As I slide into that cycle of self-indulgence and self-hatred that the leftover Halloween candy in my house always provokes, I can’t help but reflect (with peanut M&Ms at hand) on Halloweens past. In the church I grew up in, all holidays—with their pagan origins and crass commercialism—were verboten, but Halloween was particularly bad. Anything directly associated with witches and ghosts and all that devilish business was something to flee with a vengeance. My childhood memories of Halloween are of my family closing the curtains, turning off as many lights as we could, and huddling together in the back room of our house. If someone actually braved the darkness to ring our doorbell, we would all go silent and hold our breath until we heard them go away.
Listening to the chattering and laughter and shrieks that floated in despite all the barriers we erected, I always felt a strange convolution of desperate longing to be one of those costumed children and smug pride that I wasn’t. I think sixth grade was the zenith, which is when my elementary school decided to have all the students in costume do a big parade weaving in and out of every classroom. The two or three of us not in costume had to just sit at our desks and watch. Looking back on it, I have to wonder why they didn’t at least try to pretend we were judging the costumes or something inclusive like that, but I guess they didn’t care as much about making everyone feel special and included in the 80s. Teachers just let you be the big weirdos and losers that you were.
Time passed, my family left that church, and gradually the great divide between us and holiday celebration began to recede. Halloween was the last to make it over, and even then my mother struggled with tremendous guilt. The first year we handed out candy, she insisted on including little slips of paper with Bible verses printed on them in the vain hope that some eight year old scarfing down a fun-size Snickers bar would have his heart touched by John 3:16.
Now that I am an adult, the barriers have been completely removed, and I am like every other American going to Costco and buying the jumbo-sized bags of candy for $11.99. For a number of years, I enjoyed seeing my students dressed up in costumes, and I took a real delight in handing out candy to the flurry of children that would come to my door practically vibrating with excitement and sugar. But lately, the shine has begun to tarnish. Let’s start with the fact that a large percentage of the girls who attend the school where I teach use the holiday to dress as inappropriately as they can—it’s not a dress code violation, it’s a costume! But the fairy tale characters I remember from storybooks and Disney cartoons never had bustiers, clinging skirts that ended at mid-thigh, and stiletto heels. I could be wrong, but I don't recall there ever being a Little Bo Peep and Snow White: The Whore Years.
And it doesn’t stop there. My costume last night was apparently “candy robot,” because that’s exactly what I felt like as the kids came one after the other in a steady stream and I mechanically reached into my brimming bowl and dumped a handful into each open bag. Most of the kids were fairly polite, but when one particular boy came to my door, my costume changed into “grouchy old woman.” As I leaned forward to drop some candy into his sister’s bag, this boy (probably about eight or nine) nudged her over and began reaching into the bowl for himself, shouting “I want that one!” I instantly snatched the bowl out of his reach. “Hold on a minute,” I said blocking his greedy hand. “How about you just wait and let me give you some candy?” “I want that one!” he shouted again, and moved as if to grab at the bowl again. I (gently) smacked his hand down and informed him, “You’ll get what I give you.” I picked out the smallest piece of candy I could find and dropped it in his bag. No John 3:16 from me—just the harsh Halloween lesson that you don’t always get what you want, sonny, so suck it up.
At that point, I was ready to be done. Stupid kids with their inappropriate costumes and grabby, ungrateful hands. Stupid Halloween that justified them. And just then, a girl in a clown costume that looked both clumsily and painstakingly made came walking up the sidewalk to my porch. She smiled shyly behind her plastic red nose and touched her rainbow-colored afro wig self-consciously. “Happy Halloween!” she said as she stepped onto my porch. When I gave her the standard handful, she watched it drop into her pillowcase in genuine amazement and exclaimed, “Wow! Thank you so much!” I wanted to hug her and tell her that she had just restored my faith in children, but instead I threw another handful of candy into her case and said, “Your costume looks great.” She thanked me again and practically skipped down the sidewalk.
After she disappeared around the corner, I decided to quit while I was ahead. I turned out my lights and hid out in the back room for the rest of the evening, just like old times.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Honk If You Hate Parades
If I were to ask you to name a few important American holidays, what would probably spring to mind is Fourth of July or Thanksgiving or Memorial Day. I doubt anyone would actually think “Columbus Day,” even at the end of his/her mental list. I wasn’t even aware of Columbus Day as a holiday until I attended college in Massachusetts, which, I believe, is the only state in America that really recognizes it as an actual holiday and gives you a day off. I could be wrong about this. I will admit that I’ve not done any research on the matter.
At any rate, Wellesley College and all the other colleges and universities in the area gave their students a day off on that particular Monday in October. But no one actually celebrated anything. In fact, Wellesley didn’t even call it Columbus Day on their calendar—they went so far as to give us Tuesday off as well and lump it all together as “Fall Break,” skipping any direct reference to Columbus. After all, isn’t Columbus kind of passé now? I mean, didn’t historians find out a while ago that he wasn’t the first one to discover America, and that he was mean to Native Americans and brought smoking back to Europe? Or something like that. There was that weird year in the 90s where two movies about Columbus came out in theaters, starring Gerard Depardieu or Armande Assante or some other similar actor(s), but other than that, I didn’t think there were many people left who cared about Columbus other than elementary school teachers, whose students still perhaps chorus back “Nina! Pinta! Santa Maria!” the way I did in grade school.
So all of this to say that in my mind, Columbus Day simply means "three-day weekend in Massachusetts.” My sister, who is a resident of Massachusetts, regularly goes up to Maine during this holiday weekend. My father, who is retired, has joined her for the last several years, and this year my brother and I decided to join them as well—both of us using personal days at work since neither Virginia nor California recognizes Columbus Day. Despite the fact that global warming, evil culprit of all bad weather in the world, has made the idea of a crisp New England fall something of a joke (it was 81 degrees the day I arrived), Maine was still lovely and we had a nice family weekend together.
On the last day—Monday—my brother and I drove our rental car back towards Boston. There was no traffic on any of the major highways and we even had time to stop for a leisurely lunch in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The 95 South, the 1 South, and the 60 East were all beautiful. It was when we were only three miles away from our destination—Logan Airport—that everything came to a screeching halt. Literally. One minute we were sailing along at 65 miles an hour on the 1A south, and the next I was hitting the brakes. We sat there idling for five minutes, then ten. After another few minutes, we heard some sirens in the distance. Must be an accident, we concluded, and checked our watches in that compassionate/selfish mix of, I hope no one’s hurt and I hope they get this cleared up soon. When another five minutes passed, I saw a few people behind me getting out of their cars, and I sent my brother out to ask the state trooper parked a little ways behind us if he knew what was going on. Meanwhile, I rolled my window down and stuck my head out. And that’s when I heard it—the first daaa da daaa da, BOOM cha BOOM cha.
