If you like happy endings -- or at least endings that are resolved, crisp and finished, make no plans to go see the new movie by Jim Jarmusch, "Broken Flowers"(http://www.brokenflowersmovie.com/home.html) starring Bill Murray.
On the other hand, if you enjoy watching a movie that requires thought and attention to detail, then don't walk, run to see this.
Not a movie for the MTV generation. Not a lot of action or skin or even a lot of dialogue. Ain't it cool?
In fact, most of those in the crowd in which I was viewing this movie with - we were down in the lower part of the theater with "Dukes of Hazzard" still queing up lines and lines and lines of those 25 years and under--- stomped out of the movie quizzically. Some were even angry. One guy even commented, "8 bucks for that?"
Maybe we're too focused on seeing movies that figure it all out for us and leave us with a finished ending. But Bill Murray's last two films, including "Lost in Translation" have a lot to tell us about the unfinished business of mid-life and aging. That is, there is a lot left to be discovered.
For me personally, I loved the layering of dialogue, visuals and cinematography that create the story for me to unwrap and delight in. I loved that Bill Murray's character doesn't act as much as he reacts to life and all that it has given him. I loved mostly that I left the theater trying to figure out all the clues and if I got them all or not.
What I figured out (what I think!) is that the 5 women in the movie represent the 5 decades of a man's life (50 years, which I imagine is what the age of the character placed by Murray). Sexual conquest, intellectual pursuit, partying and rocking, drugs and love, and of course, death, which conquers us all. Don Johnston/Don Juan/Don Jonson -- itself a comment on a man's life -- illustrates a man's life lived for all the things that create a sense of completeness, but at the end it is his shell of a life that creates the chaotic pain in which we see Murray's character. I'm not much of a philosopher but that's my report, Sherlock. (see the movie to understand this line.)
There are some amazing one-liners delivered by Murray that are gems. Unfortunately, most of them are given away in the Trailer so that when you see them in the film they lack the punch they could have had.
Still, I'd recommend "Broken Flowers" to my artsy friends. For all the others, there's always Dukes of Hazzard. Sadly, there seems to be few in-between choices.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Trading Spaces
I drove past my old house the other day.
I drove past really slow to see if I could see the landscaping that I had done with the kids when we lived there. I slowed down almost to a stop and even considered peering into the kitchen to see if the same color that I had painted (red) was still there or not.
Sometimes, I think about old places that I've lived and I wonder about them. Is there still pieces of me left there, strewn all about, waiting for me to come back and retrieve them?
Moving is a big job. Not so much the physical aspect but the emotional as well. For awhile you don't live anyplace. You have parts of a life in one place and parts of a life someplace else. For a while you live fluidly, unconnected, strewn apart.
It's sometimes nice to consider where I lived and why and what I was doing when I lived there. How old were the kids? What did we do for dinner? Where was the furniture placed? Where we live molds our lives as much as anything. Molds our thoughts, too.
Not one time have I ever considered moving back to where I have come. Not one time have I ever thought, "wow, I'd really like to move back there". Not once. Even though the memories and the times shared were good ones, I'm most glad to be here, now, wherever this place "is".
I think that transitions teach us that we move forward into the unknown with a certain amount of gratitude that we're at least moving towards something, away from something that we once were.
But sometimes, there are situations and people that want us to stay in our old 'houses'. They might even want to drive us to the door and say, "get out and live here NOW!" I've had that sense at times with relationships and others...that their version of the past was so important that they wouldn't allow themselves -- or anybody else -- to move on.
To those situations and people, I am learning to say, "I don't live here anymore. You can stay here and we might can revisit these times, but I don't live here anymore. I'm moving onward."
I'm learning there is great freedom in that ability...to simply say, "No, I don't know the future as well as the past but I know that I don't live there anymore." Sometimes it allows others to move forward. Sometimes it makes them put down roots even more strongly.
It doesn't matter. What is important is that the journey forward begins and continues.
That was then, this is now. And I don't live there anymore.
I drove past really slow to see if I could see the landscaping that I had done with the kids when we lived there. I slowed down almost to a stop and even considered peering into the kitchen to see if the same color that I had painted (red) was still there or not.
Sometimes, I think about old places that I've lived and I wonder about them. Is there still pieces of me left there, strewn all about, waiting for me to come back and retrieve them?
Moving is a big job. Not so much the physical aspect but the emotional as well. For awhile you don't live anyplace. You have parts of a life in one place and parts of a life someplace else. For a while you live fluidly, unconnected, strewn apart.
It's sometimes nice to consider where I lived and why and what I was doing when I lived there. How old were the kids? What did we do for dinner? Where was the furniture placed? Where we live molds our lives as much as anything. Molds our thoughts, too.
Not one time have I ever considered moving back to where I have come. Not one time have I ever thought, "wow, I'd really like to move back there". Not once. Even though the memories and the times shared were good ones, I'm most glad to be here, now, wherever this place "is".
I think that transitions teach us that we move forward into the unknown with a certain amount of gratitude that we're at least moving towards something, away from something that we once were.
But sometimes, there are situations and people that want us to stay in our old 'houses'. They might even want to drive us to the door and say, "get out and live here NOW!" I've had that sense at times with relationships and others...that their version of the past was so important that they wouldn't allow themselves -- or anybody else -- to move on.
To those situations and people, I am learning to say, "I don't live here anymore. You can stay here and we might can revisit these times, but I don't live here anymore. I'm moving onward."
I'm learning there is great freedom in that ability...to simply say, "No, I don't know the future as well as the past but I know that I don't live there anymore." Sometimes it allows others to move forward. Sometimes it makes them put down roots even more strongly.
It doesn't matter. What is important is that the journey forward begins and continues.
That was then, this is now. And I don't live there anymore.
Comedy Night (repeat)
I spent Friday Night doing what I love -- working in my yard and watching great comedy. Only, Comedy Central saw fit to rerun one of my favorites and then spend the rest of Holy Time (the time on Friday that is usually reserved for great stand up at Comedy Central) by filling time with South Park. I don't get those little stupid cartoons. I guess I'm not evolved enough or something but they can never, ever, take the place of great creative stand up.
