As I was given the gift of time this morning, to catch up with an "old" friend, my day began on a note of renewal and with that, a desire to examine something bigger. As the day progressed, I was surprised by how easily the universe merged events to make that happen. I'm once again struck by the nature of people who have to deal with the unimaginable and I am awestruck by their ability to grieve and even accept what is happening to them, both while it is happening and after the fact. Their strength gives me hope and their hardships, maybe even ironically, give me faith.
I haven't had to suffer hardships. I am the product of middle class parents and I was fortunate enough to grow up in a good neighborhood where it was typical to stay out until "the streetlights" came on and not have to have your parents checking on you to make sure that you weren't kidnapped or that some crazy ass pedophile had dragged you into their basement. My parents paid for me to go to college and I was taken to church, to girl scouts, to grandparents' houses. Incidentally, I still have three grandparents and I'm 41. Unusual to say the least. I grew up with aunts and uncles and cousins around and even today, I run into people all the time who I grew up with or who I played soccer with; hell, the mayor of Torrance was one of my all time favorite AYSO coaches when I was a kid and I am friends with his daughter! Sometimes my upbringing makes me think of that Waltonesque kind of small town existence and although Torrance has certainly changed, it is still not without that small town feel and today was no exception. I am fortunate, I know that and I try very hard to not take things for granted. But, as I was speaking with a woman tonight, who has become a close friend (again, I am lucky), I was reminded that sometimes I have to make a conscious effort to not take those I love for granted and to step back and forgive those who take me for granted. Today and tonight, with two different stories of two completely different people, one who I've met and one who I haven't, I am forced to consider my faith once again; in myself, in people and in God.
Being without hardships growing up does not a better person make, but, if one has perspective or if one gains it as she grows and learns, then I think that she will develop the empathy that could potentially propel her to a level of understanding where her own personal experiences don't matter as much as HOW she reacts to others and the struggles that they are facing. It is a conscious choice that one makes; are you sorry? Or, do you actually feel sorrow; when you walk away after hearing the story, does it make you want to help, does it make you want to care, does it make you wish that you could close your eyes, put your hands together and pray them back to themselves? Maybe it doesn't do any of those things and maybe you just walk away, glad that it isn't you, but still feeling "bad" for what the family is going through. Does that make you a superficial person? Does it make you without empathy? Or, does it just make you human? I'm inclined to believe that it could be all of them.
I was raised a Catholic, which, meaning "universal" doesn't do much for me, just as a definition. I mean, we're all human. Hence, "universal"; doesn't really do anything for me to bind me to the person next door you know? But what my parents gave me and what the church has given me, through Mass and through the Sacraments and through the steadfast hands of teachers, coaches and religious education and, most importantly, through a crisis of faith in my early adult years, I've arrived at a place where I understand how my faith serves me and how it serves those who know me. I used to think that everyone who wasn't a Catholic was taking the express elevator straight to hell. I mean, we are the chosen people, are we not? But, after years of listening and talking and reading and research, I now understand that it isn't the institution, it's the message and, more than that, it's the person sending the message. If you had nuns beating your hands with rulers or priests who were taking you into the rectory without your consent, then the message certainly was something altogether different and, it goes without saying, unspeakable. But, if you had someone who handed you a Bible when you were 7 and who told you that it was okay to question things that you'd read and to ask when something didn't make sense or if you had a priest tell you, when you were 20 and weeping in the confessional about how you were starting to lose your faith and that you didn't know where to turn, that it was good to question your faith, that it would make you stronger in the end, when you needed it the most, because when you accepted it, if you did, that it would then matter. To have people like that to guide you, well, let's just say, faith is renewed in the examples of those people. One of my favorite neighbors, who was my eighth grade CCD teacher, Mr. Ben Aranda who passed away several years ago, gave us report cards. He gave us actual grades for a once a week religion class and he told us to remember why we'd gotten the grade that we had and I learned more from that man about the power of faith, just by his example than anything he ever read from a book. I miss him, as do many of those in my community these days, especially his family and those kids he helped to learn about God.
I remember making a decision to accept that there are many kinds of faith and that it isn't about a building; a synagogue and a church are the same to me. Even, currently the debate over the construction of the Mosque so close to the 9/11 site. Not all is one and one is not all. I guess, because faith is not religion to me, religion does not then define my faith; it is simply a piece of the puzzle that connects me to the God I believe in and to the beliefs that define me. I've been taught many things that I'd like to forget. I've learned how to hate, how to hold a grudge, how to be cruel, spiteful, racist and vain. And while I'm not proud of any of those things, I am proud of the fact that I recognize them as weaknesses and I make a conscious effort to try not to be or to do them. Sometimes I fail and then I pray or I ask for forgiveness or I kiss my children, but I remind myself that to believe in something, is to simply believe that something is possible.
Today, I watched a gathering of people, who were trying to raise money for a boy, now a man, with a family of his own, who suffers needlessly from a disease that will take his life early and, you know, it's unfair. When you hear his story, you immediately want to ask, "Why him?" or you want to say, "God, that poor guy" but then, you read his blog or you meet him or you talk to his friends or family and, it's like an answer has been revealed. Jason will die, just like we all will and he knows from what and maybe even when and yes, he will leave behind his wife and his young son and many, many people who love him. And, it's completely unfair; it just is. But listening to people talk about him today and reading his words as he's chronicled his life with ALS and remembering him as a kid, I'm learning from him, even though I haven't seen him or spoken to him in many years. And through his suffering and through his eventual death, I've learned that some people are chosen because of their abilities to exemplify dignity, decency, promise, hope and, faith. Jason is a man of substance and his struggle binds us all together and makes us realize that life is fleeting and passing by so quickly. And,that maybe, if we just stopped, and looked around, that those days of staying out until dark would somehow bring us back to that place of worship that we all long for; a desire to connect with one another and to be a part of something bigger. Through Jason's journey, he's brought people and lives together that might have never been re-connected and the courage that he has displayed in his physical, emotional and mental struggle is no less than astounding. For me, he both personifies and humanizes faith. He's made me believe that it all counts, every second and there is never a moment when you have to say, "I can't take it back or I don't want to apologize"; you can always take it back, you can always apologize. It's never too late. It means something to me to write it down because he means something to me; his whole family does. I pray for Jason and his family and I pray not that he won't die, but, instead, I pray that he finds some peace knowing that his journey has changed many lives and that his son, through all of the people who know and love his father, will learn what a wonderful human being Jason is... I pray that Jason has faith in the moments when he doubts it the most and I pray that his family does too.
Maybe faith isn't something that comes from what you've learned, but instead from what you haven't. It's like swinging on a vine and then reaching for the next one, knowing it's there, within reach, but then, not really sure if you're going to catch it. By repeating the process, as the vines continue to be there, pretty soon you just swing without looking, that is, until one is missing or broken or isn't where it's supposed to be, maybe shorter or old or longer than it should have been, then your faith is tested once again, hopefully until the day that you reach again and your hand clasps a strong, green, vibrant vine... maybe it really is that simple. But maybe, if it were that simple, then there would be no reason to believe at all. Maybe it has to be difficult and challenging and painful in order for it to have meaning and, really, couldn't we say that about anything worthwhile in life?
Lastly, a friend and I had a conversation about children and love and God today. And, it wasn't a long talk, but listening to her and watching her face as she told me a heart-wrenching story and how very personal it was, I was once again humbled by the strength of people who are thrust into unimaginable situations and who deal with them with the kind of grace and dignity that you wish for, that you pray for when you will need them the most and, in this case, it is my friend who displays these qualities; it is her willingness to help and to give of herself that moves me. The selflessness of people who have to watch their friends suffer and who then, willingly offer their shoulders and their tears as comfort without any knowledge that it will help at all? It is incredible and astounding and it is those moments and those people who define my faith, who make me know, in my heart and in my mind that God exists; that prayers and unity and worship unite us, even those who weren't taught to believe in a "formal" setting. Religion might just be the opiate of the masses, but faith is not. Faith is the rehab that keeps us wanting to try to be better; keeps us coming back, despite it all.
