Elegy…

I bought the book Hillbilly Elegy when it was first released at the urging of a couple colleagues of mine at the time back in 2016 when I was working for a philanthropic advising firm in San Francisco. I recall getting about 2 chapters in and for some reason or another losing interest. It wasn’t until about 2 weeks ago, on a long-awaited and deserved break (if I do say so myself) from my duties as an educator at a University here in NC that I eagerly picked it back up. I’d like to say that I don’t know what it was that made me devour this book now and yet not be able to even get through a couple chapters 5 years ago. That it was that unspecified mix of ennui-not feeling-it-ness that made me put it back on the shelf to collect dust; unread and largely forgotten about. And in truth, there is a little something to this assessment. One either has to be in it and fully committed to the reading of a book or not. Largely though, I think it was more a sign of the person I was back then, or the person I had been for many years and the [result] of the lens through which I viewed the world. While I was on the one hand, quite intolerant of anything but the most progressive of views on all “social” issues of the day (and probably still am in a theoretical sense) my views have widened and wisened on how to go about tackling and improving upon them. Up until that point, aside from my humble beginnings, which are the subject of this blog post, I had lived in two of the largest and most “progressive” cities in the world: New York City and San Francisco. I’m now 3.5 years into a stint in suburban North Carolina. While it has been trending greatly this way, my perspective has changed.

But this post is meant to be anything but a political statement or revelation of my point of view on the state of the world. We have enough daily protestations of thorny topics on every social media platform known to the “free” world and nobody gives a shit or cares about one more, let alone mine. And if they did care it’s only because they’re waiting to pounce, dissect, disavow, criticize or cancel it anyway. The main reason for my wanting to put fingers to keys and write was because of the tremendous visceral response I had to the recent reading of this book. And when I get inspired to write-which is sadly less and less these days-I obey its whims and do it. If only for the catharsis of it all, the ability the stream of consciousness gives me and allows for the processing of recently acquired knowledge and ideas.

The reason I have so strongly reacted to this book, to be clear, is not because I too am a hillbilly-not that there’s anything wrong with that!  But I may as well have been. Because the family structures, lives, neighborhoods and family dynamics that are so honestly and openly described within Hillbilly Elegy are shockingly similar to those experienced in my New England childhood. Family dysfunction is the same no matter your geographic location and its struggles are universal. The commonality discussed throughout is the lower-middle working class, the raised-by-single-parent/raised-by-multiple-relatives family structures, and the poor communities hanging on to the lowest rung of the socio-economic ladder. “Families” that in reality represent the very fringe of what that word actually means to the general public. I found the world that J.D. describes so akin to my own as he talked about the literal village it took to raise him and to credit him with making it “out.” The converging of all kinds of luck and stars aligning to connect him with those people who made the literal difference in whether he lived or died. For both my brother and me, were it not for our kooky curmudgeonly power-house Nana, CRAZY uncle, select teachers (of both general ed. and dance where I was concerned,) boyfriends/girlfriends, the Performing Arts, and the Military, I’m quite certain we would both have wound up some common cautionary tale at the very least, or a tragic statistic in the worst-case scenario.

My brother and I are the epitomai of “beating the odds.” We have taken starkly divergent paths in original vocation and careers but have coincidentally both ended up presently as educators-although I firmly believe my big brother is a far more talented and passionate one than I will ever be. We both have burning ambition and a will to succeed and be happy unlike anyone I’ve ever known, which I know was borne in spite of our upbringing and not because it was modeled for us. It has taken many years of therapy-one way to go to overcome various ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences) like the ones Vance talks about in his book but is not the only way-and a myriad of exposures to all this world has to offer that I’ve been fortunate enough to create for myself, that have conspired to bring me to the person I am today. Because of these efforts, I rarely feel the need/want to cry, whine, deeply ponder, or mourn my childhood. One could look at this as success and say I’d moved on and give me a congratulatory pat on the back and say “good for you.”  And for the most part, yeah good for me. 

And so given this, I’m always awe-struck when something so powerfully, and suddenly, connects me to those painful early memories that I’d long ago locked away in a vault causing me to meet that little girl anew, and cry for her as I’ve never cried before. These are such old tears, dried out tears, why are they coming back, why now, when I’ve supposedly “moved on”? I guess because of the state of the world, in all of our upheavals and experiences over the past 2 years of this never-ending saga that is this pandemic I’ve grown tired of watching kids, like those my brother and I were, be passed by and forgotten about and become perpetual victims of the same bad policies and systems that plague us today. As J.D. Vance rightly states in the book, no government policies can fix these systemic issues. It takes a mythical cocktail of unknown and individually unique ingredients to cobble together stable happy lives, but it also takes people investing in their communities in ways that matter and has the ultimate impact. 

