I Can Take A Hint

"Age wrinkles the body.  Quitting wrinkles the soul."

Yeah.  That's what I said.  I can take a hint.

Now, I'm not saying that when I take a hint, I act on it right away or anything.  I'm just saying I can take one.   Kind of like a nap, I'm thinking.

Wait.  Nothing like a nap, because it is well known that I cannot take a nap.  Bad analogy.  Oh man, and that's even the part of the SAT that I aced. 

By saying this, I don't want to imply that this is the first hint I've had, the first tug, the first nagging pointed finger in my back telling me to start blogging again.  But this one, well, it's a doozy (is that how you spell doozy?  doozie??).

It's not like I haven't been lonely.  Or missed writing.  Or reading.  Or all the ridiculous reading and linking and tagging and networking that leads to blog readership which in turn leads to motivation to keep writing.  Okay, I haven't missed that last one, you got me there.

It's been a long time, hasn't it.  Yup.  It has.

It's a common malady.  I'm seeing that.   As you know, I was all gung ho there for awhile.  And then it died out.   Or my life changed.  Or something.  As I've been considering coming back, I've meandered around the web, visiting some of the blogs that I loved and frequented during my gung ho days (which should be distinguished from my Gunga Din days, which are a completely different thing, though they do both involve a fair amount of carrying).  And, well, a lot of them ain't what they used ta be.  I'm pretty sad about that--they were great reading.  Some have just grown sparse, bare around the edges, while others have disappeared all together.  I guess what I'm saying is that I feel like I'm in some pretty damn good company (in the disappearing if not in the returning).  Hey, it's a first step with that loneliness thing, right?

But this isn't about going away.  It's about returning.  Again.

Believe you me, I'm asking the questions.  Why am I back?  Why am I trying to do this again?   Why say so, rather than just starting again?  Huh?

Well, first, because I can take a hint.  I told you that already.

Second, because the other night, I found myself watching Julie and Julia again (on TV this time--with ads, which I do NOT recommend, which is why I only wound up watching part of it).  I liked that movie.  And I remembered going to see it with friends--back in the day before they had a child and could do things like see movies--and smiling and laughing knowingly at her talking about doing a blog, getting comments, having "readers", and finding a construct that would move her to write daily rather than whenever she felt like it, which is really important because, as we well know, in today's ADD world if you don't have a structure for doing something all the time, it often doesn't get done, which is what Julie knew and so she decided to work her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  I remembered how much fun it was, how much work it was, how it represented a tiny leap of faith that took place every single day, when I pressed "Publish", sending my words out into the middle of nowhere and everywhere, with trust.  It was a big deal.  I remember that now.

(by the way, Julie Powell's last blog post was more than  year ago (unless she's moved somewhere else, I'm lazy tonight so I'm not doing much digging).  So there.)

And third, because (this is a secret...shhhhh), well, I never stopped.  Yeah, I know that it looks like I stopped.  And I can't prove that I didn't, because there's no secret place --or worse yet, another blog, which would just be like infidelity, that would be wrong--where all the writing I did while I was stopped is located.  But I did write.  Every day.   Sometimes multiple times a day.   I even stayed on topic.   I wrote about the things I didn't (don't) get.    The trick was in getting them to come out the tips of my fingers.  Just wasn't happenin'.

So there I was, watching Julie and Julia and trying to keep track of the couple of hundred blog posts that were written in my head, or at least trying to get myself to stop writing them if I wasn't actually going to write them down, you know?, and then I got an email.  Because way back when, when I needed the structure that Julie Powell had (at least in her fictional persona) I found it in Nablopomo.  Write every day.  For a month.  Who can't do that?  It's 30 days, give or take a couple.  Sheesh.  If I can't do that....well then.  I have friends who do Nanowrimo, ferevvinsakes (and god bless 'em).

Yeah, that's who sent the email.  Nablopomo.  Because every month, they send a cordial little note saying what the theme for the upcoming month is, just in case you want to jump back on board (how nice of them!).  You don't have to follow the theme, it's just a crutch, in case you can't figure out what to write about, in which case you can write about the theme, which always seems harder to me than writing about something else, but there ya go.

So there they were.  In my mailbox.  And what did they say the "theme" was for September?

"Return"

Get that.   Like I said,  I can take a hint.

And so, as they say, I shall.

30 days.  Returning.   I can do that.

I'm Changing My Name To Bambi and Moving to the Woods

Once, a pretty long time ago now, one of my sisters told me a joke. No, it wasn't only that time that she told a joke, but you know what I mean. Grammar is an evil taskmistress. Now, I don't remember the whole joke (don't you hate it when people say that? Don't they know how to tell a joke?), but I remember the basic punchline, and I remember she thought it was really funny. As a youngest sister with an unacknowleged idolatry for those older, I proceeded to tell it ad nauseum, laughing loudly at the end, just like she did. (As I read this, I'm thinking it must have been a LONG time ago). For the most part, people just looked at me blankly.

Note to smart asses out there: No, that doesn't always happen when I tell jokes, even though I don't really tell jokes all that often--I tell stories, and they usually go over pretty well, unless I'm kidding myself, which is entirely possible.

Occasionally, after a pregnant pause, they'd say "I don't get it". And then I'd explain. Which, as you know, is pretty much like the crawling-on-your-belly-in-the-slime of jokedom.

The joke concerned one Fifi LaRue (occupation unnamed though implied), who introduced her parents, Mr. & Mrs. LaRue. That's it. Yeah, that's it. The whole thing. Are you laughing yet? Yeah, I didn't think so. No, I'm not gonna explain it to you.

Factoid: It turns out that there are nearly 10,000 people in the United States with the last name LaRue, which means "the street" (get it?). That pretty much shoots the whole thing to hell, even if you got it in the first place, which frankly, would make you an outlier, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Now, none of that is what I wanted to talk about, but was simply what they call, in my line of work, "the lead-in". Oh. Wait. Not in my line of work. But in somebody's, I'm sure. I'm referring to the title of this post in which (if you read it) I announce that I'm changing my name to Bambi. Now there are a subset of you gentle readers who, for lack of a better expression, have your minds in the gutter. You saw that title, and you thought I was ditching the glamorous life of blog-writing, consulting, responsible parenting, and all-round child development geek to take up the womanly art of stripping. If you know me in person, I'm sure it's something you've considered suggesting to me as a career choice, but you've just been too shy to mention it. That's okay.