Tonight I will pray for Jason and for a mother who lost a child, but I will also pray for those wonderful people who support them, who love them and who will grieve with them and for them, despite the un-fairness, despite the pain, despite the fear. I pray that when I am faced with a hardship that I will remember what I just wrote and that I will not waver when it matters the most...
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Vacation
As we were walking back to our car yesterday, a man and his wife smiled at us and then the man said, "Thanks, you guys were the entertainment on board today!" Tim and I laughed, knowing that was exactly the case. Take 3 boys, 13, 10 and 3, add a catamarran, sprinkle in a 2 1/2 hour sail and top with nothing to do but lay in the sun? A disaster cocktail I'm inclined to think and that's not even mentioning the small, purple plastic hippo that flew overboard somewhere on the way back, much to the chagrin of the 3 year old who hysterically screamed "Hippo can't swim, hippo can't swim." We assured him that hippo would make it back to shore just fine. Ah, the lies parents deign to tell. At one point, Jake had Nick pinned down on the deck pillows and Ty was doing some kind of flying kami-kazee jumping thing as Nick screamed and other people laughed. This went on for some time, at least until someone cried and then Tim or I took turns stepping in. Where were we during the melee? You know where we were; standing off to the side of the deck, drinking and pretending that they were someone else's kids.
Family vacations are an absolute rite of passage and, if, you didn't get to take them as a kid, you relish all of the moments that you get to share with your kids; even the ones out in the middle of Lake Tahoe. Tim and I always managed to agree on this very simple axiom: "Family vacations are a necessity." A made up axiom to be sure, but if you really think about what is being said here without actually being said then you'll understand what I'm talking about. There needs to be a weekend or a week or two weeks or however amount of time you can tell your boss that you're "working from home" and then when you can actually get on the freeway or hightail it to the airport and get the hell out of dodge. I digress for a moment here; I'm hoping that I might have a shot of staying out of hell after I pass on, but in the event that I end up there, I'm thinking that it couldn't possibly be worse than driving on the fucking, hair-pulling, crazy ass lane changing, traffic jambed hellish passage that we call the 405 freeway, which, incidentally, just turns into the 5 freeway (all previous adjectives applicable). Driving that piece of shit highway while trying to placate the ten year old, answer the 13 year old's inane questions and, simultaneously, find the Dora the Explorer DVD for the 3 year year old; I tell you, it's Road Rage defined. And that's before I took the wheel and refused to continue to play cat and mouse with the Ford Focus that apparantly thought my 85 mph wasn't enough and who, for about 25 miles or so, continued to pull up next to me and then cut me off, sliding right in front of me as if to dare me to do something. And, quality parenting aside, I did what any road raged, incensed mother of 3 did, I honked my horn at him for about a minute and then I flipped him off, screaming every obscenity I could think of, to the complete amusement of the two older boys who began to whisper and point at me, "Did you hear what mom just said?" "What does that word mean?" mixed in with the 3 year old's screams of "I can't hear Dora! I can't hear it!" In these moments, I usually turn to Tim as a meter of sanity to see just where I read on the gauge at any given moment in our daily lives. I glance over at him and he sighs and says, "Pull over at the next exit. I'm driving." Well, no need to get all upset, I think. Then again, he's used to it.
9 hours, almost two tanks of gas, one meal at IHOP, two rest stops to pee and one drive through a McDonald's for ice cream cones and WE ARE THERE! For those of you who feel compelled to ask that age old question, "Are we there yet?" Fuck you. So, we roll on into the parking lot of the hotel and the 3 year old is beside himself. He LOVES hotowels; everything about them: the elevator, the card key, the beds, the windows, even the bathroom. He turns to me every once in awhile when we are at home and he says, "Mom, I go to the hotowel?" I'm not sure that he's even referring to a particular place so much as a building where someone makes the beds every day and brings fresh towels and where, after you place a phone call, food arrives at your door. Pretty shrewd for a 3 year old... Nonetheless, we've arrived and are unpacked in minutes, as wardrobe is not a major concern of boys. "Let's go, let's go" they start shouting, even though they have no idea where they want to go, but after having been trapped in a car for 9 hours with Mom behind the wheel most of the time, they are ready for something.
It's interesting I think, the dynamic of being on vacation. There really are opportunities for very different types of bonding amongst family members. Normally, siblings who wouldn't give one another the time of day are suddenly BFF's due to the simple fact that there is no one else for them to play with or to talk with. Parents who never seem to have a moment to talk, get the chance to sit and look out at the scenery once the children are engaged or they might even get to hold hands or even kiss, but, of course to the shouts and groans of the two obnoxious boys who are standing on the beach, disgusted by their parents' "improper" behavior in public. But overall, without the daily stresses that exist, the family vacation is an opportunity to get to know your family again and to really listen to one another without a constant stream of interruptions. The fighting goes on and the disagreements and the occasional "I hate you" comes out or the 3 year old becomes a Flying Walenda in the hotel room and lands on the head of one of his brothers, but in general, it's more of a healing process than an injury. Strange that I'd put it that way, considering the fact that it took us 10 hours to get back home. Quirks and all, vacations are filled with moments of pure enthusiasm and joy and the chance to become someone else for a little while; someone who doesn't answer to anyone or anything other than to the people who they love most in the world; floating hippos and all. Good lord, I sound like a fucking Hallmark card.
I will say this one last thing; we've been on many family vacations these past 13 years, visited different places, tried new sports, swam with dolphins, but what I hope that my children remember the most, the one thing that I want them to take with them and to share with their kids is that desire to want to be together; even amidst the chaos. I want them to look forward to the experience and to then later laugh about all of the ridiculous and smile at all of the lovely and maybe even curse at all of the angry things that occurred on said vacation. It's not about the photo ops or the souvenirs or the pricy boat rides; it really is about that moment when you look up and you see your three sons laughing and diving and swimming in the lake while you sit at the water's edge, breathing in the mountain air and wishing that summer would never end...
Family vacations are an absolute rite of passage and, if, you didn't get to take them as a kid, you relish all of the moments that you get to share with your kids; even the ones out in the middle of Lake Tahoe. Tim and I always managed to agree on this very simple axiom: "Family vacations are a necessity." A made up axiom to be sure, but if you really think about what is being said here without actually being said then you'll understand what I'm talking about. There needs to be a weekend or a week or two weeks or however amount of time you can tell your boss that you're "working from home" and then when you can actually get on the freeway or hightail it to the airport and get the hell out of dodge. I digress for a moment here; I'm hoping that I might have a shot of staying out of hell after I pass on, but in the event that I end up there, I'm thinking that it couldn't possibly be worse than driving on the fucking, hair-pulling, crazy ass lane changing, traffic jambed hellish passage that we call the 405 freeway, which, incidentally, just turns into the 5 freeway (all previous adjectives applicable). Driving that piece of shit highway while trying to placate the ten year old, answer the 13 year old's inane questions and, simultaneously, find the Dora the Explorer DVD for the 3 year year old; I tell you, it's Road Rage defined. And that's before I took the wheel and refused to continue to play cat and mouse with the Ford Focus that apparantly thought my 85 mph wasn't enough and who, for about 25 miles or so, continued to pull up next to me and then cut me off, sliding right in front of me as if to dare me to do something. And, quality parenting aside, I did what any road raged, incensed mother of 3 did, I honked my horn at him for about a minute and then I flipped him off, screaming every obscenity I could think of, to the complete amusement of the two older boys who began to whisper and point at me, "Did you hear what mom just said?" "What does that word mean?" mixed in with the 3 year old's screams of "I can't hear Dora! I can't hear it!" In these moments, I usually turn to Tim as a meter of sanity to see just where I read on the gauge at any given moment in our daily lives. I glance over at him and he sighs and says, "Pull over at the next exit. I'm driving." Well, no need to get all upset, I think. Then again, he's used to it.
