So you’re in California on vacation and want to see some wineries.  I highly recommend you avoid Napa where fancy people go and head straight to the low-end of Sonoma County, where they have vineyards that only supply juice to Kendall Jackson for their jug wine.  You pay a mid-priced, slightly-on-the-low-side amount for a wine tour given in an unmarked black van, led by a man named Jerry, who admittedly does know a great deal about wine.  He explains to the tour attendees he is trained in his field, which could mean he’s a sommelier but likely just a recovering drunk with a lot of practice.

So you see a black van at the entrance to the La Quinta, but you aren’t super sure if it’s the wine tour or if you are intercepting a robbery in progress.  People smile as you hop on because they are from Wisconsin and Milwaukee and apparently everyone there covers up their Midwest-depression by smiling and nodding saying “have you been here before” and “what’s your favorite type of wine.”  You say “vodka” and suddenly no one is smiling.

So you head to a few small vineyards and begin to suck down the vintage pinot noir not really because you like it but more because you are gonna need a buzz so you can get through this tour with this woman named Diane.  She’s excited! Slow your roll, woman! Eventually you land at a small family-owned vineyard where Peter tells you about the way the grapevines are grafted together onto old vines from France. Diane has already let the tastings go to her head and says “I REALLY LIKE THIS CHARDONNAAAAY” loudly and with an odd amount of emphasis on the “aaay.”  Nobody likes chardonnay. But then again this isn’t Napa, it’s the trailer end of a working farm. So anything goes.

Later you end up at a small tasting room in a town with one stoplight and Diane orders a bottle of the sparkling rose, which you advise her costs $75 in case she didn’t know.  Because you can tell she’s practical and you are here to help on this mid-priced average wine tour.  “Oh my,” she says.  Then she burps.  You tried.  Diane is going to have to learn from her own mistakes.

Later on you realize Diane’s husband is turning 60 so your husband, who drank too much wine, invites them both to dine with you at a small Italian restaurant.  You look at him with that incredulous look that a wife looks at her husband when he invites Midwesterners to dinner that you just met on an average-priced wine tour. They order the seafood because “they don’t have much of that in Wisconsin.”  They begin talking about religion, so you steer the conversation toward benign things.  Do you golf?  Do you travel?  Are you into gardening?  Is that sweater from Coldwater Creek?

Later that night you fall into bed in your hotel room that smells slightly of mildewed linens and wonder how many bottles you actually ordered to escape the tasting fees.  You were distracted by the wind blowing through the vineyards which was actually coming from an oscillating fan but you were super tipsy and didn’t notice.  You were wrapped up in the elegance/economy of it all.

Next week, you will receive a thank-you note from Diane (how did she get your address??) thanking you for a lovely time and three bottles of wine from some winery called “Deranged Crossing” which may not be wine but in fact may be liquid poison used for assisted suicide.  You aren’t sure.

Mostly, though, Diane has invited you to come visit for Thanksgiving.  That’s a souvenir that’s worth going to the lower end of Sonoma County for.

*This story is mostly true, with creative liberties taken

*Diane is not her real name

*You aren’t visiting them for Thanksgiving because it’s cold in Wisconsin 

*She didn’t actually invite you anyway

—

photo credit

We are taught to love people.  Across the land scrolled out on rainbows and on blimps and in store windows, are the words “love” and “accept” and “be kind.”  We like to think of ourselves as loving people, embracing those who are different from ourselves.  And we think of ourselves as progressive and modern for loving what was, a mere fifty years ago, unlovable. Heidi Klum had a saying on “Project Runway:” one day you’re in, and the other day, you’re out.  Apparently some groups were out, now they are in, and may be out again.  Human beings are fickle with whom they choose to allow in their circles, the lines ever shifting.  Remember junior high school, where you were a 13-year-old outcast who didn’t have the right jeans or the right brand of shoes and everyone laughed at you?  Okay maybe that was just me.

The point is, groups are always circling and morphing, and people are constantly letting some in and spitting others out depending on the culture and the country and the era and the age.

But these same people who profess to be tolerant and loving of all people are quick to judge those wearing Trump hats, or who they see as racist, or someone they feel supports too many social programs or is a “bleeding heart liberal” or “right wing whacko.” And yes, maybe even “kids these days.” Oh my Lord, I’m sorry. I’m this person.  But we do we really have to be tolerant with that guy?  He’s a white supremacist misogynistic bigot.

