10 Ways to be More Excellent Humans

July 19, 2016 By

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  1. Control your Inner Troll. When I was on The Apprentice, many people commented online. “You look like a Bohemian transvestite,” one guy said. What he didn’t know is that I took that as a compliment that I was obviously good at singing and had good taste in make-up. Ha ha, troll. But it’s so easy to make fun of people. I get this. But just because people are online doesn’t make them void of feelings. Everyone has feelings.
  1. Give Things Away. A girlfriend once commented how she liked my ring that I was wearing. “This old thing? I got it on a discount table at Talbots. It’s clearly not gold.  It’s rubbing off and I think it’s made from a melted spoon.” But she liked it, and so I boxed it up and sent it to her. Which was weird, I know. But my friends know me and accept me for my various quirks and flaws. And she thought of me and how awful this rubbed-off gold was close up every time she wore it. I presume. She ended up mailing it back to me, like “thanks for your used things, but I’m good.” Things are meaningless. Stories are what matter.
  1. Treat Customer Service People Well. My boyfriend’s son, a cashier at Pei Wei, told me that a lady berated him and questioned him why there was Ahi Tuna on the salad she ordered and demanded it be removed. “But it’s called The Ahi Tuna Salad,” he said. If you can remember back to high school when you worked a menial job where you had to take orders and bus tables, it kinda sucks. And to be treated like pond scum when you forget to include chopsticks in the bag just makes you feel worse. They are just trying to afford gas money for freak sake.
  1. Read More Books. I read Atlas Shrugged in high school and felt I was the only one in the history of the universe who had read this book and had become enlightened. It was my personal story, like somehow Ayn Rand “got me.” This was ridiculous, I realize. But in books, words describe scenes you can personally imagine rather than movies, that describe them for you. Engaging your mind and entering the fantasy world of fiction makes you (1) ignore your children (2) lose sight of all other things besides the book and (3) want to talk about the book to everyone on social media when you are finished. Okay so maybe this isn’t a way to improve upon your humanness. Screw vocabulary. Let’s all go to the movies.
  1. Have Compassion for Mean People. I had a boss once that I hated. I mean this woman was so picky and gutted my writing and tried her hardest to make me do things I didn’t want to do. She bellowed her commands in a sugary way that was mean and evil. But now that I’m grown, I realize she was lonely. She was afraid of her position in the office. She didn’t have many friends and she had a weight issue that made her feel alone and sad.  I could have swallowed my own feelings and shown up with flowers, or left her a note, or smiled at her more. Because you are don’t want to spread the same type of mean they’re dishing. Resist the urge to be a troll.
  1. Own Animals. I had a dog growing up called Tiger, who allowed me mercifully to dress him in bonnets and put socks on his feet. He was at all my mud pie baking competitions and always wagged his tail. Animals are cuddly and they love you no matter what you say or whether you are wearing dingy pajama bottoms with wine stains. Don’t judge. They are really comfortable. But owning animals reminds us all that we have someone who loves us. Except they die, fair warning. That part sucks. But owning them makes us better somehow. Get animals anyway, even if you have to get different animals later. Pet them. Talk to them. But not too much because that’s just crazy.
  1. Seek Out Funny. There was a comedian on twitter I found out lived in my town so I messaged him like “let’s get coffee! Let’s talk about humor!” and he was like “I don’t know you.” I told him I wasn’t a stalker, but he said that’s what all the stalkers say. We humans are built to laugh. So much so that we stare at television and productions and seek out people who are funny just to get the rush of endorphins that laughter provides. So if you aren’t getting enough in your daily diet, seek it out. Find what makes you bubble inside and do more of that. Unless it’s due to drugs or excessive drinking. Avoid those things.
  1. Use People’s Names. My boyfriend knows all the people’s names around, like Martin at the cleaners and Erin the customer service lady at a hotel, and he always refers to them by name. Because this makes them human and real and not just robots. In texts you can say “have a good day, Stephanie” or “I’ll see you for lunch at noon, Joseph!” until people start telling you that’s weird and then you should stop. But only then.
  1. Let Someone In Front of You. This is hard for me, because I’m always in a hurry. I run late and I barely make it on time. But there ain’t nowhere that urgent I gotta be. It just takes a few more seconds, minutes, moments – to usher someone in front of you.  Open doors and let someone in. Because mercy and grace comes to the least of us, not the greatest. The last shall become first. [Enter Bible scriptures that refer to this here; there are many I’m very certain. Jesus talked about it a lot].
  1. Control Your Anger. I have to admit, when I was going through a divorce I was angry a lot. Maybe rage is the better word. Rage about things that were done and undone and all the unraveling of lives. But this type of anger burns, and can easily get out of control. It’s sometimes easy to let anger build due to injustice or unfairness or All The Things in Life. Because it’s one thing to feel anger, which is natural, but another to allow it to consume you. Eat at you. Take over your soul. Consider it a fire inside that needs to be cooled with soothing words, deep breaths, love. These things will quench the fire, and then imagine how you can make things better, in response to what makes you angry. Being filled with anger only burns your own skin.

Let us all be better humans, one day at a time.

 

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photo: “Stranger #7” by d26b73 is licensed under CC BY 2.0

 

Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

Letting go

June 29, 2016 By

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As I get older, I’m becoming keenly aware of what letting go really means.