So I got to watch one of my all-time favorites Adam Ferrara (www.adamferrara.com) do his bit. I've seen it probably 20 times but I love it..he always makes me laugh. I love it that he can make me laugh about potpourri ("it's a bucket of mulch, lady!) and hanging pictures. Anyboy can go for shock value...Adam uses everyday things and makes me look at them in new ways which is what I love about great comedy...if it can make you laugh at your life, and mostly at yourself, then it's done its job.
As for Comedy Central, here's a tip -- if I don't get my stand up back on Friday's, things could get really ugly. Some of us comedy-addicts need our weekly fix of funny people like others might need drugs or liquor. So I'm warning you, take off the dorky kids and let the deranged humor of real people rule.
So I got to watch one of my all-time favorites Adam Ferrara (www.adamferrara.com) do his bit. I've seen it probably 20 times but I love it..he always makes me laugh. I love it that he can make me laugh about potpourri ("it's a bucket of mulch, lady!) and hanging pictures. Anyboy can go for shock value...Adam uses everyday things and makes me look at them in new ways which is what I love about great comedy...if it can make you laugh at your life, and mostly at yourself, then it's done its job.
As for Comedy Central, here's a tip -- if I don't get my stand up back on Friday's, things could get really ugly. Some of us comedy-addicts need our weekly fix of funny people like others might need drugs or liquor. So I'm warning you, take off the dorky kids and let the deranged humor of real people rule.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Take a picture
I want to hurry and write this down before I forget. I want to remember these moments before they slip through my fingers.
I want to remember that it is 7:05 and the sun is still warm. I want to remember the steamy mist off the bermuda from rains that came (finally!). I want to remember the cat lolling on the driveway, rolling, then turning. And the dog, Princess, anxiously walking from Ellen and then to Nathan and back again. Princess always can tell when something is up.
I will remember Ellen, her long hair pulled back, new chocker necklace displayed, striped shirt, so pretty. I will remember Nathan, strumming his guitar for a brief minutes, singing in that voice of his, the one that he has used since he was just a small boy. Now its deeper, huskier, a teenager's wistfulness coming through.
I will remember Eggo waffles, with syrup and peanut butter and white, cold milk. I will remember the too-sugary smell that threatens my already jumpy stomach.
I'll remember the faces of my children, excited but pensive, wondering what this new day -- this new year -- will bring them. One more chapter in their short lives already being written, already being etched into their memory.
There are moments as a parent that you have to wonder, "can I do this? Can I nurture another human being through the ups and downs of keyboards and braces, first days of school, breakups with girlfriends? Can I hold their hands when the fever spikes and the friends don't call? Can I celebrate the 3-point shot along with the goal that was great, but just a little too late?
Being a parent is allowing another human to take up residence in your life, forever altering your view of the world and showing them yours, knowing full well that they may take your view of life and keep it, discard it but in all liklihood change it. Its making yourself open and vulnerable to your own faulty ideas about love and life. Its having your own life rewritten each day by the questions and thoughts of another, while you struggle with answers that you thought you had figured out.
Parenting is, most of all, a path that you take to give life to another while redefining your own. It is all at once giving everything you thought you had, only to discover that in the giving you've grown more, lived more, loved more than you ever thought possible.
I will remember my kids today as they drove away, resolute and happy as they embraced a new year of their lives. I stood at the top of the driveway a little too long, tears forming as I knew they would -- as they no doubt knew and even counted on. I will remember Nathan saying, "Hey Mom, it's the first day of my SENIOR YEAR!" and his smile when he saw the tears coming. Isn't it every kid's longing to simply matter to their parents? To know they'll be missed terribly while at the same time knowing their parents will probably catch a few more minutes of sleep, go on with their day, be OK, even relieved a bit?
These are the moments, the pauses in the symphony of life lived with others, that we know that the rhythms of our lives are in sync and in step. That despite the colic, the worry, the questions and the concern, the harmony of lives lived together hits that resonant chord..."this is how it is suppose to be."
I will remember this moment, along with all the others, and cherish it forever.
I want to remember that it is 7:05 and the sun is still warm. I want to remember the steamy mist off the bermuda from rains that came (finally!). I want to remember the cat lolling on the driveway, rolling, then turning. And the dog, Princess, anxiously walking from Ellen and then to Nathan and back again. Princess always can tell when something is up.
I will remember Ellen, her long hair pulled back, new chocker necklace displayed, striped shirt, so pretty. I will remember Nathan, strumming his guitar for a brief minutes, singing in that voice of his, the one that he has used since he was just a small boy. Now its deeper, huskier, a teenager's wistfulness coming through.
I will remember Eggo waffles, with syrup and peanut butter and white, cold milk. I will remember the too-sugary smell that threatens my already jumpy stomach.
I'll remember the faces of my children, excited but pensive, wondering what this new day -- this new year -- will bring them. One more chapter in their short lives already being written, already being etched into their memory.
There are moments as a parent that you have to wonder, "can I do this? Can I nurture another human being through the ups and downs of keyboards and braces, first days of school, breakups with girlfriends? Can I hold their hands when the fever spikes and the friends don't call? Can I celebrate the 3-point shot along with the goal that was great, but just a little too late?
Being a parent is allowing another human to take up residence in your life, forever altering your view of the world and showing them yours, knowing full well that they may take your view of life and keep it, discard it but in all liklihood change it. Its making yourself open and vulnerable to your own faulty ideas about love and life. Its having your own life rewritten each day by the questions and thoughts of another, while you struggle with answers that you thought you had figured out.
Parenting is, most of all, a path that you take to give life to another while redefining your own. It is all at once giving everything you thought you had, only to discover that in the giving you've grown more, lived more, loved more than you ever thought possible.
I will remember my kids today as they drove away, resolute and happy as they embraced a new year of their lives. I stood at the top of the driveway a little too long, tears forming as I knew they would -- as they no doubt knew and even counted on. I will remember Nathan saying, "Hey Mom, it's the first day of my SENIOR YEAR!" and his smile when he saw the tears coming. Isn't it every kid's longing to simply matter to their parents? To know they'll be missed terribly while at the same time knowing their parents will probably catch a few more minutes of sleep, go on with their day, be OK, even relieved a bit?
