that may now never happen. The hope wobbles ever more, but she still clings to it until finally grief settles in. Grief for her child and eventually grief for herself. Grief for the hopes and plans and dreams that she cannot seem to forget. And grief for no longer belonging to the club of families on track.

And then one day she finally realizes what has happened. A crime has been committed: she and her child have been robbed. Their foundation has been broken and their futures stolen away. And it is a horrifying discovery for her because, in this crime, there are no authorities to call. No report to be filed. No culprit to imprison because this culprit is an elusive one; it might look like death or disease, depression or defiance. It snuck into her life like a slippery shadow and has by now moved on with destruction in its wake. It may not even have a name, and it most certainly can't be caught. This is a theft with no justice and a thief that cannot be contained by any one jurisdiction.

It' a crime that happens far too often in a society too blind to see it coming, too busy to stop it from happening, and too self-absorbed to really care.

The Thing About Night Sweats

2009-10-24T18:27:00.000-07:00

When women my age get together, it's inevitable. The conversation will eventually gravitate toward bodily functions - in particular night sweats. Sometimes it's almost competitive: who's got the worst case of them?

But the thing is, they're not really that bad when you think about it. Your husband gives you a whole lot more room in bed, and you can turn down the thermostat in the winter and save on those harsh energy bills, and your cat will get a bonus salt supplement when she licks your arm in the morning, and you eliminate way more toxins in one night than in a week's worth of working out, and, because you're awake most of the night, you're tuned into the comings and goings of your teenagers and other strangers all night long.

As long as there aren't too many of us living north of the 45th parallel at any one point in time, thereby avoiding any adverse impact on polar bear habitat and floods of biblical proportions, it can really be pretty cool to be so hot.

Peace

2009-10-16T16:10:00.001-07:00

I've been looking for peace.

For years, I thought peace was an environmental condition, like clear skies and quiet rooms, and I figured that living in a household with a husband and three rambunctious boys meant that peace was way beyond my reach. I found lots of other things: smashed Cheerios, dirty underwear, ABC gum, and other stuff in all kinds of dark, dusty places, but I never found one scrap of peace.

More recently, probably because I keep getting older, I've decided to look for inner peace. But it, too, is a slippery and elusive sort of beast. It disguises itself as dreams and ambitions and some form of spirituality, and I find myself running off in one direction or another, thinking I'm chasing peace...but then discovering the path I'm on has steered me off course from what I'm most in search of.

But then peace drops little hints along the way like ET and his Reese's pieces. Like reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love which was interminably long but started niggling at me anyway about smiling meditation. Or a nugget from a woman in one of my workshops who shared a quote from Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor's book Traveling with Pomegranites, about how the soul represents "the deepest impulse [of the psyche] to create wholeness." And a comment from a woman I interviewed today, in which she distinguished between peace of mind and peace of heart.

I know all sorts of people who are looking for wholeness and peace through diet and exercise and religion and acupuncture. And some who look for peace in their big paychecks and houses. Some find peace when their kids make the honor roll or win college scholarships. Some define peace as resting at the end of the day with a clean house and an extra gallon of milk in the fridge. Some think peace means having a loving family and friends, or giving back to the community. Some would say God's love is peace.

All that's good stuff, don't get me wrong. But something's still missing. None of those qualify as peace, at least for me. Peace, I've come to think, is that feeling on the inside, that feeling of absolute wholeness in the mind, and yes also in the heart, but maybe most of all in the gut, where one no longer needs to understand anything but at the same time understands everything, at least everything that matters, which as it turns out is quite simple. So simple that kids get it, and dogs get it, but is usually too hard for us grownups to get. What matters, and therefore what opens us up to peace, is pure, unselfishish love.

That is peace. Love. Love is peace.

Why Ask Why

2009-10-14T08:30:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time asking why.

Why does my cat act the way she does?

Why do my kids do what they do?

Why can't I stop doing the things I shouldn't?

People tell me to stop asking. It doesn't matter why, they say. What matters is what comes next. Focus on the future, they say.

I get that. No sense dwelling in the past, for sure. But there are some very good reasons to ask why.

One is sheer curiousity about the world. If you stop wondering, then either you've ascended to a divine omnisicient state of being, or you've shriveled into vegetative dormancy. What's wrong with wondering what goes on in the mind of a feline behind those dilated pupils?