Yes, that’s right, it was the sound (in case you couldn’t tell from my descriptors) of a marching band. This was no accident backing up all of the traffic trying to get to Logan Airport and other important places—this was a PARADE. A parade to celebrate Columbus. Who cares about Columbus Day, I ask? Apparently, the good Italian people of Revere, MA do. Enough so to shut down one of the major highways leading into Boston without any warning or rerouting for an entire HOUR. To the people of Boston and the far-sighted neighborhood of Revere, dozens and dozens of people panicked about missing their flights is nothing compared to the importance of properly paying tribute to Columbus. They even had bagpipes at one point. What bagpipes have to do with Columbus, I haven’t the faintest idea, but their inclusion could have something to do with the unwritten rule that all parades occurring in and around Boston must always have bagpipes.
Meanwhile, all those of us trapped in our cars could do was boil and stew. One poor British man did several frantic laps back and forth from the parade front to his car, but this didn’t gain him any more information than we had simply sitting our cars. At least maybe it helped him work off some of his stress and anxiety, which was making my own stomach churn. At one point early on in the parade, I suggested to my brother that all of us in our cars should blare our horns and drown out the parade. I was bitter enough to make the suggestion but, at that point, not bitter enough to take the action. When we passed the half hour mark, however, someone else had the same idea and began to honk.
It was like a match to tinder. Immediately, every driver in the vicinity (including me) began to blast his/her horn. The overwhelming blare of sound made my brother and me wince, but it also made us cackle somewhat maniacally with glee, and I leaned on my horn with relish, not caring a bit that I might be ruining some high school trombonist’s big moment or making toddlers cry. I felt a wave of joy wash over me in this act of making myself heard (literally) and a warm solidarity with the people around me who were just as enraged by this situation as I was. Stop traffic, suffer the consequences! You will pay! Ha ha ha! Take that, stupid Columbus Day Parade!
And then another sound emerged. The same state trooper my brother had spoken with earlier was now loudly reprimanding us all over his loudspeaker, ordering us to stop our honking and informing us that “it doesn’t help anything.” He even got out of his car to yell at a few drivers in person. I didn't have the courage to say this to him directly, but here's what I wanted to say: Actually, Mr. Trooper, you are wrong about that. Very very wrong. It may not have helped the parade end any more quickly or gotten us to the airport any sooner, but that wave of honking was a wonderful release of all that toxic anger and anxiety and stress that was building up in all of us, not to mention the strongest bond I've felt with an entire group of strangers in a very long time. Sometimes, it just feels really good to honk at a parade—especially a Columbus Day parade. So there.
At any rate, Wellesley College and all the other colleges and universities in the area gave their students a day off on that particular Monday in October. But no one actually celebrated anything. In fact, Wellesley didn’t even call it Columbus Day on their calendar—they went so far as to give us Tuesday off as well and lump it all together as “Fall Break,” skipping any direct reference to Columbus. After all, isn’t Columbus kind of passé now? I mean, didn’t historians find out a while ago that he wasn’t the first one to discover America, and that he was mean to Native Americans and brought smoking back to Europe? Or something like that. There was that weird year in the 90s where two movies about Columbus came out in theaters, starring Gerard Depardieu or Armande Assante or some other similar actor(s), but other than that, I didn’t think there were many people left who cared about Columbus other than elementary school teachers, whose students still perhaps chorus back “Nina! Pinta! Santa Maria!” the way I did in grade school.
So all of this to say that in my mind, Columbus Day simply means "three-day weekend in Massachusetts.” My sister, who is a resident of Massachusetts, regularly goes up to Maine during this holiday weekend. My father, who is retired, has joined her for the last several years, and this year my brother and I decided to join them as well—both of us using personal days at work since neither Virginia nor California recognizes Columbus Day. Despite the fact that global warming, evil culprit of all bad weather in the world, has made the idea of a crisp New England fall something of a joke (it was 81 degrees the day I arrived), Maine was still lovely and we had a nice family weekend together.
On the last day—Monday—my brother and I drove our rental car back towards Boston. There was no traffic on any of the major highways and we even had time to stop for a leisurely lunch in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The 95 South, the 1 South, and the 60 East were all beautiful. It was when we were only three miles away from our destination—Logan Airport—that everything came to a screeching halt. Literally. One minute we were sailing along at 65 miles an hour on the 1A south, and the next I was hitting the brakes. We sat there idling for five minutes, then ten. After another few minutes, we heard some sirens in the distance. Must be an accident, we concluded, and checked our watches in that compassionate/selfish mix of, I hope no one’s hurt and I hope they get this cleared up soon. When another five minutes passed, I saw a few people behind me getting out of their cars, and I sent my brother out to ask the state trooper parked a little ways behind us if he knew what was going on. Meanwhile, I rolled my window down and stuck my head out. And that’s when I heard it—the first daaa da daaa da, BOOM cha BOOM cha.
Yes, that’s right, it was the sound (in case you couldn’t tell from my descriptors) of a marching band. This was no accident backing up all of the traffic trying to get to Logan Airport and other important places—this was a PARADE. A parade to celebrate Columbus. Who cares about Columbus Day, I ask? Apparently, the good Italian people of Revere, MA do. Enough so to shut down one of the major highways leading into Boston without any warning or rerouting for an entire HOUR. To the people of Boston and the far-sighted neighborhood of Revere, dozens and dozens of people panicked about missing their flights is nothing compared to the importance of properly paying tribute to Columbus. They even had bagpipes at one point. What bagpipes have to do with Columbus, I haven’t the faintest idea, but their inclusion could have something to do with the unwritten rule that all parades occurring in and around Boston must always have bagpipes.
Meanwhile, all those of us trapped in our cars could do was boil and stew. One poor British man did several frantic laps back and forth from the parade front to his car, but this didn’t gain him any more information than we had simply sitting our cars. At least maybe it helped him work off some of his stress and anxiety, which was making my own stomach churn. At one point early on in the parade, I suggested to my brother that all of us in our cars should blare our horns and drown out the parade. I was bitter enough to make the suggestion but, at that point, not bitter enough to take the action. When we passed the half hour mark, however, someone else had the same idea and began to honk.
It was like a match to tinder. Immediately, every driver in the vicinity (including me) began to blast his/her horn. The overwhelming blare of sound made my brother and me wince, but it also made us cackle somewhat maniacally with glee, and I leaned on my horn with relish, not caring a bit that I might be ruining some high school trombonist’s big moment or making toddlers cry. I felt a wave of joy wash over me in this act of making myself heard (literally) and a warm solidarity with the people around me who were just as enraged by this situation as I was. Stop traffic, suffer the consequences! You will pay! Ha ha ha! Take that, stupid Columbus Day Parade!