These are the moments, the pauses in the symphony of life lived with others, that we know that the rhythms of our lives are in sync and in step. That despite the colic, the worry, the questions and the concern, the harmony of lives lived together hits that resonant chord..."this is how it is suppose to be."
I will remember this moment, along with all the others, and cherish it forever.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Writing is a lot like life -- most of it is bad copy
http://www.courant.com/features/lifestyle/hc-gina0815.artaug15,0,4793580.column?&track=rss
This article is so good and so reassuring to people like me who are trying to find their way in the writing "world". What resonates with me in this article is how much writing is like so many other things. For example, if I were asked the same questions about why I do what I do for my "day job" I'd give very similar answers. Writing is a discipline, an art, something that has to be crafted every day.
This article is so good and so reassuring to people like me who are trying to find their way in the writing "world". What resonates with me in this article is how much writing is like so many other things. For example, if I were asked the same questions about why I do what I do for my "day job" I'd give very similar answers. Writing is a discipline, an art, something that has to be crafted every day.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Great quote on the Art Life
“As Stanley Kunitz once commented, “The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance begins when you try to convert it into language.” And it’s true, most artists don’t daydream about making great art—they daydream about having made great art. What artist has not experienced the feverish euphoria of composing the perfect thumbnail sketch, first draft, negative or melody, only to run headlong into a stone wall trying to convert that tantalizing hint into the finished mural, novel, photograph, sonata? The artist’s life is frustrating not because the passage is slow, but because he imagines it to be fast.”
By David Bayles & Ted Orland
From "Art and Fear".
By David Bayles & Ted Orland
From "Art and Fear".
Monday, August 15, 2005
Great new life mantra
This came from some discussions at our new church -- I really like it:
God is Good
People are Wierd
Love with Abandon
.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Movie to see: "Beautiful Country"
Attention to detail, irony and compassion, beauty and human fraility all mix together to create the film, "Beautiful Country" http://www.sonyclassics.com/beautifulcountry/frame.html
It's not going to get major kudos from hollywood elite, nor will it garnish praise from reviewers. But a good story -- along with a director with an eye for what makes a scene "sing" -- will always win my praise.
I think what makes this story so compelling is that it touches a central core that is so deeply engrained in all of us -- the search for self, knowing where one is and where one is going. Those issues are only answered when we know in some part from where we have come.
What I sincerely appreciated about the film is that it was both beautiful and deeply true to its characters. The actors look and act like real people...I am not reminded that I'm "watching a scene". I also appreciate that each character has a heady mix of good and bad, beauty and ugliness, hope and hopelessness. This is a film that resonates and rings true.
It's not going to get major kudos from hollywood elite, nor will it garnish praise from reviewers. But a good story -- along with a director with an eye for what makes a scene "sing" -- will always win my praise.
I think what makes this story so compelling is that it touches a central core that is so deeply engrained in all of us -- the search for self, knowing where one is and where one is going. Those issues are only answered when we know in some part from where we have come.
What I sincerely appreciated about the film is that it was both beautiful and deeply true to its characters. The actors look and act like real people...I am not reminded that I'm "watching a scene". I also appreciate that each character has a heady mix of good and bad, beauty and ugliness, hope and hopelessness. This is a film that resonates and rings true.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Gardner's Journal: The Mundane
Now is the time of the year when all the "un-glamorous" chores have to be done. Weeds have overcome some of my garden so I spend about 30 minutes in a.m./p.m. digging them out, swearing all along that I meant to plant something there. Nature truly does hate a vacuum and what's not planted upon or in, will surely be rabid with Oklahoma's finest bermuda.
August heat is zapping a good part of my yard but perennials and roses are thriving with regular watering because of the energy saving mulch. It's a pain to do, but it sure makes for easier gardening during these hot, hot months.
Overall, I'm pleased with my garden this year. I will plant some additional shrubs and trees in late October and November and I'll put some mums out in some of these places that are sporting weeds right now. I did at least 3 new gardens this year and have plans for additional ones later in the fall. The more "fun" work of digging, planting and creating.
Still, I have to ponder this mundane maintainance. It's truly the biggest part of gardening...not all can be creating and digging and plunging into the earth. In fact, that part of the job -- though exciting and fulfilling -- is a very small part of the gardening experience. Without the mulching, the watering, the weeding the is little of gardening left. Those that don't enjoy these humble chores truly don't enjoy gardening. It's the stuff that makes gardening gardening.
And, it is revealing how much I can get done in 20 minutes blocks of time when I really put my heart into it. Sometimes, the sheer volume of work can be overwhelming. I stand in the middle of a puddle of weeds and sigh, not sure where to begin. The truth is, you begin where you are. You kneel and go to it. And after a few minutes, maybe 20, you've made some serious progess.
This simple reality is remarkable. What can seem to be too big can truly be done in smaller bites. Paying off bills. Remodeling a house. Rebuilding a relationship. It's not the big stuff that really matters -- it's the day to day stuff that seems to hold things together, keep the moving, keeping them healthy.
August heat is zapping a good part of my yard but perennials and roses are thriving with regular watering because of the energy saving mulch. It's a pain to do, but it sure makes for easier gardening during these hot, hot months.
Overall, I'm pleased with my garden this year. I will plant some additional shrubs and trees in late October and November and I'll put some mums out in some of these places that are sporting weeds right now. I did at least 3 new gardens this year and have plans for additional ones later in the fall. The more "fun" work of digging, planting and creating.
Still, I have to ponder this mundane maintainance. It's truly the biggest part of gardening...not all can be creating and digging and plunging into the earth. In fact, that part of the job -- though exciting and fulfilling -- is a very small part of the gardening experience. Without the mulching, the watering, the weeding the is little of gardening left. Those that don't enjoy these humble chores truly don't enjoy gardening. It's the stuff that makes gardening gardening.
And, it is revealing how much I can get done in 20 minutes blocks of time when I really put my heart into it. Sometimes, the sheer volume of work can be overwhelming. I stand in the middle of a puddle of weeds and sigh, not sure where to begin. The truth is, you begin where you are. You kneel and go to it. And after a few minutes, maybe 20, you've made some serious progess.
