Sadly, my beloved has gone home for Christmas. Well, its actually a happy thing that he's gone home, but I'm selfish and would rather have him here. The opportunity to sit around in our pajamas watching old Christmas movies and doing other "couply" things has been retracted and I have been left to spend the Holiday working extra hours at the mall (since I'll have a week off from my "real" job), eating dry turkey with my parents, and restraining Bridget from repeatedly knocking all the ornaments off the Christmas tree.
I know that entire paragraph sounded like a scroogy complaint, but in truth, I feel fairly content about "my" Christmas this year. The past couple of weeks have been CRAZY at work, but it's all been a good crazy. We've distributed extra food to hundreds of families, and about 300 children who may have had nothing at all from Santa this year are now getting pretty decent gifts. I've felt like Santa myself as I've personally delivered big boxes of toys to my clients. It won't come as a surprise to you that I've had my moments of cynicism throughout all of this. I've encountered people who are ungrateful and probably even undeserving of what they've received, and I've had to shake off the "Bah-Humbug" spirit as it has bitten at my heels. But, overall, I've seen a lot of joy and humbleness...and THAT has humbled ME. I keep reminding myself that despite the sometimes nasty attitudes of adults, there are children who are benefiting from our hard work. And THAT is all that really matters.
And you know what else makes me feel better?
I visit this site every now and then and imagine my sweetie there...and how could that not be a happy thing? Besides, I never tire of seeing a pervy Singaporian Santa Claus riding a Christmas train. Apparently Christmas in the Tropics has him even more excited than the kiddos. And, my much-loved readers, check out "Create Your Own Tropical Flower" for a fat slice of happy! I'll warn you...this little virtual craft is scarily addictive and will turn your brain to mush in no time flat. Not only is it fun to look at other flowers that have already been created by people all over the world...it's SO much fun to make your own. I made about 10 in one sitting (brain-mushy afterward, indeed). I wish you could see one I made, appropriately named Pollyanna, just for you guys, but the site won't allow me to post the link. I guess you'll just have to scroll through all the 2,252 flowers that are already on the tree. Let me know how that turns out.
I doubt I'll get another chance to write before Christmas, so have a merry one! I'm off to officially start my vacation with a long nap!
Showing posts with label My friends and other people I love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My friends and other people I love. Show all posts
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Love and the Dark
Have you heard about "DARK" restaurants? I first heard about them a few weeks ago on "60 Minutes" and I was completely fascinated by the concept. This slowly-growing trend in fine dining started in Europe, but it's making its way around.
More or less, it works like this: When you visit one of these restaurants, you are shown menus in a lobby area. You make your decisions and place your order before you ever go to your table. Once your order is placed, you are instructed to make a line with your party...holding onto the hand or shoulders of the person in front of you. (I suppose you could even do it locomotion style, with hands on the hips.) Your host or hostess leads the line into the PITCH BLACK dining room. You are seated safely, of course, but your entire experience once entering the dining room is in total darkness. No candles on the tables. No moonlight peeking through the curtains. No light coming from under the door of the kitchen. TOTAL darkness.
The coolest part about it? Most of these restaurants hire servers that are seeing-impaired, which, for obvious reasons, makes perfect sense. I can almost always get excited about something that provides opportunity and dignity to people who are disadvantaged or disabled.
The story I watched was very amusing because it had been filmed in "night vision". All of the patrons struggled through their meal, dropping food all over their laps, losing their spoons inside soup bowls, and pouring wine with extreme caution so as to not spill the entire bottle. Nobody was sure of what they were eating; or even HOW to eat what they were eating. And all of this while the blind servers zipped around with ease. It looked like great fun.
This one is in Canada somewhere.
After the meal, everyone at the restaurant talked about what a sensory experience it had been. Everything smelled better and tasted better. Because nobody could see them, anyway, lots of people used their hands to eat and raved about how good it felt to touch the food they were eating...that it changed everything. And it made sense to me. Normally when we eat, we don't take the time to enjoy our food. Yes, we can taste it and smell it and touch it if we want to...but we can also SEE it. And we get distracted by the SEEING.
For those of us who are lucky enough to properly working senses...we don't always think that much about them. We can see and hear and touch and taste and smell...and those incredible powers go unnoticed and unappreciated because we're so used to having them. We take them for granted. What's so interesting to me is how we can rely too much on ONE sense, inadvertently allowing the other senses to weaken in their time of underuse. The reverse is even more interesting. In the absence of one sense, the others often grow stronger to compensate for the loss.
Strangely enough, all of this made me think about love. Or, to be clearer: it made me think about being IN love; experiencing love that is great and pure and noble. SENSES are comparable to EMOTIONS, and the exchange works the same way. One emotion can fortify as others fade...and vice versa.
I've been in many "relationships" that had nothing to do with love. Not REAL love, anyway...although I didn't always realize it at the time. In the absence of love, there were plenty of other things to take its place. Fear. Hesitation. Disappointment. Mistrust. Artificiality. Uncertainty. (Just to name a few.) I was always so busy feeling these other things, I didn't have time to notice that love was missing. I couldn't have understood it in my state of preoccupation.
What I know now is that when LOVE, as it is meant to be, is present...all that other "stuff" disappears. There's no room for it in a healthy relationship because love is just THAT big. It covers everything...every little nook and cranny and hollow space...and its dominion pushes anything that contradicts it out of the picture.
I'm sure the rest of you already knew this. I never did. Not really. It's as if I've finally learned how to see. Or, maybe...I've finally LOST my sight.(?) I think I lost track of my illustration somewhere along the way as I've been writing! Either way...you get the point. And what's more important...I get the point, and I'm blessed for the change in vision. Meal time will never be the same.
More or less, it works like this: When you visit one of these restaurants, you are shown menus in a lobby area. You make your decisions and place your order before you ever go to your table. Once your order is placed, you are instructed to make a line with your party...holding onto the hand or shoulders of the person in front of you. (I suppose you could even do it locomotion style, with hands on the hips.) Your host or hostess leads the line into the PITCH BLACK dining room. You are seated safely, of course, but your entire experience once entering the dining room is in total darkness. No candles on the tables. No moonlight peeking through the curtains. No light coming from under the door of the kitchen. TOTAL darkness.
