america the complacent

com·pla·cen·cy  ( n.) -  1. A feeling of contentment or self-satisfaction, especially when coupled with an unawareness of danger, trouble, or controversy.  2.  An instance of contented self-satisfaction.

I think there no better day than today to write this. On the 10th anniversary on 9/11 as I sit here and watch all of the “meaningful” posts on Facebook, I wonder how many people truly live what they so publicly preach? I myself am guilty of it. I think the majority of Americans are. We are so used to being taken care of. So used to having our freedom. So blissfully unaware of the dangers that exist outside of our borders, that on a day-to-day basis we DO forget. We all promise not to, but the reality is we do. Life gets in the way.

Like everyone else, I remember that day vividly. Where I was and exactly what I was doing. How I cried, the fear I felt, and the helplessness that overcame me. We had never been attacked like that before on American soil. It was so unexpected and truly unthinkable. And then in the days, weeks and months that followed, the news coverage started to taper off…security measures increased…permanent memorials were being planned…and sadly, complacency set in. Most Americans went back to their lives and business as usual. Unless of course you were one of those directly affected by the horrors of that day.

And like so many others, I have watched and re-watched all of the film footage, documentaries and analysts and cried each time like it was the first. However, what I am about to suggest will anger some, and I am OK with that. So here it is.

I think the time has come to stop crying and start acting. As meaningful as 9/11 will always be to all of us, we can no longer mourn for the fallen. We can NEVER allow ourselves to forget, but we need to stand up as a nation and demand that this never does happen again. We need to take notice of what goes on around us. Not just when major tragedy strikes, but every day. We need to educate ourselves about the world and what is happening around us, not just what happens in our own backyards. There will come a time when a war will be fought on American soil. I’m fairly certain of it. If only because it happens in most every other country in this world except for the U.S. – it is only a matter of time. We will not be spared forever. The odds are against us.

But this complacent behavior applies to many, many things in America. How many of us really understand the way our government works? How many actually exercise their right to vote? How many of us are obliviously eating tainted food or are unaware of the way our food is grown, raised or manufactured?

As a nation we are eating what is being fed to us…both literally and figuratively. I think the time has come to wake up. To return to our upstart roots. I propose we make 9/11 a day of resurrection. Not only a day of giving life to the fallen through their memories, but a day of learning, sharing and action. So that we never have to live through such a disaster again. It is not OK to succumb to apathy. We must not only feel, but act.

God Bless the fallen, the rescue workers and our military. May more Americans take it upon themselves to help protect and serve, in any capacity, our fellow countrymen and fellow humans alike.

avoidance perfectionism

Discipline, determination, stick-to-it-iveness…call it what you like I just don’t have it. Quite obviously if I’ve only published seven entries to my blog in more than two years of its existence, I am not a creature of habit. And that’s a problem when you’re trying to get ahead in this world. The worm not only goes to the early bird, it also goes to the bird that’s the most persistent.

I am more of a laid back, worry-free, not-in-a-hurry-to-get-anywhere type of girl. Until I actually start doing something that I enjoy or that may be important to me. And then I want it to be perfect. I’ve never thought of myself as much of a perfectionist. Most of my life I’ve been disorganized and frankly very messy. Unmade bed, clothes on the floor, and let that call go to voicemail please. I don’t like to be bothered. Until I do. Let me explain.

Ask me to write something in a card for a co-worker and it’ll take me all day to think of just the right thing. And no pen will touch paper until I do. Hand me a menu with more than 10 things on it and I will send the poor waitress away repeatedly to everyone’s dismay while I contemplate my perfect combination of appetizer and main course. And yes, it IS a big deal.

So you see while writing blurbs for this blog, I may start writing a post and have several paragraphs finished, when I suddenly reread what I’ve written and decide it isn’t quite right. And I must change it. Over and over and over again. Until I get to the point where I cannot tell if it’s good or not anymore. Cannot tell if it’s even worthy of publishing at all! I feel like someone writing a book without an editor. And that’s when it happens. I walk away. I tell myself to stop changing it. Leave it be. Revisit it another day.

Unfortunately that’s exactly what I do. I walk away to give it time. For my mind to forget what I’ve written and all of the changes I’ve made. So that when I go back again to read it, ideally it will seem fresh and new…and maybe in need of only minor correction. But that day never comes because I have been taken away. Not only from the thought of that post, but of my blog entirely. Distracted completely until something reminds me that I have not given it any attention in much, much too long a period of time. Which is what happened today. 