Another reason is more of a scientific, theory of causality, sort of thing. A get-your-head-out-of-the-sand sort of thing. If you understand what caused a problem in the past you might be able to avoid the recurrence. In other words, what parenting mistakes did I make with Number One that I can avoid or rectify with Numbers Two and Three?

And third, asking why is part of the process of retelling your story and ultimately having a deeper self-understanding. Reinekke Lengelle and Frans Meijers' article in the June 2009 edition of Journal of Poetry Therapy suggests four cognitive stages in retelling your story: sensing, sifting, focusing, and understanding. I like this.

I sense there are several reasons for choices I make or reactions I have. By asking why, I begin to sift through the layers of reasons until I find one that strikes a chord. I focus on that, spend some time with it, and eventually understand better why I made the choice I did. Why I lashed out at a loved one. Why I ate all that popcorn. Why I keep avoiding the novel I am supposedly writing.

Does understanding then lead to changed behavior? Maybe, maybe not. Does it lead to a heightened state of inner peace? I believe that sometimes it does.

Or does it drive you deeper into the pit of insanity? In other words, does asking why heal the wound or does it actually intensify the pain? I guess it could go either way.

And why, I wonder, might that be?

PS (One more why: why I can't get this blogpost to show breaks between my paragraphs?)

Ten Cooler Things

2009-09-30T19:55:00.000-07:00

So here are ten things I like about cooler weather, probably in order of importance since this is the order in which they entered my brain from stage right.

1. Boots. And scarves.

2. Soups, stews, and chili.

3. My dog is happier in cooler weather.

4. My mom is happier in cooler weather.

5. Those ginormous harvest moons, and morning frost, and squirrels and chipmunks everywhere. Oh, and those huge racks on the fiesty male deer.

6. Crayola-colored leaves scattered around chubby pumpkins.

7. Hot flashes that don't last as long.

8. Sort of like #7 -less sweating overall.

9. I don't have to shave my legs so often.

10. Fleece jackets come out, swimsuits go away.

Next up: the top 100 things I hate about cold weather.

The First Time

2009-09-25T12:10:00.001-07:00

One of my sons told me it's been scientifically proven: the first time you experience something, it's the most intense. I started to wonder if that's really true so I thought back to some random experiences in my life.

1. The first time I got lost? Yes, intense. It was downtown Chicago, I was age four. I can't think of a worse time I've been lost.

2. The first time I picked an apple? Yes, because I bit into it and found a tooth and fresh blood. It also happened to be the first time I lost a baby tooth.

3. The first time I went skiing? No. It was intense (especially that cackling laughter of some moron on the sidelines watching us all fall down on the bunny slope) but it wasn't the most intense. There have been plenty more memorable times on the slopes, like the time I got stuck in a racing rut (how embarassing) or the time I was paralyzed in fear on an icy, steep slope (all alone) or the times my son made me go places I didn't want to go...and then patiently waited to be sure I made it down safely.

4. The first time I made out: yes, pretty intense.

5. The first time I had sex: not going there, not in this domain.

6. The first time I was in the company of wild bears: yes, which explains all the flailing and running and screaming, which no doubt perplexed the creatures beyond measure.

7. The first time I made a pie: yeah, I guess so. The blackberries were freshly picked from the back 40; you can't beat that.

8. The first time I got married: yes, definitely. But the second one was pretty nice, too. :)

9. The first time I held my kids in my arms? Well, that's a tough one. They were all incredibly emotional and intense but yes, I suppose the first time was probably the most intense time of all, one of the most intense (and precious) moments of my entire life.

10. The first time a loved one died: yes, losing Dad was horrible. But at this point I have no way of knowing if losing him will always be the most intense experience of grief and loss.

11. The first time I loved someone deeply? I honestly don't know about this one either. Love is so different in each situation, each relationship. We love in so many ways. If it's love, it's by definition intense. I don't think it can be ranked and rated and measured against another love. So I don't think this theory applies to love.

12. The first time I watched a sunset? I think sunsets are a lot like love.

The bottom line: I disagree with the theory, and I'd like to know who these scientists think they are.

Perfect Little Teeth

2009-09-23T08:46:00.000-07:00

People are like teeth.