Political lines are prime battlegrounds for what we see as justifiable hate.

Sometimes people really are morally reprehensible and hurt us deeply, and we don’t like what they stand for.  And we have to stand up for those who are hurt by them that cannot protect themselves.  And sometimes we have to listen to our inner conscience and learn to walk away from toxicity. That’s true.  But we aren’t talking about forgiveness or self-sufficiency or preservation.  Now, I want to just focus on assholes generally. From afar.  And how much we thrust them out of our circles and vilify them.

We don’t like the clothing that certain people wear.  Do they have no decency?  We don’t like the words that spew from their mouth.  Do they have no self-respect?  We don’t like the intolerance we see them teaching their children.  Do they have no heart?  What about the hurt they have caused in the world – do they not have the same moral compass?  Are they not Americans? In essence, they are worth hating. Kinda like how lima beans are worth hating.  But I digress.

This is part of the dehumanizing process.  If you are a bleeding heart liberal or a stupid racist redneck, you are saying these people aren’t on the same level as a normal, rational human beings with a stable emotional core that, in your mind, deserve to be loved.  By arguing they are so evil they are almost not human, it allows the door wide open to ridicule, mock, curse at, put down, and yes, even hate. Block those racist bastards. 

I am no psychologist.  I’m no academic studying human behavior.  I’m just a lawyer who likes to garden and write essays, who has admittedly made fun of the President’s unruly hair.  I write humor for goodness sakes.  I can make fun of anything.  But I am a human being and I try and listen to a great teacher who taught me lessons.  Lessons that, frankly, are very hard to put in practice.

Because on some level, culturally, our moral compass seems right.  We think we are hating the right people.  Because it is correct to hate things that are wrong.  I mean, we don’t like murderers, or child molesters.  We certainly don’t like people who hate others just because of the color of their skin or who they fall in love with. We detest the things they have done.  We also don’t like women with thin waists and great skin, but that just makes us shallow. But with the real assholes, we feel justified in minimizing that person, blocking them – basically dehumanizing them.

I think if Jesus came to earth today, he would go to a MAGA rally.  He would see people holding up signs and shouting “send her back” and saying all kinds of horrible things, and he would have a meal with someone at that rally.  He’d walk through a rich neighborhood where a housewife just said “we don’t like those kind of people around here.”  He would walk down a street in a suburb of any city in America and stop to talk to a man watering his yard, maybe about the things he does in his basement he’s ashamed of or the way he disrespects his wife, or maybe just about the state of his heart.  The fact is, Jesus did not eat with the well, but the sick.  He did not shy away or block those with whom he disagreed, he walked straight into the middle of the hive.

That sticks with me that he had zero fear, and a completely open heart to heal, love, cure. We, as humans, are filled with fear.  Fear of not being loved, fear of being rejected, fear of failure, feel of death.

We are not Jesus, but we are given a commandment.  That is to love everyone.  That includes our enemies, the ones with whom we do not want to share a meal.  The ones that we do not agree with.  The ones with whom we wish would fall off the side of a building or eat poisoned grapes.  Although I don’t think anyone actually eats poisoned grapes.  Maybe fermented grapes, but that’s just wine and we are all for that.  But these bad people that don’t deserve our love, didn’t do anything to earn our love, and do not value the very essence of human life.  So you’re saying to God or Jesus or your best friend, “yeah, but no thanks.”  I’ll love some other people that I don’t find so reprehensible.  I mean, don’t murder and don’t commit adultery, etc.  That stuff I can live with.  But loving racists?  You’ve gone too far.

I think the whole concept of “love” here in confusing.  Like we are commanded to invite them over for a beer or be okay with how they act or give them a hug.  I ain’t hugging no child molester.  I see this more of a verb of compassion.  Have compassion for those whose ideas we strongly disagree with or who have broken commandments that we can more obviously see. But not compassion from a lofty place, clicking your tongue in pity.  Compassion as a fellow human being to another human being, on and eye-to-eye level, who is just trying to overcome their own demons and make it in the very same world that you live in.   See them as a child.  Were they fully loved and embraced?  Are they acting out of fear?  Are they just scared and lonely on the inside? Can you disagree with the things they do and the pain they have caused but say a word of prayer, or meditate with them in mind, and ask that they somehow find a way to do good in the world?  After all, they are likely a product of their own broken upbringing.  Can we try and raise them up and show them love?  To step into the hard places and simply listen to their heart?