The coolest part about it? Most of these restaurants hire servers that are seeing-impaired, which, for obvious reasons, makes perfect sense. I can almost always get excited about something that provides opportunity and dignity to people who are disadvantaged or disabled.
The story I watched was very amusing because it had been filmed in "night vision". All of the patrons struggled through their meal, dropping food all over their laps, losing their spoons inside soup bowls, and pouring wine with extreme caution so as to not spill the entire bottle. Nobody was sure of what they were eating; or even HOW to eat what they were eating. And all of this while the blind servers zipped around with ease. It looked like great fun.
This one is in Canada somewhere.
After the meal, everyone at the restaurant talked about what a sensory experience it had been. Everything smelled better and tasted better. Because nobody could see them, anyway, lots of people used their hands to eat and raved about how good it felt to touch the food they were eating...that it changed everything. And it made sense to me. Normally when we eat, we don't take the time to enjoy our food. Yes, we can taste it and smell it and touch it if we want to...but we can also SEE it. And we get distracted by the SEEING.
For those of us who are lucky enough to properly working senses...we don't always think that much about them. We can see and hear and touch and taste and smell...and those incredible powers go unnoticed and unappreciated because we're so used to having them. We take them for granted. What's so interesting to me is how we can rely too much on ONE sense, inadvertently allowing the other senses to weaken in their time of underuse. The reverse is even more interesting. In the absence of one sense, the others often grow stronger to compensate for the loss.
Strangely enough, all of this made me think about love. Or, to be clearer: it made me think about being IN love; experiencing love that is great and pure and noble. SENSES are comparable to EMOTIONS, and the exchange works the same way. One emotion can fortify as others fade...and vice versa.
I've been in many "relationships" that had nothing to do with love. Not REAL love, anyway...although I didn't always realize it at the time. In the absence of love, there were plenty of other things to take its place. Fear. Hesitation. Disappointment. Mistrust. Artificiality. Uncertainty. (Just to name a few.) I was always so busy feeling these other things, I didn't have time to notice that love was missing. I couldn't have understood it in my state of preoccupation.
What I know now is that when LOVE, as it is meant to be, is present...all that other "stuff" disappears. There's no room for it in a healthy relationship because love is just THAT big. It covers everything...every little nook and cranny and hollow space...and its dominion pushes anything that contradicts it out of the picture.
I'm sure the rest of you already knew this. I never did. Not really. It's as if I've finally learned how to see. Or, maybe...I've finally LOST my sight.(?) I think I lost track of my illustration somewhere along the way as I've been writing! Either way...you get the point. And what's more important...I get the point, and I'm blessed for the change in vision. Meal time will never be the same.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I guess if I have time to look at T-Shirts, I have time to blog, right?
I know, I know. You're wondering where the hell I've been. Well, I've been swamped at work, that's where I've been! My blogging hobby would greatly benefit from having access to a computer at home...and all that time I spend sleeping in the wee hours of the morning could be spent writing, instead. No such luck. My computer is archaic, at best, and can no longer serve me the way a good computer should. So, for the time being, you must suffer the inconvenience of my infrequency. I offer you my deepest regrets.
On another note...you'll recall my recent story about the "Interpretive Dance Joke" at work, right? Well, I was visiting my favorite source of T-Shirt wear the other day when I found this.
Because I knew they'd get a kick out of it, I passed the link around to my coworkers. After what I'm sure turned out to be a great deal of tweaking and somewhat illegal graphic manipulation, my friend (and co-worker), wandered into my office and posted this sign:
Please do not call 1-800-Dance4U at this time. I'm all booked up for the Holiday season. Feel free to try after the new year begins.
On another note...you'll recall my recent story about the "Interpretive Dance Joke" at work, right? Well, I was visiting my favorite source of T-Shirt wear the other day when I found this.
Because I knew they'd get a kick out of it, I passed the link around to my coworkers. After what I'm sure turned out to be a great deal of tweaking and somewhat illegal graphic manipulation, my friend (and co-worker), wandered into my office and posted this sign:
Please do not call 1-800-Dance4U at this time. I'm all booked up for the Holiday season. Feel free to try after the new year begins.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
A Dedication
“18th Floor Balcony” and Blue October is one of my favorite songs and one of my favorite bands, respectively. The former is a product of the latter.
I’ve always loved this song. The first time I heard it was live at one of their outdoor concerts and I remember being almost paralyzed by the magic of it. Maybe it was the intensity of Justin’s voice or the haunting of Ryan’s violin. Maybe it was the breeze and the starlight. Or maybe it was the way the words gave me chill bumps.
I’ve thought for a long time that I understood the words to the song; that I related to them from a place of deep personal experience. But I’ve realized somewhere in the course of today that I never REALLY understood them until now.
I don’t live on an 18th floor. I don’t even have a balcony. And I haven’t been on one with you (you know who you are). But we’re still standing on a ledge of some type…overlooking something of immeasurable greatness. Our “balcony” is somewhere a lot less tangible. I could use my own words (and I have) but they're too personal for all to read...so I'm using someone else's.
"18th Floor Balcony"
I close my eyes and I smile
Knowing that everything is alright
To the core
Close that door
Is this happening?
My breath is on your hair
I'm unaware
That you opened the blinds and let the city in
God, you held my hand
As we stand
Taking in everything.
And I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
We talked about moms and dads
About family pasts
Getting to know where we came from
Our hearts were on display
For all to see
I can't believe this is happening….to me.
I raised my hand as if to show you I was yours,
That I was SO yours for the taking
I'm still SO yours for the taking
That’s when I felt the wind pick up
I grabbed the rail while choking up
These words to say and then you kissed me...
I knew from the start
So my arms are open wide
And your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
So I can bring you home with me
And I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my...dreams
I knew it from the start
My arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
We're not going to sleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...we're both..Flying away.
I’ve always loved this song. The first time I heard it was live at one of their outdoor concerts and I remember being almost paralyzed by the magic of it. Maybe it was the intensity of Justin’s voice or the haunting of Ryan’s violin. Maybe it was the breeze and the starlight. Or maybe it was the way the words gave me chill bumps.