Admittedly, I have control over small things. I choose what to cook for dinner. I choose what clothing to wear. Menial choices through the day I dictate. Sometimes, just to shake things up, I brush my teeth last or shampoo before scrubbing. I can choose to be forgiving or harsh, yell or speak. I can choose to take a stand or be quiet, be involved or in the background. I can even choose to spend three hours watching Julia Child videos.

We have the luxury to live in a country where food is plentiful, choices can be made. We have freedom to roam and explore, think and create. And worship without being killed for it.

There are always things we can control. Each decision forms us, creates something of an imprint upon the world. Our interactions with other humans creates a ripple around us, and eventually those ripples become waves, and can change the tide of history. We can teach our children to abhor hate, quell violence, love the unlovable, forgive. It is hard, but doing hard things is what makes us valuable.

And yet there are times my sense of stability comes from the mirage of control, that somehow I singlehandedly can keep my children safe, keep my world safe, build protections around my heart so I am not easily injured. I like to build passageways in front of me, paved and clean. I think I know what’s best. How to raise children. How to discipline. How to create a healthy home. How to teach about God.

But maybe I don’t. What the hell do I know.

After the birth of my daughter, I had a life-threatening infection. I had no choice to let go. Because my body was literally too weak to go on. When I was going through a divorce that cut my heart out and shredded it into pieces, I collapsed and let it all go. Not because of my own strength, but because I had no more to give.

And here I am now, facing other life pressures. A future that’s uncertain, a life that’s so full of burdens. Questions that are seemingly unanswered, despite my pleading and begging and fasting and quiet. And it’s not through my perseverance that I trust and obey, but because of my weakness that I submit. I can choose tuna over ham, Mexican over burgers. I can put my high heels on or my sandals. But those decisions have no lasting consequences.

When it comes to life’s big turning points – Things That Need To Be Answered, all I have the strength to do is let it go. As if to the wind, carrying my prayers off on the waves that I’ve seen throughout my life, the spirit that flows in and out of me. Sometimes this current is strong and other times it recedes. I do not understand God, nor am I enlightened enough to see his divine handiwork. And yet I feel God at work in my life and in the lives around me. I feel it ebb and flow, in and out, always.

So I lay down at the very feet of God, curled up like my son does at night when I read him stories. My son buries his head in my chest as I read about turtles and aircraft carriers, dogs and bears. I, too, lay down at the feet of a father, soft and yet unyielding, not needing to be defined but only fully loved.

I need to know that I’m not wasting time. That all my life choices were not in vain, but have purpose. Trusting God is the only way through, and somehow I’ll make it through. This is the security that I seek. Not in my own control but in letting go. Always and forever safe in these arms.

 

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photo:

(three w’s)flickr.com/photos/nicholereneephotography/5600375066/in/photolist-9wTooN-PVLFS-5aMX1v-qtNvY3-qohC5x-6gK62X-b3WUJK-4y8BVs-cAnzKh-ecjoKq-2paFRR-eH9d9R-bqPQmc-edSWfj-6tkHxe-6vxcJ8-eDHUF1-KDc8T-oWTTGc-raPaGE-8LXDho-5TCeF2-dvTvWa-hMohhy-4Cqtqm-rSJnu-63bXww-pstGnD-kP8RFP-cynsuS-6a7HxR-8RY7W5-ozuQzx-8vGnwi-mnjaKd-65D4v6-agpd8P-6d8Uii-s5q5S6-t1QSe-ecxhTT-bCAVsy-aSznAR-edDaA-so7oiB-cEQdcG-8UoEdC-e53dnM-pp47H6-pWrfiJ

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Roots Down

June 20, 2016 By

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zinnias from the garden that I pluck by the handful and stick in random jars

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I live on a stretch of land between country and town, a tiny little Ranch, Jr. that allows me to carry out my farm-like fantasies but still be close to a Whole Foods and organic strawberries. Without having to grow the strawberries.

And on this tiny patch of earth there is wildness, which I crave. I sit on the front porch and read my books and wish my coffee stayed hot longer. There is a bunny that we call Charlie that lives under the blue plumbago and there are now little tiny bunnies that hop around underfoot. We call them all Charlie, the little ones Charlie’s babies. This Fall we will have chickens.

When I come up the walk I often spook a deer or a lizard or another one of Charlie’s babies, and they all go scattering off like I am some monster that might hurt them. I want to say to them that I’m safe, that I am not going to step on their heads, that I come in peace. Unless they are cockroaches and then they should fear me.

And it made me think of humans, how fragile we are, how we scatter. It made me see humanity as one long sinewy collection of muscles, drawn taught with the impulse to run at the sound of footsteps, spooked by the haunting of guns and the constant fear of something.

Drugs make people jumpy. The body is dependent on something that their brain is telling them they need. People who are in love or desperate make irrational decisions. Even rather harmless things like sugar or the happy rush of being on stage or the feeling of lightness when we are winning at something can cause that feeling of loneliness when it retreats. Jumpiness when that something is not around. The good and the bad are all jumbled up together and we just want to run and hide, covering ourselves with blankets or bullets to the temple or pills. We almost crave hollowed-out lives so we don’t feel anymore and can quit running.

I went walking down the street where I live, where few cars drive. I watched all the wild around me, flying and hiding, soaring and slinking. A deer ran into the bushes. A gecko slid by. Birds fought each other like knights in the trees, oblivious to me.