9 hours, almost two tanks of gas, one meal at IHOP, two rest stops to pee and one drive through a McDonald's for ice cream cones and WE ARE THERE! For those of you who feel compelled to ask that age old question, "Are we there yet?" Fuck you. So, we roll on into the parking lot of the hotel and the 3 year old is beside himself. He LOVES hotowels; everything about them: the elevator, the card key, the beds, the windows, even the bathroom. He turns to me every once in awhile when we are at home and he says, "Mom, I go to the hotowel?" I'm not sure that he's even referring to a particular place so much as a building where someone makes the beds every day and brings fresh towels and where, after you place a phone call, food arrives at your door. Pretty shrewd for a 3 year old... Nonetheless, we've arrived and are unpacked in minutes, as wardrobe is not a major concern of boys. "Let's go, let's go" they start shouting, even though they have no idea where they want to go, but after having been trapped in a car for 9 hours with Mom behind the wheel most of the time, they are ready for something.
It's interesting I think, the dynamic of being on vacation. There really are opportunities for very different types of bonding amongst family members. Normally, siblings who wouldn't give one another the time of day are suddenly BFF's due to the simple fact that there is no one else for them to play with or to talk with. Parents who never seem to have a moment to talk, get the chance to sit and look out at the scenery once the children are engaged or they might even get to hold hands or even kiss, but, of course to the shouts and groans of the two obnoxious boys who are standing on the beach, disgusted by their parents' "improper" behavior in public. But overall, without the daily stresses that exist, the family vacation is an opportunity to get to know your family again and to really listen to one another without a constant stream of interruptions. The fighting goes on and the disagreements and the occasional "I hate you" comes out or the 3 year old becomes a Flying Walenda in the hotel room and lands on the head of one of his brothers, but in general, it's more of a healing process than an injury. Strange that I'd put it that way, considering the fact that it took us 10 hours to get back home. Quirks and all, vacations are filled with moments of pure enthusiasm and joy and the chance to become someone else for a little while; someone who doesn't answer to anyone or anything other than to the people who they love most in the world; floating hippos and all. Good lord, I sound like a fucking Hallmark card.
I will say this one last thing; we've been on many family vacations these past 13 years, visited different places, tried new sports, swam with dolphins, but what I hope that my children remember the most, the one thing that I want them to take with them and to share with their kids is that desire to want to be together; even amidst the chaos. I want them to look forward to the experience and to then later laugh about all of the ridiculous and smile at all of the lovely and maybe even curse at all of the angry things that occurred on said vacation. It's not about the photo ops or the souvenirs or the pricy boat rides; it really is about that moment when you look up and you see your three sons laughing and diving and swimming in the lake while you sit at the water's edge, breathing in the mountain air and wishing that summer would never end...
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Self doubt
Self doubt is like the craving that you have for the substance that you just spent 90 days in rehab trying to forget...she never quite knows when to quit. A fickle mistress I suppose. Having other people share their criticisms and doubts about what you are doing or thinking is bad enough, but when you start or continue to do it to yourself? Might as well call Dr. Drew right now.
I was playing futsol last week (indoor soccer) for the football challenged and I almost got into a fight toward the end of the match. Now, it would seem that I was the instigator because... I was. I shoved one of the girls on the other team and really, I make no excuses for it. It's a rough game and I had gotten knocked around a bit and I was pissed off. Most of the time when this sort of rough play happens, I let it go. But not this time; this time, I was pissed off and it showed in how I responded. Next thing I know, she's all in an uproar, even though the ref had blown his whistle and called a foul. But she was pissed too and I heard her say, "What was that?" and I mouthed under my breath, "Payback." Well, that was probably the wrong thing to say because then "IT WAS ON" and she was coming at me. Of course, I didn't help the situation by flapping my arms and shouting, "Bring it on!" But then, her teammate stepped in front of her and mine in front of me and I thought the whole thing was kind of funny because, what? Was I really going to fight a girl from the opposing team in the futsol league, in front of my children who were watching the game? Of course not, but, I was going to irritate her nonetheless, so I taunted her by smiling and waving at her behind my teammate's back until I just kind of gave up and subbed out for the last couple of minutes of the match. When it was over, we all shook hands, but when I held mine out to her she just looked at it and said, "Yeah right." Understandable I guess, but then again, we're adults and while you can be pissed off on the field, best just to let it go after the game is over. At least that's what I thought. But now, my mistress having had time to consider her next move and to slide into the latent guilt ridden part of my temporal lobe, I am doubting myself and I feel compelled to apologize to her for my actions. I justify this by saying that it is for my children's benefit, but really I know that deep down, it's to quell the rising urge, that feeling that I am to blame - that I did something wrong.
A lot of times when I did something wrong as a kid and then I apologized to my mom, she'd say, "You're not sorry" and while I didn't really understand why she wouldn't accept my apology, I understand it now; in a skewered kind of way. The seeds of self-doubt are planted inside of those who feel or have the need to be accepted or loved by someone else, to the point where said person cares very deeply about what that other person thinks of them. In this example, it is my mother. In the thousands of other examples that come to mind, I can name everyone from the priest who gave me my first Holy Communion to the dog that we had when we were kids. What I've come to learn though, through my trials and in my journey is that the reason why I still feel self doubt sometimes is because I never told myself or gave myself permission to fuck up. Even though I regularly did, I've never allowed myself the freedom to say, "You made a mistake or you did something stupid, now, let it go." Instead, it's some kind of incessant need to hold onto all of the things that I've done where someone else was judging me. I don't like to be judged, clearly and although I am certainly guilty of judging people, I think it also fair to say that I am probably one of the most accepting people that you will ever meet. Don't believe in God? Okay... Republican? Um, okay... Like to have sex with chickens? Hmmm, wear a condom? Anyway, I digress, but the self doubt thing... she's a bitch and I'd like to see her disappear altogether.
When I was in high school, and I use those four years as an example here only because I changed a great deal during that time and right after as well. But, it was in those years that I began to formulate my own ideas about the world and issues that were going to be important to me and which, still are; I made a lot of mistakes. I also made some of my lifelong friends during that period and it has been interesting and hilarious to be a part of their lives as all of ours have changed over the years. Popularity fades as does beauty and even sentimentality for many, but memories, dear God, some of the memories still make me laugh and cry, even to this day. So, from 14-18, I learned about tolerance and freedom and experimentation and politics and allegory and I learned about having doubts. So, I suppose that in this time, a crucial learning time, one would have to fight against the very thing that most teenagers desperately want - acceptance, in order to ward off the vicious bitch known as self doubt. Because the conclusion that I've come to and I'm not sure when it happened, but it did, is that the only way to not doubt yourself is to not give a flying fuck what other people think about you and what you're doing; at least to the point where their opinions and/or criticisms begin to alter your belief system.
Am I a Catholic because I was raised one? Am I a Democrat because I wasn't raised one? Am I a feminist because I didn't want my place to be "just in the kitchen?" Am I a humanist because I'm so tired of all the nonsense that is perpetuated by the ridiculous simpletons who daily claim that they know what's "best" for this country because they belong to "THE" organization whatever the hell that happens to be? Or, am I a humanist because it sickens me to think that there are children dying every single day in the world and yet the rate of obesity in this country alone is so staggering that people are going on television shows to try to "win" the help that they need to manage it? Am I a hypocrite because I believe in God and in Jesus Christ but that I have my doubts about religious institutions?
You know what, I'm going to recant a bit here; maybe it's good to doubt something that in your mind and your heart you have reservations about, but maybe it's not good to doubt your own brain or heart when it comes to passing judgement on why you feel that way. Because sometimes, there is no explanation; sometimes you just do feel that way. I liken it to being a parent. If needed, you would do whatever you had to, to protect or save them from harm or danger and you wouldn't care what anyone thought or said about it, either good or bad. You'd do it because it was the right thing to do, for you, in that moment, with that child. And there it is. Be yourself and make mistakes and sometimes, apologize and sometimes feel bad or guilty or shameful or whatever, but don't doubt yourself because that just leads to late night blogging and everyone knows that no good can come of that...
All I know is that I don't know a whole hell of a lot and it makes for some interesting moments... BRING IT ON!