I’ve thought for a long time that I understood the words to the song; that I related to them from a place of deep personal experience. But I’ve realized somewhere in the course of today that I never REALLY understood them until now.
I don’t live on an 18th floor. I don’t even have a balcony. And I haven’t been on one with you (you know who you are). But we’re still standing on a ledge of some type…overlooking something of immeasurable greatness. Our “balcony” is somewhere a lot less tangible. I could use my own words (and I have) but they're too personal for all to read...so I'm using someone else's.
"18th Floor Balcony"
I close my eyes and I smile
Knowing that everything is alright
To the core
Close that door
Is this happening?
My breath is on your hair
I'm unaware
That you opened the blinds and let the city in
God, you held my hand
As we stand
Taking in everything.
And I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
We talked about moms and dads
About family pasts
Getting to know where we came from
Our hearts were on display
For all to see
I can't believe this is happening….to me.
I raised my hand as if to show you I was yours,
That I was SO yours for the taking
I'm still SO yours for the taking
That’s when I felt the wind pick up
I grabbed the rail while choking up
These words to say and then you kissed me...
I knew from the start
So my arms are open wide
And your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
So I can bring you home with me
And I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my...dreams
I knew it from the start
My arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
We're not going to sleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...we're both..Flying away.
Monday, June 26, 2006
For My Beautiful Friend(s)
Below are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs: So Unsexy by the great Alanis Morrisette. I'm posting them today for a friend of mine who I think needs them. Actually, I think that every woman needs them from time to time.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think
I gave you the power to make Me feel the way I thought only my father could
Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I'm all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm 13 again am I 13 for good?
(Chorus: )
I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind
Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I'm devastated
When will you stop leaving baby?
When will I stop deserting baby?
When will I start staying with myself?
Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think
I gave you the power to make Me feel the way I thought only my father could
Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I'm all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm 13 again am I 13 for good?
(Chorus: )
I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind
Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I'm devastated
When will you stop leaving baby?
When will I stop deserting baby?
When will I start staying with myself?
Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me
Friday, May 19, 2006
Piggly Wiggly's Star Employee of the Week (or something similar)
I have amazing friends. Truly...you're all amazing. And the most amazing part of the amazingnessism is that you're all amazing in your own ways. Each and every one of you has a unique character and spirit that inspires me...displays talents and abilities that take my breath away...shares love that makes my life mean something. From time to time I mention you, either by name or reference, in this blog. I should do it more often, perhaps. I'm doing it today.
To the left, under "Links", you'll see one titled Blank Canvas. This one is authored by my dear pal Corey. If you've never looked at his page, you should. Corey and his beautiful wife, my beautiful friend Kristen (who will be signing a record deal in no time, I'm sure), have moved to New York City (I've mentioned this before) to exercise their talents. They have more collective talent, by the way, than any two people should be allowed to have. No wonder God cut some of us short....SOME people got it all. Not that I'm bitter or anything.
Corey is in pursuit of anything related to music, dance, or thespianism (is that a word?). He WILL make it, just so you know. I don't know how or when or by what means, but he will make it. I must point a little spotlight at the most recent entry on his page. He has listed all of the upcoming auditions he's planning on attending. I'm in awe of his courage. Yes, Corey....I'm in awe.
However, I have to say that I AM experiencing a little bit of a gag reflex at the posting of one of your model friends' pictures on your page, though. You're pretty enough on your own...you don't need to exaggerate it by bragging that you hang out with pretty people. And are we really expected to believe that these guys have names like "Jono" and "Brown" and "Apollo"? ( I swear, Corey...if you change your name to something hip and pansy, I'll never speak to you again. I put up with a lot from you, but that's where I draw the line. ) I met some of Corey's model buddies and I have to admit that, despite their ridiculous made-up names, they were actually very down to earth. I had some fairly intense conversations with a few of them. Pretty and hair-product laden or not, there aren't many guys that I could discuss crying with. So, for that, I offer acceptance. Tolerance, anyway.
My intended point, which I have so successfully lost in meaningless details, was that Corey's pursuit of his dream is something that I am chosing to learn from. We should choose to learn from it. We may not be able to hit all the high notes or do jazz hands with flawless flare, but we've all got our own strengths and talents. If he can risk busting his ass on a stage (not that he will), then I'm positive that there are risks we should all be taking for our chance at our own versions of stardom. All I need now are 3 bowling pins, a jar of rubber cement, a damp towel, a trained zebra and a stripper's pole....and I'll be on my way.
To the left, under "Links", you'll see one titled Blank Canvas. This one is authored by my dear pal Corey. If you've never looked at his page, you should. Corey and his beautiful wife, my beautiful friend Kristen (who will be signing a record deal in no time, I'm sure), have moved to New York City (I've mentioned this before) to exercise their talents. They have more collective talent, by the way, than any two people should be allowed to have. No wonder God cut some of us short....SOME people got it all. Not that I'm bitter or anything.
Corey is in pursuit of anything related to music, dance, or thespianism (is that a word?). He WILL make it, just so you know. I don't know how or when or by what means, but he will make it. I must point a little spotlight at the most recent entry on his page. He has listed all of the upcoming auditions he's planning on attending. I'm in awe of his courage. Yes, Corey....I'm in awe.
However, I have to say that I AM experiencing a little bit of a gag reflex at the posting of one of your model friends' pictures on your page, though. You're pretty enough on your own...you don't need to exaggerate it by bragging that you hang out with pretty people. And are we really expected to believe that these guys have names like "Jono" and "Brown" and "Apollo"? ( I swear, Corey...if you change your name to something hip and pansy, I'll never speak to you again. I put up with a lot from you, but that's where I draw the line. ) I met some of Corey's model buddies and I have to admit that, despite their ridiculous made-up names, they were actually very down to earth. I had some fairly intense conversations with a few of them. Pretty and hair-product laden or not, there aren't many guys that I could discuss crying with. So, for that, I offer acceptance. Tolerance, anyway.
