Striving For ... Good Enough

"If you wait for perfect conditions, you will never get anything done."

~ Ecclesiastes 11:4

Before we walked on stage to sing together, my friend Mari would say two things: "Loud and Proud" and "Wrong and Strong." She would shout them out and we would laugh, releasing a lot of tension.  They became mantras for us, reminding us that we didn't have to be perfect; we just had to go out there and give it our best shot. Of course we were never perfect, but we were always good enough. And if we were having a good time and could laugh at ourselves, people loved us.

Loud and Proud and Wrong and Strong have become more than just mantras for performing. They've become life mantras for me. My house is a mess, I am chronically late, my kids spend too much time on the computer, I don't exercise regularly, my husband and I have unresolved marital issues, I procrastinate, I have poor money management skills, the dog has dreadlocks from lack of proper grooming, and I don't floss regularly, just to name a few of the many ways in which I fall short of perfection. BUT, I am good enough.

I have decided to make it my mission to model imperfection. I've wasted a lot of time not doing things I love out of fear that I would not be good enough. I am done with that. Life, as they say, is too short. I'm not planning to take up skydiving anytime soon, and I won't summit Everest in this lifetime. But I would like to have people over for dinner, even though the house is far from spotless. And I am going to perform my newly written songs at an open mic even though my guitar playing is mediocre. I just want to try to live a little more authentically, doing the things I love and sharing them with other people imperfectly. As my hero, Anne Lamott says, "Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people." If I can help just one person take one small step out of their fear and into their dreams, my mission will be a success.

I am going to publish this post. It isn't perfect, but if I wait for perfection I will never write another word. I'm going to bed now. It's good enough.

Black Is Beautiful

“Everybody can be great...because anybody can serve. 

You don't have to have a college degree to serve. 

You don't have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. 

You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”

~Martin Luther King Jr.

Picture a petite, very blond, nine year old girl as she walks into her fourth grade classroom. The year is 1971. She is wearing a plaid dress with a bow tied in the back, red knee socks, and brown "school shoes." She is also wearing a large, gaudy pendant on a  long, faux gold chain. On one side of the pendant is a drawing of the continent of Africa. On the other side (the side proudly displayed for all to see) is the bust of an African woman and the words "Black Is Beautiful."  A shy girl, she takes her seat and waits nervously for her teacher to notice her pendant and love her for it.

In fourth grade my world expanded. That was the year I learned that Jewish people didn't celebrate Christmas. This was mind blowing news to me, not on religious grounds per se, but at nine years old, I simply could not conceive of a faith devoid of Santa Claus, Christmas trees, and presents. Fourth grade was also the year of Miss Young, my exuberant, inspiring, African American teacher, the first African American person I knew personally. Growing up in Santa Barbara, California, where there are still only a smattering of African Americans, Miss Young captured my attention and my imagination right from the start.

When Miss Young walked into the room, you knew it. First of all, she was likely to be the only black face among a sea of white faces, but it was much more than that. She was a large woman who wore colorful African dashikis and turbans. She swayed gracefully when she walked and had a warm, enveloping laugh. And she was on a mission. She wanted her mostly white class to learn, really learn, about black history and the civil rights movements.

I'm sure Miss Young taught us some multiplication tables and the difference between a verb and an adjective in fourth grade. But what I remember vividly are the stories she told us about Rosa Parks, Harriet Tubman, and Martin Luther King Jr. I remember learning about a brave young girl named Ruby Bridges who had to be escorted to her newly integrated school by the National Guard, and whose presence emptied the school of its white students for a time. I remember thinking the underground railroad to free slaves was a real railroad and wondered how it was built. And I remember listening to Martin Luther King Jr. exclaim, "I have a dream" for the first time.

With these stories Miss Young opened up a world of everyday people turned heroes, of courage and principles, of triumph and devastating loss and tragedy. For the first time we learned that right and wrong were not always clear cut, and that sometimes you had to break the law to do the right thing. As the daughter of a law enforcement officer, this was hard for me to grasp. But I got it. I could not find what was moral and just about laws that forced people to give up their seats on the bus, use separate entrances, attend separate schools, and drink from separate drinking fountains simply because they had black skin. 

