Musical Bridge

"I never feel age ... 

If you have creative work, you don't have age or time."

-- Louise Nevelson

Last Saturday my friend Rick and I had the privilege of playing a tribute to Woody Guthrie for a small group of folks at a local retirement community. In the shade of a large Oak tree we played and sang Woody's dust bowl ballads and work songs, shared stories about Woody's life, and drank spiked lemonade. Our guests sang along with true heart and soul to every song they knew the words to. And at the end they thanked us warmly for coming and sharing this music with them. But I'll betcha not one of them felt more gratitude than I did.

The event was organized by a woman named Judy from my church. She heard me sing Woody Guthrie's song, "Deportee" one Sunday morning and began a campaign to get me to help her create this small event. For weeks she pestered me about it. She loved Woody Guthrie and wanted to celebrate his 100th birthday with her friends and his music. I put her off for several weeks. I had a busy summer planned, I said. I have to work, I have an exchange student coming, I'll be away on vacation for Woody's birthday. But she would not let up. Eventually she won me over (or wore me down). And what I began with reluctance, I finished with pure joy.

Of course learning some new Woody Guthrie songs and researching his life was fun and interesting, but the best part of this experience were the connections I made with Judy and her friends. I learned that Judy was a bit of a radical when she was a college student at Antioch University in Ohio. She became a Unitarian Universalist just two years ago after meeting our Minister Emeritus who is a resident of her retirement community. And she feels right at home in our congregation of liberal free thinkers. She is charming, funny, determined, generous, and likes to shake things up a bit. When she offered me a cup of lemonade spiked with gin before I sang, I knew this woman and I could be good friends.

When Rick and I finished our set something really magical happened. One of Judy's friends, a frail looking man with a North Carolina accent, came up with his guitar and a small well worn notebook filled with typewritten songs (as in typed on a typewriter). He got out his guitar and invited us to join him on "Down By The Riverside." I harmonized and Rick played guitar with him. And this lovely gentleman came to life. We played more songs together with Judy and a few others adding their wise voices to the mix. When we finished, this dear man said we had made his day. But you know what? I'd arm wrestle him  over who received more joy from that experience. I felt like I was the one who was handed a rare gift. 

And then I thought, why does this have to be rare? I'm going back as soon as I can to sing more songs with these wonderful people. Thank you, dear Judy, for pestering me. You knew what was good for me.

Time To Bang Some Pans

101 California Street Shootings is the name given to a mass shooting that took place July 1, 1993 in San Francisco, California, claiming the lives of nine people, including the shooter. The killings sparked a number of legal and legislative actions that were precursors to the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act, H.R.3355, 103rd Congress (1994). The Act took effect in 1994, and expired on September 13, 2004, through the operation of a sunset provision. (Wikipedia)

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In 1993 I worked as a claim's assistant for an insurance brokerage firm on the 22nd floor of a San Francisco high rise at 50 California Street. It was mind numbing work, but it paid the rent. The brokers I worked for were young, ostentatiously rich, foul mouthed and loud, politically and socially conservative, yet surprisingly supportive of this liberal psychology student processing claims to get through graduate school. I was a fish out of water in that world of designer suits and three martini lunches.


But on the afternoon of July 1, 1993 all differences between us were temporarily erased. On that afternoon we were all simply human, all equally vulnerable, and all stunned as we stood in our conference room, watching stretchers with the bodies of dead and wounded people being carried out of the office building across the street. 


It began with an alert that shots had been fired in the 101 California Street building. As a precaution, our building was locked down. Radios were tuned to news stations in an attempt to figure out what was going on. My friend Wayne worked in the 101 California Street building. I repeatedly tried to call him but phones were not being answered. Wayne's wife Sarah would not hear from him for some time. Fortunately, he was safe on another floor of the building. It would be several hours before the police would discover the gunman in a stairwell, dead from a self-inflicted gun shot wound, after he had taken the lives of eight people and wounded six more. No clear motive was found, only a largely unintelligible letter left by the gunman including a list of odd complaints and bizarre accusations. 


The recent shooting spree in Aurora, Colorado, took me back to that day in 1993. I experienced the same horror and outrage I felt on that frightening summer afternoon. And shame too. Shame for my country. How is it possible for a mentally ill man to obtain a semiautomatic assault rifle more easily than a motorcycle driver's license? I don't know how Wayne LaPierre, executive vice president of and spokesman for the National Rifle Association sleeps at night, or how he or anyone else can use the second amendment to justify the sale of assault rifles to the general public. We can all point our fingers at the NRA and the politicians beholden to them (and we should), but we also need to look at other cultural influences that lead to these tragedies.


