A Meditation on Miracles

Sometimes, when I'm listening to a song, it has to be a certain kind of song, I lose every ounce of my ego and I get completely lost. It's an ecstasy like nothing else, like a communion. I feel that way when I listen to The Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine. It breaks my heart in all the right ways. It's seriously, deliciously soul crushing. It's the words. It's the cyclical verses and how they go and go and go, same, same, same like a meditation, a chant almost. It's the layering of instruments: chimes, guitars, voices layering, little percussion, big percussion, piano, words, words, words, true little daggers hitting it right on the head, right in the heart, bull's eye. It's ethereal and yet logical, artistic and yet intellectual. How? I don't know! I don't know! But it is. It's the best worst thing for someone like me, all that truth and beauty in one ironic verse after another. Like my life, almost. One dance with irony after another. Do I seek it? Is it my fault? Do I have something inside me that draws me toward impossible things on purpose? Am I trying to fool myself? Convince myself and everybody else that I really AM trying? But time after time only going for things that I know are doomed? It's possible. But how does one stop? Apparently I am a sucker for lost souls. This manifests in a myriad of ways. I date people who are addicted to harmful things. I date people who are emotionally unavailable. I date people who don't believe in God. I date people who don't work. I date people who don't like themselves very much. I date people who are in love with other people. What am I doing? And more important still, why am I doing it? Am I one of these sad persons who loves hopelessly arduous challenges? Oh, poor little girl. I hope not. I am generally a happy girl, full of effervescent bubbles over just about anything. My default is laughing. I am most myself in a laugh. But I do such unfunny things so often. I find myself admiring the most unsuitable partners. No joke. Can't laugh.
I had a talk with one of my favorite men in this world last night. He is my friend and confidant. We were talking about my latest love interest. I was sharing my hopes a little bit. He said some of nicest things I've ever heard. I can't share it all due to the sacred nature of the material but I will share this: he said he wanted me to be happy, truly and purely. He told me I was such a good girl and that he sees me as such a fearless sort of person, navigating in a world where it would seem I don't really belong and doing so with absolute grace. I just kind of wanted to fall down dead asleep right then and there and just call it a day so that nothing else could intervene and ruin a perfect day. This friend of mine is so sensitive a guy, the gentlest, strongest, purest kind of person, full of actual love for others and so clear and expressive about it. He was concerned about my crush. He said I was the most emotionally expressive and honest person he knows and that he hoped I'd end up with someone of that caliber. This person I am crushing on seems a most unwilling character, emotionally anyway. That conversation got me thinking, what would it be like to be with someone absolutely harmless, I mean truly guiless? What in the world does that feel like? Someone without any secret agendas, no lies, no names to call, no girls on the side, no secret debts that I'll have to help pay off, no colossal ego issues? What on earth would it be like to have something honest and sweet and just kind and pure and then have it actually last? I know these guys exist. I know them. Some of them are married. Some of them are related to me. They really are that way, just unabashedly lovely, loving, generous, attentive to their wives and children and friends, me included. My band is composed of such individuals, I am happy to say. Because of this unique union we are able to enjoy playing very honest and moving music, without wit, without wanting credit, without vanity. The world can be so vapid, so substanceless, so irrelevant, mechanical, crude, and meaningless. When these moments of meaning unfurl, often unexpectedly, it can be so renewing, energizing, and inspiring. I'm just grateful for how often I get to experience these moments and how the friends I've been blessed with, the people I've chosen to be mine, offer such treasures with such regularity. May I never become so spoiled I forget to notice my miracles.

Please listen to The Trapeze Swinger

Trapeze Swinger lyrics

Please, remember me, happily,
by the rosebush laughing
with bruises on my chin, the time when
we counted every black car passing
your house beneath the hill, and up until
someone caught us in the kitchen
with maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank
a vision too removed to mention

But please remember me, fondly,
I heard from someone you're still pretty
and then they went on to say that the Pearly Gates
have some eloquent graffiti
like: “we'll meet again” and “f*** the Man”
and “tell my mother not to worry”
and angels with their great handshakes
but always done in such a hurry

and please remember me, at Halloween
making fools of all the neighbors
our faces painted white, by midnight
we'd forgotten one another
and when the morning came I was ashamed
only now it seems so silly
that season left the world and then returned
and now you're lit up by the city

so please remember me, mistakenly
in the window of the tallest tower
call, then pass us by, but much too high
to see the empty road at happy hour
gleam and resonate just like the gates
around the Holy Kingdom
with words like: “lost and found” and “don't look down”
and “someone save temptation”

and please remember me, as in the dream
we had as rug-burned babies
among the fallen trees and fast asleep
beside the lions and the ladies
that called you what you like and even might
give a gift for your behavior:
a fleeting chance to see a trapeze-
swinger high as any savior

but please remember me, my misery
and how it lost me all I wanted
those dogs that love the rain, and chasin' trains
the colored birds above there runnin'
in circles round the well, and where it spells
on the wall behind St. Peter
so bright on cinder gray in spray paint:
“who the hell can see forever?”

and please remember me, seldomly
in the car behind the carnival
my hand between your knees, you turn from me
and said the trapeze act was wonderful
but never meant to last, the clowns that passed
saw me just come up with anger
when it filled with circus dogs, the parking lot
had an element of danger

so please remember me, finally
and all my uphill clawing
my dear, but if I make the Pearly Gates
I’ll do my best to make a drawing
of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl
an angel kissin’ on a sinner
a monkey and a man, a marching band
all around the frightened trapeze-swinger

nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah …

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8aPyBr-_S0

Guess What? I'm Angry.