I see a lot of things written about love, but a great many seems one-sided.  The love in the Bible is two-sided, which is confusing and wonderful at the same time.

If we are truly to love, we have to love everyone, as humans, exactly the way they are.  It’s not conditional, it’s not deserved, it’s not warranted.  As Fred Rogers said, “[i]f you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”

Think of that. Every encounter.  Every drive-through line.  Every party.  Every email.  Every time someone cuts you off.  Are you showing love?  Are your circles drawn wide?  Are you loving all people (even your enemies)?  Tomorrow is a new day.  It’s never too late to start.

—

photo credit 

I sat in church with my son today.  I went to the contemporary service because I was tired and didn’t feel like getting dressed up and sitting with the older people singing hymns.  I just wanted to sit near the back and rest for a while.  Sometimes it’s just peaceful to be around worship.  The music, the sound of the pastor I’ve listened to for so many years, the Lord’s prayer.

I have always believed that Jesus opens up a seat for everyone and is a soothing balm to the worst of all pain.  I know this because I’ve been through a great deal of pain.  I believe the stories Jesus has preached. I attest to their truth and veracity.  He is a trustworthy God, of this I’m sure. And this trust is a deep, deep well that brings up soothing water to my mouth and soul and mind.

God’s only child, a man among us, taught us that we got it all wrong at times.  He was  furious with the religious establishment and tirelessly spoke of love as if it were inside of him, as if he was made from it.  As he was.  The name of Jesus holds a great deal of power.  But also the name of Allah, the father of Mohammed, and the God of the Jewish nation.  In my mind, we are all worshiping the same Father. It is not my place to sort out the details.  I always say to my kids that God will work it all out in the end, the differences among us.  It’s what in our hearts that matter.  And sometimes I just need to rest for a while and stop trying to sort things into orderly rows.  Because often there simply are no answers to hard questions, and you have to be comfortable with that.

I realize not everyone feels as I do.  Many friends have no relationship at all with God. I am not immune from the social media rants from Christians, about the borders and the trash they call immigrants and the homosexuals that are commonly referred to as weird or gross or perverted.  I cringe and curl away from people filled with judgment in the name of such a precious God that does not stand for these things.  I grow more bitter and make jokes, as I do when I’m confronted with things I cannot control.

I sat there today in church thinking about those on the fringes, who don’t feel comfortable in a church filled with young/beautiful/straight/smart/thin white folks, swaying and holding their hands in the air.  Because the people leading worship don’t look like them, don’t talk like them, don’t welcome them.  Because they are foreigners, even in their own skin.  Even if they are also Americans. Even if they are neighbors. They are set apart, even in their own minds.

I used to sing in the worship team, but I never fit in.  I have a deep low alto voice, bluesy and big, which does not lend well to straight-tone harmony of praise and worship music that everyone can sing along to. I sound like an old black lady and I don’t follow the time well.  I tend to slow things down and move to the music and end up with a throaty version of whatever song I’m singing. It makes people feel uncomfortable.  I tend to not stand in back and harmonize because I prefer to be the lead singer.  I am more comfortable in that place.  I recognize that’s not humble and I don’t fit the profile, so I stopped singing.  At least I’m being honest.

I used to write a lot more faith-driven essays.  About how much God is faithful and how Jesus was a friend to me.  I’d travel to conferences and meet other like-minded Christian writers.  But in this world, too, I stood a pariah.  Humor is one of my spiritual gifts, which is often irreverent and biting, and diffuses tension but causes people to laugh nervously because I said something they don’t agree with or is too progressive or I end up cursing and making fun of the President.  So I stopped writing in this space and attending these events.  Because it was too exhausting.  At least I’m being honest.

And honesty makes me wonder if the lady in front of me uses dry shampoo or whether these men are having affairs with their wives or whether this woman in the row over is actually tan or uses a self tanner.  That’s a good self-tanner.  I’ll bet it’s expensive and comes from Nordstrom, not the cheap crap at Target.  Pass the plate, give money, put my arm around my son, smile at the usher.  That man walking by sure has nice calves.  I’ll bet he rides bikes.

