Serendipitousness

I remember my daughter coming home from school a number of years ago using the word 'random' to excess. Suddenly everything was random. And it drove me crazy. (Do you remember "like" from the eighties? Do you remember "like" from last week?)

Random was a perfectly good word before everyone started throwing it around all misappropriation-like. I called foul! 'Vocabulary Abuse.'

"Wow, that was so random!" she would exclaim.
I love you Sweetie, but if you say 'random' one more time tonight I'm going to do something, I'm not sure what. But when I'm done, you'll be saying "Wow, that was so premeditated!"

There are some blog posts for which there is no rhyme or reason. So naturally, today as this one was cooking in my head I kept thinking of the word 'random' but the vocabulary trauma I've sustained is too great and I just can't use it for my title. Besides deep down, I am not sure I believe in random. Quite the opposite, in fact.

That being said....

• Lately my hair has a will of its own. And it seems no matter what I do, I still walk out the door each day with a bit of Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction going on. It really has no correlation with my energy, so if you pass my in the hall try not to be frightened. I promise I will not harm you in any way. No retraining order needed. Your pet rabbit is safe with me.
  



• Today I sat in a restaurant enjoying a quiet bit of breakfast when I noticed that Bonnie Raitt was singing Angel From Montgomery "Just give me one thing that I can hold onto," from the speakers over my head. Then Joni Mitchel sang Help Me, "I think I'm falling in love again. When I get that crazy feeling, I know I'm in trouble again." After genius Joni, the Beatles came on and I'm thinking this is going to be a good day! I can feel it. As soon as I leave here, I'm going to go buy a lottery ticket. But then the Eagles began Desperado. "I hate the fucking Eagles, man!" Enough said.
  



• I spoke to someone earlier who works in a public library; he said today he overheard a teen boy and teen girl talking in the stacks. And everything was 'epic.' This book is so epic, that book is so epic. Then the boy picks up a book and says, "This is kind of epic."



• In spite of the aforementioned Eagles, today was a better day than yesterday. For this I am grateful.



• Fall Colors: Time to change from Pompeii Purple to An Affair In Red Square.
  


• Today I walked past a huge bin of books that are to be disposed. On the top of the pile was the book: The Care of Fine Books

Remind me you're out there, when you get a moment.

Where Did I Put My Barbie Mask?

I can't remember the source but once I heard a statistic about people's greatest fear. It was years ago and I was probably sitting at my desk in the corner of my room with the mindless drone of the television somewhere behind me.


According to the survey people's number one fear is being found out as a fraud.
Without another word of explanation, I understood exactly. A bell rang within me.


You'd think the number one fear in our country would be death or physical suffering, the loss of a loved one, economic failure or if the commercials are to be believed that you be found drinking an uncool brand of beer or driving an inferior car. But the minute the news reporter or commentator said fraud, I knew.


It is not fraud as in embezzlement or scamming an insurance company. Nor mail fraud or bank fraud. But something perhaps more common and insidious.


Roughly, the definition of fraud is a deliberate deception of another to obtain something unjustly.

So if our greatest fear is that someone discover that we are a fraud then we must have a sense that we are frauds already. We must believe it our self. I think I find it amazing that people were willing to even admit this as a fear. But upon hearing the statistic, I knew it was me. That I feel like a fraud. On a very basic, functional level everything feels like an act. A front. That the real stuff is too raw and frightening to reveal. But that mostly we do not let ourselves think about it. That we have to behave in a certain manner to be allowed. To exist.


But that if we showed our true center, we would not be allowed.





One of the most startling quotes I've ever read is by Marianne Williamson:


"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.' We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." (A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of "A Course in Miracles", Harper Collins, 1992. From Chapter 7, Section 3])



Somehow these two are related within me. Connected. Even as they seem to stand in direct opposition of each other, I feel a fuzzy symbiotic relationship.

It's true; my greatest fear is to be discovered a fraud and that I am powerful beyond measure.

I have yet to work this out. Does this resonate with you at all? Or am I barking?