It's an incredibly complicated world. There are things I simply don't understand and then there are things I wish I didn't understand but experience has taught me too much already and denial seems impossible. Like, for example, how so many men are mean to women because they are so insecure. Where did this all begin? I have experienced it again and again. Those who want you and say all the right things and then humiliate you the second they don't get what they thought they were due. Whether it's another date, exclusivity, sex, or your wallet, many men don't take disappointment well. Which brings me to my next concern: ANGER.

Why is anger a man's default so often? It manifests in a myriad of ways: jealousy, passive aggression, subtle mind games, and all out rage. I've seen all of these. Sometimes I look back at my dating life and I can see these patterns of such intolerance and even hatred for certain things women do. Specifically me. What do I mean? I mean the way they compete with me in their own heads for attention, status, power, jobs, money, everything. How dare you have talents, job offers, friends, and attention from the opposite sex? How dare you succeed? How dare you win? How dare you? Who do you think you are? Augh. It's awful.

Then there's the laziness, the excuses, the idleness. How can I respect it? I can't. That's why things have ended with the lazies. "The economy is so bad right now." Why aren't you pounding the pavement looking for work, man? "I need to be on call. My parents need my help right now running errands and helping out. A job would really clog up my schedule." Seriously? "I'm moving home to help out my parents." Yeah right. "I need to go back to school." Again? Dude, just make some money, already. This is ridiculous. "I'm almost finished with my book, invention, business proposal, hit song." Okay, how about you work a job while you develop that billion-dollar idea? WORK! Just do it! Sometimes it seems like this whole generation of guys is riding on the backs of its amazing, hard working, overly nurturing girls. It's downright outrageous. Previous generations are appalled and frankly, so am I.

Let's get to the part we always wish we could glaze over or all out ignore: sex. Some of these guys are so perverse in their concepts and expectations around sex it is literally sickening. Pornography's prevalence and accessibility has turned our guys into over stimulated nut cases. The insanity of what I've heard is available at the fingertips of our guys is appalling. The ease, privacy, and prevalence of the worst kinds of pornography available in every home in America has really introduced a serious illness into our society. Not to mention, this garbage is free. I've known seven women who have experienced divorce as a result of their husband's porn addiction, and that's just in my immediate circle of friends. I've heard this is quite a phenomenon. This may sound over the top but it actually makes a lot of sense. Think about it: porn can destroy a man's ideas around sex, making him less satisfied with normal sex. When he finds his mate is less than interested in wielding a whip, wearing a metal corset, or inviting the neighbors to join in he feels jilted. So he turns to his computer, chat rooms, prostitutes, or random lost souls he finds, flatters, and feasts upon. That's a recipe for dysfunction for any man. If he happens to be married he ruins someone else's life in the process. It's amazing but true; many of these men drag children into the chaos either of divorce, sexual abuse, or both. I've heard that this addiction, like many addictions, can cause lethargy, depression, and self-sabotage. The results are joblessness, debt, poverty, depression, divorce, criminality, and in some cases suicide. Some think pornography is just a healthy part of any normal man's life and that viewing it is harmless and even a practice that supports a robust male sexuality. I couldn't think of a more damaging lie to believe on either side of gender lines. The danger is clear from where I'm standing. It's clear.

Our world has changed significantly with the presence of on-line dating, facebook, texting, and chat rooms. Some of these things are harmless if used in a healthy way. Some of them are helpful and connective. But if used improperly, these technologies can promote seriously harmful dysfunctions such as sexual promiscuity, sexual predatoriness, and statutory rape. There is a new frontier for stalking, preying upon, and dominating women and girls and it is available in almost every home in America.

What are we to hope for? What is the dream? To end up with a guy who eats at your bank account, your nerves, your values, your soul? How much are we supposed to take? What's what anymore? Who's getting the check? Who's planning the dates? Who is reverencing womanhood? Is anything sacred anymore? Who remembers what a meaningful conversation looks, sounds and feels like? You know, the ones where you are sitting across from the person and they listen and talk and you listen and talk and no one is saying whatever he can think of to get the "in". Drop the games, guys! Please! Drop the façade, drop the cheesy money talk, the intellectual sparring, the ego massage, the manipulation, the sexy talk that's not so sexy, the pseudo-science analyses, the latest thing you read on How to Bag Chicks dot com and be a real human, man! Just a request. Just a suggestion from someone who has heard it all, all but the truth.

An Assignment from my Therapist

Dear Future Husband,

In an effort to be concise I am writing this letter in a HELP WANTED format. If it were a poem I'm afraid it would be epic. If it were a song I'm afraid it would be cheesy. There are certain things all husbands should be: kind, generous, hard working, sociable, affectionate; but my list contains those things that I, as an individual, require.

