Pee in the Pool

What a month it has been!

The Supreme Court has rocked our boats by relieving worries about affordable health care and bringing joy to same sex couples giving them the opportunity for marriage and divorce like the rest of us have so long endured!
The Confederate flag is about to assume a new place in history with an overdue and very graceless removal.
And most important, as they read the bible in their place of worship, nine lives were slain in the name of....the name of what? White supremacy, godlessness, racism?

I guess it's folklore or urban legend, as social media would call it, but I've heard that there is a chemical that can be placed in a swimming pool to detect the presence of urine. Come on. Be honest. How many of us have never peed in a pool.

I believe our country is the swimming pool. And guess what? President Obama's election was the chemical released into that pool. Except in this case, it was not urine that was discovered. No. The election of a black man to govern our country, brought racism to the surface. It's just like the pee. We hoped it wasn't, but we suspected racism was there all along.And we were right. It was just lying dormant, like a virus. Add the black man, and the virus of racism came right to the surface - in our attitudes, in our media, in our actions.

I so remember the day of Barack Obama's inauguration. The optimistic among us truly felt we were witnessing the beginning of new era - an era of love, compassion for one another, and a coming together like our nation had never felt before. Our new President sincerely believed his words and we enthusiastically joined in the joy and prospect of change and peace.

The derogatory and hateful comments aimed at our President have turned my stomach and saddened my heart. Some disagreement has been politically and ideologically construed, but many more have their roots in the color of his skin. The gains we thought had been made in race relations, seem to have dropped into quick sand.

The racial slurs, and inflammatory cartoons and articles toward minorities, have made me angry, hurt, and bewildered. The conscious and vocal attitude of bigotry have moved me to anger and insult. I've wanted to scream, more than once - Everybody out of the pool! It's dirty water, it's tainted, it's full of hatred, and yes, urine.

On the days when I believe in prayer, I pray that the end does justify the means. That the turmoil we are witnessing now is necessary to real change - that the horrible attitudes and hateful actions of the few, will open the hearts and minds of the learned, the lowly, the elderly, the poor, the rich, the white, the black - all Americans, all humans.

I'm barely able to handle one emotion at a time and so the events of the last few weeks have my brain about to burst. Juggling anger and sadness at racism, confusion with the marriage equality laws, the Confederate flag's removal, and the prospect of health insurance being yanked from millions, has had the committee in my head all participating in a filibuster, simultaneously.

But once I shushed the committee, I have, with much gratitude, found again a deep pride and hope for a nation that is so new and free that it can experience and adapt to monumental change, just as the minds and hearts of our people can and will, accept and expand. THIS is my prayer and my dream. I hope you share it too.

What I know for SURE...

Oprah pens what she 'knows for sure' on the last page of her magazine. I admire this lady for many reasons and especially because each month she arrives at and shares with her readers, some new, and often grand, awareness of her world and how she fits into it. It is what 'she knows for sure.'

And so today, after splurging on the purchase of and the time to read her latest issue, I ask myself, "What do I know for sure?"

The answer I find is sad, self-deprecating, funny, and predictable. I know absolutely NOTHING for sure. Like the honesty of politicians, the chances of winning the lottery, and the absolute certainty that it will rain if I wash my car, nothing in my world is written 'in stone.' The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm not sure of anything. 

Today may be the day when I start exercising, but the chances are slim. The yearning I have to become more spiritual may take root this month, but I'm already thinking of excuses why I can't go to a meditation meeting this week. The search for spirituality has no specific timeline, right? God, or Buddha, or my higher power surely know I'm trying to work them into my busy schedule. I pencil them in. I erase them. Just like my new year's resolutions. Intentions are sincere but time management is a thief. I've learned in recovery to put down the baseball bat that I beat myself up with but it's hard to lose that bat when it feels like it follows you everywhere you go. I've even thought of buying a real bat and just leaving it at home, but that's been on my to-do list for nearly a year now!