And then another sound emerged. The same state trooper my brother had spoken with earlier was now loudly reprimanding us all over his loudspeaker, ordering us to stop our honking and informing us that “it doesn’t help anything.” He even got out of his car to yell at a few drivers in person. I didn't have the courage to say this to him directly, but here's what I wanted to say: Actually, Mr. Trooper, you are wrong about that. Very very wrong. It may not have helped the parade end any more quickly or gotten us to the airport any sooner, but that wave of honking was a wonderful release of all that toxic anger and anxiety and stress that was building up in all of us, not to mention the strongest bond I've felt with an entire group of strangers in a very long time. Sometimes, it just feels really good to honk at a parade—especially a Columbus Day parade. So there.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Guest Post by Jani Pearson
Portrait day. I thought getting my kids' portraits would be one of those special memories - right along with feeding my baby her first bite of banana. I imagined an effortless experience of crisp clothes, angelic smiles, and masterful poses. My walls would be covered with pottery-barn-like artwork of my daughters' faces. I quickly found that my idealist notion was wrong, so wrong. Portrait day is more like a bad day at the dentist. Except you're the dentist, there are ten angry patients complaining in the waiting room, and you just numbed your first patient's top lip. The endeavor involves three complex and fragile stages: Getting ready, posing, and choosing photos. The phases stack on top of each other like a Jenga tower of Piza.
Getting Ready
On portrait day I wake to the glare of my clock, 6:24. The clock is ticking. We have an 11:00am appointment. If we have breakfast by 7:30, we should finish baths, get dressed, and complete pigtails by 9:30, pile into the car by 10:00 and arrive at 10:20. It will take 15 minutes to get unloaded and walk from the parking lot to the elevator to the studio. If all goes well, I should be able to maneuver Audrey's nap schedule so we arrive during her happy window. Sounds simple enough.
Breakfast goes smoothly with my two-year old, aside from her smearing oatmeal in her hair and eyebrows. We finish at 7:54. Not bad. I have six minutes to get Amelia in her bath and Audrey down for a nap. I am an efficiency expert. With my right arm, I wrangle Amelia from the high chair; with my left I grab Audrey by the waist. She frantically begins sucking her bottom lip like she's famished. Her paci! I lean over and grab it with my teeth and then kick the hall door open with my left foot. I plop Audrey in her crib and Amelia in the bath. Audrey's crying. Amelia's yelling, "I need hotter! I need hotter, mama PALEEEEESE!" Like a metronome on high speed I go back and forth between the two, plugging Audrey with the paci and washing, splashing, and playing bake-a-water cake with Amelia in the tub.
It's 8:37. Darn. I've lost 7 minutes. I bribe Amelia with a cookie to avoid her daily screaming frenzy that usually ensues when I tell her it's time to get out of the bath. I can't lose those 15 minutes this morning. I refer to Amelia's dress as a "princess dress" and that springs her into action. Amelia is dry and dressed with shoes on. When I draw the comb from the drawer, she runs from me like I'm holding a head of broccoli. After bribing her with 10 Pez and a Dora show, I manage to chisel through the oatmeal (even after Johnson's and Johnson's) and tie her hair back into two uneven pig tails. Why do I always fail to achieve that perfect part other moms do so effortlessly? Mine looks more like a z zzz z.
Argh, it's 9:15. I need to pack our gear and wake, bathe, and dress Audrey. When I wake Audrey from her sweet sleep, she lets out a high A-sharp scream. She is not pleased. Even less so when I plunk her into the bath. I wash and dress my screaming baby and suppress the urge to scream myself. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Amelia has pulled the rubber bands from her hair and wrapped them around her bear's ears. And more good news. It's 9:45. Now I really need to move fast. I feel like a Ms. Pacman on level banana. I strap Audrey into her portable car seat, throw on some wrinkled shorts and a t-shirt for myself, redo Amelia's hair despite her screaming, pack a snack for Amelia, and prepare Audrey's diaper bag. I load all people and items on my limbs and back, and we make for the door. Somehow, between our front door and my car, Amelia manages to smear black dirt from my car's tire onto her white dress. Should I change her quickly? Check the watch. Nope, out of time. What kind of idiot would choose white for a two-year old, I wonder. I load the gear and people into the car. We have enough baggage that we could head out to Yosemite after the Portrait studio.
Finally. My wailing children are strapped in and we’re ready to go. All of the moving parts of the morning are sequestered in my vehicle. What a w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l moment.
It's 10:07. Stay focused.
The Portrait Studio
We arrive at 11:01. It's a mad-house. People, kids, babies, strollers, paperwork, ringing phones, and one attendant at the front desk. I glance at the sets of children. All perfectly manicured in matching outfits and eager to get their pictures taken. I look at my war-worn little ones. Amelia's drooping eyelids, her white (and black) dress, her sagging pigtails. Audrey has spit up on her blue and yellow jumper and she's fussing loudly. I feel depressed. I'm jolted out of my funk by a shrill "Who's next?" I look around at the ladies next to me, and say "I think I am." I see several eyes give me the you-poor-thing, mommy-sympathy look. The portrait lady drills me. "Are you a member of the Portrait Club?" "Do you have Portrait ID?" "Have you decided which Portrait package you want?" "Do you have a coupon?" "Are we doing two outfits or one?" I want to put my index finger to my lips and babble, blblblblblblbl. Instead, I locate my portrait card amidst all manner of department stores and buy-ten Golden Spoon coupon cards, answer her questions, and talk her down from the $259 Deluxe package to the $29.99 Basic. "Okay, have a seat. I'll call you when we're ready for you." "Thanks," I say. It's 11:32. I drag my now hungry, tired, and whining two-year old to the couch and park my sleeping Audrey next to us. So much for taking pictures during my kids' happy window.
"Pearson!" The shrill voice calls at 12:00. Finally! It's our turn. Amelia's first. Mrs. Shrill, whose real name is Joanie, suddenly turns into a puppeteering, raspberry-blowing, face-contorting, comedian. "Okay, princess," she sings, "sit on this chair and look over here at Mr. Chicken!" (Mr.? I think). Amelia looks at the soft pink chair like it's electric. "No, mommy, No! I don't want to!" I used to frown on moms who bribed their children with food. I've given up on such ideals. "Amelia, if you will cooperate for mommy, we'll get ice cream later." "No, momma! I don't like pictures!" "What kind do you think you want?" I tease, "chocolate…vanilla…strawberries with sprinkles?" The sprinkles get her. "Strawberry with sprinkles," she says with a tiny smirk.
She finally sits on the chair and Joanie takes over again. "Smile, princess! Mr. Chicken loves it when little girls smile, don't you Mr. Chicken?" Mr. Chicken is starting to sound like a dirty old man. Amelia smiles for a brief second. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! We missed the smile and end up with a grotesque-looking expression. She begins again. "Oh, what a beautiful smile! Princess! Princess! Look here. Pbbbbbbbbbbbb!" Joanie blows a loud raspberry. I feel the urge to laugh hysterically. A half smile emerges on Amelia's face. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! A variation on this routine goes on for the next ten minutes. We finally end up with a half a dozen shots ranging from distorted to dazed to just teeth. "I think we got some good ones! Now it's the little one's turn," she orders.