MUST BE:

1. Morally clean- this refers to clean language, high ethics, conservative sexual conduct

2. Honest- at work and in all business transactions, among friends, with family, with me

3. Fun- good sense of humor, high level of creativity, medium to high energy level, charismatic, adventurous

4. Spiritual- acknowledges the existence of God and seeks to understand His will

5. Family ready- likes kids, wants kids

6. Financially Savvy and Stable- lives within his means, saves for the future, works, earns enough to live and spend on fun, i.e. dates, trips, projects

7. Attractive and Active/Health conscious- exercises multiple times a week, eats nutritiously, takes care of hair, skin, nails, teeth, clothing, sees his doctor annually at least, sees dentist, clean home, car

8. Intelligent- educated, literate, life long learner, conversationalist

9. Good Leader- makes good decisions, sets goals and achieves them, practices what he preaches, helps others along the way

10. Good Partner- good self-esteem, kind, communicative, sharing, transparent, best friend, supportive, respectful

11. Icing on the cake: Adoring. Enough said.

Yours Longingly and with Faith,

Future Wife,

Kristin M. Ferrell

PS- looking something like Jeff Goldblum circa 1982 is a definite plus.

A Few of My Favorite Things

1. the color of the sky, opposite the sunset; that is, the sky in the east as the sun sets in the west
2. celadon pottery
3. pistachio ice cream
4. Arabian swords, the way they curve like that
5. unpolished porcelain music boxes
6. veiny leaves in the sun
   
7. Weimaraners coats and eyes
   
8. disco ball nail polish and advice from the manicurist
9. The Art Institute of Chicago's green lions
   
10. hot, hot Japanese clear soup
11. succulent plants
12. spicy chile rellenos
13. glitter with different shaped and sized pieces
    
14. chinchillas
    
15. freshly released pin curls
16. Shevari, the Goddess of Learning
17. red brick walls overtaken by ivy vines
18. second chances.....third, fourth, fifth
    
19. the smell of dark, wet dirt
20. Molly Maids
21. The Golden Girls
22. Coke Zero
    
23. beady moccasins with plenty of fringe
    
24. gold leaf anything
25. the jaunty sound of dimes in a pocket
    
26. White Sands, New Mexico
27. words
28. Ali G
29. the sound of fire, the way it pops
30. bathing at leisure, as opposed to showering in haste
31. the news
32. the liberation of Arab women, Citizenship for all!
    
33. Corinthian columns
    
34. the artichoke
35. the weight and smooth texture of a smallish river rock
36. acorns
37. crab legs in lemon butter sauce
    
38. Moonlight Sonata in C#
39. Macintosh
    
40. The Lyre
41. The Liar
42. Amelia Bedilia's outfits
43. Sirius Black
44. Radiohead
45. the ocean at night, full moon, fire, guitars, singing
46. The banjo played by Kermit the Frog
    
47. a Romanesque nose
48. a beluga whale's pure white skin
    
49. the number 5
50. lamb kabobs
    
51. the name Geneva
52. stained glass windows
    
53. fasting, and then breaking the fast
54. recurring dreams about flying over layered, multicolored sandy beaches covered in tiny lustrous shells
    
55. Burt's Bees chapstick
    
56. the novel
57. wingtip shoes
    
58. Pandora Radio
59. swimming in fresh water
    
60. longing for something
    
61. The Village of Wilmette
62. Grasshopper Pie from Baskin Robbins
63. books on CD
64. old movies
65. edible flowers in a salad
66. kissing babies
67. volcanoes, specifically the color of pahoehoe lava
    
68. forgiveness
69. snowflakes, a testament to the unique
    
70. lilies
71. the sea
72. Gothic cathedrals
73. knowing
74. baby talk
    
75. the word anadromous
    
76. my feet in cool mud
77. The works of Alphonse Mucha
78. deep sleep
79. quiet
80. geology, my favorite science
    
81. playing guessing games
82. Speed Scrabble
83. keeping secrets
84. crown molding
85. cracked paint the color of a robin's egg
86. crystal door knobs
87. the smell of new, clean leather
88. charm school boot camp
89. red pears
90. burning cinnamon sticks
    
91. Spanish
    
92. super minty body cream
93. reading old love letters
94. pumping iron
95. autumn
    
96. Karma
97. thick, fat, clean, soft, fragrant towels
98. the smell of desert rain
99. harmonies and melodies
    
100. harp choirs
101. the look and feel of a plush Persian rug

These are a few of my favorite things.

