Tuesday, January 29, 2019

My life as a museum

Brad saw me working on this post last night. "Let me guess what it's about,"  he said. "You connect the American Girl store with something from OnBeing and a book you just finished."

"How did you know?" I asked. "Were you reading over my shoulder?"

"Wait. I'm right?" he replied. Apparently, he really been guessing.

I'm wrapping this post up today, feeling all internally kerfuffled. Like maybe it's time to retire this whole blogging enterprise and move on to something fresh. The record is broken. I return to the same things over and over and over again. What else is there to write? Is it really necessary anyway?

This is a decision for another day though, I think. 

For now, as predicted by Brad, a post featuring American Girl, something from OnBeing and that book I'm reading.


This weekend, Brad and I decided the two older girls needed some one-on-one time with a parent (or one-on-one-and-a-6-month-old time). The catalyst for this was Jovie's big move into Lily's room- a move she was not thrilled about but agreed to nonetheless in order to make way for Annie's nursery.

Originally, we'd talked about having Annie and Lily be roommates. Lily was very excited about this plan. She figured she could manage overnight baby care and teach the baby to read and do other cool stuff like how to communicate with neighborhood dogs or strut like a chicken.

But Annie has a habit of waking up throughout the night still (even with two sets of closed doors, when the baby gets too loud, Lily still has to don the pair of noise-cancelling headphones that were intended for use at NASCAR races. Lily is nothing if not resourceful). And Lily has a habit of waking up at 5:30 in the morning. Every morning. Which doesn't really mesh well for an infant.

Plus, there's the Lego problem. All those tasty Legos littering the floor or displayed on low shelves- just perfect for little fingers to grab and stuff in their gummy little mouths.

So Jovie agreed to share a room with Lily. We sweetened the deal with a new-to-her loft bed. And a fresh aqua-and-magenta paint scheme. They've adjusted really well to the new arrangement. But we figured they could use a little breather from each other.

Brad took Jovie and Annie out to run a couple errands and grab lunch. I asked Lily what she wanted to do, bracing myself for the response I knew was coming.

"I was thinking we could go to Tyson's Corner and maybe check out the American Girl doll store and then get some sushi and go to Cinnabon."

Her eyes were all dance-y and hopeful in that way they get when she's in charge of making the plans. Bottling up a heavy sigh, I smiled and said, sure. We could do that.

Her idea wasn't totally unreasonable, I know. I mean, she just wanted to go to the mall, right? She has American Girl dolls, and so naturally is interested  in accessorizing. I love sushi. And who would turn down a hot, gooey cinnamon bun?

But I've come to really not like malls. And I really, really dislike that mall in particular. It's just ... too much. Too shiny. Too fancy. Too filled with excess. I inevitably walk in and feel underdressed and out of place- even after swiping on some "going out" mascara.

It is not a place for necessities. It's a place for want. And all that want feels both desperate and exclusive.

There's this song I love by Neko Case- "Margaret vs. Pauline."

Pauline is "the cool side of satin." She's privileged. Destined for a life of ease. And Margaret is "the girl with the parking lot eyes" who works at a cannery. 

This mall is designed for Paulines. It's so glossy and smells of expensive perfume. And this whole area feels as if it's filled with Paulines. Paulines, of course, are just people living their lives. Driving their cars. Picking up their groceries. Dropping their kids off at school. And I grew up here. I most certainly am a Pauline. At least from a privilege standpoint. I know that. But it's never been a skin I'm comfortable in. And the thing is, while our area is filled with Paulines, it's also filled with Margarets. And I see them all over. In this place that costs so much to be in. In a place that feels so focused on status. 

We all live together amid this wall-to-wall stuff. And I feel suffocated by the stuff. And frustrated for all of us- the Margarets and the Paulines- that we spend more time slaving at the feet of this stuff by choice or by necessity than we do dancing in the glow of our beautiful existence (Whoa there. That's a little over flowery, isn't it?)

Which is why I try to avoid places like this mall. And especially places like the American Girl store in this mall because it feels like a training ground for more want. And it's want that is only attainable for the Paulines. Because there are no Margarets who can justify owning a $115 doll who wears outfits that likely cost more than many of the outfits the actual humans wear.

At the American Girl store, the dolls (not the humans) can visit a salon to have their hair styled and their ears pierced. Hair styles range in price from $10 to $20. There's a deluxe spa package available for $15. 

I just can't with this. Plastic cucumbers for the doll's eyes. So that what? To prepare Lily for a lifetime of facials and mani/pedis? Even at 8 Lily recognizes this perceived status difference between having a Real American Girl doll, versus similarly sized (and much more affordable dolls) from Target. Having dolls from this place, seems important. And walking around the shop only serves to reinforce that.

I know it's supposed to be fun. I get it. And truthfully, when I was Lily's age, I too, would page through the American Girl Doll catalogs that came to the house. I'd faun over Kirsten's stenciled lunch pail or Samantha's pinafore dress. And all their furniture and accessories- how you could have a perfectly put-together life in miniature. 