(Wait, I have to catch my breath. It's winter, I have rhinitis, and I cough whenever I laugh too hard)

Maybe, to you, it comes with the name. You know, like Ms. Fifi there. Well, get over yourself, I am talking about the movie. Yeah, the deer one. Specifically, I am talking about a line: "I'll do it because you want to but not because you tell me to."

I guess what I'm really trying to say is: That's me. Obnoxious, right? Aw, go ahead, I've heard it all before. Sticks and stones, all that nonsense.

See, the thing is, I'm not really one for expectations. Or rules. Or authority. Or pressure. Or being supervised or watched. You get the idea. No (since you asked), it hasn't worked out all that well. But a leopard doesn't change its spots [apologies to Kipling]. And the thing is (True Confessions....ooh), I'm not like one of those normal people who dislike authority. Nope. Such things tend to stop me dead in my tracks. It's a little like that famous line of Groucho Marx about not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. Kinda.

It's not exactly a source of pride (except when it is). Admittedly, it can really screw things up. And it has. Most importantly (and most unfortunately), it even happens when the feedback is positive. If it carries expectations, I'm out. Now, before you panic, don't get me wrong. I'm highly responsible and dependable, even though it sounds paradoxical in this context. I'm loyal, capable of tremendous commitment. Maybe it's just that no one could possibly have higher expectations of me than I do (or so I'm told). Or maybe not. I just like to set my expectations myself, that's really all.

The reason I mention this here is that, as some of you know, I was writing a daily blog for quite awhile. And then I stopped (for reasons not unrelated to this post). And then, just a couple of weeks ago, I came back. I'm glad to be back. And I started getting the kindest emails and comments, reminding me that people like my writing and are glad the blog is up and going again. You'd think this would be affirming. Encouraging. Well, sure. Instead, I couldn't write. And if I tell you this, you'll all stop telling me this stuff because I've just told you that it stops me, but it's also what sustains me. Hey, I told you it was messed up.

I'm gonna figure it out.

So that's why I'm sayin'....I'm changing my name to Bambi and moving to the woods. If they have wifi there (gawd, I hope so), I'll let you know how it's going.

Oh.

Uh-oh.

Hmm.

I just found out that the line is not from Bambi at all, but rather from Mrs. Piggle Wiggle. Oh. I've always heard it in Thumper's voice. I guess I should stop that. I mean, I understand where I got confused. Bambi is about a baby deer [insert visual and auditory image of children singing as they skip through the Alps dressed in drapery] that is traumatically separated from his mother and all the cute little animals that accompany him (even though I always think he's a her, just goes to show you how unnecessary that whole gender thing is) on his romps through the forest, and Mrs. Piggle Wiggle is about an older woman who lives in an upside down house surrounded by neighborhood children and who provides parents with magical cures for their childrens' obnoxious (but perfectly developmentally appropriate--I told you I was a child development geek, I can't help it) behaviors. See? It's practically like the same story! And it wasn't a rabbit that said it, it was a bird. A parrot. Both animals! See?

Shoot. Never mind, then.

More on Words

Yesterday, I wrote about words being too restrictive. About their inadequacy to communicate what we mean in the deepest sense.

Today, I want to talk about the flipside.

It seems to me that the whole mess is made ever more complicated by the power that words hold. The power that we give them. The right words in the right moment are priceless. The wrong words in the wrong moment can be devastating. Which brings me to something I don't get.

For one thing, I don't get the primacy of the physical body. As if it isn't commanded, engineered, and operated by the same organ (which I have to say we don't seem to know anything about, even as we know more about it than ever before) as everything else. Losing control of motor function in one's hand, for example, is really not all that different from losing word retrieval; yet, the former evokes sympathy and the latter, ribbing. Does that make sense to you?

Stick with me. This does have something to do with words. I promise.

Some years ago...well, a whole lot of years ago...at a time when I was struggling, someone said to me "Isn't it amazing? If you are physically sick, people send you cards, they bring food, they mow your lawn, they send flowers and cards. And if you are emotionally sick, people stay away from you.". So maybe there's an evolutionary purpose for somaticism after all, huh? I really don't get it.

Which brings me, albeit in a roundabout way, to my point (as Ellen Degeneres says, I do have one). I've been waging a bit of a campaign for years now, but I have to admit, it's been a little lonely.

It began with a professional (and yeah,okay, a bit personal) passion of mine, and the subject of much of my graduate work. Invisible children. No, not the Virginia Bruce or Claude Rains or even Ralph Ellison kind of invisible. Children who are not noticed, not mentioned, passed over. They're everywhere. Any teacher could tell you about them, as much as we don't like to admit it--when you get to the end of your day, there is always at least one child that you just can't say what they were doing, and sometimes whether they were even there. I know, it sounds sad. But it's true. Maybe it's a malady, maybe it's a strategy, maybe it's something else altogether. Whatever it is, it's not the only kind of invisibility.

There's invisibility in being different. In being gay. Or lesbian. Or gender nonconformist. Or being a child of divorcing parents. There's invisiblity in being shy. Or out of touch with the current media or electronic culture. And yes, there's that kind too. And by "that kind", I mean whatever kind you're thinking of. Yup.

But none of those are what I mean. (see what I mean about words?)

My interest is, and has always been, in children whose experience is overshadowed by the experience of others around them, most markedly those who are bystanders to violence and trauma. I am painfully aware of their absence, not only because of the lack of humanity in their invisibility, but also because of the way in which their omission translates into a nearly complete inattentiveness to their unique needs.

But the first step is in words. In changing words. In respecting the validity of other types of pain or violence other than physical. And the first step in making that happen is in changing our language. Words. Words. Words.

Like I said, sometimes it gets lonely. And sometimes I get tired. And sometimes I think I am the only person in the world who notices this stuff--or objects to it. And then I forget about it for a while. Because I have the privilege of doing that. I am both grateful and sorry that that happens. Fortunately (and yes, I mean fortunately), I can never stay out of touch with it for that long, because just when i get lackadaisical, it happens again. Like yesterday.