While my world was expanding in fourth grade, it was also shifting off its foundation. This was the year my parents separated. As my father packed to move to his new apartment he gave me small treasures he came across in his closet and dresser drawers: A coin from the US Mint, a black and white photo of him making a speech at the local Kiwanis Club, and a large gaudy pendant on a fake gold chain with the words "Black is Beautiful" emblazoned on it. My father was a narcotics officer. It is likely that prized pendant of mine came from a drug bust. But I loved it all the same, because I knew Miss Young would love it, and me by extension.

Timid though I was, I wore that great big pendant to school with pride. And when Miss Young told me it was beautiful, I lit up inside. She was everything I wasn't: Bold, proud, confident. And black. She was solid in a world that was often unpredictable. I wish I knew where Miss Young was today. I would like to thank her for the lessons she taught me about fairness, equality, justice and courage. She taught me the importance of standing up for what is right. And that love is stronger than hate. I may not have memorized my multiplication tables in fourth grade, but I memorized these lessons. Thank you, Miss Young.

Another Crying In Your Beer Song

"Songwriting's a weird game."

~Keith Richards

Years ago I was sitting in a cafe in San Francisco with a couple of friends. It was a small place, maybe eight to ten closely spaced tables. We were trying to have a conversation but were distracted by a young woman playing the guitar and singing not ten feet from our table. She was singing her own compositions, all of which were incredibly depressing and self-absorbed, and she was emoting all over the place. Eyes closed, head lolling forward, she sang as if she were unconscious of her latte drinking audience. It seemed to me we should leave this poor woman alone. Or hook her up with some serious antidepressants. Never one to have clear boundaries, I blushed with embarrassment for her. I think we all wanted to light a cigarette when she finally finished her painful set. And none of us even smoked!

I'm sure I was embarrassed by this woman's performance in part because it hit a little too close to home, reminding me of my own self-obsessed song writing and moments of emotional over-exposure. Take, for instance, the time I met a guy on a flight between San Francisco and Santa Barbara and then later scared the crap out of him by writing a lovesick ballad about him. Talk about drama and self-absorption.

I was 23 years old, about to fly home to Santa Barbara for Christmas. While waiting in the airport, I spotted this cute guy about my age and we began engaging in some serious flirty eye contact. We didn't talk to each other, but the electricity between us was definitely sparking. Finally it was time to board the plane and I found my seat, hoping maybe I'd run into this guy when we reached the Santa Barbara airport. The next thing I know, he was standing in the aisle next to my seat, literally double checking his ticket in disbelief. By some miracle of United Airlines ticketing, we were seated right next to each other. Neither of us could contain our excitement. We immediately launched into a conversation and, by the time we landed, we had exchanged phone numbers and planned to meet in San Francisco in a few weeks. I felt like I was in a romantic comedy.

Well, leave it to me to take a moment right out of When Harry Met Sally and turn it into a scene from Wuthering Heights. In the weeks leading up to his visit, I wrote the most depressing, obsessed song about meeting someone on a plane in the history of the song writing world. I'm sure the lyrics and minor chords made me sound desperate and emotionally unstable. Of course I WAS desperate and emotionally unstable in those days, and song writing was a good release. However, it was definitely not in my best interest to play this particular depressing song for a young man I hoped to win over with my romantic charms. But play it I did. And the awkward silence that followed my performance left me wanting to plunge to the pavement from my 5th floor apartment. Fortunately I DID smoke back then, so I lit a cigarette instead.

That song (which was called "The Next Flight Out") was one of the last songs I wrote before laying down my song writing pen for about 25 years. But several months ago, inspired by a friend, I picked that pen back up and dusted it off. Since then I have written eight or nine songs. I have even performed one or two of them at open mics and, most recently, at church.  And here's the thing. Almost all of them are sad love ballads. I can't help it. I'm a sucker for a weepy love song. They are just so darn satisfying to sing. And, let's face it, anyone who's over the age of thirty has plenty of relationship-gone-wrong material to draw on and embellish.