My Chi (Originally written on September 17, 2011)

I'm in love. With a city. I am in Chicago. I got here Friday morning. I'm here until Tuesday evening. Blissing out. My senses are feasting. I came here to celebrate my birthday with some wonderful people I've missed for more than five years. I lived here in 2005-06. I moved so that my husband could attend John Marshall Law School. I am so glad I was afforded the opportunity, even if the marriage ended a few months after the move had been made. I truly feel that I was meant to move here and experience all of the amazing things I did. I met some of the best people in the world. I worked with extraordinary teachers. I taught incredible kids. I worshiped with inspiring latter day saints. I bonded with a family that I still consider my own.
I arrived on Friday and Jessica picked me up from the air port. Jessica is my soul sister. She was my first teacher friend in Wilmette, the charming little village north of the city where I both lived and taught 05-06. She is hosting me and we are having a most wonderful time. We went straight to Greek Town to meet up with Mary Louise for lunch at Greek Island. In the old days the three of us did that and it seemed the perfect spot for our reunion. Mary Louise shared all her adventurous stories with us since her retirement four years ago. She's been on six international trips in that time! Mary Louise is one of my favorite humans of all time. She actually rode with me in my car when I made the long trek home from Chicago after my legal separation, summer '06. She figured out the whole journey for us, bought the maps, helped book hotels along the way. It was wonderful to have her with me for those four long days as I started my life over again as a single woman. We talked about so many things on our little journey years ago and it was so fun to see her again after five years and catch up on all her adventures and misadventures since. She went on an archaeological dig with the University of Chicago in Turkey. She's also been to Australia, Peru, China, Egypt, Israel and Jordan. From chilling with Aborigines to exploring the pyramids this lady has done just about everything. She is so National Geographic. It's inspiring. She finds time for the opera house in Chicago, Symphonies in Millennium Park, and frequent museum visits. I love her kind and soft face, all the enthusiasm, as she tells a tale. It's wonderful to see her waving her hands around as she describes the Egyptian desert or tells funny stories about her kookie neighbors or jogs our memories about eccentric former students we had. We ate liberal amounts of luscious Greek delicacies and talked and talked. My eyes were soaking up all the wonders around us, the mosaics in the walls, the faux grape vines adorning the moldings near the ceiling.
Ah, Chicago, Chicago. How I've missed thee. How I've missed the language of honking horns. How I've longed for nights on the beach of Lake Michigan, walks around the BaHa'i temple at dusk, ethnic food whenever you crave it, frank talks with virtual strangers, people feeling comfortable getting in your grill like it's to be expected just because of your forced proximity and lack of personal space. Chicago! I love your Art Institute! I love the fudge at Margie's Candies! I love Zach Dodson and his greyhound and beautiful girlfriend! I love Logan Square and the little Colombian restaurant where I used to get tamales wrapped in banana leaves. I miss Devon Street and all its wondrous Persian food and glittering Indian boutiques. I miss snow and black soil and down coats , blankets, and woolen socks, mittens, hats and even hat hair. I love my Chi. I miss tulip covered medians, clock towers, church bells, and baseball fans so loyal they'll root for their boys even after seven consecutive bad seasons. There is NO PLACE like Chicago. Sadly, it will likely never be home again. But I'm glad it was home and I'm glad it's home away from home.

Homecoming 1997

I'm sitting in McDonald's inside Wal-mart. I seem to remember that my high school boyfriend's stepfather came up with the notion for merging Wal-marts with McDonald's. He must be so rich by now. I should try and find old Gus on FCBK. I am waiting for my friend and her two teenage daughters to finish their shopping. Their car is not cooperating this week so I was glad to help. It gives me a moment to write anyhow. My friend's daughters are gorgeous girls, sweet as sugar, and kind as can be. It's so fun to be around families who enjoy each other. They are clearly functional. Inspiring.

People watching is extraordinary here tonight. High school kids are buzzing around, testing the waters, the boundaries, making those jokes that only kids have the knack for, the genius of the moment bubbling at the surface. Everything looks easy and natural. It's homecoming weekend. I see girls sporting gaudy mums adorned with little metallic footballs, draping ribbons embossed with glittered letters. I wore a few of those in my time. My mom and I made one for Gus one year, the year after I graduated. He was still in high school, you see. I think I recall we broke up that same weekend, homecoming weekend. Awe. Gus. He was always so jealous. He thought I wanted college boys. It was more like an accusation. Turned out he also wanted Paloma, the hefty cheerleader, a short-lived venture I hoped was worth it.

Gus was in a band, Annabella 55. It was gorgeous stuff, truly. Traces of Morrissey, The London Suede, maybe a dash of the Smiths here or there. Sappy, sorrowful, then peppy and giddy. Gus was the drummer.

EXCERPT FROM MY HIGH SCHOOL JOURNAL

"I am at Gus's band practice tonight. It's the cutest thing. These guys are amazing! Gus is so much younger than the other guys. They're all in college. Gosh, drumbeats are so intoxicating! I can't help but assume that this energy, this intensity, indicates something about Gus as a person. Note to self: read up on music therapy."

Some people never change.

Gus and I worked together at the local Village Inn. He was Gus Boy the bus boy, I, the hostess with the mostess, that is if you were counting up the number of times a girl could bat her eyes in half a minute. I knew he found me interesting, judging by the buzz I heard in the break room now and again, and by his puppy dog looks, like he'd been beaten with a stick before he'd arrived. Not that he was less than confident. No, no. Quite the contrary. This guy exuded confidence with a flare rarely seen. His smile; radiant. His eyes; brilliant. His countenance; luminous. His hair; more than sufficiently tall in that mock Elvis, James Dean, Morrissey loving way. He sported chops like 90210 was still in style or something. His accessories were fierce; an inverted dog-training collar on one wrist, a bicycle chain on the other, a silver thumb ring, wallet on a ridiculously long chain, black leather string choked around the neck with some tribal charm dangling, black leather belt buckled on the side, not the front, saddle shoes in deep blue and crimson accented his blithe steps. He was, to say the least, eccentric. And just naturally beautiful! His cinnamon complexion fairly glowed under that flaxen mane. Six foot one, not counting the hair, fit as a fiddle, gorgeous.