I was playing futsol last week (indoor soccer) for the football challenged and I almost got into a fight toward the end of the match. Now, it would seem that I was the instigator because... I was. I shoved one of the girls on the other team and really, I make no excuses for it. It's a rough game and I had gotten knocked around a bit and I was pissed off. Most of the time when this sort of rough play happens, I let it go. But not this time; this time, I was pissed off and it showed in how I responded. Next thing I know, she's all in an uproar, even though the ref had blown his whistle and called a foul. But she was pissed too and I heard her say, "What was that?" and I mouthed under my breath, "Payback." Well, that was probably the wrong thing to say because then "IT WAS ON" and she was coming at me. Of course, I didn't help the situation by flapping my arms and shouting, "Bring it on!" But then, her teammate stepped in front of her and mine in front of me and I thought the whole thing was kind of funny because, what? Was I really going to fight a girl from the opposing team in the futsol league, in front of my children who were watching the game? Of course not, but, I was going to irritate her nonetheless, so I taunted her by smiling and waving at her behind my teammate's back until I just kind of gave up and subbed out for the last couple of minutes of the match. When it was over, we all shook hands, but when I held mine out to her she just looked at it and said, "Yeah right." Understandable I guess, but then again, we're adults and while you can be pissed off on the field, best just to let it go after the game is over. At least that's what I thought. But now, my mistress having had time to consider her next move and to slide into the latent guilt ridden part of my temporal lobe, I am doubting myself and I feel compelled to apologize to her for my actions. I justify this by saying that it is for my children's benefit, but really I know that deep down, it's to quell the rising urge, that feeling that I am to blame - that I did something wrong.
A lot of times when I did something wrong as a kid and then I apologized to my mom, she'd say, "You're not sorry" and while I didn't really understand why she wouldn't accept my apology, I understand it now; in a skewered kind of way. The seeds of self-doubt are planted inside of those who feel or have the need to be accepted or loved by someone else, to the point where said person cares very deeply about what that other person thinks of them. In this example, it is my mother. In the thousands of other examples that come to mind, I can name everyone from the priest who gave me my first Holy Communion to the dog that we had when we were kids. What I've come to learn though, through my trials and in my journey is that the reason why I still feel self doubt sometimes is because I never told myself or gave myself permission to fuck up. Even though I regularly did, I've never allowed myself the freedom to say, "You made a mistake or you did something stupid, now, let it go." Instead, it's some kind of incessant need to hold onto all of the things that I've done where someone else was judging me. I don't like to be judged, clearly and although I am certainly guilty of judging people, I think it also fair to say that I am probably one of the most accepting people that you will ever meet. Don't believe in God? Okay... Republican? Um, okay... Like to have sex with chickens? Hmmm, wear a condom? Anyway, I digress, but the self doubt thing... she's a bitch and I'd like to see her disappear altogether.
When I was in high school, and I use those four years as an example here only because I changed a great deal during that time and right after as well. But, it was in those years that I began to formulate my own ideas about the world and issues that were going to be important to me and which, still are; I made a lot of mistakes. I also made some of my lifelong friends during that period and it has been interesting and hilarious to be a part of their lives as all of ours have changed over the years. Popularity fades as does beauty and even sentimentality for many, but memories, dear God, some of the memories still make me laugh and cry, even to this day. So, from 14-18, I learned about tolerance and freedom and experimentation and politics and allegory and I learned about having doubts. So, I suppose that in this time, a crucial learning time, one would have to fight against the very thing that most teenagers desperately want - acceptance, in order to ward off the vicious bitch known as self doubt. Because the conclusion that I've come to and I'm not sure when it happened, but it did, is that the only way to not doubt yourself is to not give a flying fuck what other people think about you and what you're doing; at least to the point where their opinions and/or criticisms begin to alter your belief system.
Am I a Catholic because I was raised one? Am I a Democrat because I wasn't raised one? Am I a feminist because I didn't want my place to be "just in the kitchen?" Am I a humanist because I'm so tired of all the nonsense that is perpetuated by the ridiculous simpletons who daily claim that they know what's "best" for this country because they belong to "THE" organization whatever the hell that happens to be? Or, am I a humanist because it sickens me to think that there are children dying every single day in the world and yet the rate of obesity in this country alone is so staggering that people are going on television shows to try to "win" the help that they need to manage it? Am I a hypocrite because I believe in God and in Jesus Christ but that I have my doubts about religious institutions?
You know what, I'm going to recant a bit here; maybe it's good to doubt something that in your mind and your heart you have reservations about, but maybe it's not good to doubt your own brain or heart when it comes to passing judgement on why you feel that way. Because sometimes, there is no explanation; sometimes you just do feel that way. I liken it to being a parent. If needed, you would do whatever you had to, to protect or save them from harm or danger and you wouldn't care what anyone thought or said about it, either good or bad. You'd do it because it was the right thing to do, for you, in that moment, with that child. And there it is. Be yourself and make mistakes and sometimes, apologize and sometimes feel bad or guilty or shameful or whatever, but don't doubt yourself because that just leads to late night blogging and everyone knows that no good can come of that...
All I know is that I don't know a whole hell of a lot and it makes for some interesting moments... BRING IT ON!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Just a thought
I don't know what's going on lately; the universe that I've known seems to have shifted and what was once comprehensible is now something misshapen and somewhat distorted. I saw a photo of a Stop sign in a middle eastern country and it was red and octagon shaped so my brain understood that it signified Stop even though I didn't and can't read the language. That's how I'm seeing my life right now I guess. I recognize the shapes: people, places, events but the language and the intent and even the meanings are not always what I think they are. And this both confuses and irritates me. I'm highly irritable anyway, easily annoyed, often frustrated... I thought for a long time that I was just "moody," which I am, but I'm beginning to understand that it's much more than that. Terms like depressed, anxious, bipolar, attention deficit have come into the analysis that most likely will result in a diagnosis of some kind. But more than that, they are helping me to understand that I don't think the way that you or you or you do because my brain doesn't function like yours does. Until I come to grips with that and until you do too, there's no sense pursuing any kind of relationship. It's a lost cause.
I mention or ramble here because recently I had an encounter with a friend who has been a friend for most of my life, some 30 years and, we had a misunderstanding. And although I didn't see the situation in the way that she did and vice versa, I thought about both of our reactions and I apologized. At first I thought that I apologized because it was the "right" thing to do; you hurt someone's feelings, you say you're sorry. Very elementary school. But now, after the fact, I realize that it was more than that; it is more than that. It wasn't about hurt feelings. It was about my lack of understanding where she was coming from and her lack of understanding from where I spoke. Common enough I think. And our friendship, although lengthy, some 30 years has waned to more of a acquaintance type relationship. We see each other once in awhile and seemingly pick up where we left off and this is how it's been. We don't plan things, we don't vacation together, our children don't know each other. But there is a history there; a very important one, at least for me. She was a vital part of a time in my life when most of my ideas about life, love and friendship were formed. Her support and humor and drive helped me to often be better, to have more fun, to not take shit from anyone. Her zest to live in the moment has stayed with me through the years and, without consciously realizing it, has prompted me to take on things that I might never have considered before. And most of all, best of all, my teenage years are wrapped up in memories of experiences that we shared together. So, regardless of the years that have gone on since and all of the time that has passed, I always think of her as a friend and she would be there for me if I needed her to be. I still think that.
When this misunderstanding took place, I was surprised and shocked by her immediate response and her note made me think that something wasn't quite right with how she reacted. Maybe that was my interpretation, but maybe, not. If friends can support, then they should be able to criticize as well, equally. And, since I'm not one to mince words and I'm very "direct" I would think that those who know me best, accept that about me. But therin lies the dig... she doesn't understand and either she didn't then or she thought that I wasn't worth the effort and it was THAT reaction that saddened me, still does. That reaction makes me wonder if she even considers me a friend anymore and if she does, what will our next interaction be like...
It's ironic because I'm very much a people person; I like to be around people, I like to have conversations, I like to do things... but, I have to be in the right frame of mind, or mood as most people would say. If I'm not, if I'm in the "state" that I often am, people don't understand me and they often read my reactions as something other than what they are. The thing is, I can't mask it. It's like trying to tone down rage; not anger or frustration, but full on, body clenching rage. Call it what it is, react, try to do damage control. I don't intentionally try to hurt people's feelings, maybe that's the point I'm trying to make. I say things, I think things, I react, I'm impulsive, but I'm honest and, I know, that the people who are in my life are honest with me too. And sometimes it hurts and sometimes I lose friends, but I guess in the end, it's better to be honest with yourself than to put on some kind of pretentious bullshit show that makes you seem like you are more enlightened than everyone around you; that you are happier than everyone when really, on some level, you know that it's all a lie. Because no one is that happy all the time. And if they are, I want some of what they are taking.