Things We Said Today

Is there any better way to start a blog post than with a Beatles' title? I think we both know the answer to that question.

Lately I've given a lot of thought to all the things we tend not to say.
The truth we tend not to tell.

For instance, and this is a purely hypothetical scenario, say you have a co-worker that you consider a friend. A welcome smile in the murky Black Sea of the work place. This friend is someone you genuinely enjoy. Someone with whom you get along well. And easily. The jokes come freely and frequently. You may actually depend on this person to make your job more tolerable. Hypothetically, of course.

But then suddenly, you realize it's been a couple days since you've heard from this person. You don't run into each other in the same way you usually do. You shoot a clever, irreverent email but there's no reply. You wait a bit. Who knows, right? Sometimes people have bad days, bad weeks, bad careers at work. They don't feel like being social, cheerful and such. Sometimes people take vacations. Are out sick. Right? Right.

More time goes by but somehow things do not feel the same. You begin to suspect that maybe something is 'wrong.' Did I say something to offend this person? Did I step over some invisible line?

Now, keep in mind that this purely hypothetical person is NOT a close personal friend. They are, however, one of your favorite people at work. Someone with whom you can't wait to joke about some ridiculous thing. A person with whom it's okay to be yourself within the social restraints of work. But this is not someone with whom you can sit down and trust with your heart wide open. And now this is a problem.

Because with that intimate, personal friend you can say the words "Feels like something's up between us. Things feel different and I want to make sure we're all good. Did I hurt your feelings? Or offend you some how?" With a good friend you should be able to do this. (Although I'm not sure how often we do...)

I believe in this type of honesty. I love clear air. If I care for someone and I believe they care for me, then the air between us becomes priority. Even urgent, at times. I have the most difficult time with things that hang in the air between myself and someone that I like and appreciate.

I don't give a shit about things that hang in the air between myself and the asshole who cut me off in traffic five seconds ago.
Between myself and the people at work who seem to go out of their way to make my job more frustrating and difficult.
Between myself and someone who has proven them self to be a small, overcompensating, arrogant prick. The air between those people and me can be filled with the entire contents of the Smithsonian for all I care.

But for those people whom I appreciate and treasure, on whatever level, clear air is my goal. I hate, hate, hate the feeling that something is off with someone for whom I'm grateful. It will keep me up at night. Drive me to distraction, wracking my brain trying to figure out what I might have said or not said. Done or not done that may have left something in the air between us.

The problem inherent with this hypothetical situation, along with many actual situations just like it, is a social expectation for deception. We are actually expected to lie.

"Hey, Erika. I haven't heard from you in a while. Is every thing okay? Are you upset with me?"

You and I both know that the expected reply to a question such as this is an adamant, "No, no. I'm fine. Everything is good." Even if the truth is something completely different.

Seriously, what is Erika going to say? "Well now that you mention it, I am quite pissed at you." Right. Who really speaks truth in such cases?

Now my purpose in this post is not to vent about someone at work (so stop trying to figure it out), I said hypothetical remember? But instead to express my sadness that we can't just talk to each other. That we are discouraged from being true. So many layers of social correctness. Our ever-present social shields standing strong to protect us from genuine interactions that might put us at risk.

Do you ever wish you could just speak straight to someone? Because they're worth it. Because you are. Just release the restraints. Then trust that they can take it? Do you wish? I do.

Don't Believe Everything You Think

I 'blog' almost constantly. In my head.
A running monologue. An unequal mix of Johnny Carson, Jerry Seinfeld, Janeane Garofalo and Tony Shaloub as Monk.

My mind is continually talking to you here, in the form of a potential blog post topic. They all start with a slow simmer, I add a few more ingredients: pinches and splashes of stuff to bolster the basic mixture. Turn up the heat. Until we are at a rolling boil.

But more often than not, by the time I sit down to write, or dish up, the stew has become cold and congealed. There are very few things in the world that are better in their congealed form. I don't even like typing the word congealed. So no more of that.

Where is the Mother of Invention when I need her?