Given that the vast majority of pop songs, country music, and arias are love songs, I guess I am not alone in my need for these songs. They are cathartic to listen to and to sing. They help us reach down to our deepest most human longings. I think that's a good thing. I've learned a couple of things in the past 25 years that I hope show up in my songs though. Unlike my 23 year old self and that poor young woman in the cafe, I know that feelings of  longing, desire, disappointment, and loss are not unique to me, and they are usually not terminal. They are part of the human experience. And I think  music is one of the best ways to share that experience. When I sing a weepy love song, I promise I will share it with my eyes open. And if it makes you want to cry in your beer? Well then, the first one's on me.

Retreat

“Sacred space and sacred time and something joyous to do is all we need. 
Almost anything then becomes a continuous and increasing joy.”

~Joseph Campbell

I woke up to the sound of the surf right outside my window this morning. I opened my eyes and looked out at the fog blanketing the beach, early morning surfers riding the waves, seagulls perched on the dock. I started a pot of coffee and took my dog, Zeke,  out on the deck, the fresh salty air waking up my sleepy senses. Zeke's nose worked hard to gather up all the scents of this new place as we wandered around in the damp morning. When we came back inside, the smell of fresh coffee greeted me, inviting me to pour myself a cup. I sat down and breathed in the peacefulness of this morning. 

Wow. 

As Anne Lamott says, Wow is a complete prayer.

I am spending the week in the guest apartment of a friend of mine, just me and Zeke, my laptop, my guitar, some recording equipment, and a lot of books. There are a few friends I hope to see, but mostly I'm here for some much needed solitude. I plan to write and read, hopefully record a couple of songs I've written, and maybe write a couple more. Zeke and I will take walks on the beach and watch the surfers. It will be time out of time. Sacred time.

This week long retreat is a belated 50th birthday gift to myself. And it is truly a gift. It is of course difficult for anyone with a job and a family to manage a week alone, but I think it's important to find that sacred time and space whenever we are able to, even if it's only an hour here and there. Too often our lives go by in a blur of activity. We need time to reflect like we need air to breathe. Reflection feeds our souls, inspires creativity, reminds us of all we have to be grateful for. Sacred time. I urge you to find a little today if you can.

Well, there's a guy about to power wash the deck outside. My morning shower will have to wait. The shower in this studio is pretty much open to the front window! That's OK though. Time for some breakfast and then Zeke and I will take our first beach walk of the day. Don't be surprised if you receive another "postcard" from me this week. Writing is one of my spiritual practices, after all. And sharing my thoughts with you is something that brings me "continuous and increasing joy."

Wow.

A Fresh Start? Up to You

"Some people seem to understand this - that life and change take time -
 but I am not one of those people."

~Anne Lamott

Well, it's New Year's Day 2013. While enjoying my friend Paul's delicious homemade Pozole earlier this evening, I had the opportunity to catch up with my old friend Jay. He reminded me that I attended his first birthday party. We have photographic evidence of this event, a black and white snapshot of the two of us sitting in a lawn chair. Jay is holding a football, and I am trying my best to pull it away from him, asserting my need for control even then.  I don't know if I succeeded in getting that ball, but I do know I have gotten many wonderful things as a result of knowing Jay. Some thirty years ago, he invited me into his group of friends and they became my friends too. We have shared romances, marriages, children, divorces, more marriages and, well, just life. We have been through lots of beginnings and endings with each other, most of which we could not have imagined.

Most endings and beginnings are not as predictable and tidy as the change of the clock from 11:59 PM, December 31 to 12:00 AM, January 1. Most fresh starts are not as simple as hanging a new calendar on the wall. They are usually tangled up together, the old and the new. And, while I am not very happy about this, I find that often I am not in control of when things end and when they begin. If I were, the demarcation between the two would be much clearer and there would be a lot less loss and grief. No one asked my opinion, however, so here we are. Beginnings and endings are rarely tidy.

The beginning of a new year is so arbitrary, however, that we do get a bit of a choice. We've got this calendar. It's got twelve pages. When we reach the end we go to the book store or one of those pop-up calendar stores at the mall and get a new one. Voila, a fresh start. ... or not. With a new year, we actually get a little say on just how fresh we want that start to be. Some people make a lot of fuss over resolutions. Some do not. Some people attend parties, countdown the minutes until midnight, watch the ball drop and pop the champagne. Some people go to bed at 9:00. You get to decide how much hoopla surrounds this particular beginning. And you get to decide if this is a good time to start something new or let go of something old.