I know I asked for these dolls for Christmas. I never got one, but it's not something I've been sad about over the years (not like that pony I always wanted and still don't have. I would name her Flopsy and she would have a long flowing mane and a velvety muzzle). I think even then I understood they were impractical. I mean, the bedroom furniture costs over a $100, right? And that was in the 90s... so, you know, factor in inflation... or something.

I don't want that same jaw-aching want for the girls. I just can't. Especially when they already have so much. And we live among people who have so little. And the name "American Girl" seems to not be reflecting so much the realities of plenty of American girls in our country right now. Taking Lily to this store, where she wanders around from doll to doll, admiring their dresses and their various accoutrements- the swimming pool that doesn't hold water for $100 or the Airstream Travel Trailer for $350 or the Luciana's space suit for $75- it stresses me out. It leaves me feeling empty and sad. 

(Not just because this year's "Girl of the Year," Blaire Wilson, is basically living the life I should've opted for– running a farm B&B with chickens underfoot and trellises covered in wisteria.)

We went anyway. Because I wanted the day to be about her, not me and my hangups and rants. And Lily did wander around the store. With reverence even. And that little smile she gets. 

She picked out a pair of pajamas for her doll and used her Christmas money to buy them (I  couldn't resist pointing out they cost more than I'd spend on pajamas for her). She was so excited to add to her doll's wardrobe. 

For lunch, she wanted to go to this funny sushi restaurant in the middle of the mall where the food spins around a conveyor belt. Of course she wanted to go there. During previous mall visits, she'd gazed at it with wide-eyed curiosity. 

So I had to be brave (i.e., get over the fact that I didn't know how the restaurant "worked"). We sat at the "bar" and found out we just needed to grab whatever we wanted as the plates slid by. Our bill was tallied based on the color of the plates we picked out. We admired how pretty the dishes looked- the ruby-colored roe and the Mount Fuji Cake. Lily wanted a California roll and the rainbow roll- featuring raw salmon, tuna and yellowtail. My picky eater happily munching on raw fish. Will wonders never cease? 

"Mom," Lily told me, "Sometimes you have to try new things." She knew I was a little nervous about the unconventional restaurant situation. So she threw back at me something I tell her all the time. Clever girl. 

With the money Lily had leftover, she wanted to buy something for Jovie, which warmed my heart a thousand times over. We headed to the Lego store and picked out a little set for her. After that, we split a cinnamon bun. It was extra suburban and tasted a little like heaven. We soaked in our togetherness. Just the two of us for the first time in months. Chatting about school and Annie and whatever caught our eye. 

And that was that. We were in and out in under two hours. 

If I had to go to the mall, at least it was with Lily, who made the experience palatable and fun.   

And, trying to get past the ridiculousness of the American Girl experience, I decided to just observe Lily there. She stopped by the displays- pointing out the little speckled tea kettle in Mary Ellen's Airstream, sharing that Kit's family went through hard times because they'd lived during the Great Depression (she'd read about Kit at school), commenting on how pretty Nanea's special hula dress was, deciding that Kaya must've been a Plains Indian because she had a tipi. She treated it almost like a museum. Like when we went to see the dollhouse exhibit at the National Building Museum. She saw the dolls as characters in history and enjoyed telling me their stories and wondering about their lives.

Recently, I was listening to an interview with writer and artist Maira Kalman, known for cartoons she's drawn for The New Yorker (here's that OnBeing reference. Score another point for Brad!). Kalman talks about spending time in museums and how to her, they are kind of places of meditation. You wander through them silently, taking in the things that catch your interest. It's a collective experience, but also a quiet one.

She talked about how she has an exhibit at the Met- a recreation of her mother's closet that she installed with there son.

"It's in the American wing, and it's a wonderful - my mother only wore white, and she was very precise about her clothing and about her closet. And her closet really was a work of art, in its way."

I kind of laughed at the thought of my closet as a work of art. Stuffed as it is with cardigans and shoes boxes of old notes and photos. I doubt anyone would ever take the time to re-create it in a museum or that anyone aside from the cats and an occasional hide-and-seeker would want to go near it.

Still, I thought it was beautiful, this idea of taking something so mundane as a closet and putting it in a museum. Like it was a way of somehow elevating the tedium of a life. The non-flashy, day-to-day parts of living as an ordinary person.

A vast majority of our lives will not be curated for museums or noted in history books. We might get a few lines of smudged ink in newsprint that yellows and disintegrates. And that's probably OK. 