No one appreciates new gadgety technology more than I do. Actually that is not true. Most everyone appreciates it more than I do. Is it ironic that I work in IT but am mostly just annoyed with new tech stuff? Or is it just a coincidence? (Can you explain the difference?)

That being said, when someone invents the software or app or whatever that will convert my thinking directly into my blog, or a best selling novel or whatever, that is when I will be happy to stand in the glorious Seattle rain, outside Best Buy all night to be the first in line. Debit or Credit?

Did you know that in my head there are no 'whatevers' at all?

As a matter of fact, in my head, all of my prose (on my blogs or elsewhere) is perfectly spelled, punctuated and appropriately grammarized. I am ever witty, clever and original. Each point eloquently articulate and fascinating. In my head.

And even when I do manage to get something down on paper. Okay not paper, but you know what I mean. It often feels like a mess of mixed metaphors and dangling participles. What happened to the way it was laid out in my head? Who thinks up this shit?

Everyone Has a Perfectly Carved Ass

I am blessed.

Perhaps not with a perfectly carved ass, depending on your definition of 'perfectly.' And 'carved.'

But I am blessed.

With a wonderful Writer's Group. We formed perhaps nine years ago. It was one of those wonderful happenstance kind of creations that later you look back upon and say, "How did I get so lucky?" All women and all wonderful.

I love you all: Darcy, Joan, Marcella, Katherine, Kristina, Karla and Laura. The last two of which have gone another direction for a while but whom I still hold in my Writer's Group Heart.

At one of our magic meetings in Joan's Mother of all Sanctuary Garden Gatherings, quite a few years ago, the subject of what we don't write came up. Subjects or genres with which we are uncomfortable or in which we suck. We all have our areas of comfort and expertise.

But yet, less spoken of, we all have our areas of avoidance and perhaps fear.
I won't launder everyone else's confessions here. Just my own. We spoke that night about challenging ourselves. Perhaps a homework assignment that required us to come to the next meeting with a piece of work that was beyond our precious perimeters of preference. There was a lot of 'Well. now, I don't knows' muttered and a few toes stubbed into the dirt. So it was never agreed upon and therefore never happened.

Except that I went home wondering about the two things I mentioned. My preference is definitely fiction. But within that predilection, there were two things I had never written. Never been brave enough to try.
Sex and violence.

"Elle, do you think I've never been published because I don't write about sex or violence?"
"Spencer, have you ever submitted any of your writing for publication?"
"No, I haven't."
"That's why you've never been published."

Excuse me.

I looked back on my fiction up to that point and found no sign of sex or violence. In fact, even in my reading choices, I'd skim over the violence. (I never skimmed over the sex scenes however, I totally dog-eared those pages.) Even in a book I was otherwise enjoying thoroughly, the violence made me uncomfortable.

With this new realization in my system, I decided to push the Barbie Envelope. I sat down specifically to write a sex scene. I'm trying now to remember what that first story was but am not sure. Doesn't matter.

I loved it. It was the most playful, lively, energized writing I'd done in ages. I loved it. My mind started having little plot planning parties in my head as I drove to the store. As I balanced my check book. As I did all kinds of 'other' things, my mind was starting little wild fires. It was great. Still is. I love writing erotica. The imagination center of my brain goes a little crazy sometimes.

This being true, it is also a fact that I can be quite chicken at the same time. I might be a little bit afraid to write what really comes to mind. I have that chronic and contagious writer's curse: What will people THINK?? I picture the reaction of my co-workers, my extended family, MY CHILDREN!

As brave as I like to think I am, I might also be a big baby. (Oh wait, I just remembered that first erotic story: guy and a girl alone on the second floor of an antique store. Title: "How Brave Are You?" Then when they go down stairs to leave they see the bank of TVs recording all corners of the store. Makes me blush thinking about it even now. And it was a very mild, tame start.)

As erotica goes, my stuff could be quite soft. Or so Midge said. She said maybe I should not be allowed to call it Erotica, that I could surely do better. (Can't you just hear her saying this. Loud and in front of the entire IT department?)