Teeth grow whichever which way feels right to the individual mouth, and then at some point they get rearranged. With some study and some pain, they're shifted and sometimes even re-shaped, and eventually they're expected to line up and behave. Most of the time they do, until sometime in midlife when they decide they want to go back the way they once were. That's what my dentist told me is happening to my lower teeth, and now I'm looking at orthodontic work decades after my first round of braces came off.

We tell our kids they need braces just as we tell them they need to go to school and follow rules. We say it's for functionality but we also know it's because that's what society expects, and that's what will make others like you. People with crooked teeth are judged more quickly and more harshly than those with a Pepsodent smile, and so are people who don't fit the mold in personality, interests, and actions.

Fitting the mold makes life a lot easier. But sometimes, in midlife, something happens inside. It's often referred to as midlife crisis, and normally it's associated with extramarital affairs and fancy cars. But this midlife shift can be something much more personal and pervasive than that. It's subtle, and sometimes it takes a long time before even the slightest movement occurs, but eventually there's a part of you that says what the heck, I think I might want to go back to the way I was, even if it was a little crooked.

And then your dentist comes along and tells you to fix it once again.

High School Seekers

2009-09-20T18:25:00.000-07:00

Some things never change. High school kids wore rolled up jeans in the 50's and bell bottoms in the 60's and they're wearing saggy (or skinny) jeans now. But they're all doing the same thing: searching for their identities. And for the most part they're searching in the same places: school hallways, athletic fields, parties.

What's even more interesting is that the identity profiles are also the same. There's the tall, athletic guy, for example, who's seeking fame and glory with his power shot. There's the kid who's just looking for popularity by hanging out with the "right kids". There's the kid who's aiming for a prestigious college, sitting in the front row and spending after-school time with his nose in the books. And there's the loner who can't seem to fit in with all those others and is left behind feeling like his pockets have been emptied.

It doesn't matter whether we're talking about boys or girls, straights or gays, stoners or jocks or whatever. It's the same in all the groups. It's not about gender or sexual preference or outward appearance, it's about the inner quest for identity. And while some of these kids can find that identity independently, needing only their own mirrors for validation, there are others who need a peer group to reflect back to them who they are so they know which path to follow.

Unfortunately, those peers are so busy seeking for themselves that they can't, or won't, help the ones standing alone back there.

I wouldn't want to be in high school again if you paid me. Partly because I wouldn't want to have to go through all that as a teen all over again. But also partly because I know that the search for identity and those high school seeker profiles don't go away when the diplomas are handed out.

In fact, those diplomas are really tickets to proceed with the rest of the identity journey, a journey along which we continue to find the same profiles even decades later: those who seek fame and glory, those who need to be in the center of the circle, those who strive for success, and those who - because of sensitivities or insecurities or countless other reasons - are left behind.

My hope for those who are left behind is that they inspect those empty pockets and therein find hope. In time, hope can lead them to the right path, the one that leads to inner acceptance and peace. From there, they can watch their peers amble and scramble along all those other paths. From there, the left-behinders (at any age) will have the view and see, perhaps even before their peers do, where all those other paths really lead.

The Value of Slow

2009-09-18T08:21:00.001-07:00

I guess I'm getting old. I say this not because I feel old or even because I'm starting to look old (yes, I know I am). I say this because I've made a discovery ... the type of discovery that old people make.

I've discovered the value of slow. I've always been one to enjoy a lazy canoe float on a lake or a gentle zigzag down a ski slope, but now I've come to enjoy a lot more slowness. The chairlift ride up the hill, a stroll through downtown at night, a careful reading of a page. Slow means noticing colors, listening to sounds, feeling the breeze. Slow means situational awareness (a lovely term I latched onto while watching the movie "A Perfect Getaway"). Slow means living each day, and taking each breath, more fully.

Now if I only could remember all this when I get behind the wheel, where (much to my neighbors' disappointment) I'm still actually quite young.

Sealant for the Soul

2009-09-16T20:13:00.000-07:00

We seal our driveways and we seal our teeth. We wax our cars, we polish our furniture, we spray our leather boots. We slather sunscreen on our skin. We spend countless hours and dollars protecting our investments and even protecting parts of our selves. But what we seem to have not figured out is how to protect our souls.