And then about halfway through church I start talking to God directly, which is dangerous.

My God, look at your people up there today.  They are so young.  They are barely of age to drink alcohol, not that they would since they seem so full of Jesus.  I’ll bet they don’t sob or get drunk or text an ex or have nightmares about their childhood.  I’ll be they don’t get mistaken for a criminal on the streets for simply wearing a hoodie or have to process trauma or go through the ripping of divorce or the tearing of cancer or seeing a child die in their arms.  They are twenty years old.  And yet you love them so.  I know this.  Just like I love my own daughter, who is barely a teen, and yet what does she know of the world?  They cannot help their own naivety.  Lord, they cannot help it.  Do not close my heart off to the young. Even if all of these damn millennials are quitting their jobs to start beet farms in Oregon.

I was practically born in church, worked in church, led youth missions and youth groups and was seeped in the spirit. I know the stories, the verses, the books. And yet here I sit in a different place.  Through the battlefield and on the other side.  When you pass through the underbelly of the world you see things differently.  It’s easy to sit in a tower and declare how beautiful the view.  It’s not as easy when you are face down in a gutter and all you see are used needles and trash.

And yet through all of this: the cynicism, the bitterness, the lack of diversity around me, the hate disguised as religion, my love of comedy, my busy mind, I get quiet.  I am still in order to hear the truth of what I have spent my life knowing.  That God loves us the whole and incomplete and ugly parts of all of us.  The insecure and broken parts, the parts that sing too low or too slow or use humor to mask other emotions.  He simply loves more deeply and heals more completely than any man-made substitute.  God is in the air, the smoke of the sage, the sunsets, the whispering voices of our conscience, the good we feel when we help other people, the smile in one’s tired eyes.

I soaked this in, so I can go out into the world and be fully me.  So I can more fully love.  So I can use up the whole of me, broken and injured and put back together, for good.  More Happy Wednesdays.  More fresh muffins. More lessons and hugs and smiles and hard work and long nights and time with friends and care packages.  I have love inside to give, and work to do.

The way to diffuse hate is to add more love into the world.  This is what Jesus did, mile by mile, in sandals and through villages, on hillsides and in small homes.  Soak it in and spread it out, like a good French butter on a warm slice of bread.

I sat in church with my son today, but mostly I just felt God.  It’s good to feel God from time to time to remind yourself that you are worth it, that you have love inside to give, that God’s not done with you yet.  He is never ever done using us for good, reforming ugly things into beautiful things, transforming people. Even these young people on stage who know nothing yet.  They too will also see hard times. May they rest in the deep well of you and not give up too soon.  Life is hard.  They will need all the help they can get.

—

Photo Credit 

I’m out of the office, at a beach, drinking overpriced coronas, and pissing everyone off with my vacation photos. 

MacKinzie, Accounting Department

I will be out of the office the week of June 5 for a wedding.  I’ve been talking about this event for the past two years, taking up precious server space with photos of sunflower arrangements. Everyone surely knows sunflowers really are not the most beautiful wedding flower.  By the sound of things, you’d think this was the royal wedding of the century, not some union with a personal trainer that will likely end in 1.5 years. Plus he’s kind-of a jerk who drives a truck, unlike the IT guy who drives a more sensible Prius and knows how to wipe a hard drive, if you know what I mean.  I’m on Instagram pretending to wrap twine around two hundred pillar candles, but in reality, it’s all for show and I’m outsourcing that to a teenager for thirty bucks.  Please follow me and use the hashtag #upscalebarnyard so you’ll showcase your lack of all respect for marriage as a sacred union.  When I come back to work I’ll bring photos of everyone line dancing and drinking spiked lemonade in mason jars. If you need me, I’ll be home pretending to hand-fray all the burlap for my social media channels.

David, Executive Assistant to the CEO

I am not in the office because I’m out voting, which seriously takes only an hour after work and can be done early.  How many elections are actually going on right now?  Apparently several, since I’m always out “exercising my right to vote.”  Our work software uptime has less waste than my lunch hours.  I like to make a big deal out of voting, making sure to ask everyone in the office to see if they voted and putting political bumper stickers all over my Honda Civic. Despite out company having a strict policy on no political involvement on work time, I’ve been using my work email for all event notifications as well as periodically checking my facebook page called “CODE BLUE OR BUST.”  If you need me, I’ll be out of the office saying that I’m voting, although that actual event only takes five minutes. I will, however, be wearing politically-charged snarky t-shirts and insulting anyone who doesn’t agree with me.  When I’m actually at work, which I sandwich in between my block walking and political grandstanding, all I do is develop not-so-funny memes that I circulate to everyone, which of course I don’t think anyone knows about because the computers are “my private space.” Ha!  I’m such an idiot.