I remember many years ago a therapist of mine telling me that what I was doing when I started a task but did not complete it was “avoidance perfectionism.”  I had not heard that term before and have not heard it since. But it does feel completely appropriate to me considering what she said. Her hypothesis was that when I was unable to do something to my liking, which meant in precisely the right way, I just avoided doing it completely. Sounds somewhat like a spoiled child, doesn’t it? Laughable, but true…I cannot do something unless I do it 100% the way I want to, when I want to. Which is why I am writing this today and walking away…

I’ve already reread it as I was writing it. I don’t want to give myself a chance to pick it apart and destroy it.

wuh, wuh, wilhemina

NoWareGirl circa 1979

Butterflies in the stomach. Go away! She was so excited that morning as she pressed her emaciated, prepubescent body against the old, hollow, wooden door. Standing rigid and wearing her favorite fruit-striped-gum colored, terry cloth bikini, NoWareGirl posed for the picture she was sure would change her life.

As she sucked in her non-existant stomach and turned her head a bit to the side, she imagined that the world would soon see her amazing bone structure and natural, bare-skinned beauty on the pages of the magazines she saw at the local checkout counters. She was only a girl of 11, but already caught up in a world that really didn’t exist…

…Unless it was on the pages of a fashion magazine named Seventeen. She didn’t know any better. NoWareGirl had wanted that subscription so badly she had begged for it. And now that she’d gotten it, each new issue that arrived on her doorstep was eagerly anticipated. Each one was a lesson in how to be un-like all the other girls in her neighborhood. A chance to escape her ordinary life.

If they said the “50′s” look was in, NoWare wore her hair high in a ponytail with a grosgrain ribbon tied around it and a cardigan sweater. THAT DAY. Even if no one in her class would dare be caught dead wearing it. Orange nail polish? No problem. She’d just walk 3 blocks to the drugstore on the corner and see what they had. It didn’t even deter her when a teacher made fun of her nails. So what? What do they know? she thought.

So when her favorite magazine announced that they would be holding a model search contest, she knew it was her calling. The prize? Her face on the cover of Seventeen and a contract with Wilhemina Modeling Agency! “You can be anything you want to be”, crooned her mother. “You can do anything anyone else can do”, was what she’d heard all her young life. But that wasn’t true at all. Why hadn’t her mother just told her the truth?

NoWareGirl wasn’t right for this contest. She was too short, too young, and too imperfect. She had buck teeth and no braces, but that was the least of her worries. At that moment, she was still blissfully unaware of how abnormal she was. Missing toes, missing fingers, two different sized feet and two differently shaped legs. It wasn’t her fault she looked like that. And she didn’t yet realize that she’d never measure up to the world’s ideal of beauty because of it. But it was too late. She was already caught up in a world that eats even “perfect” young girls alive.

CLICK! flashed the little square bulb. And it was done. In a week’s time photographic proof of her imperfection would return. Surely she would see it then?

But no. Upon its return from being developed she dutifully wrote her name, age and measurements on the back and hastily mailed it away.

Any day she thought…the phone will ring or that letter will come…

down by the river

I went today, for the first time ever, to a real, down-home, get-dunked-in-the-river-style water baptism. And I have to say…I liked it.

Let me preface this by saying that I am not a Southern-Baptist, nor a southerner of any kind. I was raised about 5 minutes outside of Chicago. Very Catholic and very Italian. We have our own beliefs, traditions and idiosyncrasies. Many of which I have a hard enough time with. But isn’t it amazing how your life can twist and turn throughout the years, leading you to the most unexpected of places?

Like today for example. I found myself literally sitting on a rock bed at the foot of a lazy river somewhere down in Snead, Alabama. A twelve hour drive from home. I did not come to Alabama for this express purpose, yet there I sat in a borrowed skirt in the 90+ degree heat- sweat rolling down my back- watching my nieces get baptized.

Well technically the girls I was there to see weren’t my nieces. They are the nieces of my ex which I never did get around to marrying. But somehow I ended up there and he did not. Quite appropriate I think, considering he never did understand the meaning of family.