While the vast majority of people with mental illness are not violent, we need to look at how we as a society view, treat, and contribute to the type of mental illness that would lead a young man like James Holmes to open fire in a movie theater. While mental illnesses occur all over the world, definitions, understanding of cause, stigmatization, treatment, and even the expression of symptoms are culture bound.


In a January, 2010 article in the New York Times magazine entitled, The Americanization of Mental Illness (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/10/magazine/10psyche-t.html?pagewanted=all), writer Ethan Watters says, "we can become psychologically unhinged for many reasons that are common to all, like personal traumas, social upheavals or biochemical imbalances in our brains. Modern science has begun to reveal these causes. Whatever the trigger, however, the ill individual and those around him invariably rely on cultural beliefs and stories to understand what is happening. Those stories, whether they tell of spirit possession, semen loss or serotonin depletion, predict and shape the course of the illness in dramatic and often counterintuitive ways."


We are a culture that places rugged individualism over interdependence. We are a culture where celebrity is highly prized. We are a culture that marginalizes our mentally ill and regularly cuts funding for treatment, resulting in higher and higher numbers of mentally ill people living on the streets untreated and self medicating their symptoms with alcohol or illegal drugs. And, sadly, we are a culture that cares more about protecting our individual "freedom" to own any kind of gun we choose than protecting our citizens, particularly the most vulnerable among us. Is it really any surprise that this tragedy occurred? I think it's surprising that it doesn't happen more often.


I do not have any easy answers. But that does not mean I should sit on my hands and do nothing. I agree with writer Anne Lamott's response to this recent tragedy when she says, "All I can think to do is what we've always done. We work towards peace and non-violence. We register voters. We create art and music in the face of madness. We light candles. The praying people pray: Lord have mercy. The meditating people meditate. We create Love and beauty as radical acts. We take care of the poor, and teach people to read and write. And as Molly Ivins would urge us to do if she were still here, we bang our pans. We rise up, peacefully, take to the streets and we bang our pans and we make a ruckus, and we stop this war, too." 


May the banging of pans begin in earnest.

Keeping the Shark Alive

"Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. 

Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then."

 --Katharine Hepburn

A couple of weeks ago, I shared a reflection at my Unitarian church about the wisdom I received from one of the disabled students I work with. The things I learned from her were: Everyone wants to be seen, everyone wants to be heard, everyone wants to be touched, and patience gives you time to really see, hear, and care for a person.

I think I do a pretty good job putting these lessons into practice.... 

At work.

At home? Well, I have a confession to make. I am not always very nice to my husband. Sometimes, by the end of the day, I'm tired of being patient and understanding. I'm done being nice. But why is that? I don't think I'm alone in this. Why is it sometimes so hard to be nice to the people we're closest too? Why do the people who know us the best, bring out the worst in us? 

I don't have any easy answers. If I did, I'd probably be a nicer person. I'm hoping some of you will have some answers that might help all of us married people. I have a few thoughts though. I think a lot has to do with with the mundane, day to day chores and tasks of family life. They take up a lot of time. And it's easy to neglect spending quality time with your spouse when you've got kids to raise. But we do so at our own peril. When we don't make time to just be together (without kids, bills, chores) we forget what brought us together in the first place. He becomes the guy who leaves the bread and jam out on the counter every morning. And I become the woman who squeezes the toothpaste tube the wrong way. 

So I want to take a look at those lessons I learned from my student again:

Everyone wants to be seen: I think my husband would like me to see him as more than the guy who cleans the cat litter box. I KNOW I would like him to see me as more than just the woman who never has dinner ready when he wants to eat. I think we both want to be seen for the things we are passionate about. What brings him to life? What makes me light up? Where is the spark in each of us?

Everyone wants to be heard: Sometimes I forget to ask my husband about his day. I'm guessing he would like me to ask him how he feels more often. He'd probably really like me to listen to the stories from his day that made him smile, laugh, feel frustrated, angry. Really listen and ask questions. This is how he spends his days after all, and therefore his life. I would like him to be interested in hearing about the things that excite me. I would like him to be curious about me.

Everyone wants to be touched: We've been married a long time. We forget to give each other a kiss when we say goodbye, a hug when we return. When was the last time we held hands? Why don't I ever offer to rub his back when he looks tired? I firmly believe people need touch to feel cared for. 

Patience gives you time to really see, hear, and care for a person: Ah patience. That means slowing down and being fully present, letting things unfold as they may. That is so hard to practice with work and kids, bills and chores. I'm sure my husband would appreciate it if I didn't always sound like I was annoyed with him. I know he would like it if I slowed down, made more time for him. 