Perhaps you read the story of Byrd and Melanie Billings in the news yesterday. This is them, with their twelve children:


In case you didn't read about it, I'll give you the Reader's Digest version. Byrd and Melanie lived in Pensacola, Florida. They had 16 children, 12 of them adopted, six with Downs Syndrome, others with drug exposure and sexual abuse histories. On Thursday, both parents were shot and killed in their home, apparently as a result of a home invasion that occurred in the evening. News reports vary, but there were at least eight [possibly sleeping) children in the home at the time of the murders. Now, I'm not making any assumption about the murders--there is a lot of speculation swirling. It doesn't really matter. What I am objecting to are the following news reports:

"The children, who ranged in age from infant to about 11 years old, were unharmed"

Sgt. Ted Roy, Escambia County Police spokesman, CNN

"Eight children were in the home at the time of the shooting, but none were harmed"

Pensacola News Journal

"eight of the Billing's children were home at the time fortunately none of them were hurt"

WEAR-TV, Pensacola

(and just to put the requisite icing on the cake, the spokesperson from the chronically scandal-laden Department of Children and Families says that that DCF "will, in a little bit of time, after the shock is over, reach out to the caregivers of these children and offer them what we call post-adoptive services". Ah. After the shock is over. I see. Florida. Ain't it grand?

So, here's my question. Would it kill us--all of us, including the media--to put the word "physically" in front of the word "harmed" or "hurt"? Of course they were harmed. Of course they were hurt. Probably irreparably, especially for some of them. They just didn't sustain physical injuries.

Sure, you can say "Oh, we know that they mean that they weren't physically hurt". Well, sure we do. Just like the archetypal dismissal of feminist objections, "Oh, when we say men, we mean women too!". Yeah. Sure you do.

You can say "that's just nitpicking." But words are powerful. And knowing what they mean doesn't make it okay. We demand that people are careful with other words that hurt. Why not these?

It's one word, folks. Just one lousy word. "Physically". That's it. How much would it take for us to relearn how we say and write about events like this? We have taught ourselves to say "firefighters" instead of firemen. We have taught ourselves (well, a lot of us anyway) to use the word "disability" rather than handicap. We have taught ourselves to say "African American" rather than any one of the myriad of labels that have been used to describe the people of color whose ancestors are from Africa (which is kinda all of us, but that's a whole 'nother discussion). We do learn. We do change. Can't we train ourselves to put that word in there?

The primacy of physical well-being over emotional, spiritual, mental well-being has reached the end of its useful life. Let's put it to bed. With one small word. Could anything be easier?

Words Fail

I am not sure how to explain what has happened the last couple of days. I have been struggling to write here. It's not about time. I've had time. I haven't even been willing to begin.

I would love to say, I have thought of saying, that I haven't had words, I haven't been able to coalesce my meandering into collections of letters and spaces. But that isn't really true. I've had a hundred phrases, and nearly as many opening sentences. Still, they have not found their way to this space, this screen.

I am only just beginning to figure this out. So I am being patient with myself as I write, and I hope you will be similarly patient as you read. We'll figure it out somehow.

I think what I want to say--because if there's anything I know for sure, it's that I'm not sure--is that I am beginning to understand my attraction to visual art over writing (at least in a historical sense). Because it is odd to have as your primary tool something that limits your expression by its very use. In this case, of course, I'm talking about words.

The reason I have not written down even one of those openings is that the minute that I write it down, it's wrong. Not wrong, like judgment, but wrong like not what i mean. Words, words themselves, really the sole medium of this craft, feel as if they are intrinsically limiting. Worse yet, in many cases, words are braggarts, showing off their solidity as if they know what they mean, and so should we. But I don't. Do you?

So I've been thinking about what is behind this phase, this place. And, ironically, I think it came from a comment that I got, or maybe even a couple of comments. If you are one of the people who left them, I fear that you are going to think that I took them wrong. Please trust that I didn't, I don't take them wrong. It is that I am discovering that I am uncomfortable being named, and that revelation has led me into wondering if I am uncomfortable with all naming, which, in the end, means discomfort with words themselves.

I am a writer. It was in the comments. I wrote a response asking why it is so hard to identify as such. And that was the end of words.

It came in being led, once again, to the words and writing of Mary Daly, and her insistence that words be altered to more accurately reflect a unique frame of mind. I remember listening to her read at Mama Bear's bookstore in Oakland, hearing for the first time a new language, a refusal to use words as if we all know what they mean.

It came in identifying my blog as a "women's" blog or a "feminist" blog, neither of which I doubt, but somehow once I named it as such, I felt limited and restrained, as if I can no longer write about cupcakes, which I fully intend to do. And in that restraint--you guessed it--nothing. No words.

You know the old routine. You go to a party, or you meet someone new, and they ask "What do you do?". Some of us hate that, some of us don't mind, some of us don't really care--but they ask and they will continue to ask, so there it is. I have never had an answer to that question. I notice that other people do. I am a lawyer. I am a teacher. I am a doctor. I am in retail. I am a social worker. I am a mom. I build houses. I am an accountant. People have answers. I have never had an answer. I stumble around, I try to describe what I do for my work, for my life. And in the end, after making myself and the other uncomfortable trying to fish around for words and descriptions that fit, I usually give up, and change the subject. Because, really, what do I say?

Do I say I'm an artist? When I do, people ask me what medium, and then I'm stuck again.

Do I say I'm a writer? No. I don't. I am a writer. But that's not what I "do".

Do I say I'm a consultant? Now there's a word that doesn't mean anything at all. A few weeks ago, I met a woman and we exchanged small talk. We discovered that we both work from home, we are both "consultants". She introduced herself as a computer consultant. I nodded. I introduced myself as a child development consultant. She looked confused and laughed a little and asked what that could be. See?

Do I say I don't do anything, that I prefer being to doing? Yeah, I could. But it's not exactly well suited for small talk at the PTA dinner.

And then there's the thing about what sort of blog this is. What I write about. People ask me that too (not to mention the nearly constant requirement to "label" blogs when they are submitted for inclusion in blogrolls or other sites.) People want to know what kind of blog, they ask "what kind of things do you write about?" I don't have an answer for that either. Not because I don't know--I do. But because the minute I answer, there is something lost. There is a piece of me, of my writing, of my experience, that is made invisible by that descriptor. I am reluctant to offer up a word that introduces limitations, in any form.

I suppose it is true as well for visual art, too. One is bound by the limitations and properties of oil paint, for example, or by wood, or clay. I think the difference is that, at least in my experience, there is rarely an assumption by the viewer that they know precisely the artist's ideas, their intentions, what they are "saying". In writing, people think they know. When I write the word "feminism", people think they know what I mean--or they use their own definitions as they read. If I sculpt feminism, people will gaze, they will wonder, they will circle, they will be confused, they will walk right past, they will ask me about it, ask me about my intentions, about the piece, often in an open-ended way. While the medium may limit the sculpture, the product stands on its own, subject to a potentially less arrogant interpretation. Few would tell me I used the wrong brush stroke, that that brush stroke didn't communicate clearly what I was trying to say. Not so in writing. We think we know. We all know what I mean when I write "women". No. We don't.