At my Unitarian church we have monthly themes for our worship services. January's theme is Release. I'm working on a reflection on that theme for this Sunday. And I'm sure I'll be writing more about it here as well. Essentially, I see release as an opportunity to let something go to make room for something new. And I think there are at least two kinds of release. There's the kind that's like releasing a bird from a cage, a bird that carries away what no longer fits for you — self criticism, an impasse with your partner — lightening your load, and lifting your spirits as it flies. 

And then there's the other kind of release. In my experience release is often like tearing my heart open and watching a small wounded animal crawl out. And though I can’t save it, I keep clinging to it, pulling it back, because this animal — which may be an unhealthy relationship, a bad habit, a job that no longer fits — has become a familiar part of my life. And it's scary to let go of the familiar, even when it is too far gone to save. This kind of release does not fly. It limps. I don't know about the rest of you, but I seem to experience limping a lot more often than flying when it comes to release. But that's OK. Making room for something new and healthy is worth the struggle.

So, it's a new year. We've got some choices to make. Maybe things are humming along nicely for you right now. You don't want to make any resolutions or release anything. That's great. On the other hand, if you want to make room for something new, maybe you need to think about what's getting in the way. And maybe you won't know, probably you won't know, what you're making room for. Because whatever we release, one of the things that often goes with it is the illusion of control. 

Whatever you decide, I hope 2013 has plenty of peace, and opportunities for growth, and lots of love in store for you. Happy New Year to you all.

What Kind of Light Can I Provide?

In times of deep darkness, we not only need light—we need to BE light for one another. 
That's a message we must take to heart as we find ourselves lost once again
in the all-too-familiar darkness of America's culture of violence.

~Parker Palmer

Somehow I managed to make it until Friday evening before learning about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. I had opted to listen to The Be Good Tanyas and Leonard Cohen in the car that day rather than NPR. But when I got home and opened Facebook, I was instantly overwhelmed by a flood of posts about this tragic incident, a flood that I quickly got swept up in. It seemed that none of us knew what to do other than share articles and statistics, express outrage with political memes, sadness with Rumi quotes. But soon enough all this posting and sharing began to feel like binge eating. We could stuff ourselves with information and opinions, but it would not diminish the loss and pain.

When I could finally read and post no more, I turned off the computer feeling numb. I was overwhelmed by too many words when there were really no words that could possibly express the sadness, anger, helplessness, and grief I was feeling. On Saturday I threw myself into pulling weeds, sweeping the yard, vacuuming the living room, moving Christmas boxes to the garage. The more physical and mindless the work, the better. You know that if I start cleaning with that kind of fervor, something is up.  Perhaps this was a more honest expression of my feelings, a physical release of some of that emotion. 

I did not cry until Sunday. The children's production of "The Latke That Wouldn't Stop Screaming" continued as planned at church. We needed to see children in cardboard costumes. We needed to hear a story that reminds us that everyone belongs somewhere. We needed to be reminded that there is still plenty of love and light, joy and laughter in the world. 

This is not what made me cry, however.

Aaron and Julia, the ministers at my Unitarian church knew people would need someplace to go with the stew of feelings this tragedy left them with. They provided such a place in the second service Sunday morning, beginning with 26 minutes of silent meditation or prayer, interrupted only by the sound of a bell each minute—one clear, resonant ring for each person who died in the shooting. There were a few words, but not too many. There would be plenty of time for words in the weeks and months to come. 

I had a hard time settling my mind during the silence and I simply could not process any more words. The music that morning touched me deeply, but what broke me open and made me cry was the rending of cloth. The rending of garments, or Keriah, is an ancient Jewish mourning ritual, a sanctioned and ritualized act of destruction in the face of grief. One description I read suggested that the rent garment represents the torn heart of the mourner. 