Stefanie, Quality Control Supervisor

If you are receiving this message, little Clintonia has arrived.  Oh, how many months the office has been hearing for this miracle of birth with its own choice of gender!  I’ve made it clear he or she can go by Clint or Tina because gender isn’t real, which caused a big fuss when Linda from Accounting gave me a pink baby blanket.  That hilarious guy from IT said “well that’s a hard boot” but I didn’t laugh because I have no sense of humor. Sure, everyone has made fun of me due to the name sounding like a small town in Russia, but I don’t care. Unlike the perfectly reasonable baby shower people threw for me at work where I received lots of gender-neutral children’s clothing, whereby the IT guy donated twenty dollars and signed a card (what a nice man!), my preference is instead hemp-based baby clothing because I’m a snob who was born in 1998 and grew up watching vapid children’s programming.  I will not respond to you if you email me with a marketing question.  I will not respond to you basically with any question because all I really care about is this human being of unknown gender that’s coming out of my body that I can’t stop talking about.

Mario, some dude in the mail room

Who boy!  It’s finally come!  Seven whole months here at the insurance company has come to an elegant end.  It’s the longest I’ve worked anywhere. My start-up needs my full attention and I decided that I wanted to move to Portland to start an organic beet farm. Instead of going into a perfectly stable field of IT, which is the life force of any industry and can ruin/help you in any important situation, post millennials think they are God’s gift to humanity.  So I quit without even giving two-weeks notice.  To be a beet farmer, for heavens sakes.  If you need someone who is stable, dependable, and knows how this company works, call the IT department.  Ask for Larry.  If they say no one works here by that name, just say “that guy who knows how to fix things.”  They’ll know who to call.

—

Photo credit

“Okay everyone.  It’s time to think of new brand packaging.  I’m thinking photos.”

“Photos of what, Jim?  Everyone uses Q-tips to clean out ear wax. Just stick a picture of an ear on there and move on. I have a promotional video to shoot. You’re wasting my time.”

“Um, excuse me, Larry.  No one made you King of Marketing.  We can’t say the Q-tip is designed to be used in the ear. Legal says so.”

“What the hell does legal have to say about it?”

“Well apparently there was a woman in Wisconsin that stuck one in her ear and a piece broke off and it caused a massive infection.”

“That did not happen. You’re just screwing with us right now.”

“Excuse me, but I’m the Assistant to the General Counsel.  Jim’s right.  It happened.  Don’t ask me why she didn’t notice the tip had no cotton when it was pulled out of her ear.  Don’t ask me why it took her three weeks to see a doctor.  And please do not ask me if she jammed the damn tip in her ear on purpose because she wanted a settlement.  We asked all those questions in her deposition.  It got nasty. Literally.  Her ear was oozing puss.  So no photos of ears, wax, any motion of putting any item in the ear, or belly buttons.”

“Did you just say belly buttons?  Why would we–”

“Just drop it, Larry.  Do you want us all fired? We can think of other things.  There are multiple uses.”

“Name one.”

“Well for starters, you can use it to apply make-up.”

“You’re 55 with a protruding gut and a receding hairline. What do you know of eye shadow?”

“To be fair, gentleman, I’m the one and only woman in this meeting.  And I tend to agree with Jim. How about instead of using photos at all we just say it is excellent for cleaning things and let people infer what they will?”

“That makes it sound like you scrub toilets with it, Maria.  The one and only purpose for this damn thing is to stick it in your ear and receive an orgasmic pleasure out of pulling out ear wax. Let’s not kid ourselves.”

“Hey you guys, legal again here.  You can’t use any inferences. The general public only understands hard and fact things, on a 5^th grade level, and cleaning things is obtuse and may lead to deceptive advertising. Also, no sexual references, despite our brand having “tip” in the title.”

“What are you even doing here? Who invited you?”

“Hey – what about the application of ointment or uses for babies in sensitive areas?”