Anyhow, there we sat…me, two of my children, and my entire “ex-in-law” side of the family having this beautiful moment together. Yes, there were moments when I thought the preacher may have gone a bit too far (dramatically speaking), but overall the experience was quiet pleasant. In fact, I may venture to say beautiful and moving…

My 10 year old daughter however appeared more than once as if she were going to burst into contagious laughter whenever the preacher would open his mouth. I just refused to meet eyes with her fearing I would start to giggle disrespectfully. And my 5 year old son did complain rather loudly the entire time that he was hot…or hungry…or hot AND hungry. But while ignoring them, I realized that I was more “at peace” in that moment than I had been in a very long time.

It was very emotional being out there. These people, the church members including my ex’s sister and her husband, were reverent and tearful. Almost all of them mumbling some sort of “Amen” or “Hallelujah” as they sat around me scattered among the rocks believed fervently in baptism and the need to be “saved”. I myself have never been “saved” or ever felt the need to be. I have roots firmly planted in another kind of religion, one I don’t even practice. But I’m not an atheist. More of a skeptic. 

And because of that, I can’t say that I got caught up in the moment or suddenly felt the “holy spirit” enter my body or anything like that. I have no sudden desire to join a new church or to spread the word of God. But I can say that while in this ethereal setting amongst these total strangers, I did feel an immense outpouring of love and genuine desire to do good. It was very welcoming and warm. Accepting and real. And really isn’t that what God is supposed to be anyway? Love?

Looking around today as I sat on that sandy rock, in that clearing in the woods, sweating my ass off, I felt and saw God all around me.  In the warm water moving ever so slowly in the stream. In the enormous trees hanging over the stream that drooped their leaf covered branches low and green. And in the faces of the strangers sweating beside me. God is all around us, all the time. In everything and everywhere.

We may not all agree on God’s name, or how best to worship him (or her?) But maybe there is something out there for us all…just waiting to be discovered.

the mailbox

the door that leads to NoWare

NoWareGirl was always so excited on days when Harlan came up the porch steps. It was what she waited for every day, all the time. Her little sister did too. First would come the sound of heavy footsteps. Then the  rustling papers, followed by some scraping, and then a hollow PLUNK. Although some days it was just a tinny plink. But always it was followed seconds later, with a metal CLANK!  The old metal mailbox door would swing down hard on its hinge and announce the mail’s arrival. 

NoWareGirl had a mailbox built into her house - just to the right of the front door. It wasn’t like the ones people had on TV. You know, the ones that the mail truck drives right up to that have the little red flags on them? Her family’s mail went through a special chute…right through the wall and into her front hall, coat closet. There was a special little door they could open… and like magic the mail would be there.

the secret door in the closet

She and her sister would sometimes fight over who could get the mail out of the box. Not that much was ever delivered with their names on it. They each just wanted to be the first one on the scene, ready to open the little door and see if any mail spilled out. 

Sometimes, pieces of mail would get stuck inside of the special chute and she’d have to stick her whole arm up inside of it to grab the mail and bring it down. And yes, sometimes she would rip the mail while doing this…but her mom didn’t stay mad about that for very long.

On various occasions NoWareGirl would sit inside of that coat closet, in the dark and open up the mail door when no mail was behind it. It was like a secret door to the outside world. She would stick her face as close to the opening as she could, so she could feel the breeze coming through the chute — and then breathe in the fresh air as if it were the only way for her to survive. She especially liked doing that in the winter time, when she had been trapped inside by the cold and snowy Chicago weather.

At times she could see light coming through the chute from where the metal door at the top wasn’t shut all the way. It looked very pretty to her, all of that light streaming down its very imperfect path. Sometimes, in nicer weather, she and her sister would take turns talking to each other through the mail chute. One of them outside on the porch standing on that old, green, metal chair to be able to reach high enough. The other inside the closet, ear to the open wooden door. Their voices sounded miles away from each other. Like they were communicating through an old mine shaft.  (Other times it was a space ship…or a prison!) And every once in a while they would pass notes through the mailbox to each other…fake mail. It could be anything they wanted it to be, that mailbox.

 Which is exactly why NoWareGirl wishes she still had one just like it.

soul talking

I have decided that my happiness in this life lies completely in the simple things. Like an organized home that gives me a sense of peace. Or working with children every day at my job (and especially spending time with my own at home) which gives me joy. Writing my thoughts in a journal provides me with clarity and drawing and making jewelry, two of my favorite artistic endeavors, allow me to create.