I tape pictures on my walls of the things I'm sure I'd like to add to my bucket list - flowers, animals, significant others, beautiful homes, best selling books. And when I've finished hanging them all, I step back, take a closer look and realize the man is too young, the flowers would require a full time gardener, the home is too expensive, and who would ever want to read MY book. Once again the bat has taken aim at what I know for sure. 

My favorite author, Anne Lamott, says, 'There is almost nothing outside of you, that will help you in any kind of lasting way, unless you are waiting for an organ. You can’t buy, achieve or date it. This is the most horrible truth.'

I'm gratefully not waiting on an organ donation, and the love, the garden, and the book deal seem out of reach at this moment. Perhaps my search for surety is aimed in the wrong direction. Maybe Oprah's stash of things she knows for sure, originate from inside herself.

So I will begin with the few things I do know for sure.

Life starts again every morning. No matter how dark the night before, the sun rises and the birds start to sing again. I know the tears will dry if I don't let them flood the space I occupy. I know for sure that regardless of the number of times I write down a task or a dream and don't follow through, life gives me another day and another chance to accomplish and cross it off my list. I know for sure that each painful memory will fade as it is nudged out by an unexpected joy, a new love, another unearned blessing.

I know for sure, that if I reach out, and step out, of my own way, all the things I need to know for sure, I will eventually know for sure. 

Until then.....progress, not perfection. 

Between the lines,

An Unfamiliar View

This is my first post since starting my new/old career of flight attendant. It is a prize I consider hard won. One full year since applying, the job brings with it excitement, pride, and a sense of direction. A sense of direction? Well, almost. The new job has brought me back to a city I swore I would not return to. I was so convinced of this that I sold all my personal belongings rather than store them because I was NOT going to return. Then again, I was not going to consume any more energy drinks, and I have. I was also not going to ignore the low tire light on the dashboard of my car, and I have. There must be something very true about that adage of teaching old dogs new tricks. I am proof.


My flight this morning was very light and so on descent I took a passenger seat and looked out the window for quite awhile. What a beautiful creation someone or something has put together. The fall colors, although probably a few days past their prime, glistened in the sunlight. Perfect little bundles of color surrounding lakes and roadways, and monstrously large homes. For a moment, I felt very small in a big world. Knowing that inside each neighborhood, inside each home in that neighborhood, there is a story. A family made up of people and those people each with their own story and beliefs.


I quietly thought of the analogy of life being like a quilt - top side all pretty with colors and perfect stitching, and the underneath part where all the workings are. The enormity of the view made me understand why we seek for something greater than ourselves. It's hard to look out at such a perfect masterpiece and not question how it all got that way. I can hardly organize my purse. How did our Country, our continent, the world...how did it all get organized and put together so well? I ask that question often, but usually in silence. I don't say it out loud because it makes me feel weak and queasy inside. Who knows...maybe I'm afraid of the answer, if there is an answer.

For the days when I feel really alone, I try to find comfort in the idea of the quilt. It seldom works, but that's because in an odd way I have become accustomed to a melancholy that I fight against constantly. It's not a great space to occupy. It's much like a seat in the last row on the airplane. No one really wants it but someone always gets it! And I know I am not alone in this 'aloneness'. Like people in recovery, those of us who fit into this category of looking for answers - we have our own secret language. We drop hints about the darkness and the unknowing, and those like-minded folks
pick up our hints and nod their heads in recognition. We know who we are. There are lots of us, but
it's still a lonely place to be.

I am, after all is said and done, and the tears have gone away... I am, an optimist at heart. For that I am grateful. I will continue to gaze out the window and look for the answer. Perhaps I will find you sitting next to me and gazing out there too.

My propensity toward motherhood was minimal.

It's not that I didn't want mothering to come naturally. It just didn't. The creative element was easy. Heart shaped lunch sandwiches. Elaborate birthdays parties and favor bags. Travel agent for trips to the zoo and circus. All of these tasks I considered fun. They were a piece of cake. But, sitting down to play a game, establishing a healthy routine, exercising patience - I struggled and admired those mothers who seemed to have it together with no effort at all. They had the nurturing element I lacked. Sigh.