I say I like the wild. And yet I walk through spider’s webs, their sticky lace atop my face, in my mouth, attaching to my arms. I prick my fingers when I pluck the agarita berries from the bushes. I’m always avoiding bugs on the tomato plants. When one flies at my face or there’s a red wasp I let out a little shriek because it surprises me and I am scared. Imagine, scared of a little wasp.

We are all like this, wanting the wild but running away. So afraid of things. Running out of money. Being mediocre. Not being loved enough. Losing at something. Failing at our marriage. Letting down our kids. Worried of what people might think of us. Feeling trapped in the mainstream. Wanting to be different.

And I am reminded that Jesus is the great calmer of the waters.

So many people think I’m crazy with my Jesus stories, this God of mine who lets bad things happen. This religion of mine who casts judgment and hurts people. And I am sorry that the world has offered this screwed up opinion of some rage-filled maniac. That is not the God I know. Like anything, religion is cooked up from a batter of jumpy anxious people and can be just as toxic if eaten.

It’s God that I love. The God that loves all, comes down to Earth for all, weeps for all, simply does not care what you look like or how dark your skin is or who you love or even what awful sin you’ve done that you are trying to escape from. We run from God because of our own inner shame, but it’s futile. It’s all seen, there’s no need to run. We will grow weary soon enough. True love is what holds us when we are searching for something we cannot find. We don’t have to use fancy words. We don’t have to be eating scoops upon scoops of religion. We simply recognize love where we find it, and in God there is love. And then we can stop and breathe deeply for the first time and quit hiding behind bushes.

At my wedding I handed out little brown packets of zinnia seeds, years and years ago, because of how hearty they are in the Texas heat and how I wanted to represent how strong marriage was. How fruitful we’d be, how beautiful when planted. Like I could guarantee security in a party favor. That was before Pinterest even, so go ahead and vomit at how nerdy that was. The marriage crumbled. I still plant zinnias. Go figure.

We are always wired to run. But don’t. Stand somewhere and listen to the wind around you, feel the sun on your face, the voice of truth in your heart. Stop being afraid. It’s just the drugs of earth and media and confused religious people telling you that you are not enough, when you are. You are God’s beloved, a wild and wonderful poem woven inside of a soul. A beautiful unique person with stories only you can tell. Don’t let this world make you hide who you are.

I live on Ranch Jr. and dodge the red wasps and wave to Charlie’s babies. I get in my car toward Whole Foods to buy strawberries. I still want to hide sometimes, from blended families and future teenagers and the thought of debt or moving or some other thing, but I’m working on it. Every day is another chance to breathe deeper, go slower, plant my roots down.  I’m learning to be grateful for the awareness of love.

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Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

An End-of-School Letter

May 24, 2016 By

Dear Teacher,

Well, it’s almost here. Thursday is the last day of school for our little munchkins. Can you believe it? The last day you’ll see my daughter’s hair half-brushed with nests of tangles curled up underneath like nobody would notice. The last day a jumper is thrown in the dryer with fabric softener so that it will smell clean. The last day I stuff lunch boxes with cheese [because we are out of bread and ham] “just like the French.” And the very last day you’ll have to listen to the rumblings of my daughter, who says things like “Ann of Green Gables has too much dialogue and not enough action. At least in Clone Wars there is fighting.” She’s strong with the Force, that one.

I know this time of the year can be challenging. But we are all tired. For example, my daughter’s birthday is in the summer. When this happens with other children, mothers lovingly celebrate it mid-year, called The Half Birthday. They bring doughnuts and dress in skinny jeans and they do these great things mothers do to celebrate their little one. I think this is slightly ridiculous. Not the skinny jeans part, which I wholeheartedly support. Nor celebrating their little one. I told you I make fancy French lunches, so you can see that I care. But we don’t have half-weddings or half-promotions in life and we certainly don’t celebrate half-done projects. So let’s make them PUSH ON THROUGH until the actual day, when three people will actually be in town. Not everyone will make your retirement party either, kiddo, and you’ll only end up with a desk clock. Hard life lessons.

But my daughter begged for me to bring treats the last week of school. Because KIDS and SUGAR and EVERYONE ELSE DID. Why not, I said. There’s not much else going on. Except for a million emails from the school about summer reading and all the dryer sheets being consumed.

Let’s be honest. I’m much too tired to bake cupcakes, which is of course standard birthday fare. But we did have a brownie mix (SCORE!) so my sweet girl whipped up a batch that we will cut into teeny weeny pieces to make enough for her entire class. Because we are resourceful. Unfortunately, when I tried to slice them they crumbled and broke and we ended up with a platter of gooey crumbles.

So we improvised. That’s how we roll. So rolled we did, crumbly gooey baked brownies into tiny balls. We call them “brownie bites.” It was my daughter’s idea, which is brilliant. I know you want her to be creative and unique, so we made a treat tray with our chocolate bites and leftover Christmas cookies from the freezer and seven tiny cupcakes from Target we had left over. The reason for this creative display is not because we necessarily feel 4th graders need choice, but because we simply do not have enough of each separate confection and we are lazy.

Soon it will be over. You won’t get emails from me bailing on field trips (well I had a meeting, alright already?) and you won’t get papers back from my daughter challenging why the math quizzes always involve the eating (and taking away) of so many waffles. She won’t write any more essays on why barbarians “really aren’t that bad” and you won’t see all my pride swell up all these miles away.

Because I’m so damn proud of her. I just want her to think and create, to challenge and to be different. I want her to roll up crumbled brownies and sing silly songs and not care so much about the rest. I want her to love with her entire heart, even if it hurts.