When I finished the manuscript for that novel I wrote, I experienced this palpable, painful yearning for it to be published. Because if it were published, it must mean that I meant something. That I'd left a tangible mark on the world in the form of a book. I thought about my book on a shelf in a bookstore. Then I thought about the next book and how it would have to be even better than the first. Even more successful. Before anything had even happened (or not happened with my little manuscript) I watched my ego inflate. My self importance. I realized that I would never be able to keep up with the insatiable appetite of my ego. That no matter how much I wrote, no matter how many books I published, no matter how many people told me how great I was, it would never be enough. Just like that lovely song in "The Greatest Showman."

That realization didn't feel any more comfortable to me than the fancy mall. 

So I go back to this place of finding satisfaction in the life I have right now. I thought about treating my own life as if it were a museum exhibit. Marveling at it the same way Lily marveled at those dolls. Studying it with curiosity. Allowing my eye to swing around a room and land on the things my heart feels most drawn too. 

It's not about imagining my things, my life in an actual museum. Not about needing affirmation or aggrandizing. Not about elevating my existence for anyone but myself. 

I do this throughout the day now, in the confines of my home and it makes me smile- the things I end up focusing on.

Snack's couch:

The cactus in the fairy garden we made in York that keeps growing and growing. Proof that I can keep a plant alive. How it's growing in a terra cotta pot my mom shared with me. How the colors complement this handmade picture frame I was given as a baby shower gift when I was pregnant with Lily. How the frame filled with little birds and trees has always suited photos of Lily as she grows up. 

The shelf where I keep my Jovie things. Baby photos and clay creations and the little wooden doll that captures her spirit so precisely. The Willow Tree figurine that reminds me of rocking Jovie to sleep for her afternoon naps day after day after day when she was smaller.

The plant that the previous homeowner left behind thriving in a piece of art my niece Hannah made in high school. The pot with its wild "hair" makes me smile and think of her and our shared hair hangups.

This shelf with a sign Brad found for me and the remains of a sea urchin found at the beach, and a Native American seed pot decorated in colorful birds my Dad gave to me, and a rock painted by a neighbor kid and these little figurines that I think were my mothers...

The crow in the tree outside my kitchen window that visits several times a week- reminding me to leave peanuts outside for her and her two friends.

Corduroy, my childhood bear, snuggling with Annie.  

Curating my home in this way made me realize it is enough. More than enough. And it's not so much about the stuff, but the feelings and memories the stuff evokes. How it helps me remember Jovie's pillowy cheeks and playing Barbies with Hannah and how Lily can't see a crow without cawing at it and the way my mom laughs, which I'm pretty sure is part of that music the Earth has for us. 

It's not the stuff. It's what it evokes in us. 

I'm listening to the book "Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind" by Yuval Noah Harari (here's that book reference Brad predicted!).

In it he writes about how much more stuff today's humans have compared to our forager ancestors. 

"Over the course of his or her life a typical member of a modern, affluent society will own several million artifacts from cars and houses to disposable nappies and milk cartons, he writes. "There's hardly an activity, a belief or even an emotion that is not mediated by artifacts of our own devising."

In play we use a plethora of toys- everything from plastic cars to 100,000 seat stadiums, in intimate relationships there's everything from flowers to chocolates to condoms to rings. We bring the sacred into our lives "with gothic churches, Muslim mosques, Hindu ashrams, Torah scrolls, Tibetan prayer wheels, priestly cassocks, candles, incense, Christmas trees, Matzo balls, tombstones and icons."

Harari notes that we don't even notice how much stuff we have until it's time to move to a new house. But foragers had to move houses every month, sometimes every week or every day. And because there were no moving companies, carts or pack animals to help carry things- they toted only their most essential possessions on their backs. It's hard for us to know what they used day to day, as many of their tools were made not of stone as we have been taught but of wood or bamboo that has long since decayed.

"It's reasonable to presume than that the greater part of their mental and emotional lives was conducted without the help of artifacts," he writes.

Framing all the things I have in my house as "artifacts" that future archeologists might one day dig up to piece together the day-to-day lives of a long-past civilization is both amusing and embarrassing to me. The things that would seem to matter most to me- photos, letters, books, etc. would more than likely not survive a millennia buried underground. Leaving behind, what? Ceramics (Jovie's pinch pot? My mom's flower pot? Hannah's art project), Broken glass from picture frames maybe. Metal utensils and cabinet pulls. Door knobs. Light fixtures. And, of course, all the plastic. That won't ever go away, right?

As I'm writing I'm experiencing a moment of horrified irony as I realize that the "smooth vinyl" heads, arms and feet of the American Girl dolls would no doubt survive to tell our stories (though sadly, not their "huggable cloth" bodies). Beyond the dolls themselves- their accessories- the fake plastic pool and the rainbow unicorn floatie, the 65+ piece gourmet kitchen set, the Mars Habitat that Lily covets for her Luciana doll. All of that would survive more or less in tact waiting to tell the story of our people. 

Strangely enough, the things that might best share the narrative of our interior lives- all this digital ephemera we leave behind will be gone.

Harari noted this, comparing it to the trouble today's researchers have piecing together the lives of foragers with so few artifacts to those of our descendants.