My intended point, which I have so successfully lost in meaningless details, was that Corey's pursuit of his dream is something that I am chosing to learn from. We should choose to learn from it. We may not be able to hit all the high notes or do jazz hands with flawless flare, but we've all got our own strengths and talents. If he can risk busting his ass on a stage (not that he will), then I'm positive that there are risks we should all be taking for our chance at our own versions of stardom. All I need now are 3 bowling pins, a jar of rubber cement, a damp towel, a trained zebra and a stripper's pole....and I'll be on my way.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Paradise With a Side of Bacon
There was a bit on the news the other day about crime-related T.V. shows. Police departments all over the country are frustrated with shows like C.S.I. (all 14 versions) and Law & Order (all 57 versions) because they give potential criminals too much instruction about how NOT to get caught. Fingerprints, hair strands, and blood splatters are getting harder to come by behind the yellow tape. Not only that, but police say that these shows give the public unrealistic expectations about crime solving...making it harder for them to do their jobs. My thoughts about that type of entertainment is that it gives already crazy people even more creative ways to do horrible things. Of course, in the mid 80's, cops in Miami were pissed off because of the pressure to wear pastel sports jackets. If it's not one thing, it's another.
Instead of barking about the unrealistic expectations of crime shows, I think we should all talk about how shows like Friends equip us to feel crappy about our personal lives. Don't you sometimes wish that a predictable joke or an espresso at your favorite coffee shop (oh, yeah....and EVERY time you go there, one of your best pals is on the couch) could smooth things over when they get complicated and frustrating and not-so-pretty? Why aren't psychologists and case workers complaining about how Joey and Rachel are making THEIR jobs difficult? pansy policeman......
A friend very recently mentioned the idea of WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT IF EVERYONE THAT WE CARE ABOUT COULD ALL COEXIST IN THE SAME LIFE?(loose translation) We've all thought about this, haven't we? I think most of us would want it. It doesn't sound all that tricky, but it's so difficult, in fact, that it's almost impossible. Well, I guess it's not that far fetched for some. If you've lived in the same hick town your entire life and you've never gone anywhere and never done anything and nobody you know has gone anywhere or done anything and your circle of relationship has wound itself so tightly that nobody new comes in and nobody old gets out.....then everyone you care about can exist together. But for most of us, it's just not that simple. Most of us are stuck in the middle of the giant complex organism of life, and people come and go from all directions and half of the time they never bump into each other. They only bump into YOU; and the only evidence they see of the others are the bruises left on your arms from time to time.
I had a dream last night that I was in a cramped, smoky Waffle House. I went in with a small group of friends (ones that I happen to be missing right now). We sat down, ordered our food. Seconds later, another group of my (our) friends walked in. We were all surprised to see each other. "Haayyy!! What are YOU doing here?" We scooted over and made room. But then it happened again. And again. And again. Before long just about every friend I have, their friends, people that I met once or twice but really liked and never saw again, my family members, and so on had walked into the restaurant. We eventually stopped acting surprised to see everyone else there. It was normal. Expected. We pulled up additional tables and shared chairs...nobody seemed to mind the lack of space. There was no awkwardness and every single person there felt acknowledged and welcomed. I was eating waffles smothered with blueberry compote. I was laughing so much that my face was covered in purple mush. It was dripping down my chin and I couldn't have cared less. Nobody did. It was beautiful.
My only conclusion of the dream is that it was a clear and obvious expression of my longing for a relationship utopia. (I can't help but grin when I realize that the setting of my personal utopia was an establishment that serves carb-laden breakfast food. How telling.) While the details of the dream are unrealistic (everyone knows that Waffle House doesn't serve compote), I can't shake off the thought of "Why not?" So much of life truly is complicated, but more often than not, I make it unnecessarily so. Thomas More believed that utopia was possible. Joey and Rachel believed it. Why shouldn't we? It's definitely a goal worth striving for.
Instead of barking about the unrealistic expectations of crime shows, I think we should all talk about how shows like Friends equip us to feel crappy about our personal lives. Don't you sometimes wish that a predictable joke or an espresso at your favorite coffee shop (oh, yeah....and EVERY time you go there, one of your best pals is on the couch) could smooth things over when they get complicated and frustrating and not-so-pretty? Why aren't psychologists and case workers complaining about how Joey and Rachel are making THEIR jobs difficult? pansy policeman......
A friend very recently mentioned the idea of WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT IF EVERYONE THAT WE CARE ABOUT COULD ALL COEXIST IN THE SAME LIFE?(loose translation) We've all thought about this, haven't we? I think most of us would want it. It doesn't sound all that tricky, but it's so difficult, in fact, that it's almost impossible. Well, I guess it's not that far fetched for some. If you've lived in the same hick town your entire life and you've never gone anywhere and never done anything and nobody you know has gone anywhere or done anything and your circle of relationship has wound itself so tightly that nobody new comes in and nobody old gets out.....then everyone you care about can exist together. But for most of us, it's just not that simple. Most of us are stuck in the middle of the giant complex organism of life, and people come and go from all directions and half of the time they never bump into each other. They only bump into YOU; and the only evidence they see of the others are the bruises left on your arms from time to time.
I had a dream last night that I was in a cramped, smoky Waffle House. I went in with a small group of friends (ones that I happen to be missing right now). We sat down, ordered our food. Seconds later, another group of my (our) friends walked in. We were all surprised to see each other. "Haayyy!! What are YOU doing here?" We scooted over and made room. But then it happened again. And again. And again. Before long just about every friend I have, their friends, people that I met once or twice but really liked and never saw again, my family members, and so on had walked into the restaurant. We eventually stopped acting surprised to see everyone else there. It was normal. Expected. We pulled up additional tables and shared chairs...nobody seemed to mind the lack of space. There was no awkwardness and every single person there felt acknowledged and welcomed. I was eating waffles smothered with blueberry compote. I was laughing so much that my face was covered in purple mush. It was dripping down my chin and I couldn't have cared less. Nobody did. It was beautiful.
My only conclusion of the dream is that it was a clear and obvious expression of my longing for a relationship utopia. (I can't help but grin when I realize that the setting of my personal utopia was an establishment that serves carb-laden breakfast food. How telling.) While the details of the dream are unrealistic (everyone knows that Waffle House doesn't serve compote), I can't shake off the thought of "Why not?" So much of life truly is complicated, but more often than not, I make it unnecessarily so. Thomas More believed that utopia was possible. Joey and Rachel believed it. Why shouldn't we? It's definitely a goal worth striving for.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
A Few Good Things
I love that when we laugh in someone's presence, we look around us to see that others are laughing, too. A funny movie is on, or your waiter farts, or the kid next door that you can't stand falls off his skateboard. Whether we're in the room with one other person or 50, we need to acknowledge a mutual interpretation of humor and goodwill in order to really feel it completely. And when someone you care about is sharing in something that you think is funny, there's a brief, miraculous charge of energy that rushes through your veins. There's something beautiful and calming about simultaneous joy.