Thank you for putting up with her, with me, with us. Thank you for letting her be a Jedi at recess, and for using Jolly Ranchers as currency with the other students in order to buy their pencils. Thank you for letting her somehow shine through the private school regime and be herself.

I hope you enjoyed the smashed brownie balls. After all, it’s not her real birthday so who cares. Choose a Christmas cookie instead.

Yours truly,

Amanda

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Sun-stripped {a post on love and anger}

April 29, 2016 By

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Today I was particularly struck by the harshness of our modern world’s landscape. It is a desert, a sea of sandy dry dunes, with no quenching water. We are bombarded with articles and advertisements that guilt us and tell us how to make our lives better. We envy those on facebook who cook well and dress well and have better family vacations. Our children are filled with the notion that their belly fat defines them, their likes control them, their popularity and fame create them into something. Watch their eyes light up at the number of instagram likes, tweets re-posted, snapchat battles, sexy teen videos. Watch how they play games for hours to receive the online glory they don’t get in real life.

Watch yourself, doing it too.

There are so many wars raging. Wars between countries. Wars between husbands and wives in closed rooms with clenched fists. And wars between women, who feel one way or another about children, vaccines, political issues, maternity leave, high fructose corn syrup, school lunches. Everyone is on edge that they are being accused of nor working hard enough, that they aren’t strong enough, that they are not enough.   Everyone wants to be better than someone else. And Lord knows if you make fun of something, there will be hell to pay. Relax already. A little corn syrup in your pecan pie at Thanksgiving ain’t hurtin nobody. This bathroom nonsense at Target, with all the things going on in the world? Mercy.

This anger does not serve us well. It undermines the very confidence that we struggle to instill in our children. It also prohibits us from creating a village, where we can laugh together about the hard things and stretch a canvas across the sand to collect rain when we are all parched with thirst. We have to turn these struggles into paper, that we can then crumple up with our fingers and crush into a ball. Then we can bounce it around on our heads so that we downplay life’s grasp over us. Plus, it’s fun to bounce things off your head. There can be a prizes involved for high numbers. I’m just saying be creative when overcoming your own personal crap-storms, people.

But for the love don’t try to make yourself feel better by comparing yourself to someone else. At least I don’t dress like that. Feed my kids that. Say stupid shit like that. Were you raised in a proverbial barn, where people are instead cattle, weighed and measured? Our hearts are what matter. Our thoughts matter. Also? Ice cream and jazz music and the smell of roast on Sunday. These things matter.

Let us encourage each other to be strong and not weak. To say “I’m doing my best. I apologize when I’m wrong. I seek to do good, and I will move forward with purpose.” Let us forgive those around us, to honestly love those who hurt us, to seek mercy for those who have been handed more burdens than ourselves. And when someone is going off the deep end, we can say “simmer down there, sista. I know you’re madder than a wet hen but don’t send that email because we love you and you’ll regret it.” Regarding drunk texts, you’re on your own. Throw your phone down a toilet or something.

These are the women and men and children I want to be with on the high desert, when the winds blow. When the ground cracks. When the lips are parched and dirty. This is the nourishment we need. When Jesus left the earth, John 17 records a solemn prayer that he prayed to God, begging to not take people from the earth but to protect them during their tenure here, to show them unity of heart and mind, to be more like God in spirit. I’d like to laugh and hold each other in the hard times instead of pointing spears. Although making fun of any Kardashian is permissible. There have to be loopholes.

But seriously. We cannot be naive enough to think we don’t need a good washing out on the inside. We are all such flawed and injured birds, curled up on the sand, our power springing from distant mirages. I am not just speaking to the faithful. I am speaking to anyone who thinks that the words of revenge will soothe. That the proper retort will ease the pain. That the appropriate come-back or tweet or blog post will create in them the power that they are lacking.

We could blast to dust our enemies and put our guns back in our holsters with pride. But it does not heal. It does not soothe. It does not help. To quote Glennan: only love wins. God pours down from heaven and covers us. Love fills up our hearts and satisfies us. It creates in us a clean place to start walking again, with shoes strapped tight and low, with a cloud to shield us from the sun. Then we start smiling again, with a village, a people, a purpose. Yes, you with a different color skin. You who belittled stay-at home moms. You who is always nice and yet everyone thinks is stupid. You who didn’t get the promotion. You who consumes nothing but healthy green smoothies, and you who hides in the closet with little Debbie snack cakes.

All of you. We are arm in arm, in the desert, surviving. Sun-stripped to the essentials. This makes our world worth living in, for a while.

 

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photo

(three w’s).flickr.com/photos/peptravassos/12346727913/in/photolist-bkL9Zb-dmk5nD-x9idS-6NBe5j-oqAqGz-7y21ki-7QxCgm-2vVkpu-cyrvwG-c9Uv8o-d36amE-4KsRLu-acozZa-71enAx-jP3d4c-mLJGDF-7nNVon-7cKBPn-66u9cr-48KTmt-ebsuwB-dPkaon-4S9v3f-bGriq4-mPqCMc-dmk5oR-qfm8EZ-4YJxQh-dQer2o-ctvpWC-4PFpb9-Pv2XC-7xLgMu-5HR4pm-5F3qy8-feTC3E-5HDGbg-FM5EN-feDsKD-6y8Ug1-iF32D2-dKzDK3-qiZr-e8NBzX-4Y6Yo7-sr5ALW-5HJ1Mu-5qBpV2-96rrqm-ctvp7u

Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, My life, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , ,

Sewn Together Strong

April 19, 2016 By

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If I could go back, what would I change? Would I go back to the time when the nurse stuck her hand inside of me, feeling my cervix, with full knowledge that infection would spread and my gut would nearly rot and I’d turn my head to the left toward that little green plastic chair?