“It’s much the same dilemma that a future historian would face if he had to depict the social world of twenty-first-century teenagers solely on the basis of their surviving snail mail – since no records will remain of their phone conversations, emails, blogs and text messages” 

The stuff we do leave behind and the status we associate with it won't matter much. I don't imagine future historians will be able to differentiate between an American Girl doll or a My Generation doll. 

Even the memories fade from one generation to the next. What we hope survives is our values. The root of our human-ness. 

Browsing ridiculously overpriced dolls is just a vessel for time shared between a mother and a daughter. And that time is special and sacred. The terra-cotta pot makes me think of my mom and how Lily says Nana's laughter is the gold standard for what laughter should be. How my girls already know the importance of laughter as a thing we commune over as a species. How I hope to somehow impart to my girls and their girls in turn, and their's and their's, that the Paulines and Margarets can learn to see- really see- each other as the same sort of people in different circumstances and learn to lift each other up in their own ways for the betterment of the whole. 

The artifacts I hope are preserved in the ephemeral museum of our existence aren't things at all but deeds and qualities. Compassion. Generosity. Mercy. Love.

It's always the thing I circle back to. 

The broken record that actually doesn't need to be fixed.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Dump truck philosophy on being a wiser human

Among the things I wasn't thrilled about having to deal with upon returning to Northern Virginia was traffic. This is a universal complaint of any metropolitan area, I know. 

There's just sooo many cars down here. And they're being driven by sooo many different sorts of people. 

People who are paying attention. People who aren't paying attention. People who are brand new drivers. People who are experienced drivers but who are new to the Northern Virginia Driving Experience (which would be the worst amusement park ride ever). People who aren't sure where they are going. People who do know where they are going. People who know where they are going but still wait to the last minute to get into the appropriate lanes they need to be in thus forcing other people in the turn lane to slam on their breaks and miss the light. People who are staring at their phones. People with poor vision. People who are yelling at their kids in the way back to stop touching each other for the love of god or we're turning around and there will be no fun for the foreseeable future. People who are cautious. People who are outright terrified to be driving with sooo many other cars. People who are in a hurry. People who think they are in a hurry. 

People who aren't in a hurry but who prefer to drive at high speeds even on narrow roads where the speed limit is only 35.

I was driving in front of one such driver recently. Actually, that's not precise. I don't know what type of driver this person was. Only that he or she was in an earth-toned SUV driving on a narrow, crowded four-lane road who seemed to want to go significantly faster than I was (which was in the vicinity of the 35 MPH speed limit). I know this because said driver seemed to want to "nudge" my rear bumper with his front bumper (why else would he be driving so closely?). Maybe he or she was only trying to deliver a friendly shoulder bump or a flirtatious tap. Who's to say what was going on in his head? Just to be safe, I switched lanes at the earliest opportunity. The SUV sped past me. Then had to break behind the next car, which also switched lanes to allow it to pass. 

I found my hackles rising. My eyebrows going all Lewis Black. That delicious feeling of righteous indignation rising up from my belly. I mean this guy. THIS GUY. 

There was a horn I was tempted to honk. A finger I was tempted to wave. But I stopped myself. As I do every other time I'm confronted with an individual who seems to eschew safety and/or manners on the road. 

I reminded myself that I had no idea who that person was or the reason behind his aggressive driving. For all I knew he could've just received the call that his beloved mother was taking her last breaths and was racing toward her bedside. He could've really been craving some mozzarella sticks from the Sheetz up the road. Or maybe he was just an asshole. Who's to say? 

Not me. 

It's really easy to find things to be mad about in life. I'm the mother of three. My 8 year old, evidently, was born knowing everything there possibly is to know. My 6 year old has been known to cry despondently when tasked with such strenuous activities as returning books to shelves or putting her laundry away. My almost-6-month-old is fond of using her tiny pincer fingers to grab the little hairs at the nape of my neck and pull them into her mouth. I live on the spectrum of befuddlement to frustration to all-out rage most days. Perpetually on the brink of an indignant rant about the various dirty socks littering the house or the nightly complaints about how the dinner is either too spicy or too bland. 

I know how to get mad. 

And man. Sometimes when I'm gathering up all my mom rage I feel like Ursula in "The Little Mermaid" right after she accidentally kills Flotsam and Jetsam. The part when she starts making that awkward groaning noise and puffs up into a giant sea witch drunk on her own power.

You know the scene.

I'm all, like, "You're gonna tell me you can't clean up your room after I made you pancakes for breakfast and took your sledding and let you have hot chocolate and listened to your recite (approximately) 7 billion facts about dinosaurs and helped you build a fort and let you have a friend over? OH HELL NO CHILD. DON'T MAKE ME USE MY GIANT GLOWING TRIDENT. WHEN I'M DONE, YOU WON'T HAVE A ROOM LEFT TO CLEAN!!!!" [Uses trident to destroy Baby Alive, LOL Surprise Eggs, And all the Legos left on the floor.]