Let's just say I don't care for that.

And yet words are what we have.

Collections of words and spaces. Such a poor approximation of sensation.

And that, my friends, is where I've been.

Help Me, I Can't Shut Up

Sometimes, kids are more important than blogs. Today was (is) one of those days. Sorry, folks. Oh. Wait. No, I'm not.

In the spirit of the sentiment, I direct you to today's post by the wonderful wordsmith and plucky provocateur, Heather, aka The Queen of Shake-Shake. I read it. I cried. I saved it. I printed it. I read it again. I might just frame it.

I was tempted to make this the day that I joined Wordless Wednesdays, a pretty cool idea, but one which somehow makes me feel like I'm cheating, which is completely insane, but there it is. It's a nice place to visit, but I don't think I'm ready to live there. On top of that, Wordless Wednesdays is every day now, which seems wonderful for photographers, but outside of that, I don't get it, which I suppose makes it excellent fodder for this blog, which is purportedly about the things I don't get, except sometimes it isn't, and anyhow, even though I don't have much time to write today, there are bigger things I don't get than how Wordless Wednesday can happen on a Thursday. Like for instance, I don't get what I find so appealing about run-on sentences. I don't get why I'm writing right now, when I just told you that I don't have any time and I am really not writing today because I filled it with other important things. I don't get why 71% of Republicans say they would be inclined to vote for Sarah Palin for President, and why that number went up after her resignation. I don't get why, on a science show on TV tonight, when parents were sending their three year old into surgery, they told her that some people were going to come take her away. Lovely. I don't get so many things about people's views and responses to Michael Jackson and his death. So, you can see that wondering why Saturday is Wednesday and why people want to post photographs every day is pretty low on my list.

But if I had joined Wordless Wednesday today, which I didn't, I would have posted this video. Which I suppose wouldn't have qualified because it isn't wordless. See how bad I am at following directions? I broke the rules before I even joined. I would post the video because this is the song that I "got" today. I haven't heard it or thought of it or sung it in at least ten years. I've had it all day. It's one of the more oblique ones, by a long shot, so I still don't have a clue where it came from, why I got it, or what the message is. But it's there, and there's a debt to the muse that requires me to come clean about the songs as they arrive. So here you go. If you have any idea what it means, feel free to clue me in. Oh, and for the young'uns among us: That's a 45.



Oh. I wrote anyway. Oh, well.

At the Stroke of Midnight

I waited all day. I didn't want to post about this in the middle of it all. And I don't want to write about it tomorrow. I've already got something crucially important to say tomorrow. It involves cupcakes. You don't want to miss that.

But just now, I looked at the clock and it said 12:00 On The Dot. So I figured that was my chance. I could post it in neither yesterday nor today (or it is neither today nor tomorrow? I'm so confused). As you know if you're a regular reader (and if you're not, please explain yourself and haul yourself over to that little button that says "subscribe" right now, y'hear?), I'm a big fan of liminal space. The in-between.

It was an invitation I could not resist. As my mother would say, it's an omen. So here I am. The omen slave. Nice to see ya.

So here's what I'm here to say, and then I really am going to go to bed, I mean it: Today was a wild ride.

You see, some time ago, I submitted my blog for inclusion in the New England Blogs section of Boston.com, a site that encompasses, but is not limited to, the Boston Globe (our local dying newspaper). It's a pretty extensive blogroll, but I figured what the heck. Maybe I'll pick up a reader here and there, and it's good for my imaginary sense of legitimacy.

So this morning, I opens my computer and I looks at my stats. I do that now and then, even though they change about as much as the weather reports in Honolulu. If nothing else, it's a little self-check, as good a measure as any of my level of compulsivity on any given day (let's see: Coffee or ginseng tea? Compare. Contrast.) I don't take the stats too seriously, but sometimes it's interesting to try to imagine how that person in Abu Dhabi happened to wind up at Here's What I Don't Get.

I hover somewhere around 50 visitors a day, about 1/3 of them loyal folks who always stop by (read: family and friends) and the rest new people who stop in and rarely linger. I do not lose sleep over how to get them to stick around. You like what you like. No big deal.

So this morning, when I checked my stats at 9 a.m. and saw that there were 119 new visitors, I was a little startled. Now, I'm no dummy, so I'm thinking "Wha?" (brilliant, eh?). I did have enough sense to try to figure out where they were all coming from--like moths to a porch light. And it turned out--get this--that Boston.com had featured my blog on their home page. There it was. All day. It was like my 15 minutes, except it was damn near 24 hours. It's still up there now. I just checked. Because it makes me feel famous, that's why!

Now, the day is over. I had 700 visitors. It's amazing what a little exposure will do (besides give you a big head, albeit temporarily). Tomorrow--or today--whatever--we return to our regularly scheduled programming. I'm here to say it was a heck of a fun diversion.  But most of all....most dear to my heart....it made me feel like a Writer.

And so, in the spirit of my mother, who always said it (I never knew the reference, I thought she made it up), in the spirit of the funny feeling of fame for a few fleeting minutes (I love alliteration, especially when it's accidental), in the spirit of the transition back to being a regular old non-featured blogger probably sometime in the middle of the night, and (apparently, again accidentally) in the spirit of the July 4th holiday, I want to express my gratitude to the powers that be (such as they are) at boston.com, who saw fit to pick li'l ole me. And so....

"My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, my sister thanks you...and I thank you."
(Yankee Doodle Dandy, 1942)

Every Day, I Learn Something New

Here's what I learned today.

I learned that I am the world champion at skeeball. In my daughter's eyes, that is (and what else counts?) Evidence for my world champion status consists primarily of two facts, the first of which is that I broke a sweat while playing. Impressive, I know, and no, we're not going to discuss whether said moisture could possibly be attributable to hot flashes...it was inspiration, not perspiration. Got that? The second fact concerns the correlation between my championship level playing and the number of small beige tickets being excreted from the left side of the skeeball machine (the balls are on the right, silly), which can then be traded in for...well, almost nothing, since even a stuffed animal the size of a dime "costs" at least four times the number of tickets you have, and that's if you have a LOT of tickets, which if course we did, because I'm world champion.