The creative process, to make something out of nothing, has always been a huge part of who I am. I just never recognized it for what it was.

As a pre-teen I started to keep a diary, writing songs and recording them very unprofessionally on my bulky cassette player. It didn’t matter that I had no idea how to read music or write the proper notes. I had the melodies in my head and the lyrics were written on lined, loose-leaf paper. I’m pretty sure my mother was the victim of most of my performances! Music became a huge part of my life. I joined the choir at school, sang some solos, and convinced myself that I was going to be a star. Apparently Hollywood didn’t get the memo because I am still here waiting and rehearsing dutifully in my car every day.

I think if I were asked to choose one reason for my love of music I’d say it was my father. My earliest musical memories are of the vinyl albums he played on an old, wooden, console HiFi Stereo system. It had a very prominent place in our living room and I knew by the way my father protected it that it was something very special. It seemed to me at the time an oversized box that bleeted and blared the coolest of sounds.  Jazz, blues, folk, rock, big band, even country came out of those speakers. I didn’t know anything by name of course but I knew that if my dad was listening to it, it was usually worth listening to. Today I know those sounds as Jim Croce, Cat Stevens, Simon & Garfunkel, Carole King. Three Dog Night, Boz Skaggs, Fleetwood Mac, Jimi Hendrix. Al Green, Ella Fitzgerald and Count Basie. Plus all of the Motown records a person could ever want.  A lot of those LPs my daughter has claimed as her own today. Proof of their inherent coolness.

And yet, somehow in my adult life I occasionally forget how much I love the sound of music. When it happens it disappears gradually from my life and I take no notice at all. Until one day I’ll be driving in my car and suddenly I am DEAFENED by the silence. It usually takes me a while to figure out what that silence means. Who stopped the damned music? and when did it stop? I have no idea.

How do you suddenly forget that music is there available and just waiting for you to listen to it? How the hell does that happen?! I haven’t got a clue. But it happens to me all the time. 

I can tell you this…I have noticed a definite link between my moods and how much music I’m listening to. When I am depressed I forget about music. Or maybe when I forget about music, I get depressed. Either way, it’s like my soul just shuts down. Because really music speaks to the soul, it’s derived from the soul, and I think that it makes the soul happy.

My belief is that it’s simply another language. One person’s soul talking to another’s. The more I listen to my favorite music, and my favorites change all the time, the happier I am. In fact, if I listen to music first thing in the morning, I’ve noticed that  it makes my whole day seem to go better.

Dig the cover art

For the record, I highly recommend Kanye West’s CD “Graduation” as the perfect wake up accompaniment. Starting of course with track #1. “Good Morning”; can’t get much simpler than that.

the sandals

NoWare, mid-1970's

NoWareGirl started searching when she was little. School aged. As soon as she could tell that she was different. And it wasn’t that she was horribly disfigured or anything. Just some missing fingers and toes. Or at least that was what she was led to believe. Actually, looking back she was a very pretty little girl. Smart, funny, well liked. I think she liked herself once. But she can’t remember far enough back to confirm that. There are these black spots in her memory. Lots of them. Missing memories. Missing years even. Those missing pieces make her feel guilty. Because maybe she really did know herself and she had forgotten? No matter. She’s tried to fill in the blanks for years, but those memories just won’t come back.

She does remember being pretty happy go lucky and silly until she had to compare herself to other girls. It was a subtle difference at first. Their legs matched. Hmmm. Her legs didn’t. One was really skinny and the other was really super muscular. File that away. They were allowed to run around barefoot all summer long and she was constantly being yelled at to “put her shoes back on”. Hmmm. In itself not a big deal, but it did get quite annoying at times. But then….then there were THE SANDALS. So sweet and innocent, those little piggies sticking out. Perfectly polished and air-conditioned. Flippity-flopping around all summer long. They wore them all the time, everywhere in fact! Where were NoWareGirl’s sandals?? Flip-flops?? What do you mean they won’t stay on her feet??

Well. I guess that’s it then. That’s probably where she started to realize that she wasn’t “normal”. Even though her Mom had always told her that she was normal and “just like everybody else” and that she could “do everything everybody else could do”…it simply wasn’t true. The sandals proved it. And how could she ever walk around barefoot again in public knowing that people would be looking at her feet? Wondering why they looked like that. Oh my God! Why did she have to be so different? Because now she was embarrassed. How could she ever go around showing her feet again in public? She couldn’t possibly.