What's that? I've gone off track? Where we we? 

Oh right, the part where I don't explode into a red-faced, frothing buffoon in the wake of an aggressive driver.

Here's the thing. Getting mad about these inconsequential things is like eating too much sugar. It feels good in the moment, and you crave more of it and you feel productive because of it, but it always ends in a crash that doesn't feel so good at all.

So instead of investing my limited energy resources into fueling some dead-end sort of irritation out in the world, I've been trying to make it a practice of letting it go.

Just, switching lanes and moving forward.

And I gotta say, it feels good. It's calming. It gives me back a sense of balance to my life and the feeling of control that whoever "slighted" me might've taken away had I given into my anger.

At first, reacting by not reacting feels like being passive. Like letting the world walk all over me. I've done that plenty in my life. 

But I've kind of decided to reframe it in my head. See, it's not passive if I'm making a choice- if I'm choosing to let the petty affronts go. In that moment, I'm actively making a decision. And better yet, I'm making a decision that will serve me. It strengthens a muscle in me- the one that demands we turn the other cheek (is it the neck muscle? The Jesus muscle? I'm not great with anatomy).

I can fight aggression with more aggression or with passive aggression, or I can volley back compassion. 

As I'm writing this, I feel like this is an act of love. Like, not a grand gesture. Or, something sentimental. But something human and earthbound. Something simple and doable. I can forgive a fault on the spot, in the moment. I can sow love on this crowded road full of all these strangers going about their days in the thick of their own lives. 

All the sudden that feels much bigger than just muttering "asshole" under my breath.

This practice is as important at home as it is out in the world. I think it can almost be easier to forgive a stranger for their perceived faults then it can be the people closest to us. With these people- our children, our spouses, our parents and siblings, our friends- our familiarity makes us assume too much about their motives and intent when they do something that frustrates us or lets us down. 

Like how I assume my children are thoughtless, unappreciative jerks who purposefully leave messes for me to pick up because they don't care about my time. When really, they're just easily distracted small people who would be heartbroken to learn I mistake their forgetfulness or their whiney-ness for a sign of poor character or worse, a lack of love for me. 

They're human- in the process of growing and becoming just as I am. 

I just started listening to the book "Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind" by Yuval Noah Harari.

Harari writes about how, compared with other species, Homo Sapien's jump to the top of the food chain was incredibly fast. How, typically, the ecosystem has checks and balances to prevent other species like lions or sharks from getting too powerful. As lions became deadlier, for instance, gazelles evolved to run faster, hyenas started cooperating more effectively and rhinos become more ill-tempered.

“In contrast, humankind ascended to the top so quickly that the ecosystem was not given time to adjust. Moreover, humans themselves failed to adjust. Most top predators of the planet are majestic creatures. Millions of years of dominion have filled them with self-confidence. Sapiens by contrast is more like a banana republic dictator. Having so recently been one of the underdogs of the savannah, we are full of fears and anxieties over our position, which makes us doubly cruel and dangerous. Many historical calamities, from deadly wars to ecological catastrophes, have resulted from this over-hasty jump.” 

I wonder if the only way to get past our existence in this banana republic dictatorship is to make an active choice to be better than we are. If our extraordinary brain size is the thing that has given us these extraordinary advantages, then it can also be the thing that helps restore balance to our ecosystem.

And maybe it starts by each of us as individuals making small choices throughout our day to be kinder. To empathize. To view love as a muscle. One that strengthens as much in our actions toward strangers as it does toward friends and family.

Homo Sapien means wise man (the name we "immodestly" gave ourselves notes Harari.)

Wise. "Marked by deep understanding, keen discernment, and a capacity for sound judgment," according to Merriam-Webster.

"Having or showing good judgment, or the ability to make good judgments, based on what you have learned from your experience," according to Cambridge Dictionary.

Given our propensity to repeat history, I'm not sure we're worthy of our self-assigned name yet. But maybe we can get there.

The same day I dealt with that aggressive driver, I found myself stuck behind a giant, bumbling dump truck. There was nowhere to pass it, so I was forced to go at a dump truck's pace for a few miles. 

I read the words, "DO NOT PUSH" painted on the rear of the truck.

"Do not push."

I'm not sure for whom the message was intended. Was it me? A warning not to follow too closely? Was it for whoever might need to interact with the rear of the dump truck? Maybe it had nothing to do with the truck. Maybe it was the driver who didn't want to be pushed?  The words seemed kind of unnecessary. Who pushes a dump truck?

Having dealt with an aggressive driver earlier in the day, I heeded the truck and kept my distance. It seemed like the smartest move. Even though I'm now the reluctant driver of an oxymoronic minivan (if it's so mini, why the hell do I feel like I take up half the road while I'm driving it? I prefer to remain incognito on the road. The minivan makes me feel as if I'm riding a brachiosaurus through traffic) I'm pretty sure the dump truck would win the matchup.