The circus begins afresh. "Audrey, lookey here!" Snap! "Boo! Boo! Pbbbbbbbb!" Snap! "Where's the chicken? There he is!" Snap! "Audrey, Audrey. Lookey here!" Snap! "A boo! A boo!" (Doesn't she mean "achoo?) "I got your feetsy, I got your feetsy." Snap! Snap!" When she's finished snapping, Joanie's hair looks frizzier than it did, and it is wet with sweat around her forehead and ears. We manage a few empty gazes from Audrey and one curly half-smile.
By the time Amelia and Audrey pose together, even Joanie's extraordinary show of potty humor doesn't help. Audrey is ticked. The resulting photo is of Amelia staring off into La La Land and Audrey bawling her eyes out.
Selecting the Photos
By now it's half past 1, and my kids are beyond tired. I'm beyond tired. And yet, we still need to order our pictures. While I enjoy looking at the final pictures, choosing the right ones is stressful. There is so much to consider. I have two kids, which means I end up with 9 to 12 shots of each, plus three shots of them together. Each shot is labeled P1, P2, P3, unless they are enhanced (black-and-white, sepia), then they are E1, E2, E3. I can choose between wallets, 3x5, 5x7, 8x10, and 10x13. You get one pose or one shot per sheet. There are four 3x5s and two 5x7s to a sheet. I have to make sure I order enough pictures for my mom, my mother-in-law, my three sisters, my two grandmothers, my husband's cousins and me. Each is going to want at least two pictures, one of Audrey and one of Amelia. My head hurts. With all of that in mind, I need to make sure I stay within the confines of the package I picked (that $259 package is looking better all the time). And I need to choose my pictures quickly. Amelia has just gotten a burst of punchy energy causing her to dart like a hummingbird singing "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." I could make this simple and choose one of the best pictures of Amelia and one of the best of Audrey, ordering several different sizes for each of the people on my list. But I'm reminded of my role as household historian and guilt myself into ordering most of the poses.
After 15 minutes Joanie asks, "Are you all set?" "I need to be," I resign. "I've decided on two 5x7s of P1 and one 3x5 of P2, P3, and E13. I'll also take three 3x3s…I mean 3x5s of E13 and P 5x7s of P10. Did I say, "P"? I mean three 5x7s of P10." I feel an irresistible urge to laugh uncontrollably. Just like how I would when my sister and I would get the giggles during the silent moments of a piano recital. "Will you throw in a few C3P0s while you’re at it?" I bust up. Joanie's not amused. She confirms, "Okay, so you want one sheet of 5x7s of P1…" "No." I interrupt. I'm serious again. "I want two 5x7s of P1." "You are aware that you get two 5x7s per sheet, aren't you?" She questions. I nod yes. "Okay then, two P1 5x7s, one P2, P3, and E13 3x5s, three E13 3x5s and three P10 5x7s, right?" I pause, not wanting to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry. I thought my daughter had an accident, will you repeat that one more time?"
At last, at quarter to two we have ordered our pictures and are ready to go home.
A week later, I receive the pictures by e-mail and send them to my husband. "Hey honey, let me know which ones are your favorites, okay?" I write. I planned to frame two pictures for Father's Day. Since he didn't respond to the e-mail, I asked him later that night. "Hey, so which pictures do you like the best?" "Oh, right." He says. "Uhhh….The kids look really tired in those pictures, don't you think? Maybe next time you should think about getting an earlier appointment. You know, catch them in their happy window." I bite my tongue and nod, "Hmm. I hadn't thought of that."
Getting Ready
On portrait day I wake to the glare of my clock, 6:24. The clock is ticking. We have an 11:00am appointment. If we have breakfast by 7:30, we should finish baths, get dressed, and complete pigtails by 9:30, pile into the car by 10:00 and arrive at 10:20. It will take 15 minutes to get unloaded and walk from the parking lot to the elevator to the studio. If all goes well, I should be able to maneuver Audrey's nap schedule so we arrive during her happy window. Sounds simple enough.
Breakfast goes smoothly with my two-year old, aside from her smearing oatmeal in her hair and eyebrows. We finish at 7:54. Not bad. I have six minutes to get Amelia in her bath and Audrey down for a nap. I am an efficiency expert. With my right arm, I wrangle Amelia from the high chair; with my left I grab Audrey by the waist. She frantically begins sucking her bottom lip like she's famished. Her paci! I lean over and grab it with my teeth and then kick the hall door open with my left foot. I plop Audrey in her crib and Amelia in the bath. Audrey's crying. Amelia's yelling, "I need hotter! I need hotter, mama PALEEEEESE!" Like a metronome on high speed I go back and forth between the two, plugging Audrey with the paci and washing, splashing, and playing bake-a-water cake with Amelia in the tub.
It's 8:37. Darn. I've lost 7 minutes. I bribe Amelia with a cookie to avoid her daily screaming frenzy that usually ensues when I tell her it's time to get out of the bath. I can't lose those 15 minutes this morning. I refer to Amelia's dress as a "princess dress" and that springs her into action. Amelia is dry and dressed with shoes on. When I draw the comb from the drawer, she runs from me like I'm holding a head of broccoli. After bribing her with 10 Pez and a Dora show, I manage to chisel through the oatmeal (even after Johnson's and Johnson's) and tie her hair back into two uneven pig tails. Why do I always fail to achieve that perfect part other moms do so effortlessly? Mine looks more like a z zzz z.
Argh, it's 9:15. I need to pack our gear and wake, bathe, and dress Audrey. When I wake Audrey from her sweet sleep, she lets out a high A-sharp scream. She is not pleased. Even less so when I plunk her into the bath. I wash and dress my screaming baby and suppress the urge to scream myself. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Amelia has pulled the rubber bands from her hair and wrapped them around her bear's ears. And more good news. It's 9:45. Now I really need to move fast. I feel like a Ms. Pacman on level banana. I strap Audrey into her portable car seat, throw on some wrinkled shorts and a t-shirt for myself, redo Amelia's hair despite her screaming, pack a snack for Amelia, and prepare Audrey's diaper bag. I load all people and items on my limbs and back, and we make for the door. Somehow, between our front door and my car, Amelia manages to smear black dirt from my car's tire onto her white dress. Should I change her quickly? Check the watch. Nope, out of time. What kind of idiot would choose white for a two-year old, I wonder. I load the gear and people into the car. We have enough baggage that we could head out to Yosemite after the Portrait studio.
Finally. My wailing children are strapped in and we’re ready to go. All of the moving parts of the morning are sequestered in my vehicle. What a w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l moment.
It's 10:07. Stay focused.