“Maria, that’s genius.”

“I agree, Maria.  Wonderful job.  Ointment and Babies.  DONE.  Onward with our day.”

“Um, guys, the lawyer here.  I feel you aren’t really hearing me, or seeing me, or noticing my existence.  I invite myself to all these meetings to offer helpful information and you just treat me like an idiot.  We want to make real sure we aren’t arguing this has any sort of medical use or application since it’s not regulated as a medical device.”

“Oh for heavens sake.  Get this idiot out of here. Everyone loves a good picture of a baby.”

“How about we show the side of the baby’s face with a close-up of the ear? Maybe a mom holding a tube of something?”

“PERFECT.  A BABY’S EAR.  MOM AND TUBE.  MARIA’S BUYING LUNCH.”

“I quit.  I’ve always wanted to write wills and trusts.  You can take this job and shove it.”

“But not in your ear!”

“Good one, Larry!”

—

photo credit

People always like to describe me.  Sweeping, stoic, strong. My favorite is majestic.  They point to my broad arms, my lushness, the color of my trunk.  What a fictitious and silly thing. Who cares what color my bark turns out to be.

It would appear at first glance that I care, nurture, and provide shade for children and birds and elderly men on their afternoon walks. I haven’t a choice in the matter, truth be told.

If I had a voice, people tend to think, it would be silky smooth. My brain would be filled with poetry.  My muscles could shoulder the world.  If I had muscles, mind you, I’d be walkin.

I am simply a tree.  I stand in one place my whole damn life. I bet you didn’t think trees have piss-poor tongues or wish they could walk a mile in a human’s shoes.  I suppose these are the wooden thoughts of a tree.  I suppose if we got angry, that’s what we’d say.

“I’m more than a stalk of wood, you imbecile.”

I grow weary of people carving initials into me.  I cannot bat them away with my hands.  I grow impatient of couples laying under me kissing for hours.  Do they think I enjoy this open display of affection?  I do not care to see their little human mouths sucking on one another. Back in my youth there were only fields and less chatter.

I was born benevolent.  Sure, sure.  Long ago, I was created in the image of something grand and generous, so it makes sense that my job is to provide shade and comfort. I suppose I’ve hardened.  The rings grew around me, creating lines and circles documenting the years I’ve stood.

Now, I just want to take a nap.

Springtime is a lot of work, if you really must know.  Buds don’t just create themselves.  I have to push them out, each and every one, knowing their life will be short and I won’t see them more than a year’s time. And yet I birth them anyway, taking a moment to enjoy them when they are small.  It’s not a long moment.  Mostly I keep swinging my branches in the wind as to avoid those stupid robins from pooping on me.

All sorts of creatures run across my various limbs.  Squirrels shove nuts inside of holes in my cracked skin, woodpeckers poke at me with such blasted confidence.  Birds sit atop of me and curl up their string into nests in the corners of my arms. And when the freeze comes, all the leaves I’ve birthed just fall off in a crumbled heap on the ground.  I would cry so many tears but I wasn’t blessed with tear ducts, or emotions really, so I must simply watch them all coast along the wind to their inevitable demise.

I have no one to talk to.  No one that I enjoy, anyway.  Trees cannot go meet friends at the movies or go out for drinks. We must simply stand for dozens or even hundreds of years, only talking to those who were planted around us.  That maple tree to my left would forever be on my nerves, if I had any, chattering this way and that about his insides oozing out.  And yet even he is better than the blooming pear.  All show, that tree.  I turn my leaves the other direction when she speaks because it’s an incessant stream of drivel.

All I want to do is move.  Unearth myself and put one root in front of another, walking or sliding or somehow transporting myself as the people can do.  We are stuck in the place where we are planted.

It’s insufferable, to be caught here as a comforter when all I want is to be comforted.

It is the same boring pattern every year.  Birth the leaves, get cold, watch the leaves die, avoid the robin poo.  Shiver in the wind, pray for warmth, let the critters run all over you, start again.

It’s downright depressing, being a tree.  Just for a moment I would like to be a squirrel or a fox or a child getting off the bus. Something, anything, that moves more than its arms. The pear is showing off again.  The maple tree is leaking. All I can do is sit and sway in the breeze.  It’s a hearty breeze, and the buds are breaking open.  I suppose it’s not the worst time to be a tree, considering.