I go to therapy now and I really like it. I exercise more and I like that too. I try to do things that feed the part of my brain that wants to be positive and when I don't, I subdue it with chocolate or alcohol. It's 5:00 somewhere...
It's tough not knowing exactly what makes you tick because if you did, it would be much easier to "fix." A stepford Yvette maybe; what might she be like? Complacent, obedient, complimentary... I can't stand her already. Less wrinkles; that I would take. Wax on philosophical, that' what a blog is for, bitch about the bad, praise the good and shy away from the ugly. Then again, what would be the point of all of it if everything was sugar coated, without stress, or pain or disappointment? What if I didn't say what I thought in order not to hurt anyone's feelings, intentional or not, ever? What would that life look like?
In the end I guess, friendship is a reward and a consequence for someone like me, really, with someone like me. If you understand where I'm coming from, then you get it and, if not, maybe because you deign that I'm not worth the effort, I can accept that too. I don't have to like it and it's not that it won't hurt, but at least, we'll have been honest with one another. And, I may be many things, good and bad, but gladly I can say, I am an honest person. Lesson learned; never post a comment on facebook that someone may misread or take the wrong way. Hmmm... I guess I'm never posting anything again...
I mention or ramble here because recently I had an encounter with a friend who has been a friend for most of my life, some 30 years and, we had a misunderstanding. And although I didn't see the situation in the way that she did and vice versa, I thought about both of our reactions and I apologized. At first I thought that I apologized because it was the "right" thing to do; you hurt someone's feelings, you say you're sorry. Very elementary school. But now, after the fact, I realize that it was more than that; it is more than that. It wasn't about hurt feelings. It was about my lack of understanding where she was coming from and her lack of understanding from where I spoke. Common enough I think. And our friendship, although lengthy, some 30 years has waned to more of a acquaintance type relationship. We see each other once in awhile and seemingly pick up where we left off and this is how it's been. We don't plan things, we don't vacation together, our children don't know each other. But there is a history there; a very important one, at least for me. She was a vital part of a time in my life when most of my ideas about life, love and friendship were formed. Her support and humor and drive helped me to often be better, to have more fun, to not take shit from anyone. Her zest to live in the moment has stayed with me through the years and, without consciously realizing it, has prompted me to take on things that I might never have considered before. And most of all, best of all, my teenage years are wrapped up in memories of experiences that we shared together. So, regardless of the years that have gone on since and all of the time that has passed, I always think of her as a friend and she would be there for me if I needed her to be. I still think that.
When this misunderstanding took place, I was surprised and shocked by her immediate response and her note made me think that something wasn't quite right with how she reacted. Maybe that was my interpretation, but maybe, not. If friends can support, then they should be able to criticize as well, equally. And, since I'm not one to mince words and I'm very "direct" I would think that those who know me best, accept that about me. But therin lies the dig... she doesn't understand and either she didn't then or she thought that I wasn't worth the effort and it was THAT reaction that saddened me, still does. That reaction makes me wonder if she even considers me a friend anymore and if she does, what will our next interaction be like...
It's ironic because I'm very much a people person; I like to be around people, I like to have conversations, I like to do things... but, I have to be in the right frame of mind, or mood as most people would say. If I'm not, if I'm in the "state" that I often am, people don't understand me and they often read my reactions as something other than what they are. The thing is, I can't mask it. It's like trying to tone down rage; not anger or frustration, but full on, body clenching rage. Call it what it is, react, try to do damage control. I don't intentionally try to hurt people's feelings, maybe that's the point I'm trying to make. I say things, I think things, I react, I'm impulsive, but I'm honest and, I know, that the people who are in my life are honest with me too. And sometimes it hurts and sometimes I lose friends, but I guess in the end, it's better to be honest with yourself than to put on some kind of pretentious bullshit show that makes you seem like you are more enlightened than everyone around you; that you are happier than everyone when really, on some level, you know that it's all a lie. Because no one is that happy all the time. And if they are, I want some of what they are taking.
I go to therapy now and I really like it. I exercise more and I like that too. I try to do things that feed the part of my brain that wants to be positive and when I don't, I subdue it with chocolate or alcohol. It's 5:00 somewhere...
It's tough not knowing exactly what makes you tick because if you did, it would be much easier to "fix." A stepford Yvette maybe; what might she be like? Complacent, obedient, complimentary... I can't stand her already. Less wrinkles; that I would take. Wax on philosophical, that' what a blog is for, bitch about the bad, praise the good and shy away from the ugly. Then again, what would be the point of all of it if everything was sugar coated, without stress, or pain or disappointment? What if I didn't say what I thought in order not to hurt anyone's feelings, intentional or not, ever? What would that life look like?
In the end I guess, friendship is a reward and a consequence for someone like me, really, with someone like me. If you understand where I'm coming from, then you get it and, if not, maybe because you deign that I'm not worth the effort, I can accept that too. I don't have to like it and it's not that it won't hurt, but at least, we'll have been honest with one another. And, I may be many things, good and bad, but gladly I can say, I am an honest person. Lesson learned; never post a comment on facebook that someone may misread or take the wrong way. Hmmm... I guess I'm never posting anything again...
Monday, July 5, 2010
Riding the roller coaster
I spent the day at Magic Mountain today with my family. We were there for 9 hours and we got on 3 rides. Now, I'm not one to hold back when it comes to giving my opinion, but I tried very hard to temper my annoyance and ill will toward the park and the people there, at least for part of the day. But, by the end, I was done and so were the kids.
There is something depraved and deeply upsetting about having to wait almost 2 hours to ride on a roller coaster. Most of the time, I'd say fuck it and walk out of the park. Actually, backtracking, I normally don't subject myself or my children to the kind of abuse that occurs in an amusement park in Southern California on a summer day. I usually avoid that scenario like the plague. But, this morning, it seemed like a good idea; pack up the kids, take along a friend, go for a few hours. Big, fat, wrong. When there is a line to get into the park that rivals the one packed in for the wait for Colossus, you know you're in trouble. But, like the gluttons we are, we go in anyway.
I love roller coasters. I love that feeling that makes your stomach feel like it's now in the toes of your shoes and I love it when your head whips around so much that you are close to blacking out... I love that and, sadly, I also know that sometime, maybe in the not so distant future, that I will have to give up this pasttime because my body and my brain will no longer be able to handle the G force or the 17 loops that will exist in the coasters of the future. So, I sigh and wait my turn to experience it while I can and, even at 41, I have yet to meet a coaster that can tame me. The scarier the better.
So, when Nick and I got in line for Goliath, one of my two favorites at Magic Mountain,I was more than excited. I was ready to let that coaster kick my ass and to love every second of it...
An hour and forty-five minutes later and we are about to get on the ride and some of my enthusiasm has waned... Oh, I still loved it and screamed like a little kid and laughed and held my hands up and thought, "I'm going to die" as the car plummeted in an almost vertical line toward the ground, but after all that time in line, I kind of lost interest in why I was there and instead tried to think of reasons why I should stay. After we got off the ride though, looking at Nick's face was enough to tell me that it was worth it. And besides, if Nick can wait that long in "kid time," I mean an hour, forty-five is like a lifetime to that guy, then I guess I can too. He smiled at me as we walked out and said, "That was great mom." Yes it was.
I ditched the other kids early on because the 13 year was acting like the jackass that he is these days, as most teenagers will at some point in their "Let's make mom's life a veritable hell" days. So, once that happened, things quieted down. That is until we got to my other favorite ride in the park, Tatsu.
Now, if you haven't ridden on Tatsu, I'm not sure that I could begin to do it justice to even describe it, but, of course, I'm going to try. The experience of riding on it, well, I liken it to flying in an airplane for the first time, well, the first time that you can remember it. That sensation of lift off and of heart palpitations and wonder and freedom, all wrapped into one experience. Riding Tatsu is like that; it's intense.