We did not rend our garments. But Julia and Aaron gave us white muslin and asked us to tear strips when the cloth was passed to us. The growing sound of fabric tearing was the sound of hearts being torn open. It was the sound of anguish and grief. The resistance of the muslin as I tore my strips released my anger and my tears. That was when I finally cried for those children and their teachers.

We tied strips of muslin around each other's arms to wear that day in honor of those who died. I am still wearing mine. Frankly, I am afraid to take it off. I know how easy it is to get caught up in the business of day to day life, to "forget" how important this is. Christmas is a week away. I need to finish shopping. I want to share holiday traditions with my family and sing with my choir on Christmas Eve. December is all about the promise of light out of darkness. Hanukkah, the winter solstice, Christmas are all about the promise of light. And I want to remember that promise. But I do NOT want to forget this tragedy. 

So I'm going to keep wearing this small piece of cloth around my arm until after the holidays so I will remember. Because we simply cannot go back to sleep until the next horrible shooting. If we do, then we are as guilty as the next shooter. What we can do is listen deeply to each other, even when we disagree (especially when we disagree). We can sign petitions, write letters, march in the streets, make some noise. And we can start building a culture of respect and kindness, one act at a time, one day at a time. We can choose to be part of the promise of light out of this darkness. As author Parker Palmer posted on Facebook this morning, everyday we can ask ourselves, "What kind of light can I provide today?" 

Grace and the Christmas Fish

"Christmas is for children. But it is for grownups too. 
Even if it is a headache, a chore, and nightmare, 

it is a period of necessary defrosting 

of chill and hide-bound hearts." 

~ Lenora Weber, writer

'Tis the season for sentimentality and cynicism. Christmas comes rolling in like a giant out-of-control snowball before we've even finished washing the Thanksgiving dishes and keeps picking up speed as it crashes through December. I can be grumpy, frantic, joyful, tearful, pissed off, or peaceful, sometimes all in the same day during the Christmas season. With luck, I usually recover sometime mid January.

I married Ebeneezer Scrooge. It may say Paul Kretschmer on our marriage license, but that's just an alias. Paul would probably choose dental surgery over most Christmas activities, so the bulk of the Christmas chores land on my To Do list. Today he surprised me though. He told me he likes our Christmas mornings. He likes watching the kids open presents, he thinks Santa makes good choices for them, he appreciates that they are grateful for what they receive. Part of me thought, isn't that nice. A much larger part wanted to say, you DO know Santa isn't real, don't you? Somebody has to actually shop for and wrap those presents, the same somebody who considers putting coal in your stocking every year.

I like Christmas. Really I do. But I'm feeling a little blue this December. I'm missing my children. I've sort of gotten used to Scrooge. But what happened to the two people who have given me the most holiday joy over the years?  At twelve and (almost) fifteen, Miles and Frances are suddenly jaded and apathetic about the whole thing, well everything but the gifts. They showed about as much enthusiasm for decorating the tree last weekend as they do for clearing the dinner table. Yet, it wasn't that long ago that their excitement over holiday traditions and their giddy anticipation of Santa's arrival were what kept me going this time of year. And it wasn't that long ago that there was a little magic in our Christmas.

When Frances was nine years old, she and Miles sat down to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but that year Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. I thought a letter might help keep Mr. Claus around awhile longer. I wasn't ready to let Santa out of the bag yet, so I kept silent as Frances pondered questions like, how does Santa manage to cover all that territory in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from stores if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for outright lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do you think?  And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

So letters to Santa were written. Among other things, Frances asked for a fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put it in the mailbox and went about our decorating, baking, and nightly reading of our many Christmas books. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. Besides, I didn't want her to ruin the magic for Miles. I'm a firm believer in childhood magic. There's plenty of time for reality when you grow up.  As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "The realm of enchantment is open to us all, if we are willing to step over the threshold." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids and for me too.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could this be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us. It made no sense. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances into the room. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. She opened the package. There was a copy of her letter and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair and sensible shoes choosing Frances' letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I've named her Grace. I can picture her shopping for the chocolates and coming up with a clever way to give Frances a fish. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a Beta fish named Harry Water. Harry was part of the family for several years.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like in The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace gave us one more year with Santa Claus.

May you find a little magic and grace in your holidays this year.