The Portrait Studio
We arrive at 11:01. It's a mad-house. People, kids, babies, strollers, paperwork, ringing phones, and one attendant at the front desk. I glance at the sets of children. All perfectly manicured in matching outfits and eager to get their pictures taken. I look at my war-worn little ones. Amelia's drooping eyelids, her white (and black) dress, her sagging pigtails. Audrey has spit up on her blue and yellow jumper and she's fussing loudly. I feel depressed. I'm jolted out of my funk by a shrill "Who's next?" I look around at the ladies next to me, and say "I think I am." I see several eyes give me the you-poor-thing, mommy-sympathy look. The portrait lady drills me. "Are you a member of the Portrait Club?" "Do you have Portrait ID?" "Have you decided which Portrait package you want?" "Do you have a coupon?" "Are we doing two outfits or one?" I want to put my index finger to my lips and babble, blblblblblblbl. Instead, I locate my portrait card amidst all manner of department stores and buy-ten Golden Spoon coupon cards, answer her questions, and talk her down from the $259 Deluxe package to the $29.99 Basic. "Okay, have a seat. I'll call you when we're ready for you." "Thanks," I say. It's 11:32. I drag my now hungry, tired, and whining two-year old to the couch and park my sleeping Audrey next to us. So much for taking pictures during my kids' happy window.
"Pearson!" The shrill voice calls at 12:00. Finally! It's our turn. Amelia's first. Mrs. Shrill, whose real name is Joanie, suddenly turns into a puppeteering, raspberry-blowing, face-contorting, comedian. "Okay, princess," she sings, "sit on this chair and look over here at Mr. Chicken!" (Mr.? I think). Amelia looks at the soft pink chair like it's electric. "No, mommy, No! I don't want to!" I used to frown on moms who bribed their children with food. I've given up on such ideals. "Amelia, if you will cooperate for mommy, we'll get ice cream later." "No, momma! I don't like pictures!" "What kind do you think you want?" I tease, "chocolate…vanilla…strawberries with sprinkles?" The sprinkles get her. "Strawberry with sprinkles," she says with a tiny smirk.
She finally sits on the chair and Joanie takes over again. "Smile, princess! Mr. Chicken loves it when little girls smile, don't you Mr. Chicken?" Mr. Chicken is starting to sound like a dirty old man. Amelia smiles for a brief second. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! We missed the smile and end up with a grotesque-looking expression. She begins again. "Oh, what a beautiful smile! Princess! Princess! Look here. Pbbbbbbbbbbbb!" Joanie blows a loud raspberry. I feel the urge to laugh hysterically. A half smile emerges on Amelia's face. The smile's there. It's gone. Snap! A variation on this routine goes on for the next ten minutes. We finally end up with a half a dozen shots ranging from distorted to dazed to just teeth. "I think we got some good ones! Now it's the little one's turn," she orders.
The circus begins afresh. "Audrey, lookey here!" Snap! "Boo! Boo! Pbbbbbbbb!" Snap! "Where's the chicken? There he is!" Snap! "Audrey, Audrey. Lookey here!" Snap! "A boo! A boo!" (Doesn't she mean "achoo?) "I got your feetsy, I got your feetsy." Snap! Snap!" When she's finished snapping, Joanie's hair looks frizzier than it did, and it is wet with sweat around her forehead and ears. We manage a few empty gazes from Audrey and one curly half-smile.
By the time Amelia and Audrey pose together, even Joanie's extraordinary show of potty humor doesn't help. Audrey is ticked. The resulting photo is of Amelia staring off into La La Land and Audrey bawling her eyes out.
Selecting the Photos
By now it's half past 1, and my kids are beyond tired. I'm beyond tired. And yet, we still need to order our pictures. While I enjoy looking at the final pictures, choosing the right ones is stressful. There is so much to consider. I have two kids, which means I end up with 9 to 12 shots of each, plus three shots of them together. Each shot is labeled P1, P2, P3, unless they are enhanced (black-and-white, sepia), then they are E1, E2, E3. I can choose between wallets, 3x5, 5x7, 8x10, and 10x13. You get one pose or one shot per sheet. There are four 3x5s and two 5x7s to a sheet. I have to make sure I order enough pictures for my mom, my mother-in-law, my three sisters, my two grandmothers, my husband's cousins and me. Each is going to want at least two pictures, one of Audrey and one of Amelia. My head hurts. With all of that in mind, I need to make sure I stay within the confines of the package I picked (that $259 package is looking better all the time). And I need to choose my pictures quickly. Amelia has just gotten a burst of punchy energy causing her to dart like a hummingbird singing "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." I could make this simple and choose one of the best pictures of Amelia and one of the best of Audrey, ordering several different sizes for each of the people on my list. But I'm reminded of my role as household historian and guilt myself into ordering most of the poses.
After 15 minutes Joanie asks, "Are you all set?" "I need to be," I resign. "I've decided on two 5x7s of P1 and one 3x5 of P2, P3, and E13. I'll also take three 3x3s…I mean 3x5s of E13 and P 5x7s of P10. Did I say, "P"? I mean three 5x7s of P10." I feel an irresistible urge to laugh uncontrollably. Just like how I would when my sister and I would get the giggles during the silent moments of a piano recital. "Will you throw in a few C3P0s while you’re at it?" I bust up. Joanie's not amused. She confirms, "Okay, so you want one sheet of 5x7s of P1…" "No." I interrupt. I'm serious again. "I want two 5x7s of P1." "You are aware that you get two 5x7s per sheet, aren't you?" She questions. I nod yes. "Okay then, two P1 5x7s, one P2, P3, and E13 3x5s, three E13 3x5s and three P10 5x7s, right?" I pause, not wanting to look her in the eye. "I'm so sorry. I thought my daughter had an accident, will you repeat that one more time?"
At last, at quarter to two we have ordered our pictures and are ready to go home.
A week later, I receive the pictures by e-mail and send them to my husband. "Hey honey, let me know which ones are your favorites, okay?" I write. I planned to frame two pictures for Father's Day. Since he didn't respond to the e-mail, I asked him later that night. "Hey, so which pictures do you like the best?" "Oh, right." He says. "Uhhh….The kids look really tired in those pictures, don't you think? Maybe next time you should think about getting an earlier appointment. You know, catch them in their happy window." I bite my tongue and nod, "Hmm. I hadn't thought of that."
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Comments
Over the course of the past couple months, a number of friends have told me that they read this blog regularly but don’t feel comfortable leaving comments. I’m glad they’ve shared this because it reminds me that I have been very lax about setting guidelines and communicating my standards for people leaving comments.
Rule #1:
Comments should either be profound enough to make me weep or witty enough to make me chuckle knowingly.
Rule #2:
Comments should be written in a style that is one or all of the following: eloquent, urbane, poetic, elegiac, subtly subversive, or avant-garde.
Rule #3:
Comments should be the perfect length, and you should know intuitively what that length is.
Rule #4:
This should go without saying, but comments should always be written with strict and unfailing adherence to the rules of grammar and punctuation.