As my girls got older, and the challenges more complicated, I pondered my role in their lives. How does one begin to set boundaries after they've reached their teens? Ahhh. A creative solution was what I sought. A visual to guide me and them. It turned out to be, of all things, a bowling alley.

With an elaborately painted picture of a bowling lane, I described that my job was to act as their 'gutter bumpers.' Their job was a straight path down the lane. If they veered off into unacceptable behavior and/or danger (aka - the gutters), the bumper, also known as mom, would be there to guide them back into the middle of the lane and to safety.

This image worked for me. I thought it ingenious. Now years later, I realize I never even asked them if it worked for them. Maternal instincts gone awry again!

Today, I am in need of my own bumpers. Daily I find myself bouncing from one side to the other of the lane. Truth is, my body should be bruised from the constant crisscrossing. If I weren't so defiant, I might find it embarrassing to be adrift in indecision, homelessness, and a soul, searching for what ails it. Stubbornness and a judgemental nature are my achilles' heels. This, is no new revelation for me, and unfortunately, for those closest to me.

Many years ago, a beautiful man said soon after meeting me, "The solution to all of your problems is a spiritual one." If only my head and heart had been open to that suggestion. Perhaps I would not find myself so lost and searching desperately for my authentic self.

Well, most of us know about hindsight. It's repulsive in it's accuracy. I am where I am and my only choice is to move forward. I'll admit it. I need spiritual bumpers. Something to believe in. Something to make the 'roll' down the lane to better things, better people, and a better me. I'm tired of gutter balls and zero scores.

A power greater than myself - be it nature, or a god, or a creative spirit of the universe...to act as my gutter bumpers. This is my long ignored, fervently denied, deficit. So, I'm sending out a message into the great beyond. Here I am. Guide me. Use me. Show me the way to peace and happiness before I throw in the towel and burn my bowling shoes.

PS...If I promise not to cheat the next time I'm the scorekeeper, could I talk you out of one or two strikes? Thanks.

between the lines,
me

6 years have passed and it's still all true...

2008 in review and revamp-

Good year, Bad year.

Have discovered a few things at my ripe ol' age!

-Finding a good hairdresser is almost as important as finding a good spouse.
-If you tweeze your eyebrows everyday they always look good and you're less likely to over-tweeze.
-Tank tops. How did I ever live without them...in every color. Beautiful to wear under oversized shirts to hide muffin top.
-Lip liner is for more than lining lips. Fill in the whole lip and lipstick stays on, or just wear the lipliner filled in instead of lipstick.
-Texting isn't as hard as it looks. Learned didn't have to wait secs before moving on to the next letter. Wow!
-Learned that blogs are free.
-Learned that oldsters have discovered Facebook. Sorry kids.
-Realized that returning unwanted or deficient retail items is a right and not a character defect.
-Learned that correctly described meds can change your life.
-Learned that programs like Alanon can reshape control freaks.
-Learned that spare bedrooms that contain beds attract grown children like sugar attracts ants.
-Discovered store brands taste the same as top selling brands.
-Acknowledged that Starbucks is addictive.
-Acknowledged that like the old people of my past, now I are one and caffiene keeps me awake at night.
-Realized I talk like my mother and think like my dad. Pray for me!
-Understood that when a friend's loved one dies, it helps to continue to talk with them about it long after the loss. Knowing you remember and talking about it, makes the pain lessen.
-Learned that most people will read any thing...maybe that's why you're reading this.

Thank you and good riddance President Bush and 2008.

Home. Sweet home.

 

"I know they say you can't go home again. I thought if I could touch this place or feel it,
this brokenness inside me might start healing. Out here it's like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself.  You leave home, you move on and you do the best you can.
- I got lost in this whole world and forgot who I am."  - Miranda Lambert

 

One can see forever on the back roads. The fields all look the same. Planted corn in perfect rows. A vibrant green blanket of a soy bean crop. No need to worry when a crossroad has no marked name.