Nick and I waited over an hour for this monster and she is worth every second. To better illustrate the intensity; when the car in front of us came to a stop, the girl closest to where we stood, ready to board was weeping. She wasn't crying, she was weeping. You could literally see the tears falling from her face onto the ground and when they clicked open the harness so that she could get out, she yelled, "I am never going on that ride ever again" and she pointed at the machine, as if it could hear her and somehow be sorry for causing her emotional distress. Nick and I looked at each other and then we busted up laughing and I thought to myself, "Now that's the sign of a kick ass roller coaster. Let's go." And so we did and, let me pause for a second to say, I now understand why the girl was weeping. I still think her reaction was hilarious, but I understand it better now.
We get into our seats and we pull our harnesses down and we wait for someone to come over and strap in our feet and check the safety switch. While we wait, I notice that the woman to the left of Nick is rather large. I'm being kind here. I don't know her so I can't judge her based on anything other than she was not going to fit into the harness. Any two year old with a shape sorter and the various shapes could understand this concept. You might want that circle to fit into the star shaped hole, but no matter how hard you shove it in, it ain't going in. I'm watching as two workers, teenage kids, maybe early college years, come over and attempt to shove and I do not use that word lightly because as one pulled down the harness, the other one pushed and pulled like she was attempting to do chest compressions on someone who couldn't breathe. And while this is happening, everyone is staring and the woman is grunting as the harness is clearly cutting into her chest and stomach. The kids push and pull and she grunts as the riders begin to get impatient. But the most bizarre thing of all is that this goes on for a full 3 or 4 minutes and NO ONE stops it; not the workers and not the passenger, who by this time, is starting to look pekid from all of the action that her windpipe and lungs are getting. Finally, someone comes over, a supervisor, I guess and tells the woman that she is going to have to exit the ride. And, I have to admit, the woman takes it pretty well. She gets out of the seat and makes her way down the stairs while her friend stays on the ride. Another couple of minutes and we're off, but before I begin to show you the brilliance that is Tatsu, let me digress and just say this, politically incorrect or not, there are limits on what people can do. We all have them, I have them and denial is one's best friend in situations like that. But, whatever your ailment is, I don't judge you for that, I don't care really. I do care though about the insanity that centers on the kind of person who doesn't see themselves for who and what they are. If you're a fat person or obese or you are genetically pre-disposed to be a size beyond that of the average human being, then maybe going to Magic Mountain should wait until you can fit yourself into the seat without embarrassment or self induced humiliation because you just can't understand why they don't make seats "bigger" for riders like you. Reality check...
Tatsu; even the name is poetic, like origami paper or a cherry blossom tree, Tatsu: elegant, graceful, majestic.... will kick your fucking ass upside down and then bitch slap you on the way back! Just like any good roller coaster will.
So, after the harness clicks into place and they give each other the green light, the harness and the seat tilt you into another position; imagine that you are suspended on all fours and the harness is what holds you in place. You are HANGING THERE! Your face looking down at the ground while your body weight is suspended against the harness. It's a weird image and the first time that you see people hanging there, it looks like some kind of new age torture device and I think again of the weeping girl. Most people start laughing and hollering and screaming at this point as the excitement builds. And then... you're off. Because the intent of the ride is to make you feel like you're flying, the tilt of the harness is such that for the entire ride, you not only feel like you're flying, but you feel like at any second that you're going to fly right out of the fucking thing and plummet to your death. Particularly when you're doing an inverted loop backward at 85 miles per hour. This must have been the point when the weeping started. But frankly, it's not the loops that freak me out, it's the beginning, those first few moments when the coaster is slowly ascending the 300 feet or so before it plunges you into oblivion. Because this coaster is suspended and the track is above you, it literally looks and feels as if there is nothing separating you and the plunge to your death. As you creep up the incline, you feel like a skydiver, harnessed to someone else's chest only instead of falling, you are climbing. People are waving from below but you are too terrified to let go of the grab bars, as if this would save your from flying out and then, you're there and all of a sudden, you're backward, flying through the air, your heart in your chest and your stomach in your shoes and you're laughing and screaming and maybe even crying a little and you're 13 again, pissing off your parents and wishing that you could spend every day of your summer vacation waiting in lines for rides like Tatsu.
But, you can't. You have responsibilities and you have that bitch of a drive home on the 405 which aptly should be named "Highway to Hell" at this point in its existence.
So, you settle for knowing that you love all those rides and soon you'll be back to conquer them again and to enjoy for just a bit longer, the zealous charge that we get when we take on something that frightens or excites us, something that brings us back for a few minutes to a time in our lives when things were good, just because we were there. It didn't have to be perfect or go according to a plan, it just had to happen.
And so, I think about another day that I got to share something with my kids, even the pain in the ass 13 year old, I'm still pissed off at him right now, something that is generational and that binds us together. But, the next time that we find an activity that accomplishes that ideal "bonding," I swear, it better not involve an hour and forty five minute wait...
There is something depraved and deeply upsetting about having to wait almost 2 hours to ride on a roller coaster. Most of the time, I'd say fuck it and walk out of the park. Actually, backtracking, I normally don't subject myself or my children to the kind of abuse that occurs in an amusement park in Southern California on a summer day. I usually avoid that scenario like the plague. But, this morning, it seemed like a good idea; pack up the kids, take along a friend, go for a few hours. Big, fat, wrong. When there is a line to get into the park that rivals the one packed in for the wait for Colossus, you know you're in trouble. But, like the gluttons we are, we go in anyway.
I love roller coasters. I love that feeling that makes your stomach feel like it's now in the toes of your shoes and I love it when your head whips around so much that you are close to blacking out... I love that and, sadly, I also know that sometime, maybe in the not so distant future, that I will have to give up this pasttime because my body and my brain will no longer be able to handle the G force or the 17 loops that will exist in the coasters of the future. So, I sigh and wait my turn to experience it while I can and, even at 41, I have yet to meet a coaster that can tame me. The scarier the better.
So, when Nick and I got in line for Goliath, one of my two favorites at Magic Mountain,I was more than excited. I was ready to let that coaster kick my ass and to love every second of it...
An hour and forty-five minutes later and we are about to get on the ride and some of my enthusiasm has waned... Oh, I still loved it and screamed like a little kid and laughed and held my hands up and thought, "I'm going to die" as the car plummeted in an almost vertical line toward the ground, but after all that time in line, I kind of lost interest in why I was there and instead tried to think of reasons why I should stay. After we got off the ride though, looking at Nick's face was enough to tell me that it was worth it. And besides, if Nick can wait that long in "kid time," I mean an hour, forty-five is like a lifetime to that guy, then I guess I can too. He smiled at me as we walked out and said, "That was great mom." Yes it was.
I ditched the other kids early on because the 13 year was acting like the jackass that he is these days, as most teenagers will at some point in their "Let's make mom's life a veritable hell" days. So, once that happened, things quieted down. That is until we got to my other favorite ride in the park, Tatsu.
Now, if you haven't ridden on Tatsu, I'm not sure that I could begin to do it justice to even describe it, but, of course, I'm going to try. The experience of riding on it, well, I liken it to flying in an airplane for the first time, well, the first time that you can remember it. That sensation of lift off and of heart palpitations and wonder and freedom, all wrapped into one experience. Riding Tatsu is like that; it's intense.
Nick and I waited over an hour for this monster and she is worth every second. To better illustrate the intensity; when the car in front of us came to a stop, the girl closest to where we stood, ready to board was weeping. She wasn't crying, she was weeping. You could literally see the tears falling from her face onto the ground and when they clicked open the harness so that she could get out, she yelled, "I am never going on that ride ever again" and she pointed at the machine, as if it could hear her and somehow be sorry for causing her emotional distress. Nick and I looked at each other and then we busted up laughing and I thought to myself, "Now that's the sign of a kick ass roller coaster. Let's go." And so we did and, let me pause for a second to say, I now understand why the girl was weeping. I still think her reaction was hilarious, but I understand it better now.