Marriage is not for the faint of heart. As Woody Allen says in Annie Hall, “A relationship, I think, is like a shark, you know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.”  Our shark is not dead. But I think marriage means spending a lot of time resuscitating that shark. And I think kindness is necessary for basic life support. I'm going to try to remember that.

Annie Hall shark scene: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RFH9_M0OaY

Soul Food

"Eat your bread with joy;

Drink your wine with a merry heart."

--Ecclesiastes 9:7

There was a period of time in my twenties when I began each day with a cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a birth control pill. I ate too, toast or cereal. I was never one of those women who "forgot" to eat. But the daily essentials were the coffee, to wake me up after not nearly enough hours of sleep, the cigarette, to feed my self image as a tragically hip, urban young woman, and the pill, to minimize the consequences of some of that tragic hipness. While this breakfast of champions provided the essential nutrients for a dramatic, brooding lifestyle, it was thin gruel for the soul.


I lived in a house in the lower Haight Street district of San Francisco. Anywhere from five to seven people might be staying there at any one time, but only three of us were paying rent. The others included various friends, boyfriends, and friends of boyfriends. As you might guess, it was not the most wholesome environment. The dishes were never done, people were often hungover, the nights went on too long. For those of us who had jobs, the mornings were cruel.


Still, we managed to create moments of connection to sustain us. I could wander into Marsha's room on any weeknight at 6:00 and flop down on her bed to watch "Family Ties." (Though Marsha's boyfriend had a stiff black mohawk, she had a thing for Michael J. Fox). Molly lifted my spirits many times with a good story, a listening ear, and a soft, enveloping hug. Bobby could always make me laugh. And on many Sundays we gathered for pasta with marinara sauce and several glasses of Gallo Hearty Burgundy to share stories (often embellished) from our weekend adventures.  We were a messy, chaotic, dramatic, family of sorts.


I still love my friends from those days. Like siblings, we helped each other grow up. None the less, that life was far more draining than fulfilling. I was never really at home in that world of nightclubs, speed freaks, and cool indifference. I spent a lot of time in my head brooding and imagining different lives, knowing that I would not stay there long. That lower Haight Street world was a hollow one with a brittle shell. It had a lot of drama, but drama does not provide much sustenance.


Today my life could not be more different. I am greeted by a veritable banquet of food for the soul every day. I still start the day with a good cup of coffee, but the cigarettes are long gone, the pill no longer necessary. My life contains the ingredients of a hearty, soulful soup now: Family, close friends, an incredible religious community, fulfilling work, a good dog, abundant natural beauty, music, writing, and so much more. There is far less drama in my day to day life, but my soul never goes to bed hungry.

Collision Course?

"...I thought of one true thing, 

which is that sometimes I act as juvenile as I ever did, 

but as I get older, I do it for shorter periods of time."

-- Anne Lamott

My daughter Frances is 14, fresh from middle school and eager to move on to the next phase of her life. This summer she is taking huge leaps and bounds toward maturity and independence. So far, she is taking them with grace. She started taking Japanese at the community college this week, three hours a day. Today she took the city bus to and from her class for the first time. I started taking the city bus to orthodontist appointments in the fifth grade, but somehow this seemed like a big step to me when she did it today.  She got through a whole day, doing new and challenging things, hardly needing me at all. Later this summer she will be travelling to Japan with three other teens. It's hard to imagine her so far away, an ocean between us. But I am so excited for her. She is growing up, trying her wings, and it is thrilling to watch.


Frances has dreams. She is learning to play the guitar and she practices late at night in her room. She is imagining a future, full of possibilities. All of adulthood lies in front of her. I have dreams too. I have been playing my guitar in my room at night recently, writing songs for the first time in a very long time. My dreams are smaller now, pocket sized compared to adolescent dreams. When I was 14, I wanted to be a famous singer or writer. Now I just want to sing and write. Just because I love to do these things. You can keep the fame. I don't think I was cut out for it anyway.


We tend to focus on the turmoil of adolescence and midlife. And it's true that people make bad choices and take careless risks during these transitional times. Emotions run high, hormones are throwing a kegger inside our bodies. Frankly I was a little frightened at the prospect of navigating midlife at the same time my daughter was navigating adolescence. Would either of us be mature enough to handle it? Would we be on a collision course, hormones in the driver's seat? Would I be able to keep a cool head? Would I try to play out my dreams through her in some twisted unhealthy way? Would I be jealous that she has it all in front of her and hasn't had time to screw things up yet?


We're early into this phase right now, but I'm optimistic. In some ways Frances and I want the same thing: A little time to explore who we are and what brings us to life, a little loosening of the tethers that have bound us together through her childhood. I'm sure there will be some challenging mother daughter moments in the years to come. But I have faith in Frances. She has a good head on her shoulders and she makes good decisions. And I have faith in myself. I have a pretty good head on my shoulders too.  I don't want midlife to be about regret and the mourning of lost dreams. I don't want to wear clothes that are too tight for me and try to hide my age by borrowing my teenager's makeup. I want midlife to be about possibility. I don't want to high jack Frances' dreams. I want to show her that it is never too late to find what you love. 