This simple reality is remarkable. What can seem to be too big can truly be done in smaller bites. Paying off bills. Remodeling a house. Rebuilding a relationship. It's not the big stuff that really matters -- it's the day to day stuff that seems to hold things together, keep the moving, keeping them healthy.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Peter Jennings -- I'll miss you
I just learned that Peter Jennings, one of my all time favorite television personalities died today. Here's the whole story --
ABC News Anchor Peter Jennings Dies at 67
I have often punctuated my day by being near the TV at 5:30 just so Peter can give me, as he calls it, a "rough draft of history" for the day. There was something curiously comforting about his style that no other anchor I can recall. He was dashingly handsome, winsome in his ways and just plain street smart. I didn't know until today that he started broadcasting without a degree in high school or college. Yet, he has said that every day in his adult life he learned something and for that, I love him. That quality, his ability to search and ask questions, gave him the resonance on the air that book smart anchors lacked.
He was the one I turned to during national crisis, his reporting during Sept 11 was particularly reassuring to me because I knew that whatever he knew, he'd tell me. He was always someone that I would have enjoyed simply sitting down with a cup of coffee and talking about ideas.
ABC News Anchor Peter Jennings Dies at 67
I have often punctuated my day by being near the TV at 5:30 just so Peter can give me, as he calls it, a "rough draft of history" for the day. There was something curiously comforting about his style that no other anchor I can recall. He was dashingly handsome, winsome in his ways and just plain street smart. I didn't know until today that he started broadcasting without a degree in high school or college. Yet, he has said that every day in his adult life he learned something and for that, I love him. That quality, his ability to search and ask questions, gave him the resonance on the air that book smart anchors lacked.
He was the one I turned to during national crisis, his reporting during Sept 11 was particularly reassuring to me because I knew that whatever he knew, he'd tell me. He was always someone that I would have enjoyed simply sitting down with a cup of coffee and talking about ideas.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wonderbras, High Heels and Second Chance Gods
I just finished my once a year shopping trek. I have this theory that the reason God made the internet was for people like me who truly truly dislike the entire shopping experience. The parking of the car, the walking through over-full department stores, too-cheerful sales associates and most, most , most of all the dreaded fitting room.
I have arrived at that station in life when I can no longer deny the importance of a good fit and the wonderful affects of good underthings. As I now rapidly approach that amazing period of one's life that is so affectionally called "mid-life", I find that I pay more attention to garments and what they hide or change than I do about color or style.
My children, who usually accompany me (much to their dismay) on these fated trips are armed with the "Frump-O-Meter"...which is a sliding scale that determines how "frumpy" a garment or outfit may make me look. A "10" on this scale means I look like my mom on a bad hair day and a "1" means that I look like I could pass for a mere 35.
It wasn't always this way. I was once a care-free shopper and could, quite literally, but something right off that size 2 mannequin and wear it and look great. Now, I walk by those same mannequins and wonder what their mothers would think about their daughters showing off all that, uhm, plastic. I use to be able to shop for shoes with careless abandon, reveling in how high the heels were. Now, heels more than 1 inch threaten my balance in such ways that I fear for those standing around me. The "Frump-o-meter" is tough in this shopping category. It's just hard to imagine feeling beautiful in no-nonesense navy naturalizers, no?
The sales people don't help at all. I have recently left a "boutique" (translation: no sizes under 12 need shop here) in tears because nothing would fit. The stretchy halter dress that looked so adorable on the model rendered me a pear with a black rubberband stretched across its middle. It was too ugly to even contemplate leaving the dressing room. When I asked the sales person (who was a cute little size 6 at most) about the sizing of the dress, she replied, "A different style might be more forgiving." Which begs the question, "For what am I being forgiven and why?"
I think, though, there are other things at play here. Deeper things, more sinister things. I think for all this energy in trying to look young, I am really trying to make do. Make my life something it is not, make myself something that I am not anymore. I am no longer 21, thin as a rail with my life ahead of me. And with that realization comes more than a bit of regret. Regrets of roads not taken, regrets of roads that were. Perhaps the greatest understanding is that no one -- NO ONE -- gets to 41 plus and says, "wow, my life is perfect and I wouldn't change a thing".
I've been contemplating these life changes for some time, reading lots from those that are way more intelligent than I and have come up with little on the philosophy of life. In fact, I have come up with little on life at all. Which is the trouble -- what kind of philosophy is it if it is only good for the first half of one's life? If ever there is a time for a "do-over" a re-take or just a good old-fashion DELETE, it is at this stage of one's life. Did I really take the teaching option instead of the literature courses? Why didn't I travel to Spain with the Spanish Club when I had the chance? Why did I care so much about getting through college instead of just immersing myself in the experience of learning?
I find myself thinking a good deal about God these days. I wonder if He thinks of me. It's doubtful..what am I to Him? Why would I even register to Him with all the holy rollers doing all that good work out there? Moreoever, why would he care two figs about my life when there are far greater situations in the world. I'm no world traveler but one doesn't have to go far to be rendered speechless by the sheer luck that one has been born into by being a citizen of the US. I don't have stuff in my water. I don't have machine guns posted in my community. I don't have to cover my face with a cloth. I can write whatever I please here on this blog and all I'll get is benign neglect or a random curt commetn or two. Not like I'm taking my life into my own hands like in some countries.
I think I would like to get to know a "second-chance God". Y'know, someone that's been there with you and knows that you really don't do your ab crunches like you should. Someone that knows that secretly, you'd rather watch another re-run of "Law and Order" than go have quality time with your husband. I'd like to sit down and talk to a God who knew you in high-school and yet finds you remarkably more interesting now. I'd like to know a God who remembers the mess you've made of your life and saves the finger pointing. I'd like to get closer to a God that just celebrates when you make it out of bed to church instead of the one that I think I know more, which is the one that scowls because your twenty-minutes late.
If there is ever a time in one's life where a second chance is in order, it's now. It's here. I don't need a litany of the sins I've committed, I've got those engraved into the crevices of my soul. I don't need a checklist of the things that I've NOT gotten around to do, the weariness in my day reminds me all too quickly of that. And most of all, a second chance God wouldn't encourage me to "keep the faith for the sweet by and by". Y'know, I'm running out of time and I just might not make the sweet by and by. Whatcha got for me now? For here? For today? Tell me how to pay the mortage, get the kids to school, find dinner and some peace.