I learned (in reference to yesterday's post) that one way in which I'm just like them is the apparent shared inevitability of Saturday afternoons at the kid-arcade-ride place (no, not Chuck E. Cheese, but same basic idea). This I cannot deny. Sigh.

I learned that they--in this case, CNN--are saying that "Bad Parenting" is in now, and they are attributing it to the economic crisis, when it is clearly a well-oiled book publicity campaign being staged by Ayelet Waldman's promoters. They're doing a bang-up job, I'll tell ya. I'd hire them in a minute. Effin' brilliant. Oprah, even. No, I don't have anything against the book--how can I when I haven't read it? It's just fascinating, from a sociological perspective, what traction can be gotten by being willing to use the moniker "bad mother" to make people feel okay about parenting (which of course, most people should, at least as far as I've heard). Because really, what role does guilt have in parenting? (stifling hysterical laughter) Um....everything?

I learned, for the eight-hundred-and-fifty-seventh time, that my child is what some people call "highly sensitive". For today's purposes, it means that she has to swear off television if she should encounter a show in which a person vomits (or nearly vomits), it means that she can watch a show in which people are breaking their backs working in the pouring rain and mud, and she feels terribly for the black dog that is shown for one second with rain falling on its head, it means that eye drops and band-aid removal are pretty much out of the question (as are their evil cousins, children's flavored cold medicines), and it means that she remembers--in detail and seemingly out of nowhere--the clothing and socks and weird energy of a dog-sitter that (apparently) cared for our dogs one time, several years ago, maybe when she was four. And it means that she hates me talking about her with a passion unrivaled, so I'll stop now. I've already said too much. But before I go, I want to say that I also learned, for the eight-hundred-and-fifty-seventh time, that I love this about her with every cell of my being (despite how it may occasionally appear).

I learned that on the scale of "girly-ness", two of my friends from high school are 97% girly, and that I am a man.

I learned--well, not exactly, it's more like I admitted--that there still lies within this simplicity-craving, ecologically-minded, socialist-leaning, live-in-the-country-and-grow-my-own-food resident of a 750 square foot house, an irrational desire for an enormous home with every sort of room that I always wanted, on a piece of land big enough so I can't see neighbors from my front porch (deep and wraparound, dontcha know). You know. A craft/sewing room. A library. An office. A true mudroom. A playroom. A glorious kitchen. All those regular rooms too. Oh, and that slide that goes from my 2nd floor bedroom into the indoor swimming pool with the roll-back walls and the retractable roof so that it can become an outdoor swimming pool in the summer (a lingering dream from childhood that I have never fully abandoned). Today, I learned I also wanted a well-appointed doggie room with easily cleanable floors and cozy bedding and direct access via a doggie door to the dog run, so that any dogs (including those with trauma issues) that I may have at this point (see trauma issues above) or at any point in the future can have a safe and fun place to hang out that does not involve crates. I hadn't known about that room before; it has now been added to the mental blueprint. Capitalism dies hard. As my friend Jimmy Carter said, "I have lusted in my heart".

I learned that some people actually practice self-care as scrupulously as they advocate for it. I am Impressed.

I learned that I can write even when I struggle all day, believing I have nothing to write. Even if it's late. Even if I'm tired.

Lastly, I learned that the big bag of baby beet greens that I got for the first time ever a week ago from a local mega-farm stand and loved beyond life itself are only available for three days every year. I'm hoping they hire a blimp next year to announce their arrival, just in case I forget. You're all invited to come over for a monster salad of baby beet greens, spiced pecans, cranberries, and gorgonzola cheese (on the side if necessary, not everyone likes that), with maple vinaigrette dressing. It's drop dead great.

Just look for the blimp.

Angels and Packing Peanuts

By all appearances, I have had the whole day today to write, or at least to figure out what to write. It's the first day I have had in a good long while that holds that luxury. It has reminded me that writing and expression are rarely a neat and tight fit for the spaces designed to contain them, so unlike the styrofoam structures that surround audio-visual products in their original packaging, the ones that make the television or the DVD player or the computer so difficult to get out of the box, and which never seem to go back in the way they came out.

It is best to surrender. As ever.

Here are the three thoughts that have played through my head all day long. They began early this morning, when my dog got me up much earlier than I would have liked. Each has made it clear that it has no intention of being expanded much beyond itself, resisting every feeble attempt that I have made to "write about" one or the other. They appear here in the order of their intensity, repetition, and insistence.

Today, I am an old woman.

There have been more than a few moments in my life when I have believed that I actually have flown. Yes, like a bird. Briefly, but as my daughter says, "every second counts". And if I could remember how I did it on those occasions, I could do it again. You know the feeling of scrunching your eyes tight, covering your ears, and listening as hard as you can for a clear memory? That's the one.

One of my favorite books from childhood, From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, has suddenly and repeatedly inserted itself into my life again, popping up everywhere in the way things do that want you to notice them. Okay. I've noticed. I'm listening. Tonight, we watched the movie. I didn't even know there was a movie. The central character (in my opinion) is an angel, making me wonder about our fascination with images of people with wings.

To no one's surprise, I also got a song. Just now, actually, which probably explains why I waited until 9 p.m. to write. Strangely--or actually, not so strangely at all--it encompasses all three of the "messages" of this day. This time, it's Angel From Montgomery. Bonnie Raitt & John Prine. Cue it up. Listen closely.

Have you ever gotten a package with those cornstarch-based packing peanuts? Have you ever put them in water and seen how they disappear? Cool, right?

I'll take them over tight-fit styrofoam any day.

The Change of Life

Flashes.

No, not hot flashes, though I mean those, too. Flashes. All sorts.

Sleeplessness.

Leaving space not only for fatigue but for increased liminal space, the space in which ideas blossom and messages slide right in like a lover surprising you by sliding into the airplane seat next to you at the last minute.

Moods.

Moods that make us hard to live with. Moods that make us inclined to ask what is so hard about living with someone who questions what “easy to live with” means, recognizing it as a smokescreen for submission, compliance, servitude. Personal power is never easy to live with, especially for those who have never felt it.

Aches. Ailments. Anxiety.

A Trilogy of A. Reminding us that we are not here forever, that much is uncertain, that the someday is now.

They don’t call it the change of life for nothing.

I will be an artist of my own making. If not now, when?