You just keep driving and the road will lead to an recognizable spot. The familiar rocks are in the same place. And although grown, the trees as well.

 

There's Martin Place. I was ten. The home of my first piano and our dog, Cubbie, who died. The kitchen fire was frightening and the news one day was very sad. Instead of lunch, we listened and heard that our President had died.

 

We reveled in carmel apples on a stick from the five and dime, and nothing impressed us more than Santa's house on the courthouse square. Movies at the Artcraft theater where the fat lady sold the corn. And Providence Park and the community pool where we took swimming lessons against our will.

 

There's an answer here on the back roads, on a two lane road. That answer's as soft as Indiana grass and as strong as Indiana people.

It's still here.

It never left.

I did.

 

Between the lines,

 

 

  

 

 

 



Every country road leads to a memory.

I'm finding myself in a time warp. I'm not there (Florida) and I'm not here (Indiana). I'm floating somewhere back in childhood.

It's fifth grade as I pass by the corner with the little white farm house and huge, brown silo in the back. It's Mrs. Coy's house. It's the house where we bought our eggs - white or brown and sometimes still warm since they had come directly from the chickens in the backyard. She left them on her screened-in porch. We went in, made our choice and participated in the 'honor system' as we dropped our 50 cents into the basket.

It's a crossroad named 75W and I'm in high school. Socially immature and inept, I find myself one night on this dark road where teens park to 'makeout'. The road's infamous reputation was alive and well even during my dad's high school years. I recall the awkwardness and laughter as my dad described the night he got busted by the local police, doing his thing with his girl. I recall with horror and laughter, the night some guy tried to do his thing with me on that road. I cried. He cringed. My maiden name was Limp. It was an appropriate name for his ride home, I'm sure. Did I make up for lost time after that? Here, my memory gets fuzzy. Ha.

Two-lane roads. I've forgotten how to us the passing lane which is essential in rural areas. Farmers drive big machinery. They move slowly. As I try not to tailgate the combine in front of me, I realize I am passing 'the barn.' It's red and most importantly, it's round. Each time we passed it, Dad never failed to tell us the story. The story about the man who went crazy in there. He couldn't find a corner to pee in. I can hear Dad's laughter as if it was yesterday and not almost 50 years ago.

I met a fellow Hoosier recently when I was visiting in Texas. He was familiar with the 'S curve' in our county. I never doubted that it's a small world, but he knew about the 'S curve' ? Yep. I drove the S curve yesterday.  Other than being a dangerous road, it holds a special memory. It's the spot where Dad released our wild rabbits. We raised five babies when their mother was killed by the blades of our lawnmower. We fed them with eyedroppers. And despite the naysayers who said you'll never keep them alive, they lived and thrived. Dad released them into the field by the curve when he thought they were old enough to take care of themselves. We cried until we thought we spotted them near the S curve several times after that. We decided they looked happy and healthy.

Every road. Almost every corner. They all hold a memory. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe these bits of the past will help erase the scars of the past year. Maybe they will move me forward in some strange way. Perhaps they will encourage me to finish the book I started writing nine years ago. After all, the manuscript is about this neck of the woods. It's about the events and the people that make up these memories. It's about the country roads.

Between the lines somewhere in the boonies,

me.

Que Sera Sera

A couple of moves back, (yes, I'm a serial mover) I watched with horror and disbelief as a wardrobe box containing my clothing flew out of the back of Ted's pickup truck. My underwear and other personal undergarments flew into the air and scattered across both lanes of the New River Tunnel!

Today I experienced a similar incident. Different undies. Same embarrassment.

Most  women will understand my next  statement, so listen up men! Women who are are not in a relationship or actively dating, often do not shave their legs. It's just a nasty fact. We also tend to hide, ignore, or burn any lingerie we have, cause there's not even a slim chance it's gonna be worn.
All of mine was stuffed in a box and staying in storage indefinately in light of the dating drought forecast for my future.