But again, I won’t wax on or propose a bunch of potential solutions within this blog entry, for nobody asked me for my opinion. For while I have many potential ideas and opinions-and strong ones at that-it doesn’t really matter if I state them, write about them, or advertise them in the loudest most societally-appropriate, virtue-signaling manner; pleasing the masses with my majority (rarely lately) or dissenting (more often lately) opinions on how we as a nation have behaved these last couple of years. My only goal for today was to write a bit from my own little corner of the world, insignificant in the grand scheme of things but extremely significant to myself and the life I’ve managed to carve out, eke out, claw out as a result of and despite all that I came from.  

Coupled with my uncommon success given my upbringing, It’s not lost on me that I’ve landed upon one of the most successful and stable romantic relationships I’ve ever been in, with someone who, while didn’t come from a “broken home,” has a background not so dissimilar than mine, at least socio-economically. Thank you, J.D. Vance, and your heart-wrenching memoir for forcing me to face these incredibly painful memories this week, with new eyes and mind and heart. Maybe I should pick up anew the memoir of my own that I began writing all those years ago. Even though I’m not the successful lawyer, mover and shaker, and influencer that Mr. Vance is becoming, there just might be some room or a burgeoning tiny platform to highlight my own experiences. Ones that might help a future little Debbie, struggling, sad and lonely in some tiny nothing town, foster some hope and the will to change her stars. 

Maybe I will. Stay tuned.

Perseverance, Resilience, & Gratitude: a Final Grad School Reflection

I had to complete one final assignment to reach the end of an arduous journey resulting in my MFA-Master of Fine Arts. Below is that paper.

In order to stay current with the ever-changing tides of today’s world-artistic or otherwise-it is helpful to keep asking questions that center one’s awareness of self. For the past two years I have been forced to critically think upon varied topics with steady frequency, examine how I can improve upon my current artistic and choreographic practices, pedagogical methods, and remain altogether curious and open to feedback. As this will mark the final paper of my grad school career, I’d like to take this opportunity to reflect on not only this course but my experience in the program as a whole.

 Mostly what I’m reflecting upon is my simultaneous relief and joy that is this achievement, but also the sheer exhaustion and bitterness of having to accomplish most of it during a global pandemic. The continual thoughts and visions of “what could have been” that often float through my mind are endless. I’ve often asked myself, “was I cheated? Did I receive the same education I would have received in a non-pandemic time? Should I quit?” The last question was proffered before I even began this program in earnest, due to a diagnosis of Bell’s Palsy the DAY BEFORE I started classes in Milwaukee in the Summer of 2019. A diagnosis which altered my looks and severely altered both my speech and eating/drinking patterns for weeks. I contemplated not even starting for it seemed as if the universe was desperately trying to tell me something. And yet I persevered and decided to show up anyway. So, when I’m asked questions like “what was the most challenging aspect of your studies” this initial experience ranks up there as one of the most trying.

 And then of course, Covid-19 struck, causing all other adverse experiences to recede into some netherworld of hard times. The unique ability for all of us to simply persevere through any given day showcased a resiliency of the human spirit I’d not experienced in quite some time. I’ve not coasted through this life thus far-things have been hard, and I’ve had more than my fair share of trauma. This pandemic, however, was the ultimate equalizer, leveling the playing field in the most telling of ways. One’s true colors shone resplendently as we were all forced to call up a certain strength, we did not know we possessed. And for once, no one was alone in their hardships. Yes, some had it worse than others, much worse in some cases. But every single person on this globe was affected in some way by Covid-19. The connection to strangers felt across this globe was astonishing and humbling, and for that, I am grateful. As with all events in history, we can choose to learn from them, or simply block it out and forget as quickly as possible. I, however, want to channel this into the next phase of my life, to fuel my work as an educator, practicing artist, and director/choreographer.

This program helped me continue making art during such a time. How can I not feel grateful for that opportunity? Perhaps if I hadn’t persevered and muddled through those first terribly painful and humiliating weeks due to Bell’s Palsy, I might have succumbed along with many others, to a year-plus of severe depression due to cabin fever and an overall lack of human contact.  