Some would argue that faith protects the soul. Others might say a healthy body helps. Love seems like it would be good for the soul (but only when things are working out.) Work distracts the soul, and substances like drugs and alcohol mask the soul's pain. But the soul is the deepest part of us, the center of our very being. To protect the soul would be like protecting the center of the earth. Impossible, right?

In a recent workshop, women who barely knew me or each other revealed their inner pockmarks and potholes. All were in the midstage of their lives; all had lived and loved and lost. On the outside, they'd seemed successful, content, pulled together: they sported that image we're all expected to maintain, an image we all spend years cultivating until its aged to perfection. But the image, much like driveway sealant, is limited in its strength. It doesn't last forever and it's not completely impenetrable. Cracks begin to surface, and once that happens, the driveway's integrity becomes compromised. It's vulnerable to more cracks and bumps and over time can even break down. Same with the cavities that form in the tooth when the sealant fails. They eventually deteriorate.

And when the soul deteriorates...well, that's bad.

It may seem we need to invent a soul sealant, but I believe it already exists. I think that when we all come together and bind ourselves like bouncing little molecules in a solvent, we can protect one another's souls from deterioration. Someone said, "when people come together, good things happen." Of course, this means setting aside egos and agendas and judgments and competitive aspirations, sometimes only for the good of one single solitary person, one lonely life. It sometimes means giving in to things that don't always make sense and letting go of ideas that we know are better than others and even sacrificing time when there's no guarantee of payback. But in my mind it's the ultimate investment. What could be more valuable than a soul?

The driveway and the car and the furniture and the boots are nice. And yes, the skin and the teeth are pretty important, too. But I would give up all the sealants in the world for these things if it meant I could bring enough people together to protect just one soul.

When the Nest Empties Early

2009-09-12T20:07:00.000-07:00

I wonder what happens when nature's course takes an unexpected twist. What happens when the nest empties early?

Whether a chick flies of its own will, or falls from the nest, or is snatched from it by some giant unforeseen talons, what do the parents do? Do they hobble around on broken twigs and strands of forgotten hair, peering over the edge to look for morbid remains? Do they immediately take flight in search of their lost offspring? Do they tuck their feathered little bird brains under wing and wait?

These parents had instinctively prepared for that empty nest, had known pretty much when it would come about. They had set aside their lives of fun and freedom during those chick-rearing times to devote their energies, even their entire souls, to the wellbeing of those little darlings. They had known that someday it would change, maybe even abruptly, but until that day came they knew what they had to do. But then! That day came so soon, when they were least expecting it, and what had once been their cozy little home suddenly looks like an ugly bin of collected junk. It is empty, cold, and barren. Do they celebrate their premature freedom, these aviary parents? Do they wallow in confused despair? Do they peck at each other and wonder what went wrong? Or do they simply hope?

Top 15 Reasons for Lost Sleep

2009-08-01T10:53:00.001-07:00

15. Too much screen
14. Too much food
13. Too much wine
12. Too much fun
11. Too much sun
10. Not enough sun
9. Kids
8. Broken things
7. Broken relationships
6. Being broke
5. Menopause
4. Men
3. Adolescence
2. Adolescents
1. Love

Young Entreprenueurs Ignite Bend's Economy

2009-07-29T14:06:00.000-07:00

Three cheers for the young teens who scoff at entitlement and take their destiny (and wallets) into their own hands. While local restaurants are struggling in this recession, new lemonade stands are popping up around town, and business is booming.

It's great to see these kids set their sights on a goal (a dirt-jumper bike, for example) and then set their minds and hands to work. And these kids have found the critical keys to success: the right facility (prime real estate location for selling lemonade), products that meets the market's need (tasty lemonade on these scorching summer days, supplemented with sweet, gooey brownies), strong marketing efforts (colorful, friendly signage leading up to the stand), and loyal employees (moms, dads, friends, and dogs who help with product development and marketing).

But what I like best of all is how these lemonade stands evoke memories of the past: hot summer days that don't need cell phones and video games but instead just require a little creative thinking to explore the world beyond our doorsteps.

When the Shoe Doesn't Fit

2009-07-24T13:53:00.000-07:00

Carl and Raylene Worthington had criminal felony charges brought against them for failing to care for their sick daughter. Raylene was acquitted, and Carl was found guilty of criminal mistreatment in the death of 15-month-old Ava. When I'd first heard of the case, I figured the parents were obviously bad parents and that there'd be no question as to guilt. But as I followed the case over the past few days, I realized (as with most things in life) that's it's just not that simple.