In the process of taking my last load to the storage unit before getting the hell of dodge, the bottom of a moving box (cheap-ass tape!) gave out, and once again, history repeated itself, and all my intimate garments strewed to the ground. The pile of lacy and satin pieces provided quite a contrast to the rough blacktop pavement they had ungraciously landed upon. I thought it was perhaps a visual of what my life had been and what it was now.

Two homeless men drinking beverages from small brown paper bags and one cigarette smoking gas station attendant witnessed my debacle but appeared to be only mildly interested, so I scooped up my stuff and quickly moved on.

Later as I as I was driving out of the parking lot, I looked over one more time at my audience. One of
the toothless men smiled and raised his paperbag high above his head in a salute to me, while the other one gave me a thumbs up.

Interesting. It crossed my mind that perhaps this was a good sign regarding my future. At this point I'd take any indicator of a change in karma.

I headed toward home with new hope and a plan to think about actually shaving my legs!

Between the lines and until next time.
Adios Florida!

Two years ago today, Trayvon Martin was gunned down. Let's not forget.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Face to Face with Prejudice

A Hoodie doesn't make one a hoodlum. Or does it?

As the Trayvon Martin case slowly fades from the news, I have to ask myself, "Was this a teaching moment for all of us or just another one of those 'wardrobe malfunctions' that usually afflict Hollywood stars?"

First let me say, with the information we've been afforded by the news, I find there to be little doubt that Mr. Zimmerman acted carelessly, probably with malice, and certainly should not have been on the neighborhood watch and most definitely, not carrying a weapon.

That being said, and at the risk of being too honest, which has never stopped me before, the whole incident has given me pause to think about my reactions to black males, young and old. I believe I have always made a sincere attempt to transform the bias and profiling that seemed so in-grained in my parents' generation. I heard the slurs, the name calling, the jokes based on the color of other peoples' skin. The comments made me cringe as a child and they still do today. But prejudice is hard to eradicate from the head even when the heart says it's baseless and wrong.

Am I more cautious about locking my car doors when I drive through a black neighborhood? Walking alone in a parking lot, do I feel a tinge of fear just a little more if there is a black man rather than a white man walking toward me? Do I automatically assume the black man that pulls up next to me driving the new Mercedes has to be a professional athlete?

You've probably figured out my answer to all these questions. I have been shocked and saddened the last few weeks to become aware, and painfully acknowledge that I have not done a stellar job at removing the prejudices of those before me.

I hope for myself, and maybe for you too, that Trayvon's death, regardless of the circumstances, will prompt all of us to look a little deeper inside, to grow a little more in humanity, to make a personal vow that this young man's death is not overlooked as an opportunity to better ourselves and the world we share with every religion and race.

This was not a wardrobe malfunction. Dark skin and a Hoodie do not make one a criminal, but thinking that it does is a malfunction of the human spirit.

As Ellen Degeneres says at the end of each show...Let's be kind to each other.

Between the lines,
LA

Row, row, row your own boat...

 

The water is calm except for a slight ripple coming from the bow of a row boat slowly making its way toward tomorrow and away from yesterday.

     The journey started with two boats, floating parallel, one occupant in each. Brought side by side by fate or just the narrowing of a passageway. Side by side, life ensued, knowing no itinerary, no consequences in the offing.
     One occupant was equiped with no footing: no life jacket, no self esteem. Into the other's boat she climbed never aware that she was setting her own vessel adrift. Remorse was absent for she had never felt ownership anyway. And so the thought came as it had each time before, that it is impossible to lose that which you never really owned at the beginning.
     His became hers. Life was grand until the boat grew too small for both. Finding herself pushed to the rail, she panicked as she tried to hold her space. But his boat was no longer hers. She found herself clinging to the side unable to remain aboard, unable to recognize from whence she had come.
Dangling in the water, she prayed herself through a barrage of salty tears. No boat. No oars. No backup plan.
     Her promise to self - Never Again.

     For the next stranger's boat encountered - never to be any other, but an independent and parallel path for two.