Please be aware that I spend a great deal of time closely scrutinizing all of your comments and judging how well they follow said rules. So does everyone else reading this blog. If you fail to meet any of these standards successfully, we will laugh at you scornfully and feel ourselves to be far superior to you, you lame comment writer.**
**NOTE: So, yes, this was all an exercise in irony for me, but in case my skills aren’t up to the task or you somehow lead an irony-free life and enjoy heavy-handed literalism, here is the serious point I am making: I certainly don’t expect or need everyone to write comments (some of you just genuinely don’t have any and some of you prefer to comment in direct e-mails or conversation, which is totally fine), but if you ever feel the urge to write a comment and suppress it out of fear of it not being “good enough,” then please remember how ridiculous everything I wrote above really is and take that leap. I appreciate any and all comments whether you are responding in general to how a post made you feel, responding to a particular phrase/detail, sharing an experience or memory of your own, questioning or expanding an idea in a post, or whatever else you might feel to write. Any comment is a response, and any response is extremely gratifying because that means someone read the post and was affected enough to want to say something back. And this goes for the guest posts as well—don’t be scared to comment on them just because you don’t know the writer personally. Okay, I’ll stop the earnest lecturing now. It’s not nearly as fun as the ironic part.
Rule #1:
Comments should either be profound enough to make me weep or witty enough to make me chuckle knowingly.
Rule #2:
Comments should be written in a style that is one or all of the following: eloquent, urbane, poetic, elegiac, subtly subversive, or avant-garde.
Rule #3:
Comments should be the perfect length, and you should know intuitively what that length is.
Rule #4:
This should go without saying, but comments should always be written with strict and unfailing adherence to the rules of grammar and punctuation.
Please be aware that I spend a great deal of time closely scrutinizing all of your comments and judging how well they follow said rules. So does everyone else reading this blog. If you fail to meet any of these standards successfully, we will laugh at you scornfully and feel ourselves to be far superior to you, you lame comment writer.**
**NOTE: So, yes, this was all an exercise in irony for me, but in case my skills aren’t up to the task or you somehow lead an irony-free life and enjoy heavy-handed literalism, here is the serious point I am making: I certainly don’t expect or need everyone to write comments (some of you just genuinely don’t have any and some of you prefer to comment in direct e-mails or conversation, which is totally fine), but if you ever feel the urge to write a comment and suppress it out of fear of it not being “good enough,” then please remember how ridiculous everything I wrote above really is and take that leap. I appreciate any and all comments whether you are responding in general to how a post made you feel, responding to a particular phrase/detail, sharing an experience or memory of your own, questioning or expanding an idea in a post, or whatever else you might feel to write. Any comment is a response, and any response is extremely gratifying because that means someone read the post and was affected enough to want to say something back. And this goes for the guest posts as well—don’t be scared to comment on them just because you don’t know the writer personally. Okay, I’ll stop the earnest lecturing now. It’s not nearly as fun as the ironic part.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Thoughts on the Incarnation
I am part of a team at my church that helps plan liturgical elements for the Sunday morning services. As such, I’ve been spending some time in this improbable and hot month of August going through a book of poems by Luci Shaw about the incarnation to see if there is any material we might be able use in the Advent season. In the poem “Salutation,” which references Luke 1:39-45, Shaw writes:
Framed in light,
Mary sings through the doorway.
Elizabeth’s six-month joy
jumps , a palpable greeting,
a hidden first encounter
between son and Son.
And my heart turns over
when I meet Jesus
in you.
Yesterday afternoon I got a message that my grandpa is dying. I went to the hospital and sat for some time with him last night. I rested my hand on his head and leaned in close to his ear to tell him I loved him, to speak the names of all the family members who could not be there, to tell him the things about his life and presence in my life that I was thankful for. I don’t know how much he heard or understood. His hearing is quite poor even at the best of times and he had just been given doses of morphine and Atavan to help him rest comfortably. So I sat back in the chair and held his left hand in both of mine and slowly stroked the back of it, careful of the inserted tubes, noting the fragile crepe of his skin and the deep reddish blossoms of bruising climbing up his arm. As I watched his eyes droop closed despite his labored breathing and the fluttering pulse beating in his neck, I wished there were something more I could do. But there wasn’t. All I could do was be with him, holding his hand and praying for him, being a witness to this final struggle. And the longer I sat there, the more certain I became that this was enough.
When it comes to the incarnation, I think there is a tendency in modern evangelical Christianity to focus primarily on the issue of personal salvation, where the incarnation of Jesus becomes all about asking Jesus into one’s heart and then being transformed by that indwelling so that one can become “better” and live a more fulfilling life. That act of indwelling becomes a ticket to heaven with the added bonus of one’s own personal Life Coach God. But reading Shaw’s poem after the experience of sitting with my grandfather last night, the incarnation struck me in an entirely different way. Jesus’s incarnation doesn’t end with his own body dying and resurrecting but continues in the bodies of those who know and follow him, and he doesn’t indwell us to serve us but to serve those who surround us.
To so many people, Jesus is a fairy tale, a curse word, a joke to make action figures out of or to call a homeboy on a trendy t-shirt. Christians might shake their heads disapprovingly at this, but we often distance and use him for our own purposes as well. Perhaps the packaging is more pleasing and seemingly respectful, but the act of usage is the same. In claiming to serve him, we use him to better our lives, to justify our judgment of others, to name brand him in a separate subculture that divides us from the rest of society with bumper stickers, logos, and radio stations. We seem proud to declare that we are separate from the rest of the world. But in doing so, I think we separate ourselves from the true meaning of incarnation.
If Jesus really is indwelling me, then I do not need to have signs and proclamations declaring this. It should not mark me out in a divisive or condemning way or cause me to withdraw from the world. It should humble me and cause a joyful fear and trembling as it did in Mary, the first vessel of Jesus and his indwelling. Mary did not strive to do anything or announce anything to Elizabeth. She simply walked through a door with Jesus in her belly, and another baby leapt and Elizabeth rejoiced. I wanted to be able to do something yesterday for my grandpa but I couldn’t—at least not actively or tangibly in the sense of helping him breathe more easily or rest more comfortably. But I could be there. I could bring the presence of Christ through the doorway and to his bedside and touch his head and hand with it. Jesus isn’t just in my heart for my own comfort and guidance and to iron out all the petty wrinkles of my personal sins. He’s there for my Grandpa and for every other person I speak to, listen to, touch, or simply sit next to. His incarnation exists in me to bless others just as it exists in others to bless me, and it is in this way—not through bumper stickers, slogans, or my own personal clean and shiny life—that God is glorified.
Framed in light,
Mary sings through the doorway.
Elizabeth’s six-month joy
jumps , a palpable greeting,
a hidden first encounter
between son and Son.
And my heart turns over
when I meet Jesus
in you.