The questions involve faith, familial hierarchy, and parenting: three issues many adults struggle with all their lives.

"Leave it in God's hands." It's a message I've heard over and over in the Christian world. A friend of mine recently confided that she leaves her family issues in God's hands, and a pastor last Sunday encouraged his congregation to do the same with their troubles. My husband and I discussed this on the way home from church. I'm sorry, but I have a hard time giving up my parenting rights and responsibilities and giving it all over to God. Without even thinking of the Worthington case on Sunday, I commented that such behavior sounds like an easy cop out. Acutally, I think it reeks of neglect. I can pray, but I can't just give my kids' lives up to God and dust responsibility from my hands. Faith should be a strengthening element in one's life, not an excuse to give up. But when you hear that message about letting go and giving your problems up to the Lord often enough, as I suspect Raylene and Carl did, there are times you start to wonder.

And then there's the question of family hierarchy. One of the jurors reportedly said, after the trial, that most people are partners in a marriage. In an ideal world, that might be true. But I wonder how many Christian families she surveyed before making that statement. Members of the Worthington's church said that, in their faith, the husband is the leader. Sadly, that belief isn't unusual. In fact, this has been taught through the ages in many churches and many households, often attributing this "wisdom" to the apostle Paul. I have heard plenty of friends say that their husbands are the leaders of their homes, and I have often deferred to my husband over the years because this belief, whether traditional or religious, has been pounded into my head. It didn't always feel right, but it can be downright frightening to risk harmony and go head to head with your husband. One of my kids used to remind me that "Dad's not the boss of you." If only I'd listened to that youthful advice more often I might feel more at peace right now. Fortunately, one of the good things about growing older is having the strength (or stubbornness) to stand up for what you believe, even against the people upon whom you depend most. But Raylene is much younger than me, and I suspect she would have struggled immensely had she argued with Carl, shaking the security of her home. Does that make her decision to withhold treatment from Ava excusable? No, I don't think it does. But I do think I understand, a little, how family dynamics may have influenced her.

And finally there's the issue of good parenting. I don't condone what the Worthingtons did. Based on what I've read, I'm pretty sure I would have had my child at the doctor long before the symptoms became life threatening. But nobody can say for sure what decision he or she would have made because nobody wore the Worthington shoes. Thankfully most of us don't need to face a court of law with our parenting decisions, but we do have to face the informal jury of our peers every day. Ever watched a temper tantrum in a store and judged the mother's reaction? Ever heard of a dad losing his temper and shaking your head in disgust? I have felt cold eyes watch me throughout my parenting years, evaluating whether I made the right school choice for my kids, or whether I delivered the right consequences, or whether it was wise to let them take certain risks that some parents wouldn't have allowed. Wasn't rock climbing awfully dangerous? How could you let him jump off that waterfall? How could you let him drink so much soda? Watch that movie? Fly on a plane alone, or stay home alone, or spend time on the computer alone? Spend time with a girl alone? Every child is different, and every family is different, and every moment is different. Most parents make the best decision possible at any given time. We love our kids, and we want the best for them. But that sometimes involves making hard decisions that others won't agree with, and a parent needs to wear a full coat of armor as protection from a society that seems free, perhaps even invited, to pass judgment whenever it chooses.

I am sorry for Ava's short life, and I am sorry for the Worthington family's loss. But I am especially sorry that I passed judgment on their decision without having all the facts - which of course I'll never have, because I am not wearing their shoes, and never will.

Six Words Can Say It All

2009-02-25T13:33:00.001-08:00

My blog is back for now.

I'm inspired by things I've read. Few words can say a lot. Six words can say it all.

On relationships:
You love and then you change.

On parenting teens:
And now you break my heart.

On writing:
It's much harder than you think.

On the world:
It's hard to hope these days.

On health and fitness:
But where's the fun in this?

On fun:
The stuff that makes you smile.

On spirituality:
Done right, it builds you up.

On getting older:
Can wisdom really trump good looks?

On rivers:
You float, you work, you see.

On cats:
Bundles of fur, creatures of mystery.

On dogs:
They love you no matter what.