If I could go back, what would I change? Would I memorize his password, scrolling through his phone to see text messages and sordid details? Would I walk gingerly through the reasons that splintered my past relationship? All I see there is trust, cracking like an eggshell. Going back means watching my past life break on the floor like a wine glass, shards piercing my hands as I reach down. Blood poured out, and I felt another kind of ache.

But sometimes, just for a moment, I want to go back and feel my baby’s skin. To touch my hand to her cheek, which was round and soft like the underbelly of a duck. I want to go back to that night she wore the pajamas with little white bunnies, when her eyes looked through me and made my head well up with tears. I missed the first four weeks of her tiny little life, the hospital machines beeping an incessant refrain. “I’m so sorry I was gone,” I whispered. She looked past my face and pressed into my womb, the home that she came from. It’s alright, momma. You’re home.

Maybe I would march right back in time and wag my finger in my own damn face, telling myself to travel more, live more, free myself more from my rigid upbringing. Get my ass out into the world. But if I was in Paris before, how would I experience it for the first time last year, like a flower opening its buds in the Spring? How would I be able to replace that feeling of wonder?

I think the past is more like a thread, woven in and out. Going back down, up again and through.   All of those memories appear at random times as I turn over the quilt in my hands and feel the stitching. Remember that time, Suzanne, that we watched the Cosby show for hours while our friends were papering houses? They got in trouble and we were like serves you right, suckahs. Remember that time that I tried to be the perfect housewife, baking bread on Mondays? Remember how good the bread tasted, slathered with that English butter that I always felt bad buying because it was so expensive? Remember all those prayers I said in silence with a clenched fist?

How could I forget. What flat-out nonsense was all that anyway, trying so hard to be the good girl.

I’m in the phase of life now that doesn’t require looking back as often. Perhaps it’s because there’s less in front of me and I want to enjoy the view. Maybe it’s because I enjoy so much the man sitting next to me on the journey. I am trying to soak in whatever phase my children are in right now, regardless of whether they are sweaty and caked with mud. And when I travel, I see it all in a different lens. The shutter is open, the angle is wide, and I allow more light to enter. I want to use time more wisely. Sip coffee more slowly. Talk to one person at a dinner party instead of twenty. Build back trust in a friendship that I’ve broken. A beautiful thing that time gives to humanity is wisdom. I don’t need to reach back in time to get it. I have it now, like a treasure in my hands. God has used all my past to form an intricate and beautiful design, one in which I didn’t see at the time. Back then, all I saw was a room littered with torn fabric.

Looking back shows us how far we’ve come, but it doesn’t control us. The quilt is still being stitched together. Choose the colorful pinks and the richest blues. The darkest browns and the most brilliant purples. Watch the edges being formed and the corners spun. And allow the peace of God to settle upon you, warmed by what is already sewn.

There is nothing I would change if I could go back in time. Except to tell myself that it will all be okay. That God has a pattern that involves all these jagged and ripped pieces. Things can be re-born, wonder can emerge. It’s never too late to keep adding on squares. To be bold and elegant and silly and brave.

Go toward your patched-together future. The kind you can rest your head on. The kind that’s passed down and loved. The kind of life that’s well earned, and well worn, and later spreads out atop the earth, for lovers to picnic upon and frolic, eating cheese sandwiches and little cups of wine.

This is the future that awaits you. It’s sewn together strong.

 

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photo:

(three w’s).flickr.com/photos/scientificquilter/13989901923/in/photolist-njeUrz-kCSUGi-j68W1x-gTqtpt-nsUwbw-bjpo9a-wT1e-8bXgZ2-9t6QbG-6oxhMi-aBr1TQ-pCzbLZ-kXhN8n-naB5dY-dgLtAS-aBqYQf-91vfj6-ebxED4-am17LX-5mNoCD-pCxeqh-gu9tHh-brtBU1-nFMmEY-gu9ghq-gYANEq-b946oZ-pbNXHW-bcVUYP-evtcEh-4S8J7Q-cN9ZiU-gYB8mx-bDpoSf-9cv9ZP-aNV6TZ-eRJnTA-nFFvzT-26iJPG-dUzNuW-bHVhAP-e32DUx-buahcV-7PCxCf-grd8ky-7PyyNe-2UwSUo-aBr15h-eXifHF-78C59j

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A Texas Childhood

April 14, 2016 By

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Texas highways are bursting with the signs of Spring. There are fields awash with bluebonnets, poking their brilliant blue heads among the leaves as if a grand welcome to a big a country fair. There are daisies and Indian Paintbrush and other wildflowers that only old people know the names of. And I’m okay with that. I like to say instead “why look at those pretty yellow flowers” even though I know they are only dandelions.

I’m proud to be raised here, in this land of freedom and independence. We carry both handguns and chewing gum in our purses, and use a lot of hairspray and double negatives. I was in particular thinking about how my family would all head to the Kerrville Arts and Crafts Fair when I was young, to listen to bluegrass music and look at all the handmade rolling pins and water pitchers painted with sunflowers. We’d gnaw on ears of buttered corn and wander around the booths, saying “what a pretty gemstone necklace” or “well isn’t this a cool picture of a cow.”