We get into our seats and we pull our harnesses down and we wait for someone to come over and strap in our feet and check the safety switch. While we wait, I notice that the woman to the left of Nick is rather large. I'm being kind here. I don't know her so I can't judge her based on anything other than she was not going to fit into the harness. Any two year old with a shape sorter and the various shapes could understand this concept. You might want that circle to fit into the star shaped hole, but no matter how hard you shove it in, it ain't going in. I'm watching as two workers, teenage kids, maybe early college years, come over and attempt to shove and I do not use that word lightly because as one pulled down the harness, the other one pushed and pulled like she was attempting to do chest compressions on someone who couldn't breathe. And while this is happening, everyone is staring and the woman is grunting as the harness is clearly cutting into her chest and stomach. The kids push and pull and she grunts as the riders begin to get impatient. But the most bizarre thing of all is that this goes on for a full 3 or 4 minutes and NO ONE stops it; not the workers and not the passenger, who by this time, is starting to look pekid from all of the action that her windpipe and lungs are getting. Finally, someone comes over, a supervisor, I guess and tells the woman that she is going to have to exit the ride. And, I have to admit, the woman takes it pretty well. She gets out of the seat and makes her way down the stairs while her friend stays on the ride. Another couple of minutes and we're off, but before I begin to show you the brilliance that is Tatsu, let me digress and just say this, politically incorrect or not, there are limits on what people can do. We all have them, I have them and denial is one's best friend in situations like that. But, whatever your ailment is, I don't judge you for that, I don't care really. I do care though about the insanity that centers on the kind of person who doesn't see themselves for who and what they are. If you're a fat person or obese or you are genetically pre-disposed to be a size beyond that of the average human being, then maybe going to Magic Mountain should wait until you can fit yourself into the seat without embarrassment or self induced humiliation because you just can't understand why they don't make seats "bigger" for riders like you. Reality check...
Tatsu; even the name is poetic, like origami paper or a cherry blossom tree, Tatsu: elegant, graceful, majestic.... will kick your fucking ass upside down and then bitch slap you on the way back! Just like any good roller coaster will.
So, after the harness clicks into place and they give each other the green light, the harness and the seat tilt you into another position; imagine that you are suspended on all fours and the harness is what holds you in place. You are HANGING THERE! Your face looking down at the ground while your body weight is suspended against the harness. It's a weird image and the first time that you see people hanging there, it looks like some kind of new age torture device and I think again of the weeping girl. Most people start laughing and hollering and screaming at this point as the excitement builds. And then... you're off. Because the intent of the ride is to make you feel like you're flying, the tilt of the harness is such that for the entire ride, you not only feel like you're flying, but you feel like at any second that you're going to fly right out of the fucking thing and plummet to your death. Particularly when you're doing an inverted loop backward at 85 miles per hour. This must have been the point when the weeping started. But frankly, it's not the loops that freak me out, it's the beginning, those first few moments when the coaster is slowly ascending the 300 feet or so before it plunges you into oblivion. Because this coaster is suspended and the track is above you, it literally looks and feels as if there is nothing separating you and the plunge to your death. As you creep up the incline, you feel like a skydiver, harnessed to someone else's chest only instead of falling, you are climbing. People are waving from below but you are too terrified to let go of the grab bars, as if this would save your from flying out and then, you're there and all of a sudden, you're backward, flying through the air, your heart in your chest and your stomach in your shoes and you're laughing and screaming and maybe even crying a little and you're 13 again, pissing off your parents and wishing that you could spend every day of your summer vacation waiting in lines for rides like Tatsu.
But, you can't. You have responsibilities and you have that bitch of a drive home on the 405 which aptly should be named "Highway to Hell" at this point in its existence.
So, you settle for knowing that you love all those rides and soon you'll be back to conquer them again and to enjoy for just a bit longer, the zealous charge that we get when we take on something that frightens or excites us, something that brings us back for a few minutes to a time in our lives when things were good, just because we were there. It didn't have to be perfect or go according to a plan, it just had to happen.
And so, I think about another day that I got to share something with my kids, even the pain in the ass 13 year old, I'm still pissed off at him right now, something that is generational and that binds us together. But, the next time that we find an activity that accomplishes that ideal "bonding," I swear, it better not involve an hour and forty five minute wait...
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Leaving a Legacy
I was thinking about high school this weekend. I was at West High watching my kids and my brother play soccer and as I sat up in the stands with Ty as he climbed all over the bleachers, I started thinking about all of the times that I played soccer on that field and how many football games I sat through and how many people I've gotten reconnected with over the past year who I knew twenty or more years ago. And what really struck me and bothered me, even on the drive home was the question, Who is going to tell our stories?
I think many of us like to imagine that our kids will sit around and tell stories about us after we're gone and, they will. But I'm not talking about stories that involve them or our lives with them. I mean those stories that we tell each other when we get together after long periods of time and they usually start with "Hey, remember when..." Those are the best stories, the ones worth telling and sharing over and over again and those are the stories that will get lost, many of them, in the passing of kids that make up my generation. So, amidst these morbid thoughts, along with some insane idea of somehow preserving an anthology of the "best of..." stories, I began thinking about the idea of having or leaving a legacy. Sometimes, when I'm writing, I like to let my mind wander and it does an amazing job of pulling the little details into play so that as the words begin to come so do these synchronistic (don't even know if that's a word) images that accompany them. They make sense in my mind and often, oddly enough, they seem to explicate the very thing that I was trying to explain in the first place. Maybe it's comparable to being on an acid trip. Then again, I've never dropped acid so I don't know. Here I sit, as the idea of a legacy begs for a definition while surrounded by all of these little snippets from today's curriculum: Argentina defeating Mexico, Peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, Ty shoving a green M & M up his nose (incidentally, he was watching tv and he put it in the wrong hole; yet another sound argument for shutting off the tube), dancing in the bathroom (yes, it's the only room in the house with a lock on the door so I go in there and cut loose, footloose), reading the newspaper and finishing 10, yes count them again, 10 loads of laundry...
Back to my point, I do have one. Oh yes, leaving a legacy. I have a friend and one of her siblings is dying. Cervical cancer, caught late. She is in treatment as I write this, but the prognosis is not good and for the benefit of my friend, details are not of importance here. What is important is that the conversation that I had with her reinforced what I've felt for a very long time. Maybe even as far back as when I was a kid. I can't remember how old I was exactly, but I remember thinking to myself that I wanted to do something to help. I didn't know who to help or how to go about it, but I had a feeling that my life should be about something bigger. As a kid, I didn't know what that meant. But as the years have gone on, I've discovered that it is absolutely necessary for me, for my survival, to make my life about something other than what it is; something more.
I've always been looking for the next thing; it might be a hobby or a sport or a way to challenge myself mentally. But in the context of altruism, I have a desire and I have, since I was a kid, to make a difference in people's lives. I mean, let's face it, I was never a genius or even that smart. I had to really work at school to get through. I'm a terrible procrastinator and I have a very short fuse. I lose interest in things as quickly as they interest me and I have difficulty finishing things unless they fascinate me. And people fascinate me. One other thing, I've never been great at any one thing, never... but I'm good at many things. I never quit, I have the will of an Olympian and the heart of a Rhino. Unfortunately, I also have the attention span of a gnat so sometimes the combination is fatal.
So, what will my legacy be? Of course, part of it will be my family, my children and hopefully, someday, their children. But, for me, it's got to be more than that. It's got to be more than raising good people and tithing and recycling. It's got to be more than saying hello to people, and picking up trash and giving money to the homeless. Bigger... It's got to be more than being a teacher or volunteering or coaching soccer. Huge... It's got to be more than working forty years and collecting a retirement so that I can sit around all day or play golf (actually that's on my list of things to learn), and donating blood and giving clothes and food and toys to Goodwill. Really Huge... It's got to be life changing. I don't want to live eighty or ninety or a hundred years if every day when I go to sleep, I don't feel like I did something, however small, that mattered. I know that's why when I'm not teaching, like right now, that I have difficulty functioning day to day. I have an incessant need to interact with students in an environment where there is a massive amount of give and take, and not just my giving and their taking. I learn as much from them as they do from me and they change me, each of them, just like I like to think that I change them. I like to think that.
My legacy is going to be... it doesn't have a name or a definition or even a shape. Instead, it is an idea, that because I am unique and because there truly is no one else just like me (Thank God); an idea that every endeavor that I take on will somehow contribute in a positive and forward moving manner to the human race. And that every chance that crosses my path where I can change the course of someone's life for the better, even in the smallest of ways, that I will accept that chance and take on that endeavor with humility and, that I will give it everything that I have, until I no longer have anything left to give.