Yesterday afternoon I got a message that my grandpa is dying. I went to the hospital and sat for some time with him last night. I rested my hand on his head and leaned in close to his ear to tell him I loved him, to speak the names of all the family members who could not be there, to tell him the things about his life and presence in my life that I was thankful for. I don’t know how much he heard or understood. His hearing is quite poor even at the best of times and he had just been given doses of morphine and Atavan to help him rest comfortably. So I sat back in the chair and held his left hand in both of mine and slowly stroked the back of it, careful of the inserted tubes, noting the fragile crepe of his skin and the deep reddish blossoms of bruising climbing up his arm. As I watched his eyes droop closed despite his labored breathing and the fluttering pulse beating in his neck, I wished there were something more I could do. But there wasn’t. All I could do was be with him, holding his hand and praying for him, being a witness to this final struggle. And the longer I sat there, the more certain I became that this was enough.
When it comes to the incarnation, I think there is a tendency in modern evangelical Christianity to focus primarily on the issue of personal salvation, where the incarnation of Jesus becomes all about asking Jesus into one’s heart and then being transformed by that indwelling so that one can become “better” and live a more fulfilling life. That act of indwelling becomes a ticket to heaven with the added bonus of one’s own personal Life Coach God. But reading Shaw’s poem after the experience of sitting with my grandfather last night, the incarnation struck me in an entirely different way. Jesus’s incarnation doesn’t end with his own body dying and resurrecting but continues in the bodies of those who know and follow him, and he doesn’t indwell us to serve us but to serve those who surround us.
To so many people, Jesus is a fairy tale, a curse word, a joke to make action figures out of or to call a homeboy on a trendy t-shirt. Christians might shake their heads disapprovingly at this, but we often distance and use him for our own purposes as well. Perhaps the packaging is more pleasing and seemingly respectful, but the act of usage is the same. In claiming to serve him, we use him to better our lives, to justify our judgment of others, to name brand him in a separate subculture that divides us from the rest of society with bumper stickers, logos, and radio stations. We seem proud to declare that we are separate from the rest of the world. But in doing so, I think we separate ourselves from the true meaning of incarnation.
If Jesus really is indwelling me, then I do not need to have signs and proclamations declaring this. It should not mark me out in a divisive or condemning way or cause me to withdraw from the world. It should humble me and cause a joyful fear and trembling as it did in Mary, the first vessel of Jesus and his indwelling. Mary did not strive to do anything or announce anything to Elizabeth. She simply walked through a door with Jesus in her belly, and another baby leapt and Elizabeth rejoiced. I wanted to be able to do something yesterday for my grandpa but I couldn’t—at least not actively or tangibly in the sense of helping him breathe more easily or rest more comfortably. But I could be there. I could bring the presence of Christ through the doorway and to his bedside and touch his head and hand with it. Jesus isn’t just in my heart for my own comfort and guidance and to iron out all the petty wrinkles of my personal sins. He’s there for my Grandpa and for every other person I speak to, listen to, touch, or simply sit next to. His incarnation exists in me to bless others just as it exists in others to bless me, and it is in this way—not through bumper stickers, slogans, or my own personal clean and shiny life—that God is glorified.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Guest Post by Greg Stump
Here are my prayers.
I open my hands and send them up to you
but there are silences circling above
that swallow the words wholly
before it seems they can reach you.
So I delay any further release,
swatting away flies and covering them from the sun
while they sleep.
I wait to hear an opening above,
to send them in a quick ascent to you.
But the clouds come and go without noise,
I cannot even discern their movement.
Suddenly, twitching then thrashing
on the ground behind curtained tree branches
takes my attention away from prayer
and quickens my unwild heart.
Softly I see the bird, small and anxious,
hopping, as if to fly but unable.
A broken wing? Wounded by predator?
It moves in circles among the needles and dirt
without escaping and frantic.
Shame seeps out of my heart
since I know I will not help it—
afraid of being mistaken for an enemy,
of being bitten and disease,
of even holding some small alive thing
in my grasp that I don’t understand.
So instead I watch as it flails at pine and leaves,
leaping in an endless spiral of inability.
I look up toward the sky, doubly cursed,
and the clouds seem to be falling at me.
I turn back to watch the bird longer
and then I begin to see
what had been somehow hidden from me:
It is not trying to escape, but rather,
is building a nest.
Then the breeze moves over my hands
and my fingers turn loose
and my prayers fly over to rest
in the bed of leaves and earth,
cool beneath the shade of your wings.
I open my hands and send them up to you
but there are silences circling above
that swallow the words wholly
before it seems they can reach you.
So I delay any further release,
swatting away flies and covering them from the sun
while they sleep.
I wait to hear an opening above,
to send them in a quick ascent to you.
But the clouds come and go without noise,
I cannot even discern their movement.
Suddenly, twitching then thrashing
on the ground behind curtained tree branches
takes my attention away from prayer
and quickens my unwild heart.
Softly I see the bird, small and anxious,
hopping, as if to fly but unable.
A broken wing? Wounded by predator?
It moves in circles among the needles and dirt
without escaping and frantic.
Shame seeps out of my heart
since I know I will not help it—
afraid of being mistaken for an enemy,
of being bitten and disease,
of even holding some small alive thing
in my grasp that I don’t understand.
So instead I watch as it flails at pine and leaves,
leaping in an endless spiral of inability.
I look up toward the sky, doubly cursed,
and the clouds seem to be falling at me.
I turn back to watch the bird longer
and then I begin to see
what had been somehow hidden from me:
It is not trying to escape, but rather,
is building a nest.
Then the breeze moves over my hands
and my fingers turn loose
and my prayers fly over to rest
in the bed of leaves and earth,
cool beneath the shade of your wings.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Dream lives & broken sprinklers
A friend of mine recently made the observation that perhaps the reason time moves so slowly for children is that they live completely in the moment, while it speeds past for us adults because we are always thinking ahead and worrying about so many things at once. This reminded me of Jesus’s command not to worry about tomorrow and his suggestion that we should emulate children in our faith. I never made a connection between those two elements before but it seems an obvious and powerful one to me now. I have just come back from three weeks of living in the moment, so to speak—of living what in some ways is my dream life.
As I’ve been unpacking my suitcase and transferring loads of clothes from the washing machine to the dryer, I’ve been reflecting on what exactly made the past three weeks my dream life and why it is so hard for me to be back home. Usually, even after the best trips, I feel a kind of gladness and contentment in returning home. So far, I do not feel this. Part of it may be jet lag, part of it the fact that it is ridiculously hot here (90s), and part of it is that before I’d even drunk my first cup of tea this morning, I got a nasty note on my front door from the city that pretty much said, “Hey, loser, fix your damn sprinklers so they don’t flood so much water into the street and mess up the Thursday morning street cleaning.” Okay, so maybe it didn’t exactly say that, but it was close.
So back to the dream life I was in just a short while ago and what made it so wonderful. First of all, I loved being in such a beautiful physical environment—the lush greenery of the English countryside, the openness and space, the beauty of the architecture in the cities, and the rich history—depth and character present everywhere I looked. I also loved having such complete escape and freedom from all of my responsibilities at home—dealing with bills, cleaning, repairs, doctor’s appointments, phone calls, etc. I didn’t have to worry about gushing sprinklers and how to fix them. I didn’t have to think about work. I didn’t have to worry about returning the shoes I ordered that don’t fit. All I had to think about every morning was what wonderful things I wanted to visit and explore that day. Even though I usually had a rough plan in mind, I was able to make decisions moment by moment and focus completely on what was around me and just enjoying and absorbing it. I got to be Katherine outside of my usual context—Katherine the traveler and explorer and nothing else.