Now tell me what you think. What six words work for you?

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

2008-10-26T16:49:00.000-07:00

People have been lying forever, and although there was a famous study that suggested that Koko the Gorilla blamed a cat for the damage she caused with a temper tantrum, I maintain that lying is one of those traits that separates us from other species. Ravens and coyotes might be tricksters; the fox might be cunning; the bird might deceive predators in order to protect her offspring. But the human is the one that out and out lies, often only for small personal gain.

People lie for money, they lie to save face. They lie to cover up mistakes or to avoid having to work. Sometimes people lie to protect others from harm. Sometimes they lie for pleasure. The little guy lies and the big guy lies. Sometimes it seems that everybody lies although I know for a fact that that's not true.

Philosophers from long ago contemplated the reasons for, and implications of, lying. Some asserted that lying was wrong because it's a perversion of the gift of speech. Others suggested that lying undermines trust in society. Nietzsche said that the only people who don't lie are those who find it too hard to maintain a lie.

I recently witnessed an adult lying in the presence of his child and mine. The outcome was that he saved a couple of dollars, and in the grand scheme of life it wasn't the worst transgression possible. But I worry about the effect that all of our little lies have on our children, when taken together. It's the same concern I have about people who bend the law when driving, or songs with inappropriate content. A little here and there might not seem all that bad, and I'll be the first to admit that I'm no saint in a lot of respects, but I've got a thing about lying. I don't like to lie. And when I see a child observe a lot of lies over his or her lifetime, I've got to think it has an impact. It's bound to.

So what? So what if our children grow up to be liars? They could earn money by lying -- or they could lose it. They could earn fame -- or notoriety. Lying could keep them out of jail -- but it could also buy them a ticket to jail.

Lying could help them build relationships, I suppose, but -- in my opinion --lying is ultimately poisonous to relationships, and relationships are the foundation of society. Fame and money and power and all that stuff you can get by lying are not what bring you happiness in the end. It's relationships that matter. I agree with the philosopher (I think it may have been Thomas Aquinas) who said that lying undermines truth in society, but I'd take it one step further. Lying undermines society.

Ann Landers said the naked truth is always better than the best-dressed lie. Pearl Bailey said you never find yourself until you face the truth. And another famous pearl of wisdom was spoken by Pearl S. Buck, who said that truth is always exciting, and that life is dull without it. So why lie?

Children know when they're quite young that lying is wrong, even if they don't understand the philosophical reasons why, and that's why they so readily chastise one another when a lie is discovered. As adults, it's our moral obligation to uphold that instinctive value that children have by telling the truth and by refusing to let the liars go without consequence.

And that's the truth about how I feel about lying.

I Know Why the Caged Blog Pings

2008-10-14T08:31:00.000-07:00

A new blog is like a new, fuzzy pet. Fun to play with, cool to show your friends, like the kitten that psycho-scrambles through your house or the hamster that runs into perpetuity. You get a really good feeling from taking care of the new little thing, and you secretly relish that ego-stroking sense of power, knowing that it is 100%, completely, dependent upon you. You don't even mind at the beginning, too terribly much, when it ignores you. The kitten slinks off to the corner and refuses to sit on your lap. The hamster is more interested in the inanimate leaf of lettuce than your smiling face. Nobody posts a comment on your blog. It's okay, though. You can deal with this.

But then life rings your doorbell and you veer off into other directions. The kids are swallowed up by soccer schedules, the school has an irritating habit of requiring homework, and your son's teenage romance begins to invade your time and emotional energy. Your ailing parent ails some more. And then you open your mail to discover that your money has gone AWOL, and it's a lot worse than when your keys are missing, because you can't so easily retrace your investment steps or pull the extra set of mutual funds out of your junk drawer. You are treading water in major grown-up issues and don't have time for that new little pet.

And what happens when you don't feed the kitten or hamster? The same is true with the blog. I returned from a couple of weeks of Life to find my blog gasping for breath, shriveled from dehydration. There was a part of me that thought about just turning and walking away. I know, that's lame; it shows my weaker shadow. But I confess it's true. I knew, however, that I simply couldn't do that. I couldn't create something and then just abandon it, like those nasty people in Nebraska do with their unwanted children.