I left the mall with my meager purchases. Shopping use to bring such pleasure and fun. The cruel trick in life is that when you do finally have the funds to buy what you want, you realize what you want isn't in the store, on the mannequin or in the window.
I have arrived at that station in life when I can no longer deny the importance of a good fit and the wonderful affects of good underthings. As I now rapidly approach that amazing period of one's life that is so affectionally called "mid-life", I find that I pay more attention to garments and what they hide or change than I do about color or style.
My children, who usually accompany me (much to their dismay) on these fated trips are armed with the "Frump-O-Meter"...which is a sliding scale that determines how "frumpy" a garment or outfit may make me look. A "10" on this scale means I look like my mom on a bad hair day and a "1" means that I look like I could pass for a mere 35.
It wasn't always this way. I was once a care-free shopper and could, quite literally, but something right off that size 2 mannequin and wear it and look great. Now, I walk by those same mannequins and wonder what their mothers would think about their daughters showing off all that, uhm, plastic. I use to be able to shop for shoes with careless abandon, reveling in how high the heels were. Now, heels more than 1 inch threaten my balance in such ways that I fear for those standing around me. The "Frump-o-meter" is tough in this shopping category. It's just hard to imagine feeling beautiful in no-nonesense navy naturalizers, no?
The sales people don't help at all. I have recently left a "boutique" (translation: no sizes under 12 need shop here) in tears because nothing would fit. The stretchy halter dress that looked so adorable on the model rendered me a pear with a black rubberband stretched across its middle. It was too ugly to even contemplate leaving the dressing room. When I asked the sales person (who was a cute little size 6 at most) about the sizing of the dress, she replied, "A different style might be more forgiving." Which begs the question, "For what am I being forgiven and why?"
I think, though, there are other things at play here. Deeper things, more sinister things. I think for all this energy in trying to look young, I am really trying to make do. Make my life something it is not, make myself something that I am not anymore. I am no longer 21, thin as a rail with my life ahead of me. And with that realization comes more than a bit of regret. Regrets of roads not taken, regrets of roads that were. Perhaps the greatest understanding is that no one -- NO ONE -- gets to 41 plus and says, "wow, my life is perfect and I wouldn't change a thing".
I've been contemplating these life changes for some time, reading lots from those that are way more intelligent than I and have come up with little on the philosophy of life. In fact, I have come up with little on life at all. Which is the trouble -- what kind of philosophy is it if it is only good for the first half of one's life? If ever there is a time for a "do-over" a re-take or just a good old-fashion DELETE, it is at this stage of one's life. Did I really take the teaching option instead of the literature courses? Why didn't I travel to Spain with the Spanish Club when I had the chance? Why did I care so much about getting through college instead of just immersing myself in the experience of learning?
I find myself thinking a good deal about God these days. I wonder if He thinks of me. It's doubtful..what am I to Him? Why would I even register to Him with all the holy rollers doing all that good work out there? Moreoever, why would he care two figs about my life when there are far greater situations in the world. I'm no world traveler but one doesn't have to go far to be rendered speechless by the sheer luck that one has been born into by being a citizen of the US. I don't have stuff in my water. I don't have machine guns posted in my community. I don't have to cover my face with a cloth. I can write whatever I please here on this blog and all I'll get is benign neglect or a random curt commetn or two. Not like I'm taking my life into my own hands like in some countries.
I think I would like to get to know a "second-chance God". Y'know, someone that's been there with you and knows that you really don't do your ab crunches like you should. Someone that knows that secretly, you'd rather watch another re-run of "Law and Order" than go have quality time with your husband. I'd like to sit down and talk to a God who knew you in high-school and yet finds you remarkably more interesting now. I'd like to know a God who remembers the mess you've made of your life and saves the finger pointing. I'd like to get closer to a God that just celebrates when you make it out of bed to church instead of the one that I think I know more, which is the one that scowls because your twenty-minutes late.
If there is ever a time in one's life where a second chance is in order, it's now. It's here. I don't need a litany of the sins I've committed, I've got those engraved into the crevices of my soul. I don't need a checklist of the things that I've NOT gotten around to do, the weariness in my day reminds me all too quickly of that. And most of all, a second chance God wouldn't encourage me to "keep the faith for the sweet by and by". Y'know, I'm running out of time and I just might not make the sweet by and by. Whatcha got for me now? For here? For today? Tell me how to pay the mortage, get the kids to school, find dinner and some peace.
I left the mall with my meager purchases. Shopping use to bring such pleasure and fun. The cruel trick in life is that when you do finally have the funds to buy what you want, you realize what you want isn't in the store, on the mannequin or in the window.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I'm more than thrilled
I just found out that an essay that I wrote will be used by the editor of www.VallartaToday.com
both for hard copy as well as for online.
Can I be completely honest -- I am more than excited! I feel like I just found out there was a Santa Clause or something like that. It's not the first essay to be published, but it certainly is the first one that is really meaningful to me. The essay actually is here at my blog under a different title (and probably not the revised, revised, revised version.)
This essay was a collaboration with me and my editor (www.jordansmuse.com) and I have to say her favorite word is REVISE. She is challenging me to go a lot deeper in my writing and it is both exciting and terrifying. Writing connects me to my deepest self and sometimes those things aren't that attractive. A great editor draws the beauty out of raw emotions and tattered ideas to create something like a mosaic -- lots of broken pieces put together in ways that are complete...not perfect, but complete. More whole because of the brokenness.
I now have a regular writing time each day along with a desktop full of folders, essays, ideas...all of these things have been rummaging around in my head for years, collecting dust and cluttering up the place. Writing brings order -- and meaning to my life. My life has been so profoundly influenced by great writers and books that being able to write something that is meaningful is a supreme privilege.
I feel extremely fortunate at this moment...hope there are more like it.
both for hard copy as well as for online.
Can I be completely honest -- I am more than excited! I feel like I just found out there was a Santa Clause or something like that. It's not the first essay to be published, but it certainly is the first one that is really meaningful to me. The essay actually is here at my blog under a different title (and probably not the revised, revised, revised version.)