Perseverance. Resilience. Gratitude. Significant qualities to possess for optimal success in this life during “normal” times but during a time like what we’ve all just experienced-and are continuing to experience-these are critical. My hope is to remain vigilant and heed the lessons learned over these last two years, humbly leading with these three virtues.

It’s a Mad World…

….as in Mad Men that is. Now that I’ve finally caught up with the times and am properly indoctrinated into Don Draper’s world, allow me to just say that if loving Don Draper is wrong,  I don’t want to be right.

Don’t misunderstand, he’s a toolbag for most of the series, of the highest order actually. But a toolbag with a heart and charm and good looks to go with it. I’ve actually known some men like Don, ok really just one; he was sort of the spitting image, in spirit, of all things Draper-it’s almost as if he molded himself after the very character. Tall, charming, seductive, easily distracted, manipulative-and yep, a major douche. But I digress….

I’m a pretty easy audience albeit a critical one. I can hang with something as mindless and silly as Three’s Company and yet also fully appreciate and promptly devour, in binge-watch-fashion, widely and critically acclaimed brilliant series like Six Feet Under, Sopranos, Weeds, Breaking Bad, Dexter and now, Mad Men. What is it about these characters that hold us all so completely and utterly captive? And what is it about these ever elusive, ever enigmatic leading-men-characters that regardless of their bad behavior, have us rooting for them right up until the end? It’s great writing that’s what it is. Why do we root for Dexter or Tony Soprano or Walter White? Because they were defectively, humanly flawed, and a tad bat-shit-loony-tunes-crazy yet somehow lovable as hell and you cannot help yourself cheering for them to get their shit together!

Aren’t we as human beings, the collective whole of these characters, all wrapped into one if we stopped to think of it? We all have a little bit of Dexter’s dark passenger inside of us, Tony’s remorseful rage, Walter’s desperate lust for power and Don’s self-destructively blind ambition.

Or at least  I do….or did. Do, did, it no longer matters. I can fully relate is more the point. I can relate to his desperate need to have made something of his otherwise ordinary, low-class, humble-beginnings life. That without a legacy to leave behind and that stamp of “special-ness”, the need to carry on with the monotony of everyday life rapidly loses its appeal. And so the way I chose to interpret the ending of the series finale episode had Don placing a huge stamp with his name on it, furnished with love and in perfect genius harmony for generations to come. And what’s wrong with that?!

Blind, desperate, die-hard ambition is a curse to bear for sure. Some people have it, some people don’t. Some people develop & foster it, others ignore it. Some people simply outgrow it or channel it into something else. These are all fine options; we all have free will and each choose to live it the way we want to live it. But can’t you just relate to Don’s thirst for greatness, even a little bit? The world doesn’t quite spin properly if we’re all megalomaniacs or overly obsessed with prestige, but maybe it would spin more freely and effectively if we all possessed a healthy dose of this stuff. When used for maximum impact and even for the greater good, we can affect such major change in this world.

My new/reinvigorated motto: Live like Don Draper-only less douche-y.

 

 

 

 

In Search of the Glass Slipper…

In truth it’s not the slipper we’re after, the we being the collective female contingent, it’s the story that accompanies the slipper and what happens AFTER the slipper is retrieved and put back on. There is something ever alluring and completely hypnotizing about this fairy tale image; at least it was for me as a little girl. That lucky Cinderella who paid her dues whilst slaving away sweeping floors-her ship finally came in! Her Prince Charming weeded through all those other gals and showed up to rescue HER and her alone and made everything better and they lived happily ever after. If I only had the bitmoji symbol for “gag”, “ick”, or “barf” I would promptly use it.

My soon-to-be-ex-husband used to say that I was searching for someone to come in on a white horse and rescue me; this comment would most often end with a “well that’s not me”. Such remarks were quite routine in our little home, would always piss me off and were naturally followed by a big fat fight. I’m no longer certain what always prompted the argument but I do clearly remember seeing the coming of that remark from a mile away. I would silently begin the countdown ’til its appearance in my head with a “5, 4, 3, 2 here it comes, 1”. But clearly he had struck a nerve, and I hated to admit it. Because as much as the whole fairy tale business has stuck in my craw for so many years, I think there is a grain of truth in there to be analyzed and embraced by us gals. So it’s time to face the demon and deconstruct what makes it tick. The demon who feeds us these flowery, unrealistic, impossible dreams and look it in the face and say “Howdy, let’s chit-chat”, via text on an iPhone…naturally.