A description of my teenage self seems in order here. Red hair to the elbows, loose lava locks, mod bangs cut straight across the brow, thick black lined Hollywood eyes, eye lashes for days, red lips, faux brown pin prick mole drawn just above the left corner of the smile, sharp, angular, eyebrows, penciled in auburn, lanky but curvy, skin like milk, two toned penny loafers, espresso and egg shell. I was darling. We both were.

I once overheard the bus boys at the drink station mumbling about me. I distinctly heard Gus repeat the following chant, "Please bear my children, please bear my children." All the guys laughed. I feigned deafness, looked over one shoulder, smiled "unknowingly". He was smitten. I was too, only I felt the need to keep that a secret, at least at first.

He was almost two years younger than me and one grade below me. I was a senior, he a junior. He was in choir. I was, too. But we weren't in the same class. I'd see him in the halls occasionally. He was hard to miss, always smiling, laughing, shaking someone's hand. He had been voted "most likeable" only the previous year, along with my best friend Betsy, of course. They stand together in the yearbook for it.

At some point I guess I decided I would make this happen. I was highly involved in community theatre at the time. I had been under the dull impression that I was going to turn my stage husband into my real boyfriend but that was turning into quite a project considering his aversion to females in general and his enthusiasm for Isaac. I changed my aims, all at once, and started becoming serious about Gus Boy the Bus Boy.

Gus was (is) an identical twin. His brother, Adrian, was the boyfriend of my friend Lee Ann. She was in varsity choir with me. We spent a fair amount of our soprano breaks discussing our future families with our twin grooms. Her prospects were looking more solid than mine, as she was already Adrian's girlfriend and I was only buddingly interested in Gus. Things progressed after Lee Ann let Gus in on my crush. Long phone calls, radioactive conversations at work, potent looks across the halls at school, and before I knew it we were goo goo gaa gaa.

Lee Ann let me in on some important dialogue that had gone on between the brothers one Saturday afternoon. Apparently things were moving too slowly for Gus. He wanted a commitment and he was feeling like I was still kind of playing hard to get. I really wasn't trying to but I do remember feeling a little cautious. I wanted to observe him for a while before deciding to date him exclusively. Lee Ann gave me the warning. "These boys don't wait around for iffy girls. If you want to bag him you'll have to cave. There are too many girls waiting in the wings." And it was true! These boys had quite an avid following. They were both in semi-celebrated bands, cute as gingerbread boys, cool with everybody from the geeks to the punks and everything in between. Girls were always swooning in circles around them. I'd have to forgo caution in the name of lovely love. So I did. I became the girlfriend of one Agustin Arellano III. I'm glad I took the plunge. It was worth it.

Gus and his brother shared a bedroom. On Gus's side of the room the walls and ceiling were plastered with the image of none other than Steven Patrick Morrissey. Smashing Pumpkins adorned Adrian's side. They never put any other entities' images on their walls and ceilings but somehow both boys were able to capture the respective images of their sweet girlfriends, blow the black and white photos up to 11X17'' and place them within kissing distance from their respective pillows. They were gorgeous photos, both, and we felt so loved to make the wall of love that only the likes of Morrissey and Billy had ever had jurisdiction over before.

Our relationship was on the codependent side, I must confess. We were together every minute we possibly could be. He walked me to every class, took me home, spent the entire evening at my house every single day, and virtually every minute of the weekend we were together either at parties, shows, or cuddling on my couch. We were so mutually enamored. It was really something. And I never got sick of him. That was saying something.

He helped me memorize my lines for plays, practice my music, do my math homework. We had this love journal that we filled with daily letters, poems, lyrics, drawings, paintings, confessions, fears, dreams, everything. It was our precious little book of gush. People hated us for being so oblivious to the world around us.

Gus and I were vehemently jealous types, the both of us. I recall a shouting match between me and some twit of an admirer of his at a pep rally. She was in the unfortunate habit of throwing herself at him in front of me. I let it slide a few times before but that morning I had simply had it. I could have ripped her to pieces had Gus not removed me from the premises. She was not so gutsy after that. Ignored him completely, actually. And I also recall Gus staring down my ex boyfriend at work one Sunday, fairly daring him to talk to either one of us before eating him for lunch right then and there. I am so glad ex decided not to utter a word. That would have been brutal for poor ex. He would have been pummeled for sure. Also, I wasn't allowed to audition for Camelot that fall for fear I would play opposite some kissy pretty boy. Lancelot?