I had a great childhood, apparently filled with lots of rolling pins.

I wonder sometimes what my children will look back upon and remember. Am I the only one who wonders what legacy is set forth? Why just yesterday, we went to the garden to pick out some carrots and potatoes for our dinner, which we lovingly picked and cleaned and chopped and added to the pan. However, since I planted too late in the year, the carrots are only about the size of a pencil, the potatoes big enough for a large family of field mice. But I pretended we had enough and supplemented with vegetables I purchased at Whole Foods, hoping no one noticed. Will they remember nights of roasted chicken and vegetables, fresh from our garden? Dear God I hope so. Why else do I go to the trouble?

I think as parents we work so hard to create a world for our children that’s safe and happy, filled with trips to theme parks and birthday parties and nature walks through the woods. But what they want most of all are not memories of their mother listening to Lyle Lovett or singing loud or cooking sweet potato biscuits, but a place where they can be fully themselves. A place where they don’t have to look nice, be someone special, or meet some high threshold the digital world places upon them.

Kids want a warm place to rest their soul when it’s weary, so they can actually grow. That can be in the city, or in the mountains, here on our little stretch of Texas soil. And whether you plant your vegetables or buy them, kids don’t care. As long as they can curl up in your arms, and you tell them about how they were born and loved, about how wonderful they are to you, and how you’ll never ever leave, even when it’s hard. That’s home, regardless of what flowers are blooming in the fields or how large the vegetables. Because these kind of seeds are internal, rooted deep.  This kind of childhood provides a strong future for our children, evidenced by branches of love for others, gratitude for the earth, and thanks to God.

This is the childhood I want mine to remember. One where they eat loads of roasted carrots from Whole Foods and think I grew them.

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Odd and Curious Thoughts of the week

March 29, 2016 By

 

  • I had a parent-teacher conference this week. I always cringe,  because I fear they will say something negative about my beautiful daughter, who makes up imaginary worlds inside of her head. Which I fully support and encourage. Instead, we discussed the fact that my usually straight-A kid made a B+ in literature. Which is curious since the last thing she read was the history of armaments in the Medieval era and knows more vocabulary words than I do. I asked my daughter if it bothered her, to not have an A. “Doesn’t bother me at all,” she said. Which pleased me so much we went out for pizza.
  • My boyfriend’s daughter is on a gluten-free, sugar free, egg free, and dairy-free diet, which is otherwise known as No Reason to Live. Her doctor thought it might help her eczema, and we felt so sorry for her that we also decided to also adopt such restrictions in solidarity so she wouldn’t feel so alone.   But this means I’ve been eating nothing but tortilla chips and guacamole, which sounds good but try doing that for two weeks straight without any queso.
  • I am so tired of hearing about Trump, but what I’m more tired of is people posting articles on facebook about how much of a misguided racist troll he is, because that’s also growing old and is just dull. Unless he has a pet squirrel who can say “No more taxes” let’s not re-hash the obvious.
  • For the Easter season I was on the hunt all over town for plates that looked like cabbages so I could take down my brown Woodland spode and lovingly display these new, lighthearted plates from Portugal from the vantage point of the Easter luncheon table. Because let’s be honest Jesus rising from death and lettuce have so much in common. When I finally found them, my daughter pretended to be excited for me and grabbed my hand and said “I’m so glad you found the lettuce plates, mom” and I had this vague foreshadowing of me being crazy in a nursing home. I don’t even care because the plates are nice. You see where this is heading.
  • This week I texted a friend to see if we could bring back the phrase “gag me with a spoon” and she said she actually did gag herself with a spoon in a Dairy Queen in 1987 and I naturally assumed she was bulimic but she said nah, it was just the peanut butter parfait and I said how disgusting peanut butter parfaits were compared to butterfinger blizzards and she was all “agree to disagree, wench.” This is how the modern era communicates. Children, educate yourselves.
  • On the morning commute to school I pretend I’m different people with different accents to make the kids laugh. We have a standing appointment with Maurine from New Jersey who yells at the drivahs and we have a very proper Elizabeth who chastises Maurine for her lack of civility and we just dive in and out of alternate personalities without much ado. Which is normal for us but I realize isn’t normal for all. I assume these are like crazy family secrets that shall remain within the realm of our crumb-laden Lexus. But my son goes around now saying he speaks English and New Jersey like Maurine and people think he’s nuts. I just make that crazy sign with my finger to my head and roll my eyes. Because I really want him to join me someday in the psych ward. I’ll be lonely and maybe this will help speed things along.
  • I went on Amazon today to order a cabbage platter – much larger, more detail – but I yelled at myself to stop. Because honestly. That’s just absurd. A cabbage platter, for heaven’s sakes.
  • This year my kids were with their father for Spring Break, so I used the time to clean out the garage. I rushed the children to the garage immediately to see when they got home. Then for an hour I heard nothing but silence. After, they proclaimed they “made a junk shop” and all the piles I had to goodwill were intertwined with the trash they drug back into the garage and they forced me by almost gunpoint (sad children’s eyes) to shop at said junk shop and negotiate prices and they made me little receipts with stamps. I was so amazed at how quickly they could ruin what was once clean. But it reminded me how much I missed them, and how quickly their lives go by, so I just kept buying half-used spools of thread and old pillows and said things like “my my, these are Neiman Marcus prices” and they’d say “yeah well we may be called a junk shop but this isn’t really junk.” And I smiled because messes can be cleaned but childhood will not soon be forgotten.
  • My credit card company called to see if I made three charges over the weekend to a car wash and tailor. They obviously know me well to suspect I might not have washed my car three times in one weekend since the last time it was washed was (a) never or (b) in an alternate universe. They indicated that my card was hacked and they needed to cancel it and renew it. “But it’s still here in my wallet!” I said. Didn’t matter – it happened online. “But everything is linked to this card!” I said. Their response was basically “this is a first-world problem / you idiot, people are starving in Syria and this is what you worry about / you’ll somehow have to figure out how to re-link your card to Netflix.” I suddenly had an urge to just go back to buying and selling with pieces of silver. Also I thought briefly about washing my car. I have lots of crazy thoughts.
  • I just want to say for the record that my Easter table had a greenish lettuce hue. Which is exactly what I was going for. It was cast from the light bouncing off the cabbage plates. WHO’S LAUGHING NOW.