Finally, I was writing about it all and loving it. All writing, I believe, is a process of moving deeper into oneself while simultaneously reaching out to connect with others. I think writers yearn for publication not just for recognition and validation (although those are powerful and often dominant motivators) but also for connection, to have someone out there read their words and be moved by them in some way or other. I connect with authors and their hearts and thoughts all the time as a reader and get to know them on some level even though they might be long dead and/or we’ll never meet face to face. All writers write for themselves, but they are also writing for a reader even if that reader is one merely hoped for and the texts end up in a drawer or hard drive somewhere never to see the light of day. Or at least that’s what I think. I am still so hesitant to call myself a writer and claim the right to speak as one.
Case in point: when I was experiencing technical difficulties at my B&B in Keswick and was trying to communicate to the owner how important it was for me to be able to connect to the internet and continue my blog, I blurted out, “I’m a writer!” The minute her expression changed to one of respect and she said, “Really?” I felt like the biggest fraud. “Well, I do some freelance writing, mainly for non-profits,” I amended, and then added, “My profession is actually teaching—I’m a high school English teacher. Writing is kind of a hobby. I'm just doing a little blog while I travel.” I was completely babbling at this point and finally stopped myself before I could downgrade all the way to, “I type.”
I met two “real” writers during the course of my travels. The first had just won a very prestigious award from the British government for her work and the second had been in England for a month doing research for her next novel, which is to be set in England in the 1860s. I look at them and the gulf between where I am and where they are seems too wide and deep for me to ever get across. They have lives I both covet and believe are impossible for me to ever achieve. It isn’t just that I believe they must have considerably more talent than I have, but also that they must somehow know secrets that I don’t—the password into the world of being published. But that is both an exaggeration and oversimplification. I think, perhaps, what both of these women have besides talent is the drive and commitment to pursue it. They have made writing their lives and I’m sure there was a great deal of hard work and frustration that went into doing that that I am not aware of and that I am afraid to fully commit myself to.
I look at friends of mine who are yearning writers, painters, musicians, dancers, and actors. We dabble and we dream, but we hesitate to name ourselves in those ways and to give ourselves those identities. But I am beginning to suspect that until we do, we really won’t ever be able to cross that gulf into the “real.”
I seem to have ventured away from the ideas I began with, but I think the two are somehow related—living in the moment and writing, freedom from anxiety and burdens and a clearer sense of self. I want to bring some of those elements of what I experienced and how I felt during those three weeks traveling in England back into my life here in tacky and too hot Anaheim. But first I need to go figure out how to fix my sprinkler heads.
As I’ve been unpacking my suitcase and transferring loads of clothes from the washing machine to the dryer, I’ve been reflecting on what exactly made the past three weeks my dream life and why it is so hard for me to be back home. Usually, even after the best trips, I feel a kind of gladness and contentment in returning home. So far, I do not feel this. Part of it may be jet lag, part of it the fact that it is ridiculously hot here (90s), and part of it is that before I’d even drunk my first cup of tea this morning, I got a nasty note on my front door from the city that pretty much said, “Hey, loser, fix your damn sprinklers so they don’t flood so much water into the street and mess up the Thursday morning street cleaning.” Okay, so maybe it didn’t exactly say that, but it was close.
So back to the dream life I was in just a short while ago and what made it so wonderful. First of all, I loved being in such a beautiful physical environment—the lush greenery of the English countryside, the openness and space, the beauty of the architecture in the cities, and the rich history—depth and character present everywhere I looked. I also loved having such complete escape and freedom from all of my responsibilities at home—dealing with bills, cleaning, repairs, doctor’s appointments, phone calls, etc. I didn’t have to worry about gushing sprinklers and how to fix them. I didn’t have to think about work. I didn’t have to worry about returning the shoes I ordered that don’t fit. All I had to think about every morning was what wonderful things I wanted to visit and explore that day. Even though I usually had a rough plan in mind, I was able to make decisions moment by moment and focus completely on what was around me and just enjoying and absorbing it. I got to be Katherine outside of my usual context—Katherine the traveler and explorer and nothing else.
Finally, I was writing about it all and loving it. All writing, I believe, is a process of moving deeper into oneself while simultaneously reaching out to connect with others. I think writers yearn for publication not just for recognition and validation (although those are powerful and often dominant motivators) but also for connection, to have someone out there read their words and be moved by them in some way or other. I connect with authors and their hearts and thoughts all the time as a reader and get to know them on some level even though they might be long dead and/or we’ll never meet face to face. All writers write for themselves, but they are also writing for a reader even if that reader is one merely hoped for and the texts end up in a drawer or hard drive somewhere never to see the light of day. Or at least that’s what I think. I am still so hesitant to call myself a writer and claim the right to speak as one.
Case in point: when I was experiencing technical difficulties at my B&B in Keswick and was trying to communicate to the owner how important it was for me to be able to connect to the internet and continue my blog, I blurted out, “I’m a writer!” The minute her expression changed to one of respect and she said, “Really?” I felt like the biggest fraud. “Well, I do some freelance writing, mainly for non-profits,” I amended, and then added, “My profession is actually teaching—I’m a high school English teacher. Writing is kind of a hobby. I'm just doing a little blog while I travel.” I was completely babbling at this point and finally stopped myself before I could downgrade all the way to, “I type.”
I met two “real” writers during the course of my travels. The first had just won a very prestigious award from the British government for her work and the second had been in England for a month doing research for her next novel, which is to be set in England in the 1860s. I look at them and the gulf between where I am and where they are seems too wide and deep for me to ever get across. They have lives I both covet and believe are impossible for me to ever achieve. It isn’t just that I believe they must have considerably more talent than I have, but also that they must somehow know secrets that I don’t—the password into the world of being published. But that is both an exaggeration and oversimplification. I think, perhaps, what both of these women have besides talent is the drive and commitment to pursue it. They have made writing their lives and I’m sure there was a great deal of hard work and frustration that went into doing that that I am not aware of and that I am afraid to fully commit myself to.
I look at friends of mine who are yearning writers, painters, musicians, dancers, and actors. We dabble and we dream, but we hesitate to name ourselves in those ways and to give ourselves those identities. But I am beginning to suspect that until we do, we really won’t ever be able to cross that gulf into the “real.”
I seem to have ventured away from the ideas I began with, but I think the two are somehow related—living in the moment and writing, freedom from anxiety and burdens and a clearer sense of self. I want to bring some of those elements of what I experienced and how I felt during those three weeks traveling in England back into my life here in tacky and too hot Anaheim. But first I need to go figure out how to fix my sprinkler heads.
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