As I'm wont to do when ambling behind slow-moving, passive aggressive dump trucks my mind started to wander. I turned the phrase around in my head. "Do not push."

That I was seeing it at that moment, just on the heels of having kind of been pushed out of the way myself by another driver... well it seemed significant. It felt like a message I needed to hear.

In that moment, it seemed to be about slowing down. Allowing something other than my right foot and the accelerator to dictate the pace of my life. 

Maybe it also has to do with allowing what will be to be (I mean, what will be, will be, whether I have any say it in or not). Do not push ahead. Do not push your agenda. Do not push other people. 

It felt like, again, an instruction to be more passive. Which seems to run counter to everything we were raised to believe as Americans. We are not a people that accepts unwanted circumstances. That settles for less. We always push on. We always climb the next mountain. We always try to keep up. We always try to be better. 

The goal of improving ourselves and our society is noble and lofty, for sure. But maybe our methods are wrong.

"Do not push."

Last night, Lily was reading, "A Picture Book of Martin Luther King, Jr." to me.

It talks about how Rosa Parks was arrested for sitting in the "Whites only" section of a bus. It talks about how MLK Jr. led a protest of her arrest- how blacks in the city of Montgomery, Alabama refused to ride the buses. It talked about how someone threw a bomb in King's house and how King told his followers, who'd wanted to fight, to go home peacefully.

"We must love our white brothers," he said. We must meet hate with love."

Rosa Parks sat down.

Protestors didn't ride the bus.

King's followers clenched their firsts, but went home peacefully.

Maybe what looks like a passivity is actually something much greater.

For millennia we've compensated for our fear and anxieties with shows of might- taking up more space, constructing mightier fortresses, building bigger bombs, creating more sophisticated weapons, amassing more and more stuff, telling stories at greater and greater volumes about whose religion or politics or philosophies or way of life is superior. 

And here we are.

If we are really Homo Sapien, Wise Man, We need to learn from our experiences. Not do the same thing over and over, while praying for different results. 

"We must meet hate with love." That is what will transform us. Make us worthy of our name.

"Do not push."

I'm not exactly sure what I am to do with that. Or even if I need to do anything. Maybe they were just meaningless words on a truck. 

Or maybe, as with so many things in life, I'm meant to sit here with them rolling around in my head. An uncomfortable place with no real answer, no real solution, no real call to action. 

I've often found that when I'm struggling to make sense of a thought or an idea that I need to let go. Just the way I have to do when I'm struggling with feelings of anger or frustration. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Don't push it.

Tuesday, January 8, 2019

Tag, you're it

The house is so quiet. 

Just the hum of the fridge and the white noise of the baby monitor. A clock ticking. The muffled chirping of a cardinal outside.

The girls returned to school yesterday after two weeks off for the holidays. Both were crying about how they missed Grandma and Grandpa. And how they'd miss Annie, Dad and me. How they didn't want to go to school. Mondays are tough. This week, the Mondays were on steroids.

Lily told me grownups were happy that school was back in session. "You just want a break from the annoying kids," she said.

Had she seen my celebratory "only two more days of winter break" dance the other day? Overheard me talking about how the kids just needed to go back to school?


It's not that I don't love the kids. Of course I love the kids. Not that I don't enjoy spending time with them. I do. Our New Year's Eve spent playing Exploding Kittens and Who Did It? (The No. 1 card game about No. 2) was near as perfect as any I can remember. We chatted. We giggled. We were all in bed by 10. It was glorious. 

Over break, we watched deer wandering through the woods at Grandma and Grandpa's. went on a bike ride. Walked the neighborhood to sell Girl Scout cookies. Took turns trying to get Annie to laugh. 

The time off reminded me how funny, bright and kind-hearted they are. Gave me so many moments I wanted to bottle to drink up when the kids are older and surly. 

But I just really need a break from the constant input from their output. There's been so much doing. Shopping, baking, decorating, cooking, wrapping, hosting, driving, visiting, cleaning– just an endless stream of verbs none of which seemed to include anything along the lines of "sitting" or "reflecting" or "idling." 

When the girls are home the house is lively and warm. It's nonstop entertainment for Annie. But it's also noisy and cluttered. 

There is an endless dialogue- someone is always talking. Whether it's reading stories out loud or asking when lunch is or wondering what's for dinner or lamenting the lost key to the new diary or requesting help with the construction of a Lego set or craft kit or needing a ponytail or fighting over who touched the other person's butt with their butt or singing various renditions of "Jingle Bells" that sometimes involve blood and death or screaming over stubbed toes or yelling at the Eagles to win the game.

It's all the emotions and all the sounds all day.