As I've already explained we worked together. It got so silly that when our schedules differed the other would camp out at the restaurant for the entire shift of the beloved and just spend time reading, writing, drawing, even occasionally studying. Our boss got pretty irritated with this routine of ours. He got after me about it and I promptly quit. So did Gus. We had bigger fish to fry anyway. We had just been cast in Music Theatre El Paso's Cinderella as chorus members. We were so stupid in love. We just had to do everything together. I was disappointed I didn't get the part of Cinderella but Gus was relieved. He didn't approve of stage kissing. It was so cool because we were dance partners in all the numbers. It was pretty wonderful.

Well, I graduated and Gus had another year of high school yet. We knew it would be a tough transition, being in different phases of our education and all and so far apart every day. We made it all the way to homecoming, in October. He was in the unfortunate habit of accusing me of wanting a college man. And then there was that Paloma girl. So I did the unthinkable. I had to scream it or I thought it wouldn't come out. "IT'S OVER!" I took it back a few days later but it was too late. Paloma was already hard at work and she was so available, and observable, within reach, he opted for that. I was distant, little girl on a big campus.

I had never experienced pain like that before. It was searing and ever present. I was in a sexist disaster of a play called THE CREATURE CREEPS at the time. I lost so much weight they had to buy me all new costumes by the time the show hit the stage. I couldn't keep anything down for months. It was like an actual clinical withdrawal. Awful. The worst, in fact. The absolute worst. I gave up the theatre after that.

Here's to love, the pure, searing, agonizing, stupid young kind, resplendent in its naïveté and perfect in its faith. I wouldn't trade an ounce of it for a European tour, a million dollars, or a box of diamonds. It was inspiring. Gus, you were such a great first love. I send you all my heart's best wishes over cyberspace's varied terrain. There will never be another like you. As you always used to say, mazel tov!

That was SO fun to write.

My Real Job

I went back to school today, in an official capacity. I've been back for weeks, moving things around, preparing, planning, buying things. I'm going to teach KINDERGARTEN this year! That was my first gig at Davis Elementary back in 2004. It's exciting to be returning.

This will be my thirteenth year teaching. I can hardly believe it. Through the years I've often caught myself wondering, "Is this my real job? Was I meant to do something else? Something loftier? More difficult? More praiseworthy?" Many of you may remember conversations along these lines. I considered law school, applied fruitlessly to the Michener Center for Writers twice, thought about psychology, The Peace Corps, and teaching abroad. I don't know but the more I think about it, it seems my real job is being here, right now, right here.

I've always struggled with contentment. I always assumed it meant I was being lazy. Whenever things start to feel peaceful I often feel guilty. It's like I'm assuming life is supposed to hurt, so when it starts feeling placid, I start to feel I should shake things up real hard, make things strange and unfamiliar enough to encourage a healthy dose of anxiety (not so healthy, as it turns out) and then I feel like I'm doing my part to better myself, to better the world! I guess my secret mantra was something like "If it hurts, that means it's working!" What if it just isn't the case? What if it's okay to be good at something and stick with it, rather than conquering some new obstacle or tackling another venture? I'm not saying I'll never pursue grad school or change careers. All I'm saying is I like where I am and I'm grateful to be here. It feels great to be in a family at work. It feels magnificent to lay down roots and water and tend them, to reflect on years of friendship; birthdays, weddings, babies, funerals, accomplishments, hardships; going through it all, together.

Ever since I can remember I've been bothered by a feeling of wanting to run. When I was little I wanted so badly to go away to a far away place and attend a boarding school. When I was first in college I longed to be abroad. As a teacher I've often wanted to "graduate" to some new reality. What if the real problem is inside? Maybe the journey I really need to take begins and ends in my own soul. It's not in Spain. It's not in Seattle. It's not even downtown somewhere.

I've been listening to one of my favorite books on CD. I've done this a few times a year for the last few years. I read or listen to Mere Christianity by CS Lewis. I love this book. I've read it so many times and I always seem to discover new things about myself and reality each time. It's such a treasure. This time I felt a new revelation swell in my heart. My real job has very little to do with paychecks, status, prestige, or wealth. It has more to do with ennobling my own and then others' souls. My real job is to keep God's commandments, not judge other people along the way, and remind others by my every act that they are the very offspring of deity. My real job is to rely so heavily on my Savior and my Father that I forget about relying on my own strength for things and I remember that each breath I take is a gift. My real job is to remember that I am really entitled to very little, and that I owe a great deal to my students, my friends, my family, my ancestors, my descendants, myself and my Father in Heaven. This is my real job. And I must take it very seriously if I expect to love and to be loved, truly, in the purest sense. I must watch myself and my thoughts, being careful to avoid pride and all its toxic cousins. I must never compete when it comes to the worth of another. That is a futile and sickening endeavor for so many reasons, too many to list. It is my job to be kind when it's difficult, to be sincere when I'd rather save face, to be strong when I am dog tired, to be humble when I'd rather show off, and to be encouraged when I'd sooner turn to doubt and fear. This is my real job. It's my job to be good to you. It's my job to be honest with you. It's my job to be a little mirror showing you how gorgeous you are. You are. And how.

Lost and Found

This summer has yielded much more than its share of drama ranging from bliss to trauma and everything in between. Sometimes I actually wish my life were more parts boring and less parts intense. But in truth, those moments are rare. I like life in brassy trumpets.