Gone were the carefree days of not knowing.

Funny how a pair of sandals can suddenly change your life…

the me i’ve become

Last weekend I drove 4 1/2 hours one way to drive my daughter to a My Morning Jacket concert in Detroit. It was one of the best weekends of my life. Maria is 17 now and has got to be the coolest kid ever-there-was. I feel so lucky to be able to say that she’s mine. People tell me how much she looks like me and I see it every once in a while, but most of the time I see this amazing beauty in her that I don’t think I ever had. She is more comfortable with who she is than I have ever been. I like to think that she is an old soul. Wise beyond her years – at least when it comes to things that matter. We are alike in so many ways it’s scary. I believe that I am an old soul too. But we also have many differences.

At her age I was like an erupting volcano. Volatile, emotional, dangerous. I was needy but unable to voice it. I was more “out there” than she is. I was all blue hair and orange Betsey Johnson stretch pants with black guns on them. And let’s not forget the combat boots. I miss them. Maria likes combat boots. And blue hair. She often says so. Maybe we’re not so different after all.

These days Maria is like my music guru. She’s my go-to-girl for all things cool and slightly left of center. If it weren’t for her I’d be happily listening to my local “alternative” music station. Thank god she’s savvy enough to introduce me to some great new music, mostly indie stuff, that really is incredible. Without her I’d have never heard of Ben Kweller, let alone have gone to his concert at Schuba’s and got to hug his sweaty little body. Ben thought Maria and I were sisters! GAH!!! People used to say that about me and my mom and I used to HATE it. For the most part, I think Maria’s ok with it though. She knows I’m cool. Well…dorky and cool.

She also turned me on to She and Him (Zooey Deschanel & M. Ward). Yes, she’s that doe-eyed actress and I have to say, I was totally impressed with her singing. They were a fun show. She’s got an awesome personality and surprising a really strong singing voice. Sweet, sweet music. I highly recommend seeing them live.

Which leads me to MMJ, my new love. Listen to their latest CD, Evil Urges. I dare you not to find at least one song on that record that you love; I don’t care who you are. I first heard of them from…who else? My daughter. But I heard a few of their older songs on WXRT (Chicago) and thought that I’d better check them out further. I did and now I am in total teenage lust with the brilliant lead singer/songwriter, Jim James. He is just wicked genius. I love their stuff. I tried to get tickets to see them live in Chicago but they sold out incredibly fast. Tickets were still available in Detroit and I hadn’t taken a road trip in a while so I figured, what the hell. And let me tell you it was well worth the night we spent sleeping in an Indiana rest stop in my car so that I wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel and careen off the road at 90 mph after the concert.

Check out the moon boots!

Jim James and the rest of the band just (excuse my language) fuckin’ rock! He is all over the stage and so electric. I can’t even put into words how amazing they were. Musically they are so talented and they seem to really enjoy themselves when they’re performing. They put every ounce of themselves into that concert. I don’t know how those guys can do that night after night, but all of the reviews I read say that they do. Kudos to them! Anyway, fate may have played a hand in our trip to Detroit because the Chicago show dates were after the Detroit date and were cancelled after my love, Jim, fell off a stage in Iowa City and injured himself pretty badly. Now see, it was truly meant to be. All my love to Jim. I hope he’s back to normal soon.

And Maria, thank you for reminding me of how much I enjoy going to concerts. I think sometimes as we get older, we actually forget what we like. I feel like the real me was on hiatus for the last 17 years. But no more. I am starting to remember who I am.

in the beginning…

…there was a little girl who woke up begrudgingly one ordinary day to find she had turned 40. Muddled, cloudy, and confused she rolled over in bed and closed her eyes tighter. She had no idea how she had gotten there. Didn’t know where she had been. Still wasn’t sure who she was or what she wanted to be when she grew up. But suddenly she was there. Not even sure where “there” was. She was lost. 40 years of floating, twisting and turning. Maybe she was never found. How can one ever really know if they’ve lost themselves, if they’re not quite sure if they knew who they were, where they were or what they were to begin with? And when does the searching end? Does someone tell you it’s time to stop? Or do you just know? Do you ever know?