The other night at bedtime, as I reached the precipice of my patience, Jovie began narrating everything that had occurred in the previous 10 minutes in a breathless stream of words ("And then I put my pajamas on and then I brushed my teeth and then I tried to climb on the bed and fell out and then you read this story..." you get the picture. I couldn't get a word in. Coincidentally, the words I needed to get in were: "Please stop talking, it's time for bed."

I said already that I love my children right? 

For them, the color of December is firelight and glitter. It's stuffed with evergreens that are stuffed with a rainbow of baubles and ribbons. It's platters of cookies and stacks of wrapped boxes. It's all the hugs from all the relatives. 

As I get older, those colors have muted. Blued in the way Riley's memories become tinted in "Inside Out." The sweetness of all the joy stained with the realities of getting older and having a different awareness of the season. The exhaustion and financial strain. The familial tensions. And knowing that as they get older, my children's perceptions will evolve away from the unabashed elation they feel now toward disenchantment. 

That sounds really melodramatic. It's just that Lily is already so practical. At 8 she's looking ahead at her life and aware that school will only get tougher. That her days of freedom and endless playing are behind her. Jovie is both perpetually innocent and instinctively wise. She looks at Snacks' graying face and worries about how many more years we have left with him.

It all goes by so fast. Lily's reading the same chapter books I did as a kid. Jovie is asking for makeup. I mean ... gosh ... aren't I still the child? How else could I remember so clearly riding the new peach-and-gray-colored 10-speed around my cul-de-sac on Christmas Day when I was in fourth grade? How excited I was about that bike. How could that have been 27 years ago?

At the Jennings' family annual Christmas party, I was chatting with Brad's grandmother. Grandma's 93. The past couple of years have been tough for her. Failing health has caused her to move from an apartment near friends where she'd lived independently to a room in an assisted living facility. She's been in and out of the hospital for various falls and ailments. A couple months ago she fell and hit her head. She developed a brain bleed and needed brain surgery. Brain surgery. At 93. She's recovered from it more or less. A long scar showing through her snowy hair the only obvious sign of what she'd been through. The surgery hasn't seemed to affect her memory or lucidity. Or her sense of humor for that matter.

Two weeks ago she moved into a shared room at a nursing home where she'll be able to receive 24-hour care. 

Brad's family is relieved that she's been able to find a bed in place that would meet her needs. His mother and aunts had been taking turns staying with her to keep her company, ensure she was eating properly and not getting up to walk around without help- her independent streak the culprit of many of her falls. Everyone's nerves had been frayed with worry over Grandma. 

"I heard your new place is pretty nice," Brad said to her during the party.

"Oh yeah? Who told you that?" Grandma replied, making clear her feelings on the matter.

I told her I imagined it was hard moving into a new place. That she probably felt like she'd been shuffled around a lot recently. She just shrugged.

I remembered not that long ago, back when she was living in her apartment, there was a discussion about whether to get rid of a chair that was eating up some space Grandma needed for her new walker. Grandma was insistent that the chair stay. It's the chair her longtime companion Paul would sit in. Paul rented the apartment next door, but basically lived with Grandma. He passed away several years ago. I think the chair helped her feel close to him. Looking at it reminded her of him and maybe made it feel as if he were still in the room.

The chair went. Not that it mattered, because pretty soon Grandma would move and have to downsize most of her belongings anyway.

I know she's frustrated by what's happening to her body. She arrived at the Christmas party in a wheelchair. It had been a year since I'd seen her last and she looked so tiny and sunken. She can't eat solid food anymore. Her voice is hoarse and strained. 

I see her trying to fight for agency. She didn't want Brad to skimp on her serving of the birthday cake Aunt Ann made for Brad's cousins and sister. She was annoyed when, during the White Elephant gift exchange game, someone selected a gift for her while she was in the restroom. I get the sense that she's weary of her children and grandchildren trying to dictate her comings and goings. It's not as though she's not aware of her limitations. Or that everyone just wants to keep her safe. 

Her eyes are still bright though. Her mind sharp. She heckled Uncle Bill for taking too long to pick a gift during the game. When I brought Annie over to meet her for the first time the two studied each other quietly and intently. Annie reaching for her great grandmother's scarf (probably to chew on it). Grandma stroking her cheek. The memory of that moment warms me.

"I heard you had a big bingo win this week," I told her over raspberry punch.

"It was only a $1.50," she replied. 

I asked her what the most she'd ever won playing bingo was.

A thousand dollars.

She went on to recount the story of her big win from years ago. How she hadn't even planned on playing bingo that day, but a friend talked her into it. How there was a bit of a snafu over the chair she sat in- apparently some other bingo regular had claimed Grandma was sitting in her usual spot. How she was nervous about calling "bingo" for such a big pot lest she not have the right numbers and embarrass herself. 

I asked how she spent her winnings. Did she treat herself to something nice? 

"I probably just used it for groceries and bills," she said. She didn't need to do anything fancy.