Tonight I feel very tired. I've been losing things, important things: friends, chances, my sensibilities...more. But in these loses I have found things. I've found opportunities, renewal, faith, old friends, new friends, and I found my strength again.

I was really sick last week. It was scary and sad. For a couple seconds I thought I was quite alone in the world. I was so wrong. No sooner had I felt the pinch of self pity enter my heart did I start realizing I was actually the luckiest girl in the world. I received so many flowers this place looked like Ms. America's dressing room. I got chocolates, balloons, ice cream, dinners, lunches, cookies, books, movies, the most beautiful key chain ever, and a collector's decorative plate, heart-shaped, with a little cherub painted on it, an Iron and Wine concert ticket and some very pretty nail polish. I received loving cards, notes, letters and had great visits and conversations on the phone. Just when I was giving in to a serious bout of self doubt, love came rushing in like a welcome flood. I just soaked it up, reveled, cried, and prayed for forgiveness for being such a faithless ingrate. I am so grateful, so grateful.

It seems like life is sifting things for me, shaking things out. Things not meant to stick are falling away. True things, good things, things worth my time and attention, those things stick, almost despite my errors in word, deed, or conception. This is good news because I can be pretty silly often. My judgement often leaves a lot to be desired. But I feel like there are safety nets all around, and it doesn't matter how duped I get with this or that person, this or that idea, in the end the truth is always going to shine through, always. Real things will always set themselves apart from the counterfeit. My true friends will always be my friends, always. Some will fall away. Some will move away. Some will pass away. That's okay. We'll meet again and maybe we'll be much more worthy of each others' affections at that point.

To those who offered love and comfort last week, possibly one of the most difficult weeks of my adult life so far, thank you for your help. Thank you for remembering me and helping me to feel cherished. It made all the difference. You found me.

"I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see..."
(Amazing Grace)

My Top 20 Favorite Bands and/or Musicians as of Summer 2011

I think the types of music a person gravitates to can say a lot. Please feel free to tell me what this list says about me. This list is in no particular order.

1. The Sundays
2. The Smiths, Morrissey
3. Tori Amos
4. The Drums
5. MGMT
6. Innocence Mission
7. Ghostland Observatory
8. Psychedelic Furs
9. The Shins
10. Mark Mothersbaugh
11. Badly Drawn Boy
12. Radiohead
13. Debussy
14. Cut Copy
15. Iron and Wine
16. Beethoven
17. Danny Elfman
18. Ella Fitzgerald
19. The Decemberists
20. David Bowie

If you listened to nothing save these artists for the rest of your life your ears, heart, mind, and soul would be in very good hands, voices, beats...whatever. I encourage you to give a listen to someone you may not be as familiar with on this list. This is ALL really yummy stuff, all of it. Try creating a PANDORA station or two to hear some of these geniuses. Let them serve you! Top to bottom, anything these folks do is pretty much luscious. Trust me.

(To view cleaner images just click once on the photo and it will appear for you.)

How to Keep a Dynamic Brain for Longer

(Response to friend Stephanie's Interesting Blog Post on Personal Power and How One May Find It)

"This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man." ~W. Shakespeare

I like voicing my fears, concerns, questions, and revelations. It makes me feel connected and aware. It's also worthwhile enough to cause me to hope for some sort of insight after the telling, which is one MAJOR reason I write. Not knowing the source for personal power leads one to begging questions, which, in turn, gets us on the path hunting for answers, seeking qualified advice, critically analyzing the findings, and eventually fashioning a plan of action. Change is never easy. But it can be exhilarating. And the research says it's good for your brain, to boot! Stagnation, old routines, and overly systematic living actually contributes to memory loss, fewer synaptic connections, and lower levels of serotonin. People who know how to change things up, move things around, revel in change, and thrive in unfamiliarity are those who will enjoy more useful brains for longer. The human brain needs challenges, just like the body. Our brains plateau when we feed it the same stuff all the time. Again, this parallels the case with the body. Mind, body, and spirit thrive on new material, diverse material, and challenging material. This can be dangerous for smart people, or people in general actually, who get in the proverbial rut because they feel comfortable playing to their strengths. For example, mathematicians may gravitate to algorithms and permutations while literates gravitate to poetry and other forms of literature. This is fine but once the brain establishes certain synaptic pathways these channels get deeper and deeper and sort of begin to make a person a bore, not just behaviorally but chemically/biologically/physically. The brain gets used to certain activities and becomes less challenged. Certain departments shut down because they think they're not needed. Here is where the research says things begin to degenerate. Moral of the story: writers should try Sudoku and math people need to try a hand at a crossword and both should run a few miles a few times a week. Oversimplified, perhaps. Still, you get the picture.
To address the questions and concerns around finding the sources to certain powers: How does someone become a better runner? By running. How does someone become literate? By reading. There are no secret shortcuts. I love this notion. My brother Dave and I talk about this often: If you want to be a good artist you have to be willing to be a crappy one for quite a while first. Let us try and remember this: EFFORT CREATES ABILITY.