Fairy Tale Demon: So why don’t u like me anymore? wtf?

Me: Oh I still like u, I really, really like u. But ur just no good for me 😦

Fairy Tale Demon: What do u mean I’m no good for u? I’m perfect 🙂

Me: Yeah, see right there u proved my point. Nobody is perfect. Searching and waiting for perfect is a huge waste of time

Fairy Tale Demon: How come? Isn’t perfection the ultimate destination and therefore worth the wait? Once u find Mr. Perfect-all ur problems get solved!!

Me: Um, see again, ur talking out of ur ass and it’s really beginning to annoy me. I repeat, perfection does not exist; it’s unattainable and so therefore not worth clinging to

Fairy Tale Demon: But I’m here to save U! (hearts/kissy face emoticon)

Me: Save me?? Am I lost? Well I guess in a way I am and was. But I’m kind of a Badass now and have realized I need to save myself first, and not wait for someone to attempt to do it for me. Besides, ur kind of dumb

Fairy Tale Demon: …, …, …

Me: I know u read that

Yeah that’s probably the way the dialogue would go. Oftentimes the arguments would roll out between my ex and me in such a way that I would cry out a bunch of defensive responses, culminating with “but I want to save you right back”! Because I did actually and got ultimately too caught up in that; which didn’t serve either one of us. He wasn’t looking to be saved any more than I was. Isn’t that what we should do for one another though in a marriage? In spirit and in theory maybe. But in reality and practice, not so much.

A truly healthy relationship can only hold the promise of a future when both parties know themselves fully & completely; are wholly at peace with themselves and in love and acceptance of who they are. This can only be attained when we’ve saved our own selves. Only then can we be completed and perfectly complimented by someone else. We can’t place the savior burden onto some unsuspecting future partner. We’re our own savior first. Complete self-reliance and accountability.

So does this mean I don’t dream of anyone anymore? Hell no, in fact I probably dream now more than ever about my Prince Charming. Maybe because I’m more excited about my own life and being me that I can’t wait to bring someone on board who wants to get in on some of this. Someone who wants to share their life with me and grow with me and learn with me and love with me.

He’s out there somewhere. Maybe stuck in a tree or a bush or in traffic on the 405 perhaps. But he’s out there. To him I say, I’m waiting. And both feet are covered in sleek, kick-ass, sturdy leather boots without an ounce of glass and could never be mistaken for a slipper. Come and get me if you dare.

 

 

Uncoupled: Dating After Heartbreak…..

When you’ve spent most of your adult life as a coupled person-you know, as part of a team, a partnership, a companionship, a marriage-it’s jarring beyond measure to find yourself well, uncoupled. There is a cute little tune by the same name from the Broadway musical Starlight Express that I used to use as my main 16-bar audition. (This is theatre speak for those in the know; at any given audition, where hundreds of people show up to try out for a new or currently running production, you would be asked to prepare no more than 16-bars of music as your audition song. This song was exactly that length and so needless to say I got a lot of mileage out of that one.)

So about a year and a half ago, I found myself abruptly uncoupled. Many twists and turns resulted in rebound but then again, about 5 months ago, I was once again completely untethered. To say that it sent me into a tailspin of loneliness and self-doubt is an understatement, complete with the usual soul-searching questions like: How did this happen? How did I LET this happen? Why did this happen? Where did I go wrong? How, for the love of all that is good and holy, can I prevent this from EVER happening again?? As if we could outsmart love. Ha!

Heartache is a tricky and fickle ailment. All of your keenly aware senses can tell you that you’re not dying and yet you nonetheless feel as if you might surely expire at any moment. Those equipped with a solid set of coping skills can even do all the “right” things like join a support group, get together with good friends to cry on their shoulders, channel energy into positive actions like exercise, networking, candle-lighting, bath-soaking, funny movie-watching…… and writing. And continue to lather, rinse and repeat those actions hoping it will take away the intense, chest-crushing feelings of loss and sadness. Sadly it only dulls those feelings. Feelings of loss, especially of loves lost, don’t ever fully go away. They become manageable over time but in my experience, fail to ever fully release. And it sucks. It 100% does.