Here come those mouth suckers again.  They sit on the grassy lump underneath my lower branch.  He hangs upon me in a lazy way and looks in her eyes.  She does have a lovely laugh, that part is true.  I like to hear the stories of how she grew up in Puerto Rico.  He loves it too.  The last time she talked about her mother they ate little sandwiches, spread out over a red blanket. She wears dresses and spreads the skirt out like a fan around her.

She has a lovely smell.  He has a way of looking at her.

Her accent is strong.  His arms wrap around her tight.

My leaves stop moving for a moment so I can hear better.  I settle down into the afternoon knowing that they are beneath me, that I’m shading them, that they have a safe place to share their stories.  She takes off her sweater in the heat so my leaves rustle again, to make sure there is a breeze upon them.  When they leave, I would be sad, if a tree could be sad.  He is going overseas with the Army and they won’t meet here in their special place.

Their special place is under me.

That makes me feel funny inside even though I have no heart.  Wood cannot feel things.  I’m being an old damn fool.

People like to describe me.  Instead of majestic, a better word is lonely.  Lonely for a purpose.  Lonely for a reason to stand.  Lonely for a family of my own.

It would appear at first glance that I care, nurture, and provide shade for children and birds and elderly men on their afternoon walks. I suppose I do, truth be told.

I am more than a stalk of wood.  I’m the wood that holds you inside of the rings, remembering.  And that’s the hardest part. People leave. People die. I outlive them.  I just got used to the way she laughed, but she’ll not return to me now except on occasions where she will cry and hold onto my trunk for comfort.  All I want to do is protect her, and yet I am but a tree.

Loss is strong.  But some things stay the same. Birth the leaves, get cold, watch the leaves die, avoid the robin poo.  Shiver in the wind, pray for warmth, let the critters run all over you, start again.  At least it’s a familiar pattern, something predictable.  I never give up, I never forget, I never stop.

Maybe that is majestic, after all.

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Photo Credit 

• When it comes to housekeeping, hire someone. I’m not going to feel guilty about this. I’ll go without new clothes, let my hair go grey, eat generic-brand food. But my housekeeper stays.  If I could afford it, I’d have someone live here full time just to do my laundry.

• Buy fresh flowers. Not only for a birthday or special occasion, but for yourself, because you are a human being and deserve it.  You don’t have to purchase the typical ones they set out and push on you at the grocery store.  Oh, is that a combination of mums and roses and babies breath with a few tiger lilies? YAWN BORING TIRED OF IT.  Look for flowers with similar color tones, mixed with greenery or berries that are interesting.  I like seeded eucalyptus and dusty miller.  Find something from your own back yard to add in the mix.  Dig deep here, people. Do not continue to buy Alstroemeria because you think that’s your only option.  However, if they have absolutely no options, grab a bunch of white carnations and pack them tightly in a small vase.

• This salted caramel sensation has gone too far. Not everything needs a thick layer of rock salt. Calm the heck down and don’t let sodium run your life.  Regular caramel is really good by itself.  Oatmeal cookies don’t need to taste like popcorn.  I feel this unique craze has taken over the world.  Who wants salt in their latte?  Weird crazy people, that’s who.  PUT THE SHAKER DOWN.

• If you are baking a cake and something terrible happens – the cake falls, breaks, is lumpy, you are trying to ice it and it ends up a disaster, always have a trifle in your mind as a back-up-plan. A trifle is just chunks of cake, layered with custard, layered with whipped cream, layered with berries.  So the cake is ugly! No one will notice.  Remember this in cake-related emergencies.

• Speaking of custard, take that box mix of pudding and throw it in the trash.  It’s blasphemy.  There is nothing – I MEAN NOTHING – like warm wonderful pudding when it’s fresh. It is creamier and tastes better and isn’t make from dumping a packet in with milk.  If you make pudding from a box don’t tell me about it.  I don’t want to think of you in this way.

• I am not an excellent pie crust maker. I consider this a weakness.  I’d like to encourage you to admit your weaknesses from time to time as it adds to your charm.  That being said, when I say this out loud it’s shameful.  I’m going to spend the weekend making seven different types of pie crusts.  I hope you, too, can learn how to make a good pie crust.  It’s important.  I hang my head in shame.