This essay was a collaboration with me and my editor (www.jordansmuse.com) and I have to say her favorite word is REVISE. She is challenging me to go a lot deeper in my writing and it is both exciting and terrifying. Writing connects me to my deepest self and sometimes those things aren't that attractive. A great editor draws the beauty out of raw emotions and tattered ideas to create something like a mosaic -- lots of broken pieces put together in ways that are complete...not perfect, but complete. More whole because of the brokenness.
I now have a regular writing time each day along with a desktop full of folders, essays, ideas...all of these things have been rummaging around in my head for years, collecting dust and cluttering up the place. Writing brings order -- and meaning to my life. My life has been so profoundly influenced by great writers and books that being able to write something that is meaningful is a supreme privilege.
I feel extremely fortunate at this moment...hope there are more like it.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Hustle and Flow
http://www.hustleandflow.com/
One of the few summer movies with real soul. If you're in the mood for a gritty experience, head to your local theater and strap yourself in for a great ride.
What I like about this movie is simple and straightforward...it has a great story and that story is well conveyed through moving performances from the cast. I actually cared about the characters because of the script...it wasn't obvious where the story was going, so I actually had to think -- something that most movies don't ask me to do. Always nice to be respected when you lay down $6 or more for a movie.
Since I'm not a huge rap fan, nor am I that familiar with Memphis, TN and no, I'm not black...but despite all this, the movie was able to communicate and resonate with me, which means that someone somewhere cared enough about the writing and allowed a great story to emerge. Wouldn't it be great if more movies could do that?
The best scene in the movie for me is when DJay is in the church and he is deeply moved by the music -- music that isn't his "own" but it speaks to him from deep within.
One of the few summer movies with real soul. If you're in the mood for a gritty experience, head to your local theater and strap yourself in for a great ride.
What I like about this movie is simple and straightforward...it has a great story and that story is well conveyed through moving performances from the cast. I actually cared about the characters because of the script...it wasn't obvious where the story was going, so I actually had to think -- something that most movies don't ask me to do. Always nice to be respected when you lay down $6 or more for a movie.
Since I'm not a huge rap fan, nor am I that familiar with Memphis, TN and no, I'm not black...but despite all this, the movie was able to communicate and resonate with me, which means that someone somewhere cared enough about the writing and allowed a great story to emerge. Wouldn't it be great if more movies could do that?
The best scene in the movie for me is when DJay is in the church and he is deeply moved by the music -- music that isn't his "own" but it speaks to him from deep within.
New quote source
Check out www.thinkexist.com
a really great source for finding quotes...or just read to be inspired. This site allows you to create your own "quote book" for use, create an e-card to send to others or even comment with others who enjoy quotes.
a really great source for finding quotes...or just read to be inspired. This site allows you to create your own "quote book" for use, create an e-card to send to others or even comment with others who enjoy quotes.
Friday, July 22, 2005
On my reading shelf
I've been writing and reading a good deal lately, including writing a lot of creative works for work (more tech stuff). Here's what I'm reading this week:
Writing Creative Nonfiction (Edited by Carolyn Forche and Philip Gerard)...so far awesome...great fodder for writing.
Handbook of English Grammar and Usage (OK, I'm not really reading it, my mentor/editor "suggested" that I have it nearby...seems I keep getting my verb tenses screwy...or is that "screwed"? Either way...I am.)
"The Leadership Challenge" (Kouzes Posner) positively the best resource on digging deep into the experience of building and developing people...I have the journal and the workbook. Not for the faint of heart, a mere 500 pages of reading...take your time.
This week, I've written and almost finished AND even started the submission process with one of my essays..and I've started the biggest part of my speech for an upcoming conference. There are moments when the disparate streams of my life join and the rush of the momentum is truly a spiritual moment...things all make sense, even if my verb tense does not (do not????? AUGHHHHH).
All this to say that the one thing I will take a sword for here in my 41st year -- my creative life has to be nourished...i have set up a daily writing time and actually kept with it during a hectic "back at work" week, I have a new place to write so that I can drink/eat a little while I'm at it. I am no longer willing to postpone the time I spend creating...I am happiest when I'm in the throes of new ideas and new thoughts -- reading, writing, thinking. It is the time in which I'm happiest and I love the new people that are helping me create that part of my life more fully. I'd probably starve if I wrote for a living, but I'll starve in another way if I don't...so who knows where this will take me...right now, it's just good to finally get to a place where I am making room for and taking time for something that I've always wanted to do.
Writing Creative Nonfiction (Edited by Carolyn Forche and Philip Gerard)...so far awesome...great fodder for writing.
Handbook of English Grammar and Usage (OK, I'm not really reading it, my mentor/editor "suggested" that I have it nearby...seems I keep getting my verb tenses screwy...or is that "screwed"? Either way...I am.)
"The Leadership Challenge" (Kouzes Posner) positively the best resource on digging deep into the experience of building and developing people...I have the journal and the workbook. Not for the faint of heart, a mere 500 pages of reading...take your time.
This week, I've written and almost finished AND even started the submission process with one of my essays..and I've started the biggest part of my speech for an upcoming conference. There are moments when the disparate streams of my life join and the rush of the momentum is truly a spiritual moment...things all make sense, even if my verb tense does not (do not????? AUGHHHHH).
All this to say that the one thing I will take a sword for here in my 41st year -- my creative life has to be nourished...i have set up a daily writing time and actually kept with it during a hectic "back at work" week, I have a new place to write so that I can drink/eat a little while I'm at it. I am no longer willing to postpone the time I spend creating...I am happiest when I'm in the throes of new ideas and new thoughts -- reading, writing, thinking. It is the time in which I'm happiest and I love the new people that are helping me create that part of my life more fully. I'd probably starve if I wrote for a living, but I'll starve in another way if I don't...so who knows where this will take me...right now, it's just good to finally get to a place where I am making room for and taking time for something that I've always wanted to do.
Great tunes
I am completely undone by the music of "Carbon Leaf" (www.carbonleaf.com). I purchased another CD this week (Echo, Echo) which is previous to "Indian Summer". I think I like "Indian Summer" better. The songs are such a diverse mix of mandolin, celticac, acoustical guitars, bodhran, even bouzuki ..along with other more traditional instruments.