So the only tools at my disposable have been time and dating. One occurs mercifully and involuntarily whether we want it to or not, and the other, we choose. Wallowing in self-pity isn’t ever the answer and so the newly single gal has to soldier on the only way she can and in the only way that modern society has deemed it possible: Online Dating.

Modern day online dating is not for the feint of heart or ego for that matter, let me tell you. But it’s also not something to be ashamed of. Most of the couples I meet today, who have been together less than 10 years, met on a dating website. The modern world keeps spinning in ever more efficient ways and so it is now possible to be both accepted and rejected in the privacy of your own home. There’s a way to get OK with Cupid, some Tinder to light and swipe, Plenty of Fish waiting to be caught, a Match to be made, a Bagel to go with your Coffee and a Zoosk to….who the hell knows, don’t ask.

When you can find your groove again, you even allow someone in, tentatively, cautiously, yet purposefully. Anything to stop feeling stuck and paralyzed with indecision and fear. Sometimes you are pleasantly surprised to learn that you haven’t lost your mojo altogether and that maybe you do have something to offer. You suddenly remember you have something awesome and worthy, made up of all that work you’ve been doing on yourself as you boldly and unabashedly embrace your Baddassiest Self (inspired of course by the book that has now become your bible: You Are a Badass) and claim to the world “I’m back, better than ever; I am woman, hear me roar”!

Only no one appreciates it yet, or misses it entirely. Probably because they too are caught up in the inevitable broken and damaged hole that is left in the aftermath of their own personal heartache. Or maybe they just are not down with the new groove you’re presenting. And that’s ok. It’s just the circle of life.

So until I find the yin to my yang, the bagel to go with my coffee, the most harmonious match the universe has in store for me, as my good girlfriend says to me all the time, I shall keep practicing. Keep asking for what I need, and keep very clear about what I don’t need.

In the meantime, I’ll be swiping in San Francisco.

The Big sCare…..

In keeping with the spirit of Breast Cancer Awareness month, I thought I would repost a blog I wrote about 4 years ago when I had a little sCare.

In short, this is a shout out to all the women out there: Get your yearly mammograms if you are 35 or over! For all those sons, husbands, nephews, brothers and friends of women, find a moment to urge those you love to do the same. It should come as no surprise at all that Breast Cancer can happen to anyone but most importantly if found early, the chances of a cure are phenomenally great. As women we are taught to be diligent about self-breast exams etc, but often there are things that simply cannot be felt, and that only a mammogram can pick up. This was my experience…..

My mammogram came back abnormal in October of 2011 and what followed, along with several further mammograms, an ultra-sound, a needle biopsy, an MRI, a surgical consultation, more mammograms, and finally a surgical biopsy/excision, was traumatic to say the least. Having to deal with the very real fear that I could be one of the unlucky ones to get this disease was naturally the worst part. I spent many weeks just not knowing and waiting. My partner at the time was so unfailingly supportive and loving that it made me feel so terribly sorry for those who go through this and worse with no one to lean on.

Thankfully my news was positive and pronounced benign. I was diagnosed with something quite rare called a Radial Scar, which in the majority of cases is benign but if left alone and or undetected, most often turns into Cancer. (So much of the internet is not vetted but if you want just a simple definition of radial scar…as I always say…just google it and bring it up to your doctor if you should have any further questions). If I hadn’t gone for my yearly exam I would never have known it was there, because it cannot be felt. So for obvious reasons I’m forcing myself to spread the word and implore you to do all you can to keep on top of your health! Knowledge is power.

I sent out a somewhat more succinct version of this at my workplace when this happened 4 years ago, and while the folks in HR felt I might have overstepped the privacy boundaries a bit, I’m not sorry I sent it to the group at large. How else do you get out the word about anything that is important? If one has to wait in this life to go through the proper channels and get “permission” before doing anything-most things might just never get done; the moment passes and the chance is gone to do the “right thing”.

A final note. At my place of employment I’m blessed with some decent healthcare-not so much the case elsewhere. This economy continues to be disastrous for so many people. If anyone you know has insufficient insurance there are plenty of those Health Vans & clinics offering free mammograms. You can start here to find some information about them: Find Free Mammograms

Since I first wrote this, a dear friend was diagnosed & has since been successfully treated for a Breast Cancer that was termed Stage Zero, proving there is no doubt in my mind that early detection is our best defense against something so indefensible. We can’t control everything in this life, but where there are things that can be controlled-DO THEM!