(Funny how I had never thought about this until this week....or maybe I've thought of it often, I just didn't remember thinking it. No; I really don't think I thought it....)
Sometimes things suck. The world around us gets stressful and confrontational and hard to navigate. What you thought was a smooth edge gets roughened by your shortcomings and inperfections and it presses into your stomach every time you turn. But then you stop twisting long enough to make eye contact with someone who knows you. And you feel known. And knowing that you can be known like that, and that someone with all that knowledge still wants to look you in the eyes......THAT makes everything else seem manageable.
There is someone out there who cares that you've had a migrane all day and that you might need to vomit at any moment. There is someone who will give you a manicure just because...even when you've referred to him as an explictative to his face. There is someone who recognizes how hard you work; and they respect you for it. There is someone who reminds you of all the dirty places you've been...and that you've come out clean every time. There is someone who knows where you're coming from when nobody else does. There is someone who doesn't scoff at your fondness for your kitty. There is someone who keeps trying when you don't return his calls right away. There is someone who calls you long distance for advice during hair tragedies...because she remembers when you cried over your accidental black hair that made you look "like a hispanic". There is someone who assures you that you deserve great things.
And it feels GOOD, doesn't it?
(Funny how I had never thought about this until this week....or maybe I've thought of it often, I just didn't remember thinking it. No; I really don't think I thought it....)
Sometimes things suck. The world around us gets stressful and confrontational and hard to navigate. What you thought was a smooth edge gets roughened by your shortcomings and inperfections and it presses into your stomach every time you turn. But then you stop twisting long enough to make eye contact with someone who knows you. And you feel known. And knowing that you can be known like that, and that someone with all that knowledge still wants to look you in the eyes......THAT makes everything else seem manageable.
There is someone out there who cares that you've had a migrane all day and that you might need to vomit at any moment. There is someone who will give you a manicure just because...even when you've referred to him as an explictative to his face. There is someone who recognizes how hard you work; and they respect you for it. There is someone who reminds you of all the dirty places you've been...and that you've come out clean every time. There is someone who knows where you're coming from when nobody else does. There is someone who doesn't scoff at your fondness for your kitty. There is someone who keeps trying when you don't return his calls right away. There is someone who calls you long distance for advice during hair tragedies...because she remembers when you cried over your accidental black hair that made you look "like a hispanic". There is someone who assures you that you deserve great things.
And it feels GOOD, doesn't it?
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Tiffany Yagitihoshima
Can it really be true that ALL mothers are over-reactors? It certainly seems that way. Mountains out of mole-hills and embarrassing sobbing over spilt milk, right? My own mother is a peculiar breed because she overreacts about many things she shouldn't (classically), but UNDERreacts about most of the things she SHOULD take seriously. I can tell her that I had a beer with dinner, and she calls her pastor to request prayer for me. But I can recount a terrifying experience of seeing a little child being mauled to death in the street by a pack of rabid wolverines, and she absent-mindedly asks if I've met any nice men lately.
For many years, Tiffany and I have exchanged stories of this sort about our mothers....often arguing over whose mother is, indeed, the crazier of the two. After all the heated competition, I think Tiff has finally taken home the championship trophy on this one. She's cleared a spot on her mantle in preparation. This little epidsode began several months ago about a week before Tiff's dad was due for surgery. Her mom, Carilon, made a trip to the hospital to donate blood..."just in case". As she was sitting there gettin stuck, her mind wandered back to a conversation she had with Tiffany...years ago...The last time Tiff donated blood, she happened to mention to her mother what her blood type was. For some reason Carilon remembered it, and asked the guy taking her blood if that sounded right to him. If she was (I don't recall any of the actual blood types from this story, so bear with me) one thing, and her husband was another, would it be possible for her daughter to be such and such? The guy laughed and said that the only way Tiffany could be her daughter was if she had been fathered by "the milk man".
So Carilon drives all the way home in hysterics over this conversation. Only one possibility seems logical to her; not that Tiffany could have misquoted her blood type; not that Carilon herself could have remembered it incorrectly; not that there could have been some type of mistake with the actual test results; but that Tiffany MUST have been switched at birth. Yes....that had to be it. What other options could there be???
Crying; snotty kleenex in hand, Carilon calls her best friend Gail. Gail rushes over, hears the dramatic tale as only Carilon could tell it, and joins the in the freak-out. Carilon cannot be soothed and cannot be convinced that Tiffany had not, indeed, been conceived in an Econo Lodge by a teenage Japanese American couple back in 1978 (Hall and Oates was softly playing in the background, no doubt). The two women drag out all the old family photo albums to scrutinize the differences between Tiffany and her siblings. This part is the funniest to me. Anyone who has met the Anderson family even once can attest to the fact that they all look JUST alike. However, Carilon and Gail agree that the disimilarities are obvious. Apparently, their plan of action wasn't extremely detailed, but they knew that, at all costs, they must keep the awful news not only from Tiffany, but from her father....so as not to upset him before his surgery.
Well, the whole family comes into town for the procedure the following week. While her father is in the operating room, Tiffany decides to go downstairs and give blood. Upon hearing this, Carilon approaches near panic. She fears that the horrible Anderson family secret is about to be revealed, and things will never be the same again. Tiff returns a few hours later and, under shaky breath, her mother casually asks if she found out what her bloodtype was. Of course, Tiff had remembered it incorrectly all those years ago. It seemed she was, very much, a product of her assumed mother and father. Carilon (again) bursts into tears and confesses her upset.
I almost wish the situation could have turned out the way Carilon feared it might. None of my friends have cool switched-at-birth stories. Another reason why I need new friends. When I was a kid, I used to tell people that my REAL parents were Tom Selleck and Shelley Long. (have I already told this story?) I don't know if I told people I had been switched, or given up for adoption. Either way, it sounded believable to me. But, then again, I also said that my great-grandfather was Mark Twain and that I had a boyfriend named Michael Landon. The point of this whole thing was to laugh at Tiffany....not to remind everyone what a messed up child I was. I suppose it's inevitable.