Later on in the night, I was talking with one of Brad's cousins or maybe his nephew's wife about nursing (there have been five new babies added to the family in the past two years. A bit of a baby boom. It's hard to keep track of what kid-versations I had with whom). Someone had asked about what to do when your baby bites you while breastfeeding. I said that when Jovie had bitten me, I'd yelped, pulled her off and gave her a stern, "no." 

Grandma chimed in that when Brad's mother bit her- she bopped her on the head. This made me laugh out loud. Because I could totally relate to her reaction. Getting gouged in the nipple by a prickly little infant tooth is not pleasant. And here she was remembering something that happened 70 years ago like it was yesterday.

When we were saying our goodbyes, I told Grandma I was so glad she was able to come to the party. That I always enjoyed visiting with her. She gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, but her reply saddened me. 

"I can't do much." She seemed more disappointed in herself than anything else. 

Her comment made me think of her friend Paul, who, in his 90s, was blind and hard of hearing. Paul was so kind. He doted on Lily and Jovie when they were infants. Loved petting Snacks even though Snacks is a total spazz. I only ever knew Paul as an old man, but Brad's family told me he was a pilot in World War II who'd become a prisoner of war when his plane was shot down over Germany. He was sent to Luft-Stalag III (the POW camp depicted in "The Great Escape"- a movie I loved watching with my dad as a kid). After the war, he raised a family and worked as a bookbinder for more than 40 years. 

Years ago at this same party, Paul made a similar comment to Grandma's. He, too, felt like he couldn't contribute much to the party. 

I think about Paul's warmth. His gentleness. How even though he was blind and deaf in his later years, his presence filled the room. I think about his empty chair at Grandma's. How even when he wasn't physically there anymore, his spirit kept her company.

I told Grandma her presence was important. That it was more than enough. 

"You light up the room," I said. My eyes getting teary, because I'm always a little too earnest and I love her so much. Both my grandmothers died years ago. She's been my surrogate for a decade. Always so welcoming and sweet to me. 

I tried to add, clumsily, that if it weren't for her- the whole party wouldn't even exist. She's responsible for raising such amazing daughters, who themselves have raised such cool, fun, generous-hearted children (my husband among them). 

And here we are, attempting to raise her great grandchildren. Brad's nephew and his wife had a baby this year- so she's officially a great-great grandma now. I look at all our babies and see time stretching out in front of us. In years of first teeth and first steps and first days of school and first dates and first jobs. And I listen to her stories and see time stretching out behind us, too. 

I see us all as these little blips of light on this endless spectrum that wraps around and around and blankets us. I imagine the physics of all this is questionable. But the heart of it feels true.

This year, in particular, I feel more weighted down and aware of just how fleeting our time here is. Several friends and acquaintances lost loved ones in the last month. All the sudden, I feel as if I've entered a phase of life where loss will become more commonplace than in the years before and I feel utterly unequipped to deal with it. 

A friend who works as a nursing assistant in a hospital was visiting on New Year's Eve. We were talking about aging and the struggles of navigating the end-of-life decisions faced by the elderly and their families. She told me that over and over again, her elderly patients give her the same advice: Don't get old.

This advice is as heartbreaking as it is impossible. It begs for followup questions and re-examination of how we're aging as a society. 

I'm so grateful that my parents and Brad's parents and Grandma and our aunts and uncles continue to get old. Selfishly, their longevity means more time spent with them. But I hate to think of them aging regretfully. To get to a point when they only feel their only contribution is to take up space in a room. To be the ones telling their nurse, "Don't get old."

I find myself needing to surface from under the swell of the holidays. The decadence of all the memories floating in and out of my brain. The indulgence of all this time together.  

I want to take a deep breath in the crisp freshness of January. To clear my head of all the noise. 

Strangely enough, it's Jeff Bridges who helped shake me back into the day.

During his rambling acceptance speech for the Cecil B. deMille Award at the Golden Globes last night (during which, he was pretty much The Dude), he talked about wanting to back out of a role he didn't feel right for. And how the director told him, "Jeff, you know the game tag? ... you're it." He says he's used that perspective in all his movies and in his life.

"I guess we all have been tagged, we are all alive right here, right now," he said. "We are alive, we can make a difference. We can turn this ship in the way we wanna go, man. Towards love, creating a healthy planet for all of us."

The Dude sounded, frankly, a little stoned. But his observation made me smile. Because his pointing out the obvious- we've all been tagged. We're all alive right here, right now- is what I needed to hear. What I need to hear every day. Our life isn't what happened at the holiday party and it isn't all the plans we have for the upcoming year. It's what we have right now. It's who we are right now. 

And all of us- young, old and in between- we've all been tagged. As long as we're here. As long as we're alive on this planet. 

I'm not much of a resolution person (clearly, I'm a few days late on that anyway). But this year, I'm going to be more aware that I'm it. And I'm going to make it a habit of letting other people know- whether they're young or old or in between, that they're it, too. And that they're enough just as they are.