• Let’s discuss the cooking of broccoli. It’s a hundred times better if you roast it with a good olive oil until it’s practically burned, turning frequently, and the sprinkle generously with fresh parmesan and salt.  This is a time in which salt is acceptable.  If you simply boil it in water, you will discover it to taste like old shoes and really life isn’t worth living.

• The way to the perfect mashed potatoes is to barely cover them in the pot with chicken broth and milk, cook until tender, and then put the potatoes in the blender with heavy cream and butter and salt.  You will never want potatoes any other way.  Thank you, Cooks Illustrated.

• When decorating a mantle, remember layering and the rule of three. Don’t set a lone item on there unless it’s a very large statement piece.  Remember you can use things like books, sticks, old windows – anything that adds a layer of whimsy is good. But not too much or it will look like granny’s bookshelf.

• When planning parties, remember there will be that one friend who says “oh, I’m doing paleo” or “I can’t eat anything with dairy in it” or “I’m deathly allergic to nuts.”  My advice is, cook what you want and let them figure it out.  But don’t serve them chocolate-covered almond bark if you don’t want the EMS at your door.  What a buzzkill that is.

• Always make people feel welcome in your home. After all, home is a place of refuge, safety, flowers, laughter, and wine.  If they don’t drink wine, they are on their own. If flowers make them sneeze, remind them to take allergy medication.  If they don’t like to laugh, don’t invite them over.  Laughter is the epitome of life.  Even if you ruin the cake, buy roses, over-layer the mantle, screw up the pie crust, and burn the broccoli.  If you can laugh about it, your life will work out just fine.  Take it from a lifestyle novice like me.

I write a lot.  I write my feelings, I write my heart, I write instead of doing laundry, I write because I think more clearly when words are organized in neat little sentences. Which is odd because nothing in my house is organized.  I ordered Marie Kondo’s book and went on a weekend bender trying to tidy, but my husband took a photograph of the book itself – the second one that I ordered because I forgot I even ordered the first – under a pile of mail with a coffee mug sitting on top of it.

I can’t write long-hand because my hand starts to cramp.  I find it adorable that people can do this since it seems so old-fashioned and quaint to carry around a leather-bound journal in a coffee shop.  But I can fire off words from a keyboard as fast as a court reporter. My mind is slow, but when I’m writing it’s exceedingly fast. It’s like reading music, and in a choral ensemble when you sightread you have to be singing one note but know what five notes are in front of it, so you can anticipate what is to come.  It’s important for pitch. Are you running up to the third?  About to jump down a fifth? I’m a bad-ass sight reader.  It’s proven more difficult when one tries to predict life.

But thank God I’m a lawyer, since words work well in this environment, as currency, as strength, as a rebuttal, as power.

And thank God I can write humor, since it is a salve to many wounds, it calms me, it creates a patch to my anxiety and helps me breathe.

And Thank God for comma splices because I love them so, and I frankly don’t care who doesn’t.  Maybe you are not my reader, if you don’t like the way my words are formed.  I’m growing into that truth, that not all people like you, not all people like your voice, not all people are your people.  I commit all kinds of grammatical errors when I write.  It’s like knowing the correct word but letting a curse word replace it.  Basically I will always need an editor.  But I have a way I hear the words and like for them to sound a certain way coming off the tongue.  Writing is much like music: it flows. It has rhythm.  And it builds into a beautiful crescendo.

I found a poem I wrote the other day, in my archives.  I think it’s fun to write poetry, although it’s hard.  I write humor, I write epic stories, I write what’s pushing on my heart.  The key is to keep writing, I think.  Pushing past the thoughts that you aren’t going to win the Pulitzer and your book may be called pedantic or thin or written for lazy people.  Maybe you’re just lazy.  I mean, Netflix doesn’t watch itself.  There are so many other people who can outright over-write you.  It’s true.

But there are also a lot of people who aren’t writing.  And you are.   All the various forms, like music.  I have sung jazz and spirituals and baroque music and gospel.  They add a richness to the voice, to be able to pulse between all the styles.  In writing, one has a voice and it ends up shining through the format.

I hope that it does.  If not, it doesn’t matter.  I’ll keep writing.  Because laundry is no fun at all.  And writing keeps my mind moving, which is important as I age.  It’s like wrinkle cream, but cheaper.

Thank you for reading all the words I put down in various forms.

xoxo

Amanda