For many years, Tiffany and I have exchanged stories of this sort about our mothers....often arguing over whose mother is, indeed, the crazier of the two. After all the heated competition, I think Tiff has finally taken home the championship trophy on this one. She's cleared a spot on her mantle in preparation. This little epidsode began several months ago about a week before Tiff's dad was due for surgery. Her mom, Carilon, made a trip to the hospital to donate blood..."just in case". As she was sitting there gettin stuck, her mind wandered back to a conversation she had with Tiffany...years ago...The last time Tiff donated blood, she happened to mention to her mother what her blood type was. For some reason Carilon remembered it, and asked the guy taking her blood if that sounded right to him. If she was (I don't recall any of the actual blood types from this story, so bear with me) one thing, and her husband was another, would it be possible for her daughter to be such and such? The guy laughed and said that the only way Tiffany could be her daughter was if she had been fathered by "the milk man".
So Carilon drives all the way home in hysterics over this conversation. Only one possibility seems logical to her; not that Tiffany could have misquoted her blood type; not that Carilon herself could have remembered it incorrectly; not that there could have been some type of mistake with the actual test results; but that Tiffany MUST have been switched at birth. Yes....that had to be it. What other options could there be???
Crying; snotty kleenex in hand, Carilon calls her best friend Gail. Gail rushes over, hears the dramatic tale as only Carilon could tell it, and joins the in the freak-out. Carilon cannot be soothed and cannot be convinced that Tiffany had not, indeed, been conceived in an Econo Lodge by a teenage Japanese American couple back in 1978 (Hall and Oates was softly playing in the background, no doubt). The two women drag out all the old family photo albums to scrutinize the differences between Tiffany and her siblings. This part is the funniest to me. Anyone who has met the Anderson family even once can attest to the fact that they all look JUST alike. However, Carilon and Gail agree that the disimilarities are obvious. Apparently, their plan of action wasn't extremely detailed, but they knew that, at all costs, they must keep the awful news not only from Tiffany, but from her father....so as not to upset him before his surgery.
Well, the whole family comes into town for the procedure the following week. While her father is in the operating room, Tiffany decides to go downstairs and give blood. Upon hearing this, Carilon approaches near panic. She fears that the horrible Anderson family secret is about to be revealed, and things will never be the same again. Tiff returns a few hours later and, under shaky breath, her mother casually asks if she found out what her bloodtype was. Of course, Tiff had remembered it incorrectly all those years ago. It seemed she was, very much, a product of her assumed mother and father. Carilon (again) bursts into tears and confesses her upset.
I almost wish the situation could have turned out the way Carilon feared it might. None of my friends have cool switched-at-birth stories. Another reason why I need new friends. When I was a kid, I used to tell people that my REAL parents were Tom Selleck and Shelley Long. (have I already told this story?) I don't know if I told people I had been switched, or given up for adoption. Either way, it sounded believable to me. But, then again, I also said that my great-grandfather was Mark Twain and that I had a boyfriend named Michael Landon. The point of this whole thing was to laugh at Tiffany....not to remind everyone what a messed up child I was. I suppose it's inevitable.
Friday, June 24, 2005
A close friend of mine has recently been struggling with a life-long syndrome of second-place-ed-ness (that feeling that someone else is always a little better than you...you're never the first choice or anyone's first priority). I feel you, babe. Whoever said that being first isn't important was a fucking moron. He apparently never had to deal with the kick in the stomach pain of being brushed aside or looked over. Well, Mr. Wise Quote...it fucking hurts. So fuck you.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
A Good Cause
My friends Allison and Laurie Conway are participating in the Breast Cancer 3-Day. This is an organized, fund-raising, 60 mile walk taking place over three days. They are walking in honor of their aunt Judy, a breast cancer survivor, and of my close friend and co-worker, Kristi Kidwell. (Unfortunately, Kristi did not survive her battle. She passed away in December.) I know that many of you have been affected by breast cancer, so I thought you might be interested in hearing more about this event. I have pasted a message from Allison below:
This year, I'll be participating in a very special event called the Breast Cancer 3-Day.
I'll walk 60 miles over the course of three days with thousands of other women and men. The net proceeds will support breast cancer research, education, screening and treatment through the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and the National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund.
I've agreed to raise at least $2,100 in donations. I've set my personal goal at $2,500. So I need your help. Would you please consider making a donation of $60? (That $1 for each mile I'll be walking.) Please take a look at the donation form through the link below and designate the amount that's right for you.
According to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, approximately 200,000 American women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year, and nearly 40,000 will die from the disease. Just a statistic until you put faces and names to it. In the last few years one of those women diagnosed was my Aunt Judy and one of those to die was my roomate's co-worker, Kristi Kidwell. They're why I'm walking so far. To do something bold about breast cancer. I hope that you'll share this incredible adventure with me -- by supporting me in my fundraising efforts.
Thank you in advance for your generosity! Please feel free to forward this to anyone you know who would be interested in donating. Also, if you know anyone in the Dallas area who would like to walk, have them contact me at conway_allison@hotmail.com or join my team using the link below. Thanks again!
Sincerely,
Allison Conway
To visit Allison's donation web-page, and for information about the women they are walking in honor of, click on this link: http://www.the3day.org/faf/r.asp?t=4&i=61807&u=61807-72409230&e=275048095
This year, I'll be participating in a very special event called the Breast Cancer 3-Day.
I'll walk 60 miles over the course of three days with thousands of other women and men. The net proceeds will support breast cancer research, education, screening and treatment through the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and the National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund.
I've agreed to raise at least $2,100 in donations. I've set my personal goal at $2,500. So I need your help. Would you please consider making a donation of $60? (That $1 for each mile I'll be walking.) Please take a look at the donation form through the link below and designate the amount that's right for you.