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On Finding Balance

March 3, 2016 By

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In Eastern cultures, there is a lot of focus on the various elements of our earth. And in relation to these elements, we as humans mirror these traits, and have energy that is aligned with them. So identifying them in ourselves is a good thing, so we can find balance

In Texas, all that sounds like hippie talk. “I ain’t similar to no metal,” they say. “Take your voodoo down to Austin and shove it. Here we’ll talk about 9 mm pistols and ribs.” But hear me out, my southern people. We have fallen out of balance, and we need to open ourselves up more to the honesty about the world around us. Plus a 9 mm is made of metal. Just sayin.

I am not very holistic. I admit that. I like champagne and expensive heels. I eat too much refined sugar. I tell myself I’m going to eat kale, but instead I eat brisket, the edges burned and crispy. But when you really think about it, we all have characteristics that mirror our earth – the precious soil that God created, the wind that scatters the seed. The storms in which God quelled and the skyscrapers that evidence our ingenious minds. No matter how hard we try, we cannot escape the way in which we are built. The earth and the souls of our hearts are intertwined.

I think about my eclectic group of friends. Independent of each other, we are bold or rooted or abrasive or calming. Some need therapy. Oh wait. That’s me. But together we form a sort of harmony, each of us giving something the others need. And I think about our community, and our neighborhood. One family is Catholic and another Muslim. One is isn’t into dogs and another is. One likes to leave Christmas lights up all freaking year. Not that I’m bitter.

Think about wind. These are dreamers, swaying in and out of things. But they also have a brilliant hyperactive mind, good at storytelling and dancing. I have allergies, so wind makes me grumpy. Also, I don’t like to be directed off course. I attended college in the south plains of Texas, where the fury of wind would bear down upon the land, scooping up the dirt and throwing it in my face. I would pull my coat around me and my eyes would sting.

We cannot live in a world with only wind, blowing us about like gum wrappers.

And then there is water. People who reflect this element are self-sufficient and contained, but sometimes hidden and at times fearful. As for me, my mouth is parched. I am always making sure there is bottled water around, in the car, on a trip. I’ll stop, I’ll be late, I’ll delay things, to go back for it. As if I never have enough. When yet I write about water it’s all consuming and often filled with dread, as if I am scared of the way it pulses and the waves disrupt things. I hate the way my lungs seize when I swim long distances, as if I cannot get enough air inside of me, and the power of water scares me. I like to see the rain come down slow and steady.

We cannot survive a world with only water, with no firm ground to place our feet.

I wish I was more feminine as the earth element reflects. More nurturing, more supportive. Relaxed and poised. I have to make a conscious effort at this, when my mind and heart is at odds. I’m often just a ball of twisted knots. There are times at night, when I am sitting with my son, or reading to my daughter, that I am more earth-like, and it feels so sweet and special, and I think “how can I nurture this quality so I can express it better for them?” Although I hate mom jeans. I’m not gonna lie.

But we cannot live in a world of only earth, its dry crusty surface without fruit.

There is also metal. People who reflect metal like structure, order, reason, and discipline. I could use some more of these qualities, since my dishes are never clean and my pantry is in a state of woeful disarray. I am always in awe of how structure comes so naturally for them. It never even occurred to me to put things back in their original package, or to keep things up in slow steady increments instead of letting them pile up like a heap of leaves. I say that organized people are boring, but secretly I’m just jealous.

But a world of only metal would be a sad lonely place, void of life.

There is also the element of fire. These people love sensation, drama, sentiment. They are fueled by being around people, and yet they can rage too hot. I love to be in the presence of fire. It’s warming, and radiates, and it’s a different type of heat. And yet one time a fire burned down our back shed because it got out of control, and could not be contained. Three fire trucks showed up and I freaked out, running out of our house with two kids and a bag filled with granola bars and diapers. Because of course if our house burned down I certainly needed granola bars. WTH.

A world of only fire is a sun, which burns only to give light to others.

Wood is my element. I love wood in a strange way some people love chocolate bars or American Idol. My house is saturated in neutral, and it gives me great peace. I am drawn to carved things. I relate so well to the imagery of a tree with branches, giving life and love. I am tall. I feel rooted, and can perform well under pressure. And yet the wind bothers me, and I’m filled with allergies and prone to eye conditions and headaches. But the thought of spreading my branches and reaching to the sky, birds still atop my outstretched arms, makes me feel happy. Not that literally I want birds on my arms. Because that’s weird.