Life Isn't Always Kind

This was a line in a movie I saw recently called Another Year. This was an absolute masterpiece in my opinion. I was so moved. I'm not going to highlight any specific scenes for you. Just see it. I want to write about other things just now.

Life isn't always kind. This is very true. My life has been so kind so often. I was born to two amazingly good and gorgeous people who stayed in love. I shared my childhood with especially effervescent personalities, gorgeous faces, exceptional talents of all shapes and kinds. I got a great education in both academic and not-so-academic ways, graduated from a wonderful university, studied exactly what I wanted to, got the job I wanted immediately, worked with the very people I would've hand picked to work with. Life has been very kind indeed.

Then, at other times, life hasn't been so kind. It kicked and punched me on the playground. It called me mean names and threw sand in my eyes. Then later it broke my heart a few times, twisted some tendons, slapped my face a little. Got poisoned a fair amount; mostly voluntarily...unfortunately. I became addicted to some of the wrong things: the approval of others, feeling numb, cigarettes, and Woody Allen, to name a few. I got engaged a lot, too. That was interesting, if not heart-wrenching. Then I really did it! Tied the knot! To someone who hated me twice as much as he loved his action figures. You do the math.

Life is not always kind. Then there was not only the math but the aftermath. Year one: numb, floating feeling, fuzzy, pretty pleasant. Year two: lots of pain, acute, searing, crying in the car because I heard that song, having to sit down at the grocery store because the label on the tuna can triggered that memory. Year three: pretty dang normal, almost, sort of, I mean, all considered. Year four: Ouchie....I need intervention post haste. Year five: Great! Paxil, will you marry me? (no response...just a wink. for some reason it's enough.)

As we approach year six, I see a lot to be grateful for. Maybe I'll stop calculating time the way I have, years post divorce. Maybe it's a new age? It's not the golden age. Not enough earned yet. Maybe it's the age of fleece, not golden fleece, mind you. No. Pink. Pink fleecy blankets. The age of pink, blue, mint green, lily yellow. Here we go, baby. Buckle up.

Tunnel Vision

Sometimes I feel like a tunnel; long, narrow, hollow, going somewhere. Where? I can see light, green leaves, I can smell something fresh and growing out of the distant pitch soil. But I never get there. I never seem to arrive. Maybe that's what this life is, longing for something, something more worthy of us, wanting something, hungry for the things of a better world, a world the spirit remembers and the senses forgot. I can feel something expansive above my view. I can envision myself, that tunnel, moss covered, somewhat hidden, none too apparent or impressive in structure. I can see me, from above, with all the air and sky between that view and that grounded self. Cloud, mist, bird, tree, flower, blade, droplet, ant, worm...all above me. The things that get between us and freedom, true freedom, the things that assume to subordinate us, they are simple in the end. They aren't always worthy foes, opponents, or even suitable playmates. When worms thrive above you it may be time to take the high road. Deep down we know it is our own doing. We exalted the worms and put ourselves beneath rot, looking for something. Treasure? But in dank, dripping concrete cylinders...empty, echoing, longing to arrive, waiting to breathe deeply and long, to see and touch the things we can now only faintly make out, we realize the perplexing sting and strange pleasure of wanting.

I've Got A Feeling

I feel rumblings. Something's in the air! And it's not just all the smoke from the wildfires. It's immense, all-encompassing. Like a new beginning.

Okay, so, a lot's happened. I had a few scrapes with the fates that nearly skinned my sensibilities permanently. I dated a very handsome entrepreneur, who will remain nameless, and discovered I'm not cut out for high risks of any kind. I wish I was mindful of that fact as I agreed to marry an ex-boyfriend of mine from half my lifetime ago. Don't worry, reader. As many of you already know, that's ended also. What can I possibly say other than I think I have a problem. Call it drama. Call it romance. Call it a rock-hard commitment to suffering. I don't know. I just think it's time to give the proper organs their proper jobs.

I think we all know it's safe to say I've been doing this thing with a whole lot of heart, and very little head. This thing, this LIFE thing, it's been all about love, friendship, connection, enrichment, and celebration. That's why I chose teaching. I LOVE KIDS! I do. I love the way they look when they've discovered their potential. I love their optimism and wonder, their goodness, innocence, and spark. They know how to live! In the moment!

Heart. Sometimes I think it's all I got going. My brain likes to work but it's such a tool of my heart. It knows who's boss. She's always been the boss. So why is this bad? Okay. I'll tell you why. I'll tell you, but you already know. Hearts fall for stuff. The gooier, the better. Hearts tell you to do things when you don't have the time nor the resources. Hearts like to get you cuddled and kissed even when what you really need is sleep. The heart will keep you on the phone when you know darn well you need to spend some time organizing your schedule for the next day. Hearts get you reading and writing poetry instead of good, old fashioned self-help or business articles or comic books, even! Hearts will have you listening to another sad story, and actually trying to help, when you know your own story needs a lot of work, and yours wouldn't be found anywhere near the children's section.

I like my brain a lot. I've got to give her more to do. I want to promote her but she lacks experience with leadership. She's not even applying for the position at this point. Sharp kid. Underemployed. Overqualified? Let's not go that far.