According to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, approximately 200,000 American women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year, and nearly 40,000 will die from the disease. Just a statistic until you put faces and names to it. In the last few years one of those women diagnosed was my Aunt Judy and one of those to die was my roomate's co-worker, Kristi Kidwell. They're why I'm walking so far. To do something bold about breast cancer. I hope that you'll share this incredible adventure with me -- by supporting me in my fundraising efforts.
Thank you in advance for your generosity! Please feel free to forward this to anyone you know who would be interested in donating. Also, if you know anyone in the Dallas area who would like to walk, have them contact me at conway_allison@hotmail.com or join my team using the link below. Thanks again!
Sincerely,
Allison Conway
To visit Allison's donation web-page, and for information about the women they are walking in honor of, click on this link: http://www.the3day.org/faf/r.asp?t=4&i=61807&u=61807-72409230&e=275048095
Friday, February 04, 2005
Doubly Irritating
I have more than one set of twins in my life. Love them. Great people. But they're a strange breed...for many reasons. For example, ever notice how, whenever meeting a new group of people, they feel the need to tell the story of their birth(s) and childhood(s) as if anyone actually cares? Do they really need to point out all their likenesses and differences? If someone asks..."Hey...are you guys twins?", then there certainly would be no harm in answering. But, why elaborate? Can't they identify a question that is asked rhetorically simply in an effort to be friendly?
It would be like my brother and I entering a room together and making a big deal out of our siblinghood.
"Yes, we ARE brother and sister. Crazy, huh? Which one's older?.....He is. Yeah, by four years. Just barely, though. Our mom didn't even know I'd be coming along later. She was in labor for a full 36 hours.....combined.....with the both of us. I was 7 lbs, 9oz and he was 8lbs, 5oz. Nope, we didn't look a thing alike when we were born. We were so stinkin adorable, though. People would always comment on our outfits. No, we didn't wear matching clothes. My first word was vegetable, his was dog. Funniest thing...he hated me from the get-go. Yeah, it was hilarious. I'm the narcicist, he's the pathological liar. We're both alcoholics, though. He IS taller than me, yeah. Crazy stuff."
Point being....who would give a rat's ass? No one! Being a twin doesn't change that!
Speaking of twins, I read today that Jon Lovitz is a twin. How disturbing is it to know that there's more than one of him out there?
It would be like my brother and I entering a room together and making a big deal out of our siblinghood.
"Yes, we ARE brother and sister. Crazy, huh? Which one's older?.....He is. Yeah, by four years. Just barely, though. Our mom didn't even know I'd be coming along later. She was in labor for a full 36 hours.....combined.....with the both of us. I was 7 lbs, 9oz and he was 8lbs, 5oz. Nope, we didn't look a thing alike when we were born. We were so stinkin adorable, though. People would always comment on our outfits. No, we didn't wear matching clothes. My first word was vegetable, his was dog. Funniest thing...he hated me from the get-go. Yeah, it was hilarious. I'm the narcicist, he's the pathological liar. We're both alcoholics, though. He IS taller than me, yeah. Crazy stuff."
Point being....who would give a rat's ass? No one! Being a twin doesn't change that!
Speaking of twins, I read today that Jon Lovitz is a twin. How disturbing is it to know that there's more than one of him out there?
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Cartoon Procreation
Everyone has weird dreams from time to time. It has always seemed to me that I have weirder ones, and at a greater frequency, than most people I know. Although, for the past few months, much to my dissapointment, most of my dreams have been more on the side of commonplace. So I was quite pleased when this one occurred not too long ago.
I dreamed that my friend, Berenice, was pregnant. In the dream, we were all suprised upon hearing the news. But what was more suprising was learning that Tigger was the father. Yes, Tigger from the Hundred Acre Woods. Not only was he the father, but Bere was in love with him, and marriage was in the works to prevent the birth of a little bastard tigerbaby. Bere is, by far, the most sophisticated friend I have. She's very pretty, very proper, and very much a "lady". I could spend a full four years at Madame Boufant's School for Young Women and graduate still cruder, clumsier, and more unpolished than she.
Placing the absurdity of Tigger inpregnating anyone in general aside, the idea of Bere being the "anyone" makes it all the more ridiculous. She wouldn't tolerate Tigger's moxie for more than about 10 minutes on a first date, if he could manage to even get that far. Owl, or Rabbit, maybe....would be a much better match for her. I think I could have an enjoyable night with Tigger. He'd be a hoot to take bar-hopping, anyway. Could probably show me a good time. Certainly wouldn't be one with whom to consider anything long term, though.
I hate to leave Pooh and Piglet out of this. Both would be considerate boyfriends, I'm sure. Pooh would supply any woman with a constant supply of warm smackerals, and would likely be very emotionally giving (he's big on sharing, as I recall). Piglet would be sweet and agreeable, and I'm sure SOME girls like pansies. I guess I almost forgot about Eeyore. He's way too self involved to pursue a relationship. You have to love yourself first, right?
I dreamed that my friend, Berenice, was pregnant. In the dream, we were all suprised upon hearing the news. But what was more suprising was learning that Tigger was the father. Yes, Tigger from the Hundred Acre Woods. Not only was he the father, but Bere was in love with him, and marriage was in the works to prevent the birth of a little bastard tigerbaby. Bere is, by far, the most sophisticated friend I have. She's very pretty, very proper, and very much a "lady". I could spend a full four years at Madame Boufant's School for Young Women and graduate still cruder, clumsier, and more unpolished than she.
Placing the absurdity of Tigger inpregnating anyone in general aside, the idea of Bere being the "anyone" makes it all the more ridiculous. She wouldn't tolerate Tigger's moxie for more than about 10 minutes on a first date, if he could manage to even get that far. Owl, or Rabbit, maybe....would be a much better match for her. I think I could have an enjoyable night with Tigger. He'd be a hoot to take bar-hopping, anyway. Could probably show me a good time. Certainly wouldn't be one with whom to consider anything long term, though.
I hate to leave Pooh and Piglet out of this. Both would be considerate boyfriends, I'm sure. Pooh would supply any woman with a constant supply of warm smackerals, and would likely be very emotionally giving (he's big on sharing, as I recall). Piglet would be sweet and agreeable, and I'm sure SOME girls like pansies. I guess I almost forgot about Eeyore. He's way too self involved to pursue a relationship. You have to love yourself first, right?