And so I write again. And it feels good. The blog is fattening up and purring and beginning to yawn and stretch. We are a pair again, like Timmy and Lassie, or Charlie and Snoopy. We are here for each other. And that's why the caged blog pings. It needs me.

PS: Maya, if you read this, thank you for letting me play with your title. You have inspired me in so many, often unpredictable, ways.

Breast Cancer Awareness

2008-09-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

Today I realized there's something strange going on. I've been writing a collection of stories, and a couple of the characters have breast cancer. Well, one has actually already died from it. The other is expecting she won't survive. I don't know why breast cancer showed up in my writing. It just did. I guess it's a midlife thing, but I didn't think too much about it or about what subconscious forces were at work.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I picked up a freelance assignment to write about Sara Fisher and Sara's Project. Sara died of breast cancer in 1992 and inspired a new program in Bend to promote education, research, early detection, and supportive treatment of women diagnosed with breast cancer. Last week I interviewed the woman in charge of the project and one of Sara's now-grown kids. It was an awesome interview.

At the same time, I've been trying to get through this book I picked up about life in the office world. It's a humorous book by Joshua Ferris called Then We Came to the End. I started it a couple of weeks ago but haven't been making much progress, and now suddenly I get halfway into the book and one of the main characters has breast cancer. I guess it was revealed earlier in the book, but it hadn't been a major focus until this point (and I might add that the humor factor has dropped significantly).

So this morning I realize that this is all pretty weird. Breast Cancer Awareness month starts next week, and there's something going on here, some reason that these three sources of awareness have converged in my life. It's sort of an exciting heebie-jeebie feeling, like something is lurking around the door.

I don't know where this will all lead, but one thing's for sure. I won't miss my upcoming mammogram appointment.

Trio of stories

2008-09-19T20:43:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to a reading at Camalli's Book Store in Bend. I listened to a story about a tiny man named Ron, a story about death and deer, and a toddler-in-charge story. It was a strange mixture of images for one evening, and I wonder what might happen if that tiny man were to picnic with the toddler on the lawn where the deer grazes. The more I think about it, the more it gives me the creeps. Still, it's that type of experience that sometimes leads to awesome story ideas, and I think I will ponder that some more.

What's in a name?

2008-09-12T11:03:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I get a little crazy and decide to take another step into the abyss of technology. This week I took another step, an unsettling step for someone my age.

I opened a new email account, on gmail. No big deal, you might think. Right?

Let me tell you how wrong you are. Because deciding on one's identity is no small feat. Anyone who has set up a gmail account knows that you can't use the name you want to use. You can't be the person you want to be.

And I for one don't think it has anything to do with the fact that somebody else has your exact name and idea. I'm quite sure it's actually a Googleconspiracy.

I wanted an easy, snappy name, one that didn't require a lot of spelling. What about gailmail@gmail? Sounds pretty good, yes? But no, it's "not available". It's taken? I tried the old first and middle name thing: gailelizabeth@gmail. Nope. Already taken, too. And on it went. I could have used something like gailelizabethinbend2495@gmail . Obviously there are already 2,494 people named Gail Elizabeth living in Bend, a town of only 70,000. It makes me wonder where all those women are. I have never ever met a single Gail Elizabeth in my many years of living, but there sure are a lot of them out there in Googleland.

For a moment I thought it would be easier to go down to the courthouse, or wherever you go, to change my name. But I refused to let Google determine my identity. I've spent years (decades actually) working on this, trying to figure out what type of person I wanted to be. What style clothes to wear. What music to groove to. What to be when I grew up. And you know what? This is a free country, and I am not going to let some ginormous (spelled according to my thirteen year old son) company decide my identity!

So, I kept plugging, and typing, and clicking away, and finally came upon an email that uses my first and middle names and the initial of my last name. And in the end this all makes sense. My first name is of course how most people know me, but my husband usually only uses that name if he's keeping emotional distance for some reason. My middle name, or a nickname derived from my middle name, has become his pet name for me, so on good days I can be that person. And then, to others, I have been known by my last name, so the first initial of that last name makes sense too, if you're one of those few people and if you are even planning to send me an email via gmail, which is highly unlikely.

Of course, it's still all too long and complicated, and I have far more important things to think about at this stage of life, and the more I think about this email problem, the more I don't like it, so I think maybe I will go down to the courthouse and get a new name.

But first I'll check with gmail.