Feeling like I'd come up against the wall of fear, that I'd written as brazenly as I could, I decided to read some of the library's erotic material and challenge myself again. Boy, that stuff is the shit! Vocabulary up your every orifice. Orifices that are named and nicknamed and renamed. Words I had to go look up on Urbandictionary.com

Excuse me, I'm easily distracted.

So I was reading up on my craft, right? A bit of research. And expanding what comes natural to me, I was reading lesbian erotica, gay erotica, group stuff, extremely extreme stuff. Okay, not extremely extreme, just moderately extreme but still. It tested my sensibilities. And my other things. I wanted to learn what I didn't know of first hand.

I confess I liked it. I looked forward to it. I had to ILL some of it because many of 'our' copies were missing and non-existent but I gathered, none the less.

I transferred some to a Nook. Not the coziest reading experience but even so.

Like any genre, there's good stuff and wretched stuff. What I didn't find a slew of was GREAT stuff.

I found it was just over the top too often. Writers trying to see how far they could go. Edgy for the sake of edgy. They lost me with this style.

Then it was sometimes just TOO MUCH. Not believable. I need to be able to buy into it. To relate. To potentially insert myself into the story if I feel so inclined. I swear the ass in every story was perfectly carved. Every cock HUGE! Every boob was full and perky and...and...and other things that 'perfect' boobs are. (In my experience, it's unusual to have REAL tits that are full AND perky. Either they are full and weighty in your hand OR they are light-hearted and perky. Ergo, if they are both full and perky they are probably Man-Made breasts, and I cannot emphasize the word MAN here strongly enough.)

This is not real, people. Bodies are imperfect. That is what we love about them, isn't it? We fall for the details, the imperfections. The mole on Marilyn Monroe's cheek was an 'imperfection' that made her face perfect!

I need erotic story lines that breathe truth. How erotic is a scenario that you KNOW can never happen. For me, as it turns out, not erotic at all. I'll see what I can do about this.

No Place Like Home

Is it just me or does it feel like so much more than ten years? Can you remember a time before?

Of the countless things that changed because of September 11, 2001, I had hoped to be one. My desire was palpable. In the days immediately following 9/11, my thoughts were continually arrested by my desire that the horrifying attacks would have a life changing effect on me. Some kind of change for the better. Not a change toward fear and paranoia. Paralysis.

But such that I would see the value of life more clearly, that the desires of my heart would rise to the top of my consciousness and overrule the ordinary, daily behaviour trenches I'd dug over time. That my actions would, from then on, be a true reflection of my core values and of the notes of my soul.

It was so important to me that I be profoundly changed. It was an ache. That I be able to take this incomprehensible series of catastrophic events and make something positive on a personal level. That my life never be the same. I journalled and I prayed. I wished and I wrote. I cried and I prayed some more.

Tears for the pain of the images on the news. The fliers and posters with faces of the 'missing.' The oppressive national grief. The destruction and rubble. The tireless energy of the digging and excavating. I cried and I watched for the moment.


The coverage. The news, the commentary, Oprah. People on the screen of my TV telling me they would never be the same. I believed them and wanted that too. I watched the celebrity fund raising specials. I wrote. I waited. But I felt only sadness. No awakening. No new found determination. Just overwhelming and deadening sadness.


At the same time, flags were suddenly everywhere. American flags painted and draped on anything. Americans openly proclaiming love of their homeland. Unabashed displays of emotion. In all my years, I had never seen my country so unified. It was stunning. Startling even. But served as a balm to my heart. It helped me breathe.

I was not raised in a particularly patriotic environment. My childhood, my family, the political air of that time leaned away from patriotism. Vietnam, Richard Nixon, the activism of the late Sixties, early Seventies. 'Love' and appreciation for country was not of high importance. Culturally, when 'cool' was paramount, it was seen as uncool to show blatant and open patriotism.

We were not a family of a strong military focus. My grandfather served in the Navy during World War II but never spoke of it.

In the weeks following that Tuesday in 2001, anything remotely patriotic made me weep. Do you remember how it was? Movies, songs, books. Everything became red, white and blue. Mostly genuine but also plenty of opportunistic marketing. I wept regardless. Uncontrollably. I felt utterly helpless. Not a comfortable emotion for a control freak like myself.