My favorite tunes on Indian Summer -- "What about Everything" and "Life Extraordinary"...on the Echo, Echo CD, I'll take "Toy Soldiers" and "Desperation Song". It's been a long, long time since I've found a group that I am so taken with and I am completely loving the ride.
My favorite tunes on Indian Summer -- "What about Everything" and "Life Extraordinary"...on the Echo, Echo CD, I'll take "Toy Soldiers" and "Desperation Song". It's been a long, long time since I've found a group that I am so taken with and I am completely loving the ride.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
pics posted
I've posted some pics from my trip at
www.maurietray.phanfare.com
I really like this online photo album!
www.maurietray.phanfare.com
I really like this online photo album!
Monday, July 18, 2005
Traveler's Journal: Roberto's Massages
(This is a revised version of a previously written essay).
Whatever the journey, travel brings us to one guaranteed destination: to oneself.
Houston’s airport is full of clean lines and stainless steel gleam as I call, page, email for the last few times before I head to Mexico. The last six weeks of deadlines, postponed meetings and missed objectives has settled firmly into my neck causing me pain at every turn of my head. As my plane is called, I pick up my luggage, wince, head to the plank. My cell phone chirps like a trapped bird in my bag, but I let it go until I return in another week.
I arrive in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico with the July rain and a satchel full of ideas and hopes, and a schedule full of contacts and new acquaintances. I had hoped to have had enough time to look it over en route so that I could make every moment count when I landed. As my plane lifted, I settled into my itinerary, my head full of successful meetings with clients. Maybe we will clink our glasses together and make wonderful toasts in Spanish together to celebrate our achievements.
Out my window I see the coastline of Mexico, my neck crunching as I turn and look. I take in the palm trees, I see the ocean and I have a sense of excitement as I near my destination. As I check in I am relieved to know there is a spa. Do I dare?" Can I take the time to enjoy a massage? I thumb through my schedule, squinting, trying to decide what to do, but the ache in my neck can no longer be silenced and I book the appointment for later that same day.
Coral pinks, white sheets and simple archways create a serene and welcoming sense in the spa, though I’m already feeling guilty for the meeting that I’ve left early to be here. Worse I discover that there is no way to check for email in my hotel and room and I am panicked at the thought of how to keep up with the communication back to the states.
Roberto, the massage therapist, greets me warmly but he doesn’t say much. Maybe it’s because I can hardly speak Spanish or maybe he just sees how wired I am. The massage is painful, I yelp out in pain as he carefully, but firmly, massages the knot in my neck. He responds to my pain only with the words, "Breathe and relax."
I breathe shallowly.
He says again, "breathe and relax," as if I had not heard him the first time.
I try to obey but I feel silly. The Great Relaxation God hasn’t always blessed me in his ways and I don’t want to fake it.
Roberto sees me stall but he won’t continue until I breathe so I do because it’s just too much work to fight it. The need to move on is so much a part of who I am that I am impatient with all this breathing. It seems too slow. I just laythere, suspended while Roberto waits me out. "Shouldn’t we be doing something productive?" I almost say aloud.
By the end of the massage my aches are better but Roberto isn’t quite finished with me yet. He asks me to return for a deep tissue massage.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I think I can help."
I’m not sure at all about this. My schedule is already behind and I’m not sure I’ve got the luxury of time for all this "breathing." Still, I agree to another massage for the next day.
After another day of interminably long business meetings in which I mutilate the Spanish language until I am embarrassed, my enthusiasm for the trip has fallen along with any hopes of a hairdo that will last me this week. The humidity from the ocean has turned my hair into a frizzy mess of rage that is comical. I feel nauseous from the heat and from the food. I start thinking of home and when I can make my way back. Whatever business schedule I had for myself has been derailed in a new world with rhythms that are unfamiliar to me. Phone calls that I am required to make are challenging at best with the language barrier. Meetings are difficult, nearly impossible, to set up in a world where time is a mere suggestion, not a statement of fact like it is in my country. In Mexico, time drifts like a lazy river when I am use to the rapids. I think of my massage with Roberto and realize that again, I have to cut out of a meeting to do so. Will I be able to "relax" better? Doubtfully, I head back to the spa.
My cell phone rings en route and it is my daughter on the other end.
"Mom! The basketball tournament was awesome! We won and I couldn’t miss a shot." She goes on with details about her victory and I am suddenly, unexplicably homesick. I could have been there had I not been sitting in a café waiting for someone who failed to show. I am angry and then suddenly I am crying with a force that surprises me, even frightens me. As I walk into the massage room, I know that Roberto has seen my tears but he says only, "Many people cry when they start to feel better" he says.
By the end of the week, the slower pace of business in Mexico has worn me thin. I begin to imagine what food I will eat once I return home. I yearn for a Sonic Route 44 iced tea, loaded with sugar and lots and lots of ice. I want to eat a Wendy’s hamburger and feel the grease run down my chin. The cobblestone streets of Mexico have ruined two wonderful pairs of shoes and my clothes are all damp, sweaty and full of sand from the ocean breezes. In meetings I continue to gargle the Spanish language and I have doubts as to what I’ve come here to do and if those goals will be met. Indeed, I fear that they will not be.
On my last day in Mexico I have my final massage with Roberto. As I climb the stairs to the spa I can see the ocean on my right. I see the vendors hawking their wares, hear the music of musicians as they stroll the grounds playing for whomever will pay them to do so. Though Mexico confounds me, wears on me, holds me captive from technology and schedules, I am beginning to hear my own breath. In. Out. In. Out.
Whatever the journey, travel brings us to one guaranteed destination: to oneself.
Houston’s airport is full of clean lines and stainless steel gleam as I call, page, email for the last few times before I head to Mexico. The last six weeks of deadlines, postponed meetings and missed objectives has settled firmly into my neck causing me pain at every turn of my head. As my plane is called, I pick up my luggage, wince, head to the plank. My cell phone chirps like a trapped bird in my bag, but I let it go until I return in another week.