There is art in writing.
I will not apologize for writing here when I should be “working”.
I will not accept that writing is any less valid than any other effort that we do not hesitate to call work.
I will no longer flinch in defensiveness at those who read my writing and say “You have too much time on your hands.”. No. I don’t. There isn’t enough time for all the things I want to say, write, feel, do.

There is art in caring for children.
In the strategizing necessary to maintain an emotional tenor that leaves one available, caring, and open, yet not vulnerable to the deeply personal bait that children routinely dangle as they make their way through the maze.
There is art in knowing when to approach, when to stand back, when to hold on, when to let go, when to insist, when to fold.
There is art in talking to children, in answering their questions without answering too much or diminishing their curiousity.
There is skill in this. I am not ashamed of having those skills.

There is art is offering what you know to the world.
There is art in being able to translate from one world into the next.
There is art in finding the words that make someone recognize the alien as if it has lived within them their entire lives. Because it has.

There is art in traveling, in exploration.
What is art if not freedom?
There is art in respect, in visiting new places with a minimum of the egocentrism and privilege that is implanted in us with every group sing, every state of the union address, every parade, every page 72 of our history books.

There is art in argument, in curiousity, in insistence, in analysis.
We live in a country that is not shy about its disdain for intellectuals.
I will not play along, in spite of the onion skin that has never protected me from casual meanness, intentional or otherwise.

There is art in creating
children, jewelry, vessels, rituals, solutions, things never seen before, thoughts, words written on paper or screen, classes, training, tools.

I have told the story.

When I was in my mid-20’s, I wanted to move to Maui. I believed I could do anything, I could strike out, in a classically 20-something kind of way. I packed my bags, and put my belongings into storage. I got on a plane. I rented a sublet. I sought out temporary employment, doing…well, whatever. I went to the beach in Kihei and watched the whales spout. And then I went home, as nearly everyone does who leaps into the water with a foot still on the dock. It’s an uncomfortable stretch that’s bound to cause a cramp eventually. An adventure is not the same as a life.

When I was in my 30’s, I wanted to move to Hawaii. Again. I wasn’t specific this time. I thought about where the jobs were. I researched, I interviewed by phone, I traveled for final interviews. I got a job. A good job. I said my goodbyes, packed my bags, and put my belongings into a Matson shipping container on the dock in Oakland. I drove my car up a ramp to join them. I lived at the YWCA in Honolulu for a month or two, and then rented a house nestled in lush foliage on the side of a rainy valley that was fifteen minutes from the ocean. I kept a swimsuit and goggles in my trunk so that I could stop by the beach to swim on the way home if I so desired, though often I just wanted to go home after a day of work. Even in Hawaii, living is living.

One foot on the dock is no way to leap. Diving is not so good either, as we all know a story of someone who met an unfortunate end trusting the unknown depth of water. Jump. With both feet. It’s the only way. There is no such thing as careful.

When I was in my 40’s, I found myself in a place that was alien to me in nearly every possible way, and which remains so. I set myself on a path to make the best of it, because it was for my career, not for my life. I was reminded that, in a new place, you have to adapt to cultural norms in order to get along. You have to submit. I stink at that. So I continued to speak up here and there, just to remember what my voice sounded like, to remember who I was when I stood, in boots and heavy backpack, on a log bridge across a roaring river in the Sierras, defying the elements, when that same evening I played half of a recorder duet over a desolate lake on the longest day of the year, wondering at the light sky at 9 p.m. The pressure, subtle and overt, to silence that voice was phenomenal and often remains so—people can see you remembering that, and they don’t like it much, even when they don't know it. They have their own reasons, to be sure, but there’s that flaky skin to contend with once more.

I spent my 40’s in the illusion of profession, in the false promise of letters behind a name, and then with the birth of a child. Nurturing a child is as close to the core of life as you can get. I accepted my life in the space created by the intersection of a venn diagram.

Now I am in my 50’s, with the flashes, sleeplessness, moods, and A’s that grace those that are fortunate enough to make it this far. I have devised a machine, a clever Rube Goldberg inspired contraption, designed to extract (with a loud, obnoxious, sucking sound reminiscent of a combination of nursing and the last drops of a milkshake in a large metal cup drawn unselfconsciously through a straw) the power from each of them. It's going pretty well.

And I’m working on that onion skin thing, because I’m done apologizing.

I am an artist of my own making. In the last two months, I have been called “wild” and “fierce”, always by people younger than me. I am putting those on as a cloak. I may even get that purple streak in my hair.

They don’t call it the change of life for nothing.

You All Never Tell Me Anything

"Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar."

Yesterday, I said I was not well read, which may come as a surprise to people who know me (or maybe not). Like my former mother-in-law, who said, when she found out that I had not read Jane Austen--or some such thing--"but you seem so smart!". Yeah, I fool people like that.

So my question for today (when I can get over my humiliation) is: Why didn't I get the memo?

I know for a fact that a lot of you who read this (if I can be so bold as to use that phrase "a lot") are writers in one form or another. So I'm sure at some point, you have run across that little primer of writing, namely The Elements of Style. You know you did. Some of you even got all casual-like and familiar and started to refer to it the way you talk to your basketball buddies. You know, by last name. "Throw it to Peterson!" It's just like that. "You got a copy of Strunk and White around here somewhere?" You know you said it. And if you didn't, you knew what book to grab when someone else said it.

But. But. BUT.

DID YOU KNOW THAT IT WAS WRITTEN BY THE GUY WHO WROTE CHARLOTTE'S WEB AND STUART LITTLE???

I didn't know that. I'm crawling under a rock now.

Did you know? Why didn't you tell me?

This is so not what I meant when I said I was not well read. I'm starting to read tonight. I have to catch up. After chorus. And dishes. And laundry. Okay. Tomorrow, then.

And this all came up because of a simple quote on a magazine I received that caught my eye and spoke directly to my conundrum of a life. It's one of those things where you think "Wow, I could have written that" because it's sounds so much like you and your life, but then you find out it's an author that you really admire, and then you decide that maybe you're fooling yourself that you could write that, but it rings true nonetheless. Ya know?

Here it is:

"If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. That makes it hard to plan the day."

E.B. White. Of course. And in an instant, I realized I know so little about him, other than Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little (yes, the books, not the movies--most definitely one of those "the book was better" moments). I am a big fan of children's books. And what is there not to love about a person who can turn a spider into a poet and a mouse into an adventurer?