What are you waiting for?

Wishing all the men & women out there-yes, scarily men can get Breast Cancer-good health!

For Love of the Game….

The game is tennis of course. It’s always been my favorite sport and not because of any natural physical ability to play it myself. I’m quite terrible in fact. Much to my mother’s dismay, in an early attempt at ensuring I would be well-rounded, she tore me away from the ballet barre to take tennis lessons. It lasted maybe 2 sessions…tops. I simply had zero eye-hand coordination and no patience for the sport. Had I not been about to become the dancer I would be, I may have tried harder and honed the certain skills necessary to get better. But it wasn’t to be. I found my sport in the world of dance, and like the athletes who connected racket to ball so skillfully, I trained to connect feet to floor, and tea-cupped-hand to hat, and never looked back.

But it wouldn’t ever stop my admiring it from afar and watching it every chance I got. So few things did I want to play spectator to but this sport I could watch mesmerized for hours at a time. And all thanks to my mom. Our relationship was so tenuous, complicated, angst-ridden and emotional. Except when we were watching tennis. Mostly it was Wimbledon on TV (back in the late 70’s & early 80’s it was usually ONLY Wimbledon that was televised) but occasionally we would catch one of the other Slams. There was a certain peace that would come over our little dysfunctional household every year for 2 weeks in late June/early July. It brought us together the way only an arduous, hard-won 5 set tennis match could. We cheered, we screamed, we yelled (she yelled), we pumped our fists and jumped up and down in sweetly satisfying, glorious tandem. We had equal parts admiration for the champions who would win, title after title, defying all odds, and sheer heartbreak for our favorites who were frustratingly defeated match after agonizing match. There were McEnroe, Connors & Borg, Becker and Edberg and then came Chang, Agassi & Sampras. The last male American players to truly dominate the sport. Thankfully my mom lived to see a large portion of the reign of the Williams sisters….a reign that in my humble opinion will be nearly impossible to ever replicate.

The sport itself is maddening to watch, I can’t even imagine what it is like to play. It’s a most tedious, repetitive, relentless game requiring more patience than I could ever hope to possess. Not even 2 paragraphs into his insanely fantastic autobiography “Open”, Andre Agassi writes that he hates tennis. (And fyi run, don’t walk to read this book. Tennis fan or not, it’s an absolutely beautifully written, can’t-put-down, gripping tale of what it takes to succeed in this incredible sport). What appeals to me though is the pure elegance and class of the sport combined with the seeming loneliness of playing game after game, set after set, match after match with only a team of one. There’s no one else to have your back or blame when you mishit, double-fault, err or fall. It’s just you. And I so could relate to that with every fiber of my being. Because I was alone in my sport, at the ballet barre, on stage, in my own world trying to be the best, trying to stand out, trying to matter, trying to “win”. There was no one to execute the double pirouette for me, no one to land gracefully out of a grand jete for me, no one to hit that high note for me and no one to remember my lines. Just. Me. Perhaps only in other such non-team sports like swimming, gymnastics or ice skating does an athlete also feel this overwhelming sense of responsibility and burden and why the aftermath of defeat is so difficult but also why the thrill of victory is that much sweeter.

My mom has been gone now for 2 1/2 years and these are the times I miss her so dearly. As time marches on I have let go of the anxiety and depression that surrounded loving and having a mother like mine; those unpleasant memories have more and more become thankfully replaced by such ultra blissful ones, like watching the finals of Wimbledon, on our big tube TV, whilst sitting on our cat/dog hair laden sofa, in our little apartment, on a hot and humid east coast Sunday afternoon in early July.

Wherever you are mom I hope you have found peace and that you can find it in your after-life soul to join me once in a while for a match….for love of this game.

I’ll be waiting.

#LoveWins

That’s goddamned right. Love does win, as it should. The Beatles said it best when they sweetly and simply composed that lovely 60’s anthem: All You Need is Love.

It doesn’t always win though, and sadly and frustratingly it sometimes isn’t all you need; no matter how much we wish it to be the panacea for all of our problems. In the very institution that my gay brothers and sisters were denied for so long for instance, sometimes love isn’t enough. Oh how I wish it were. But at least if we start with love and lead with love and finish with love….we are in a much healthier place than we would be without it.