A world cannot survive packed only with trees. We need rivers and bluebirds and constellations and thunderstorms. For even trees need rain and light. They need a metal saw to prune their branches. They need wind to blow off the dead leaves and allow the earth to be a resting place. And sometimes, even wood needs to be burned.

Living inside of one element is not a balanced life. We have to at times gather from others, and learn from them. It’s not about simply co-existing, but actually embracing differences. Except for those neighbors who refuse to take down their Christmas lights.

Today, on my hike, I grabbed a rock and squeezed in hard in my hand. I kept squeezing the sharp edges until I could feel pangs of hurt on my skin, sharp edges into the soft. I imagined the blood inside of me, thick and red. I was thankful for how the water I drank ran down in all my weak places, filling me up. And I braved the wind, because it’s part of things, and this is what Claritin is for. I climbed into my metal car and drove home with the windows down.

We are all interconnected. The earth, humanity, our various souls. I hope we can look at our earth as a patchwork of different elements, all working together for good. Otherwise we remain forever leaning, forever off balance, forever incomplete.

We need each other. Otherwise we would be blowing forever in the breeze, across the sea, just a metal pipe rolling along the dry, parched earth. Nothing but dust in the wind.

Let’s embrace each other for what we bring to the world, instead of chastising each other for being so different.

 

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photo:

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The Truth about Texting Abbreviations

February 11, 2016 By

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I realize everyone has limited time. But if you’re going to give your thumbs a rest by using texting abbreviations, let’s at least better understand them. Studies show that using texting abbreviations during the entire course of life will save you a total of sixteen minutes. So when you’re ninety years old and drooling, you can stare at the wall a little bit longer. Make it count.

Here are the most popular:

OMG (Oh my what – God? Gosh? Grapes?). This is mainly used when there is literally nothing else creative in the universe to say, generally an acceptable response to anything from “I’m having a ten-pound baby” to “Let’s have tacos for dinner, OMG I love tacos.” If we are going to perpetuate this abbreviation we should maybe vary it up a bit, like OMS (oh my stars!) or OMB (oh my bacon!). People can guess. It’ll be fun.

LMAO (Laugh My Ass Off). This is ridiculous. Let’s all stop using this. There is no one who laughs so much that they lose their own ass. Perhaps the laughing is so forceful and it burns so many calories that the fat melts off. This is odd at best, scary at worst. Because you need an ass. Without one, how would you look in jeans? How would you sit? If you are laughing this hard, you need to calm the heck down and take a sedative.

ROFL (Rolling on the Floor Laughing). I can’t believe this is even a thing. I’ve been on this planet for 40 long years, and have heard some extremely funny things. However, I have never rolled around on the floor about it. Not due to Lucille Ball. Not after hearing Jerry Seinfield. Not even listening to the Louis C.K. HBO special. There is dog hair on the floor, and germs. I’m not sure why you’d roll around down there, even for a good solid Trump joke.

LOL (Laugh out loud). This is a classic, but don’t you think it’s getting tired? It is rare that you laugh out loud. It’s often only a slight chuckle, so to say you are truly laughing is a bit extreme. Americans are going crazy with extremes. If you laugh at something, perhaps just say “Ha.” Or “Funny.” Or even “YFPS” = you are so funny that I want to take you to parties like a sideshow. Not to be extreme. As an aside, I had a friend once whose wife was in the hospital with a life-threatening illness, and her mother-in-law thought LOL meant “lots of love,” so whenever she’d text the poor girl she would say “Does the IV hurt? LOL” or “I’m so sorry you are losing your eyesight LOL.” That actually did make me laugh out loud.

IMHO (In My Humble Opinion). I’ve had this thrown at me a few times, meaning that the person is about to say something I do not want to hear. Because of course I wanted their vain, arrogant opinion.

The folks who post on our neighborhood garage sale always use the phrase ISO (in search of). That cracks me up because instead of leading with “I need a used dresser” what they are instead saying is that they are on a search! A quest! A scavenger hunt for treasure! I am desiring a purse made from the threads of Burberry!

The only phrases (in my humble opinion) that are truly worth the energy-save of an abbreviation is perhaps JK (just kidding), the occasional K (okay) and certainly GOTYM (get out of town you moron). Otherwise, you need to salvage your ass and stop rolling around on the dirty floor. No matter how funny Jim Gaffigan is, sit up for heaven’s sakes. K?

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photo:

(threew’s).flickr.com/photos/garryknight/8331105136/in/photolist-dGc6iJ-aKPi8T-4zV17D-9qQCYc-5Qb9JK-5Q5g4D-5Q5fr6-6gqgXv-bJYiHH-9EGRvd-bFiepD-eaNEDk-NfCGd-bS6CLn-68rFgK-eyNL71-duEZhk-bR52LB-a8wdVc-6NbQH1-okNmYq-5Q5fdM-pR8z8t-d393Xf-frhDdG-cEGGkd-7SLQGz-npcgs5-btPpXc-7Se6fK-5Q5fWt-5Q9v1u-5Q9v4y-rWPzZX-CRYc3u-gvZyq-fM2ZcC-9ZY28m-5Q9vpY-dsB2Y9-gvZxb-C24FK2-8URHGt-eWKEim-APgSC1-C5LRtE-Bp3ucJ-dVQU7M-4UjLyE-8quZL3

Filed Under: Humor, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

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