- between the lines...
 

The Patron Saint of the Animal World

The shaft of light coming from the opening door, pierced the darkness that my eyes had become accustomed to. The door creaked as it slowly closed on its own and I felt her presence move in my direction. I took a slow step into the corner where I might not be noticed.

I was sure that the damp, musty smell of the chapel was immediately transformed by the scent of her perfume, or maybe it was just a lotion she was wearing. The smell was so subtle and yet so sweet against the dank aroma of old upholstery and moldy carpeting. She walked cautiously as her eyes, unlike mine, had not yet adjusted to the lack of light. And although with an unsure gate, she seemed to move with a specific destination in mind.

Had she sat in that pew before? The second row from the front on the left side. Had she bowed her head in this place like she was now? Her shoulders seemed to slump and I listened for a sound coming from her. Any sound. But I heard nothing but the low whining of an aged air conditioner struggling to do its job.

I feared she would sense my presence. I steadied myself against the wall so as not to disturb her. She sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity and then raised her head appearing to gaze toward the altar. I didn't remember turning on an alter light, but suddenly there it was - a soft ray falling against the wooden cross that had hung there forever in my memory.

She walked up to the alter, placed a kiss on her hand, and then held it to the cross for a moment. As she turned to walk away, I saw the shadow of her face for the first time. I recognized her. I saw the tears on her cheeks.  She had been here before. Many times. Always sitting in the same row. Always placing a kiss on the hand-carved cross. I knew her story. The cross had been carved by her friend. Her "Pops" as he was called, had passed on years before, but not before saying one last time, "If no one has told you today, God loves you and I love you too."

She paused for a moment before she opened the door to leave. I thought I heard her crying. Or was it just my imagination. I wanted to step out of the darkness to offer her comfort but I intuitively knew she had found the comfort and peace she had come looking for. I knew this because I, too, had come to this place many times before - to cry, to heal, to find peace - just as she had.

"Letting Go" even when you don't want to.

I say, 'Good riddance, 2012.' 

It was a year of letting go. It was a time of saying farewell to belongings, both emotional and physical and each encounter brought a feeling of loss and sometimes, freedom. It's odd how such diverse feelings can coexist.

My beloved cat, Simon, disappeared one night and we never saw him again. I searched for months, and even today, as I'm driving, I find myself scanning the neighborhood for a chance sighting of his beautiful face and bright, blue eyes. The continual attempt to let go of my buddy of 13 years has been, and remains painful.

Most parents will tell you that there is no deeper emotion than the love for their child. Physically letting go of a daughter or son takes adjustment, but emotional separation is bewildering. For me, the angst of an estrangement, the questioning of the cause, and praying for a solution,  made accepting the change in the relationship, and letting go, an almost impossible endeavor. Unwelcomed and uninvited, 2012 unceremoniously brought this gift to me.

I found myself trying to let go of a house where memories had been piling up for 10 years. And with that move, decluttering and downsizing meant letting go of furniture, trinkets, and memorabilia that I'd been moving around with me for the last 30 years. I did not let go of these items with willingness or grace. Discarding each one, regardless of how small or monetarily worthless, felt like giving away a piece of myself.

Then there was Dad's road atlas - the large Rand McNally version. I had lost track of how many different times it had been packed and unpacked during my travels. Wishing to see, once again, my dad's handwriting, I had often looked through it to see if Dad had made any notations.  I never found any. As I looked at it once again trying to decide whether it was a keeper or destined for the 'not keeping it' pile, my partner commented on the atlas's date. It was printed in 2006. My father died in 2002. 

We laughed at my delusion. I felt silly, but relieved, that letting go, of at least this one treasure, that had turned out to not be a treasure after all, would find a home in the donation box, with no pain or remorse. 

I'm determined to let go of last year. It was not kind. 2012 will be bestowed to some thrift shop. So, if you spot it  while you're out buying your own treasures, my recommendation to you, my friend, is don't let go of your wallet and keep on walking.

later between the lines,

A belated happy new year to you!