And either way, regardless of the kaleidoscope of crazy going on in the universe at all times, in this case, love finally was enough. The love for another human being finally was enough to be able to bring equality forth to receive its due. It withstood the test of time, it fought, it suffered, it persevered, it conquered, it won.

I sincerely hope Friday June 26, 2015 will go down in history alongside those other equally historic milestone dates that forever stand as a celebration and homage to all things inalienable. I sincerely hope that this will never be contested and appealed. Like suffrage, the Emancipation from slavery, the Civil Rights act and countless other landmark events in our country’s history, may it endlessly stand as an enduring, everlasting symbol of freedom and may our young people and those yet to be born into this beautiful country, never know a time without equality.

Choosing who to love and who to create and share a life with should never be and should never have been an issue on a political or religious docket.This entire decades-long debate has been such a waste of time and energy and literal blood sweat and tears that could have been avoided had we just kept our eye on the ball. The ball that is our world at large; the big picture, real problems, scary life and death issues, frightening and actual threats of terror-both foreign and domestic that are actually scary and that actually scare the fuck out of me and should actually scare the fuck out of us all. These are the complex affairs that we needed to be concerned with, not the affairs of the heart. We’ve lost so much precious time that could have been better spent tackling more prescient issues that I fear are edging closer and closer to causing actual ruin and despair. Not the veil of despair and doom that was predicted had this right been granted. I’m talking about the physical and emotional despair caused by man made and environmental terror that are all too real and should have been given the respect they deserved. The respect of our vigilant watches to keep us safe from harm.

So much has always been squandered and lost in the name of religion so why, why, why do we not learn from the mistakes of our past? Wars have been started the world over, again and again in the name of religion causing so much agonizing pain and suffering that not a one could ever recover let alone win. But we have free will in this country, hard won in fact, and we have not been using this precious gift honorably, not by a long shot. We’ve been using it to terrorize and have arrogantly brandished it over the innocent for far too long.

Let us discontinue this irresponsible, shameful and overly pious behavior then shall we? Can we please get back to the crucial work of protecting this country from those things that will more surely cause us harm and not spend one more fucking minute on those things that never threatened to harm us in the first place? Can we now remove our heads from our collective asses and get back to work?

Onward people.

Other’s Day…..

I am not a Mother, I am an Other. And I’m okay with that. Or at least I’ve been trying to become okay with that even though I’m automatically, systematically, frustratingly put in this “other” category. So to all of us “others” out there I won’t wish you a very happy Mother’s Day but I will happily bid you a Happy Other’s Day!

Mother’s Day is right up there with Valentine’s Day as one of those days that just says a big Fuck You to those naturally excluded from the festivities of the day, when it hasn’t been through any fault of their own that they’ve been excluded from this day of honor and celebration.

I’ve often spoken here about feeling shut out of this club for far too long. But it’s not like I never sought membership. I did try. I tried diligently and earnestly but as fate would have it, my membership was always going to be denied. It’s okay. Places and entities I’ve been denied before I’ve since lost interest in being a part of. “If you don’t want me, then I don’t want you” I would tend to mutter in order to make myself feel better. It somehow doesn’t work the same with this though. It never will. It can’t. It’s quite impossible to compare like apples to oranges the inclusion of a person to the local women’s book club with the “Mother’s” club.

But what is it about this day in general? It’s in reality just one more money-making American “Holiday” that makes us behave as if it’s a sacred Holy Day of respect, wonder, honor and obeyance. Might it be that perhaps only here in America do us “Others” feel so excluded and even shamed on this day? In other countries there are traditions dating back to ancient times of the Romans and Greeks, who held festivals in honor of Hilaria and Cybele, mothers of gods. Not quite the same. In other countries, I’m fairly certain the day does not proceed as it does here. More importantly, I sincerely doubt that for months leading up to the day do citizens of other countries become inundated by every marketing campaign imaginable, available on every branch of social media, to buy things in honor of this day. As with Christmas here in the States, it’s all really just one more reason to spend, spend, spend money. Retail stores depend greatly on this important piece of their revenue stream. I get it. I really do.

Of course mothers deserve all the respect in the world. I just don’t want to be given the “I’m sorry” face after a random stranger feels the need to greet me with a presumptive, joyous “Happy Mother’s Day!” every year on a Sunday in early May, to which my response will inevitably be to bow my head in shame and then promptly correct said random stranger by politely saying “I’m not a mother”….leaving us both uncomfortable and awkwardly silenced.