So I did what I always do. I researched. That's when I saw it, and was appropriately dumbfounded.

Yes, I know this is probably not as shocking news, nor as important news, to you as it is to me. It's not really all that important to me either. I mean, who cares? But sort of in the spirit of yesterday's writing, every once in a while I get hit hard over the head with something I don't know that it seems like I should know, and it just throws me for a loop. And besides, I like things like this that really knock me off balance. Keeps me on my toes.

Most importantly, I like things like this because they lead me to unexpected places, places that I had no idea I was going or even wanted to go when I woke up this morning. If this blogging thing has been about anything for me, it has been about paying attention. About noticing things that happen, about noticing what I notice, about noticing what I am moved to write about, and what just slips through like incidental slop. Today, I stumbled on to E.B. White. And in the end, it wasn't about children's books or writing manuals or surprises. It was about writing. Here's what my friend Elwyn (or Andy, as he was apparently called) had to say about writing. It's just what I needed today, and if it had to be through the back door, so be it.

"There is no trick to it. If you like to write and want to write, you write, no matter where you are or what else you are doing or whether anyone pays any heed. I must have written half a million words (mostly in my journal) before I had anything published, save for a couple of short items in St. Nicholas. If you want to write about feelings, about the end of summer, about growing, write about it. A great deal of writing is not "plotted"--most of my essays have no plot structure, they are a ramble in the woods, or a ramble in the basement of my mind. You ask, "Who cares?" Everybody cares. You say, "It's been written before." Everything has been written before."

The basement of my mind.

Damn good blogging advice.

Thanks, Andy.

Here's What I Was Gonna Write

I was gonna write about the times we live in.

I was gonna write about freedom and equality and softball and poison ivy.

I was gonna write about the chasm between generations, about gratitude, shoulders, and selective and collective amnesia.

I was gonna write about the paradox of being a Californian in the days following the Supreme Court decision on Prop 8 while celebrating the fifth anniversary of equal marriage as a longtime resident of Massachusetts.

I was gonna write about folk music and about those who snort loudly and roll their eyes at its mention.  I was gonna write about the irreplaceable and holy relevance of folk music in times when change is afoot, and how the reflex of apparent dismissiveness leaves so many cold in the storm, unaware that there are well-worn blankets to wrap around themselves, ones that have the potential to offer powerful warmth and surprising familiarity.

I was gonna write about invisibility and separation and how some things are only noticed in their absence.  And I was gonna write about how that makes me sad.

I was gonna do links and pictures and stories and thoughts and feelings that pulls all of these things into a neat, or not so neat, narrative.  

I was gonna write solely in the present tense, as the most powerful people and the most brilliant writers in my life have assured me that this is the way to write, and I believe them.

I was gonna write it all in pieces, stretching it out across hours, or better yet, days, in the interest of meeting the challenge I have set for myself.

That's what I was gonna write.  Just so you know.

Metablogging

I love that prefix. I wish there was a way to use the term "meta-ing" to describe its use. Maybe now there is, 'cause I just said it. I mean, cognition (just call it thinking) is really interesting. But metacognition, thinking about thinking...now that's just fascinating (not to mention extremely cool). In my mind (a nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to live there), it's the reason that the Truman Show is such an interesting movie. I mean, it was a major studio release that, like all other movies, relied heavily on a fan base and a media-driven culture and economy to fuel its success, while really being a commentary itself on the inanity and maybe even immorality of those things. It's what makes parody funny.

I'm not the only one talking about it, that's for sure. 199,000 hits on Google is nothing to sneeze at (there's even a website, and apparently a non-profit at that, devoted to the topic!)though it seems maybe they're talking about something a little different, something a bit more like what I have seen going on a lot at Blogher (so it still must be alive and well, in contrast to this blogger's take on it, which implies that metablogging was dead and buried four years ago). I gotta say, though, that this one, is my favorite:

"The language of metablogging uses metaphors that emphasize communality and proximity, and thus offers an alternative to the social risks Reddy associates with the conduit metaphor. The associative principle of the "link" is central to the hypothetical information processing machine that Vannevar Bush calls the "Memex", as well as to hypertext theory; but in practice, the linking of electronic documents according to an architecture emulating individual mental associations has not been widely and democratically implemented until the emergence of the weblog phenomenon."

Okaaay. What?

No. Really. I love academics. Really. I do.

What most folks seem to regard as metablogging is blogs that talk about other blogs or blogs that talk about blogging. And by that, they mean blogs that discuss other blogs, or blogs that talk about "how to blog", i.e. the "practice of blogging". (bored yet?) That's not what I mean.

What I mean by metablogging (at least on this day at this time--it could change tomorrow, I'm like that), is the practice of reflection on our own process of blogging--a blogger blogging about their own blogging (don't you love it how words start to sound like nonsense syllables when you say them over and over? I love that). What I mean is more like what Kelly wrote when she asked loads of great questions, in exploration of what blogging actually is, in a wonderful post that really got me going when I was starting up a couple months back. More like what Maggie just said. Hmm. Maybe there's something in the water.

Yes, I have considered the possibility that it's what some of us write about when we don't have other things to write about, or because maybe, possibly, some of us think too much (ya think?).

The question remains. Why me? Why here? Why now? Well, I'll tell you.

This is a really interesting experience, blogging. It's a little self-contained microcosm, a snapshot that reveals who we are, not only to the reader, but to ourselves. It reminds us of things we have forgotten, or choose to forget, about ourselves.

For example, I see myself as a very self-motivated, somewhat driven (given the right context, not everywhere) person. For some reason, I frequently reject the idea that I need community or that I need the pressure of deadlines or the urging of coaches to do my best work. I cling to this notion despite truckloads--no, bargeloads--of evidence to the contrary. I see myself as someone who embraces being visible and successful--with the acknowledgement that self-promotion has always been a challenge. I see myself as someone a basically relaxed person with pretty high standards (those who know me would say that is a gross understatement--I can hear them laughing as I type), but not really a perfectionist (more laughter).

So it has been an illuminating experience watching what happened when I missed two days after 45 days of daily blogging, spurred onward courtesy of NaBloPoMo. Yeah, I know. It sounds little. It sounds silly. But becuase this is a public endeavor, there was no way to avoid watching what happened.