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Amazing Love
One of my closest friends, Charla, gave birth to a beautiful son on Monday night. Christopher is amazing....perfect. Almost unbelievably so. Funny thing about the situation is that, until about 9 months ago, Charla rested in the absolute that she would NEVER want to have a baby. She and her husband, Vince, were content with their life together, and felt that their two doggies were all they would ever need to fulfill their parenting desires. But something unexpectedly stirred their hearts, and they decided they would give it a try. Much to their surprise, the baby had already pitched his tent....a couple of weeks before they made their decision. Could’ve been a subconscious biological signal that prompted Charla’s longing for a child so suddenly. I happen to believe it was much more than biology, but to pursue that tangent would greatly lengthen this entry. Besides, I'm sure I'll end up pursuing others before I'm done.
Last night I saw Charla the happiest I’ve seen her in our 8 year friendship. To look at her, you would never have guessed that she ever felt unprepared or unqualified for her upcoming role as a mother. I walked into the hospital room and I could literally feel the love that had come into existence there. Like an invisible incense, it took my breath away, curling and wrapping its trail around me as I entered. Obviously, I’ve known many new mothers, and I’ve held quite a few newborns in their first days; but the experience never stales; never appears unimpressive; never seems prosaic. Hundreds of thousands of babies are born every day in every corner of the planet. The melancholic reality is that not every child is born into love. There are countless numbers of shiny white hospital rooms, meager lean-tos, and darkened back-alleys that breathe no aroma of piety or astonishment (from human presence, that is) when a novel soul is born in its parameters. But, for my own purpose, I’ll allow myself to assume that, statistically, most new mothers love their own flesh and blood.
Its that kind of love, exactly, that blows my mind. Most anyone who knows me well knows that I’m not one of "those" girls who goes crazy over babies. I don’t feel the need to tickle every toddler or kiss the head of every infant I see at a grocery store or restaurant. If I have a biological clock, it’s not ticking. Its digital reading flashes "No Time Soon" in blinding red. No one should worry....I’m not announcing that I want a baby. However, its when I’m reminded that this kind of love exists that I feel a (very) small pang of envy for women who already have it. Sure, I know what its like to love a child. I love my niece zealously. I have loved students (when I was teaching) with a comparable zeal. I love my kitty......if that counts. But I realize that all of this can fit in the shadow, many times over, of motherhood. This love is terrifying. Seems that it would swallow me and never spit me back out. It’s no wonder that most of us are somewhat afraid of loving unbridled and unrestrained.
Bigger picture: as I drove home late last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about how love, in general, truly amazes me. The fact that God gives us the ability to experience it in so many ways and to such passionate extensions is a little overwhelming. And, for some reason, after holding Christopher and observing him with his parents, it was as if I could see all the facets of love in my life intertwine. They braided themselves inside me; a different strand of color for every way I've encountered them recently. Births, deaths, falling in love (and abiding in it), loyal friendships, relentless family support, answered prayers (even when the answer is "no")....... And before I knew it, this knot of thankful, humbled emotion was reavealing itself in tears. I could feel it in my bones and in my gut. It was impossible to ignore. Call me simple or overly "sweet" if you will. My cynicism is usually pretty prevalent in daily conversation, and I don't skip to work everyday singing "Kum Ba Yah", passing out daisies to strangers (although I did swerve to avoid hitting a squirrel today, and I even hugged my boss on Monday). But when I experience even 60 seconds of such a sensation, I feel it needs to be shared.
Enough of that......let's talk about sex and rock-n-roll now.....
Last night I saw Charla the happiest I’ve seen her in our 8 year friendship. To look at her, you would never have guessed that she ever felt unprepared or unqualified for her upcoming role as a mother. I walked into the hospital room and I could literally feel the love that had come into existence there. Like an invisible incense, it took my breath away, curling and wrapping its trail around me as I entered. Obviously, I’ve known many new mothers, and I’ve held quite a few newborns in their first days; but the experience never stales; never appears unimpressive; never seems prosaic. Hundreds of thousands of babies are born every day in every corner of the planet. The melancholic reality is that not every child is born into love. There are countless numbers of shiny white hospital rooms, meager lean-tos, and darkened back-alleys that breathe no aroma of piety or astonishment (from human presence, that is) when a novel soul is born in its parameters. But, for my own purpose, I’ll allow myself to assume that, statistically, most new mothers love their own flesh and blood.
Its that kind of love, exactly, that blows my mind. Most anyone who knows me well knows that I’m not one of "those" girls who goes crazy over babies. I don’t feel the need to tickle every toddler or kiss the head of every infant I see at a grocery store or restaurant. If I have a biological clock, it’s not ticking. Its digital reading flashes "No Time Soon" in blinding red. No one should worry....I’m not announcing that I want a baby. However, its when I’m reminded that this kind of love exists that I feel a (very) small pang of envy for women who already have it. Sure, I know what its like to love a child. I love my niece zealously. I have loved students (when I was teaching) with a comparable zeal. I love my kitty......if that counts. But I realize that all of this can fit in the shadow, many times over, of motherhood. This love is terrifying. Seems that it would swallow me and never spit me back out. It’s no wonder that most of us are somewhat afraid of loving unbridled and unrestrained.
Bigger picture: as I drove home late last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about how love, in general, truly amazes me. The fact that God gives us the ability to experience it in so many ways and to such passionate extensions is a little overwhelming. And, for some reason, after holding Christopher and observing him with his parents, it was as if I could see all the facets of love in my life intertwine. They braided themselves inside me; a different strand of color for every way I've encountered them recently. Births, deaths, falling in love (and abiding in it), loyal friendships, relentless family support, answered prayers (even when the answer is "no")....... And before I knew it, this knot of thankful, humbled emotion was reavealing itself in tears. I could feel it in my bones and in my gut. It was impossible to ignore. Call me simple or overly "sweet" if you will. My cynicism is usually pretty prevalent in daily conversation, and I don't skip to work everyday singing "Kum Ba Yah", passing out daisies to strangers (although I did swerve to avoid hitting a squirrel today, and I even hugged my boss on Monday). But when I experience even 60 seconds of such a sensation, I feel it needs to be shared.
Enough of that......let's talk about sex and rock-n-roll now.....
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