You know what I would like to say to that random stranger? Why do you presume that I’m a mother? Because I have a vagina?! Is that its only purpose? A vessel to receive sperm and spit out life in order to have the chance to be told once a year by every fucking stranger, Happy Mother’s Day!?

Mother’s Day-like Valentine’s Day, Father’s Day, St Patrick’s Day and countless other “Days” I’ve blocked out plus those yet to come-is just one more excuse to box people into these societal departments, causing others to feel unworthy or misfitted if they haven’t/can’t/don’t want to be granted participation.

Does this all sound like sour grapes served at an elaborate pity party created by some poor, bitter gal who’s found herself alone and childless at this stage of the game? I sincerely hope not. I’m trying so desperately not to sound this way; it will only make me feel more pathetic to be boxed into that category. Maybe I want to be accepted and honored for not being a mother; or in some all too common cases, not having been a shitty mother.

Where are the prizes and parades for these women??

The meaning of life…

Just what is the meaning of life? Truly, what does this all mean? As you know, I love me some Google. If you Google the phrase, as I told you I would in a previous post, (see I keep my word) the first hit that comes up is the title of Monty Python’s most famous film. And for good reason. It’s so genius. But then the second hit is of course also from our good friends at Wikipedia trying their best to give some kind of encapsulating, pithy definition of this phrase saying: The meaning of life is a philosophical and spiritual question concerning the significance of living or existence in general. 

“What is the meaning of life?” The needy cousin of “What should I do with my life?” and “Why are we here?” We all go through these massive life changes and traverse through rites of passage seemingly every decade. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. That seems to suffice in summing up the meaning of life in my book.

The meaning of life according to some folks seems to be a full time job and is an actual searching, like some sort of vision quest accompanied by multiple postings about the progress on every branch of social media. Naturally. Because that gives meaning and validation to the search for this meaning. If we went on journeys every day and just internalized and took in these profound moments, and let them seep through to each fiber of our being, and didn’t write about them or capture them in lovely photographs, then we fear that maybe they didn’t happen. It’s like the famous question “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

With each pinnacle reached at the ends of these rites of passages, we come to different, deeper, headier conclusions about what it all means. As I’ve written about before I think it’s primarily because as we age, we begin to feel our mortality inching closer and closer to us and we are desperately trying to make damned sure we lived and did all we came to do and have no regrets and all that jazz.

But what if we can’t ever really answer that question? What if there IS no answer? The meaning of life is to find the meaning of life and in the searching and finding of the meaning of life we find the meaning of life. Ah ha! That’s it! I got it!! Or what if maybe we get too caught up in the Ghandi-esque societal pressures of having to understand and know what it all means?

For all the tears, sadness, bitterness, emotional anguish and overall anxiety that has comprised a good majority of my last ten months, I would venture to say that the meaning of life is to feel. And never stop. I cry a lot lately, almost at the drop of a hat. A cheesy TV commercial or an ad glimpsed on the internet will quite spontaneously call up mountains of tears. Throw in some images of dogs or babies and forget it, I’m embarrassingly undone for several minutes. But then once it’s out, and I’m able to collect myself enough to breathe deeply, I feel this overwhelming sense of growth and awareness. I let myself feel whatever I needed to feel. Free of judgement and labels. I just felt.

As a child I became abnormally brilliant at feeling too much all the time and so with age I’ve learned to compartmentalize in order to simply function. Then there was a phase of shoving it all under the carpet and numbing myself to what I was really feeling or ignoring it entirely. That didn’t serve me well. Not at all. So in the process, I’ve finally begun to live honestly and in the moment and embrace my truth and all that crap. I realize that I just may have stumbled upon the very thing that I’ve been searching endlessly for: that first real qualification and comprehension of the overall fucking meaning of this thing called life. It isn’t for us to search for the meaning of life, it’s for us to live life thereby adding meaning to our lives. Less searching and more living. More doing and less thinking.

The answers to the questions surrounding the meaning of life aren’t going to one day come to us wrapped in a neat little bow and give us that ultra satisfying moment of knowing. Life isn’t like that. Sorry kids. We need to just put one foot in front of the other, breathe and live…and add meaning along the way. The meaning is intangible and also ever changing. What one day, one month, one year brought us oodles of meaning and made “sense” will the next day, month and years to come, possibly no longer have meaning and so we will need to humbly face that and change it.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And as my good friend tells me all the time lately, just keep going.