I arrive in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico with the July rain and a satchel full of ideas and hopes, and a schedule full of contacts and new acquaintances. I had hoped to have had enough time to look it over en route so that I could make every moment count when I landed. As my plane lifted, I settled into my itinerary, my head full of successful meetings with clients. Maybe we will clink our glasses together and make wonderful toasts in Spanish together to celebrate our achievements.
Out my window I see the coastline of Mexico, my neck crunching as I turn and look. I take in the palm trees, I see the ocean and I have a sense of excitement as I near my destination. As I check in I am relieved to know there is a spa. Do I dare?" Can I take the time to enjoy a massage? I thumb through my schedule, squinting, trying to decide what to do, but the ache in my neck can no longer be silenced and I book the appointment for later that same day.
Coral pinks, white sheets and simple archways create a serene and welcoming sense in the spa, though I’m already feeling guilty for the meeting that I’ve left early to be here. Worse I discover that there is no way to check for email in my hotel and room and I am panicked at the thought of how to keep up with the communication back to the states.
Roberto, the massage therapist, greets me warmly but he doesn’t say much. Maybe it’s because I can hardly speak Spanish or maybe he just sees how wired I am. The massage is painful, I yelp out in pain as he carefully, but firmly, massages the knot in my neck. He responds to my pain only with the words, "Breathe and relax."
I breathe shallowly.
He says again, "breathe and relax," as if I had not heard him the first time.
I try to obey but I feel silly. The Great Relaxation God hasn’t always blessed me in his ways and I don’t want to fake it.
Roberto sees me stall but he won’t continue until I breathe so I do because it’s just too much work to fight it. The need to move on is so much a part of who I am that I am impatient with all this breathing. It seems too slow. I just laythere, suspended while Roberto waits me out. "Shouldn’t we be doing something productive?" I almost say aloud.
By the end of the massage my aches are better but Roberto isn’t quite finished with me yet. He asks me to return for a deep tissue massage.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I think I can help."
I’m not sure at all about this. My schedule is already behind and I’m not sure I’ve got the luxury of time for all this "breathing." Still, I agree to another massage for the next day.
After another day of interminably long business meetings in which I mutilate the Spanish language until I am embarrassed, my enthusiasm for the trip has fallen along with any hopes of a hairdo that will last me this week. The humidity from the ocean has turned my hair into a frizzy mess of rage that is comical. I feel nauseous from the heat and from the food. I start thinking of home and when I can make my way back. Whatever business schedule I had for myself has been derailed in a new world with rhythms that are unfamiliar to me. Phone calls that I am required to make are challenging at best with the language barrier. Meetings are difficult, nearly impossible, to set up in a world where time is a mere suggestion, not a statement of fact like it is in my country. In Mexico, time drifts like a lazy river when I am use to the rapids. I think of my massage with Roberto and realize that again, I have to cut out of a meeting to do so. Will I be able to "relax" better? Doubtfully, I head back to the spa.
My cell phone rings en route and it is my daughter on the other end.
"Mom! The basketball tournament was awesome! We won and I couldn’t miss a shot." She goes on with details about her victory and I am suddenly, unexplicably homesick. I could have been there had I not been sitting in a café waiting for someone who failed to show. I am angry and then suddenly I am crying with a force that surprises me, even frightens me. As I walk into the massage room, I know that Roberto has seen my tears but he says only, "Many people cry when they start to feel better" he says.
By the end of the week, the slower pace of business in Mexico has worn me thin. I begin to imagine what food I will eat once I return home. I yearn for a Sonic Route 44 iced tea, loaded with sugar and lots and lots of ice. I want to eat a Wendy’s hamburger and feel the grease run down my chin. The cobblestone streets of Mexico have ruined two wonderful pairs of shoes and my clothes are all damp, sweaty and full of sand from the ocean breezes. In meetings I continue to gargle the Spanish language and I have doubts as to what I’ve come here to do and if those goals will be met. Indeed, I fear that they will not be.
On my last day in Mexico I have my final massage with Roberto. As I climb the stairs to the spa I can see the ocean on my right. I see the vendors hawking their wares, hear the music of musicians as they stroll the grounds playing for whomever will pay them to do so. Though Mexico confounds me, wears on me, holds me captive from technology and schedules, I am beginning to hear my own breath. In. Out. In. Out.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
He greeted me at the door when I arrived home to show me his new clothes he purchased from his own summer job. We went to his room where he was packing, clothes strewn every which way. He stopped a minute and strummed his guitar, practicing what must be every teenager's dream chorus on the guitar, "Stairway to Heaven".I listened as he told me about his week and about his excitement for the upcoming week. I tried to keep my face from showing what my heart was already feeling -- that this is one more doorway he is walking through that will eventually lead him away for good.
I have tried hard as a parent to give my kids the space they need to develop themselves in their own direction. I have tried my best to help them learn how to think more than what to think. I think the most important job a parent can do is to eliminate their kids need for their parents.
Even with that approach, watching my children start down their own life paths is both reassuring and terrifying. And, I have to be honest, it can be downright sad.
Before he left this morning, I asked Nathan for a picture and he said, "Sure" but then said, "Can we take them here at the house and not up at the school." There is only one response to that request if you are a mom of a teenage boy and it is a "yes, of course".
I did get a shot of Nathan and his buddy Lucas before they left for University of Arkansas. And as I replaced the camera cover for the lens I ducked my head low so that neither could see the tears that welled up in my eyes. I quickly hugged Nathan (he was a sport about that) and then made my way to the car, tears coming fast and furious now.
I looked back after we turned the car towards home and he was laughing with his friends and he looked so happy and so ready for this last trip as a high schooler to craft his art as a musician. As I looked in the rearview mirror with tears still coming down my face, I saw his hand raise with a wave towards us and then, he turned to load his gear. And my heart formed these words that I want to share with him..
"My son, my prayer for you is that you know that you are always in my heart, that nothing you do or don't do can ever, ever change my love for you. You always have a place to come to celebrate life's joys. You can count on me to be there to listen but I will promise to let you find you own way. You were the first to make me a "parent" and you have taught me more than all the books in any library. I love your spirit, I love your compassion, I love you. You make me, above all, proud to be a human being because your spirit lifts me and those around you. May you have a wonderful senior year and may this new phase of your life's journey bring you confidence, peace and a continued sense of wonder for your world."
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