What happened? I stopped. The ideas were gone. The writing was gone. I missed two days. I strategized, as all NaBloPoMo folks sometimes do, about "catching up" or "filling in" with pre-existing unfinished posts. Nope. Two more days on. (So you missed two days, Robin. Just get back on the horse.) Still. Nothing. And completely coincidentally (and I mean COMPLETELY COINCIDENTALLY, OKAY??), the number of hits and comments on my blog were at an all-time high, suddenly up by a very significant margin, when I stopped writing eight days ago.

Oh, I did some fine rationalization. I thought about what Kelly wrote, about how it isn't important how many people read (which is true) and maybe it's even important to keep that number low (which is also true). I reflected on the feeling of many fine bloggers that stats are the work of the devil (also true). I thought of the other times that I struggled to "get back on the horse". I told myself that I had been traveling (which was true) and that cross-country travel with a 9 year old and visiting my mother allowed little time for anything else. I convinced myself that I just wasn't really thinking about much for that week (ha!). Most of all, I surprised the hell out of myself, simply by being who I have always been. Go figure.

Isn't this what writers say? (I ask as if I am not one, of course) The important thing is to write every day. The important thing is to keep writing. Get up every morning and write.

I guess what I'm saying is: I'm back.

Staying Afloat

...or is it Aloft?

Amazing how the metaphors sustain themselves.

I agreed to do this blog-every-day thing for the whole month. And here it is, March 30. Tomorrow it is over. Today I got the re-up notice from nablopomo, so I have to decide if I'm crazy enough to do it again. I probably am. But that's not really my point.

The thing is, for the first time, in a whole month of blogging every day, I have nothing to say. Plenty to write about, that's true. But nothing to say.

I'm thinking that it must because I'm coming in for a landing.

Maybe I'm going to have to do it for another month after all.

As one of my favorite bloggers says (in all her wisdom): They can't all be gems.

Relativity

Life is weird. Really weird. I'm sure you know that. I know it myself--I'm not saying it like some kind of pronouncement or revelation or something. I'm just saying it.

Tonight entry might be blessedly short, as my right hand is bruised, a little swollen, and stiff.

Before you freak out, let me assure you that it's not as bad as it sounds. But it's enough so that typing is just not the most pleasant thing, and I'm not really one for hunt and peck. If I can't type as fast as I think (which I pretty much do), then I'm out. Or maybe I'll just soldier through, as is my wont. (I live for being able to use that word: wont)

So...late this afternoon, I decided (in cahoots with my daughter) that I was really up for some ecologically irresponsible food, so I traipsed out (I love traipsing) to the local farm stand which is anything but a farm stand--more like a mega-church that sells mesclun. Yeah, I've read Barbara Kingsolver's new book.

[abrupt left turn accompanied by screeching] I just wrote Susan Brownmiller instead of Barbara Kingsolver. Interesting. Kinda similar syllabically; that's my story and I'm sticking to it. It's a lot better than trying to draw a parallel between the effects on the environment that result from desire to eat watermelon in the off season and rape, if you get my drift. [squealing back on to the road again]

I like a blog post with sound effects. Don't you?

So I was on my way out to the farm stand, and I tripped on one of the stones in my front walkway on my way to the car.

Exhibit A: Evil Walkway. Please to glare appropriately, despite visible rays of sun from God.

It was quite a trip. It was almost one of those slow motion things--I could see myself in the air, see myself going down. I had enough time to think "Is there any way I can stop this? No. I can't". I could see that I was going to end up fully flat on the ground, which I did. My glasses flew off and landed about two feet away, so I count that as pretty spectacular. I must have pretty good reflexes or instincts or whatever, because I had four initial points of impact--my right hand, my left forearm, and both of my knees--before my entire body and head were prone on the front walk, that is.

Now, some of you don't know me very well. And some of you don't know me at all. And those of you who do know me already know what I'm going to say, which is that I'm a stoic. I prefer to think of myself as easy going, letting things slide off my back, but that might be rubbish. I think I'm probably a stoic. In any case, I got up, went back inside, checked my bumps and bruises, washed off all the aforementioned points of impact, and carried on, watermelon and all. It scared my kid, who, blessedly, did not see it happen, or she would never let me walk out the front door again. It scared me, too, but I'm not telling anyone. Oh. Oops. It mostly left me feeling like sometimes it stinks to have to be the grownup, to think more about reassuring your overly anxious kid than about being hurt or being scared or being embarrassed. So playing it down was the name of the game. Of course, that was then, and this is now. It hurts.

You might be wondering what this has got to do with relativity. Well, I'm gonna tell you.

This evening, I spent some time browsing around a few of my favorite blogs (they're there on the left side of the screen, check 'em out). One of the interesting gifts of this nablopomo challenge (also on left side of your screen) is that, in writing every day for a month, I have started to feel not so much like someone who has a blog, but like a blogger. It's different. There is a community of bloggers. There are differences in desire for readership, in how you respond to people who comment that you seem to have too much time on your hands, in whether, when people ask "what do you do?", you say you are a writer. There are probably--no, definitely--other differences too. For me, it's a feeling, a sensation. I am starting to feel in community with bloggers, especially women. It's kinda neat. A few weeks ago, I didn't even know that such a community really existed.

So in my browsing, I came across an intensely powerful blog entry. It's about perspective. Here it is, take a look. And from there, I followed the breadcrumbs. It's one of the most interesting and fun things about blogs and bloggers, following breadcrumbs. And I read the blog that this post referred to. If you want to see it, it's here. And I thought here I am, hurting from falling on my front walk, and feeling a little sorry for myself that I don't have someone to take care of me, to tell me that it's okay to be a little less than the stoic grownup for a few minutes, to have the space to whine a little bit....and really, I'm so lucky. I didn't hit my head. I didn't break anything. I didn't require medical attention. My daughter wasn't watching. I was able to get up by myself. I was able to carry on as planned. These are all good things. And this perspective arose, albeit indirectly, from agreeing to blog every day for a month. It just goes to show you, we never know what lies beneath.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I recognize that there's something to be learned here. I get that. I have to attend to and honor my own experience, my own physical pain or discomfort, not in comparison or competition with others, but in recognition that this is just how it is.

I also know that the first tiny step is admitting that I'm powerless over watermelon. I've done that, so I feel like I'm on my way. Although I'm not sure that's quite the point. That is, unless you are one of those people who believe that I was struck down by spirit of Al Gore as some sort of karma thing. It's possible. I wanna go on record as saying that if it's gonna happen, though, I'd rather be struck down by Barbara Kingsolver.

Just sayin'.