Clutter and Mess

"Don't touch my stuff.

I know right where everything is.

What you're callin' a mess

is my organizational system."

--Zach Gill, Don't Touch My Stuff

I am not a neat person. I admit it. You would not find housekeeping anywhere on a list of my talents. Sentimentality, procrastination, poor time management skills, the teeniest tendency toward hording, a lack of DIY skills, and downright laziness conspire against any fantasy I might have of a house that will one day be discovered by Sunset magazine. 


Paper enters the house at an alarming rate. It multiplies in baskets and piles all over the house. Orgies of bills, school notices, old homework, sheet music, junk mail, retirement statements, and check stubs all wait (or rather riot) for someone to discipline them. Open any closet and you will be assaulted by all manner of toys, backpacks, pictures, clothes, and random "stuff," unceremoniously shoved inside in half assed attempts at housecleaning. There's almost always laundry waiting to be washed or folded and dishes in the sink. Housecleaning is so darn Sisyphean. I hate that.


Here's the thing though. While I am ready to stand up and testify at any slobs anonymous meeting, my dear husband holds on to the fantasy that he is a beacon of cleanliness and organization in our family. He is the Savior and, if only the kids and I would follow in his footsteps, we would find salvation from the tyranny of clutter and mess that rules our home. I'm here to tell you this is just not true. I need only point to the growing pile of mail that is currently preventing him from joining the family at the dining room table, or the unworn 1970s fashions that still hang in his closet. It took both of us to conceive our children, my dear. And it took both of us to conceive this mess.


It's all about priorities. I'm not claiming any higher ground here, but given the choice between cleaning the bathroom and going on a long walk with friends on a beautiful afternoon, I will choose the latter in a heartbeat. There are piles of laundry staring me in the face right now, but I would so much rather write about them than wash them. And I hate to call my husband out on this (actually I love to call him out on this), but I have watched his pile of mail grow while he sits contentedly in the backyard with a beer after a long run on the beach.


I actually subscribe to Sunset magazine. My husband calls it porn, pure fantasy. I prefer to think of it as inspirational reading. Maybe someday we'll find a way to strike a balance between long walks and a clean bathroom. With a little acceptance and a lot of patience, I'd like to think we can create a home we love. Anyway, doesn't Sunset do home makeovers? Sign us up!


I

Waking Up

"... Except for paying attention, 

what else is continual prayer?"

-- Samuel Green, The Grace of Necessity

8:47 AM. This morning I have the gift of time. Nowhere I have to be. Nothing to do that can't wait a couple of hours. This is what I have done so far. 

I stumbled downstairs, my brain still wrapped in its thick fleece robe, not eager to wake up. I took note that the day was starting out sunny and warm, June gloom apparently on holiday somewhere up the coast. I smelled the coffee before I poured a cup, feeling grateful to my husband for making it every morning. (I'm not quite capable of making coffee until I've had coffee.) I decided to take my cup outside and take advantage of this glorious morning.

Stepping out the front door all of my senses began to wake up, the way they do when I crawl out of a tent on a camping trip. I felt the cool morning air on my bare arms. I heard the birds and the neighbors bustling about in their morning routines. I noticed the sun illuminating the leaves on my two Japanese Maple trees, one with green leaves, one with red, and remembered planting each of those trees, amazed by how much they have grown in a few short years.

My dog Zeke padded outside and requested a belly scratch. I obliged and then he stretched out at my feet, my loyal companion. I smelled the comforting aroma of morning coffee with each sip and felt the caffeine waking my sleepy brain. A gust of cool air caught me in its path, lifting my hair off my shoulders before gently letting it fall back. I wondered when the inevitable summer fog would return.  

I picked up the book I received in the mail just a few days ago. It had been waiting patiently for me, calling to me with its' new book smell and crisp, stiff cover: The Pen and the Bell: Mindful Writing in a Busy World, by Brenda Miller and Holly J. Hughes. After reading the first chapter I knew I'd found the perfect inspiration for writing this summer. 

Back inside I brewed another pot of coffee, awake now and able to appreciate the ritual of measuring the water, grinding the beans. Listening to the gurgle of the coffee maker, I turned on the computer. And when the coffee was ready, I sat down to write.

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Confession: Postcards from Tuesday is appearing on Thursday this week because I was sucked into an episode of the BBC show, Sherlock on Tuesday night, a fun summer diversion if ever there was one.