But I decided I loved my spanking new patriotism. I embraced it. I had never become emotional during the playing of the National anthem before 9/11. I never noticed where flags were flown, displayed, worn. Holidays like Memorial Day, Veteran's Day had always been lost on me. I was a child, a young girl, a woman who had taken her country, her citizenship for granted. But I'd suddenly become a puddle of grief and love and gratitude for my home.

In the months, even years since 2001, as the depth of my gratitude for country increased, I kept waiting, watching for my big change. That personal epiphany that would alter the course of my life. (I smile back at my belief.) And all along my patriotism grew and solidified. I watched for opportunities to thank the military patrons who came into my branch around Veteran's Day, the Fourth of July, Memorial Day. The anniversaries of September 11th. Teary and grateful, shaking their hands. I wrote a public piece on Veteran's Day for a blog at work a few years ago. It felt so good to nurture this side of myself.

Yet over time I began to criticize myself for the personal transformation that never happened. What kind of shallow, un-evolved soul must I be that 9/11 had not changed me at all?

My grandfather died on February 4th. This year. He was 94 years old. There is a great deal of harsh truth to say about this man that will go unsaid here. For now and for the most part.
He was buried with honors. I had never been to a military funeral.

I was undone.

My grandfather, with whom I had an intense and difficult relationship, was laid to rest in such a way as to bring about a life awareness I had failed to see before.

I would love nothing more than to fully and accurately articulate to you what the service was like but I can not. I probably was not meant to wrap it up in any kind of bow.

You cannot imagine, however, how startled I am to say that it was the most profound and moving moment of my life.

This statement includes:

• the birth of my children,




• watching my infant son being wheeled into open heart surgery,
  



• then with great relief watching him wheeled back out six hours later.

This includes the night I sat next to someone as they drew their very last breath.

I stood in that cemetery with my family and the honor guard and have never been so moved. So deeply affected by one moment. Military personnel who volunteer for these services dressed in full dress uniform. Mostly sailors. Standing at strict attention to honor this veteran they never knew. When the gun salute went off, a cry came from deep within me that I was helpless to contain.

You know that scene near the end of The Wizard of Oz where Glinda explains that Dorothy doesn't need her help? That Dorothy had what she was longing for right there with her all along. I had my change immediately following 9/11. The moments the flags first appeared that day. Something I had all along but never stopped to appreciate before. My country. My citizenship. My home, given me at birth.

With her sometimes crazy, insane administrators. With some unthinkable political directions and decision: past, present and future. With all of her glory and flaws, arrogance, in her successes and broken parts, with her often bewildering and misplaced priorities, I love my country. I never knew this before September 11, 2001.

POST SCRIPT:

In an attempt to continue my healing, every year for the past ten years I've found different ways to stop.

I've stopped to write:

• Among other things, in 2007 - http://myscarletletters.blogspot.com/2007/09/september-11.html

I've stopped to read:

• Joe McNally's Faces Of Ground Zero
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

• Watching the World Change by David Friend.

I've stopped to watch documentaries:

• PBS Frontline's - Faith and Doubt at Ground Zero




• The Man Who Predicted 9/11 which includes compelling interviews with Rick Rescorla. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rick_Rescorla
  

I've stopped by way of fiction:

• The movie Reign Over Me with Adam Sandler
  



• The novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
  

During my Tillicum Library years, I spent days gathering and arranging September 11th library material in our display window. It was a helpful, healing display, more so for me than for anyone who happened by.

Most years I stop at nearby fire stations to leave flowers. I hope that it was appreciated by the fire fighters at the stations but it was I who most needed the act. The search for healing.

This year was a little different for me this way, but that is another post for another day.

I hope you remembered to stop.

July 24th 2011

Willy Wonka:
But Charlie, don't forgot what happened to the man who suddenly got every thing he always wanted.

Charlie:
What happened?

Willy Wonka:
He lived happily ever after.