Erma Bombeck, whose writing and wisdom I miss every day, wrote, "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would have not a single bit of talent left and I could say, 'I used everything you gave me'"
"I used everything you gave me..." Words to live and to die by I think.
I think many of us like to imagine that our kids will sit around and tell stories about us after we're gone and, they will. But I'm not talking about stories that involve them or our lives with them. I mean those stories that we tell each other when we get together after long periods of time and they usually start with "Hey, remember when..." Those are the best stories, the ones worth telling and sharing over and over again and those are the stories that will get lost, many of them, in the passing of kids that make up my generation. So, amidst these morbid thoughts, along with some insane idea of somehow preserving an anthology of the "best of..." stories, I began thinking about the idea of having or leaving a legacy. Sometimes, when I'm writing, I like to let my mind wander and it does an amazing job of pulling the little details into play so that as the words begin to come so do these synchronistic (don't even know if that's a word) images that accompany them. They make sense in my mind and often, oddly enough, they seem to explicate the very thing that I was trying to explain in the first place. Maybe it's comparable to being on an acid trip. Then again, I've never dropped acid so I don't know. Here I sit, as the idea of a legacy begs for a definition while surrounded by all of these little snippets from today's curriculum: Argentina defeating Mexico, Peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, Ty shoving a green M & M up his nose (incidentally, he was watching tv and he put it in the wrong hole; yet another sound argument for shutting off the tube), dancing in the bathroom (yes, it's the only room in the house with a lock on the door so I go in there and cut loose, footloose), reading the newspaper and finishing 10, yes count them again, 10 loads of laundry...
Back to my point, I do have one. Oh yes, leaving a legacy. I have a friend and one of her siblings is dying. Cervical cancer, caught late. She is in treatment as I write this, but the prognosis is not good and for the benefit of my friend, details are not of importance here. What is important is that the conversation that I had with her reinforced what I've felt for a very long time. Maybe even as far back as when I was a kid. I can't remember how old I was exactly, but I remember thinking to myself that I wanted to do something to help. I didn't know who to help or how to go about it, but I had a feeling that my life should be about something bigger. As a kid, I didn't know what that meant. But as the years have gone on, I've discovered that it is absolutely necessary for me, for my survival, to make my life about something other than what it is; something more.
I've always been looking for the next thing; it might be a hobby or a sport or a way to challenge myself mentally. But in the context of altruism, I have a desire and I have, since I was a kid, to make a difference in people's lives. I mean, let's face it, I was never a genius or even that smart. I had to really work at school to get through. I'm a terrible procrastinator and I have a very short fuse. I lose interest in things as quickly as they interest me and I have difficulty finishing things unless they fascinate me. And people fascinate me. One other thing, I've never been great at any one thing, never... but I'm good at many things. I never quit, I have the will of an Olympian and the heart of a Rhino. Unfortunately, I also have the attention span of a gnat so sometimes the combination is fatal.
So, what will my legacy be? Of course, part of it will be my family, my children and hopefully, someday, their children. But, for me, it's got to be more than that. It's got to be more than raising good people and tithing and recycling. It's got to be more than saying hello to people, and picking up trash and giving money to the homeless. Bigger... It's got to be more than being a teacher or volunteering or coaching soccer. Huge... It's got to be more than working forty years and collecting a retirement so that I can sit around all day or play golf (actually that's on my list of things to learn), and donating blood and giving clothes and food and toys to Goodwill. Really Huge... It's got to be life changing. I don't want to live eighty or ninety or a hundred years if every day when I go to sleep, I don't feel like I did something, however small, that mattered. I know that's why when I'm not teaching, like right now, that I have difficulty functioning day to day. I have an incessant need to interact with students in an environment where there is a massive amount of give and take, and not just my giving and their taking. I learn as much from them as they do from me and they change me, each of them, just like I like to think that I change them. I like to think that.
My legacy is going to be... it doesn't have a name or a definition or even a shape. Instead, it is an idea, that because I am unique and because there truly is no one else just like me (Thank God); an idea that every endeavor that I take on will somehow contribute in a positive and forward moving manner to the human race. And that every chance that crosses my path where I can change the course of someone's life for the better, even in the smallest of ways, that I will accept that chance and take on that endeavor with humility and, that I will give it everything that I have, until I no longer have anything left to give.
Erma Bombeck, whose writing and wisdom I miss every day, wrote, "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would have not a single bit of talent left and I could say, 'I used everything you gave me'"
"I used everything you gave me..." Words to live and to die by I think.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
For Jake, my hero
Tonight, in the championship game for the Little League Angels, there was one of those moments; the kind that can change your life or, at the very least, can turn you into a hero for awhile. It was the kind of moment that you wish for your kids so that they can feel that intense joy and taste success that maybe escaped you as a kid or, if you were lucky, the kind that you got to taste at least once. The boys were down 5-2, two outs, bases loaded and my Jake came up to bat...
When Jake was 3 years old, on his third day of preschool no less, I got a phone call from the director of Good Shepherd and, to this day, I will never forget it. I said hello and she instantly told me, "Jake has had an accident, you need to come and take him to the hospital" Click and the line went blank. Nick was only 6 months old at the time and he was napping at that moment. I remember from the second I dropped the phone, all the way until I ran through the parking lot, hearing him scream, the stark terror that crept through my entire body. It wasn't instant. It was like someone had injected the fear and worry one needle at a time into my body and it moved slowly, painfully throughout my entire being until it reached my brain and then it clouded it so that I couldn't think straight, I couldn't breathe, all I could do was move toward my little boy. I ran through the lot, into the classroom and I saw the teacher holding him, cradling him to her chest and he was screaming and sobbing and later, she told me that she saw the color drain from my face when I saw him, but, I also recall telling myself to calm down, to act like an adult, to take charge of the situation. I remember walking over to him and kissing his face and telling him that everything would be okay. Even as the teacher removed the cloth from his forehead and I could see the gaping hole above my 3 year old's left eyebrow. His teacher held him as I drove them both to the hospital. As we waited for the doctor to take him in, my mother in law came to sit with me. A retired surgical nurse, she is the one to call in these situations, calm and collected and trusting of physicians. She was a rock that afternoon. We had to wait for awhile as there were other more vital emergencies before the gaping hole in my kid's head so the nurse gave Jake a popsicle. I even remember that it was orange and double sided. He ate it and then he sat down, never crying again or complaining or yelling or anything about why he had to wait or what he was doing there or why it hurt. He was probably in shock my mother in law said, but thankfully so, thankfully. Not too long after that, the physician took us in and told us that he'd have to stitch up Jake's head unless we wanted to wait for a plastic surgeon. We opted not to after speaking with our pediatrician. Tim came flying in from work and helped me reassure Jake that everything would be fine, even as the nurse strapped him into the papoose and after she lay a paper towel across his face with only the wound exposed. We told him that we loved him and that we were proud of how brave he was and that we'd take him to Toys R Us if he would just hold on a little bit longer... and then, it was over and he was sitting up, smiling, asking for another popsicle and telling us that he was ready for a toy... resilience, maybe the best quality of a child.
Those moments that define who we are as human beings are few and far between because some of us don't even realize that they are happening. Like when you give a couple of bucks to that homeless man on the corner; might not seem like a big deal, but then again, it is to him. Maybe that money helped him to hold on for one more day. The thing I've come to understand though is that as a parent, I'd trade all of my moments so that my children could have one of their own. And even though I know that it's not necessary or even an option, I would gladly give them any success that I've had so that each of them could have at least one memory of their own where they were important, where they mattered just a bit more in that situation than anyone else. Not that they did, but that they felt that way. And, I would venture to say that most parents feel like that. Their happiness means more than our own... that's part of the reason why we had them. We want to see them shine...
I was standing next to the fence, watching Jake swing the bat as he waited for the pitcher to warm up and I turned away and said under my breath, I can't watch. I was so nervous for him, for the possibility that he would get the chance, right then, with all of us there, to have one of those moments. I waited and crossed my fingers. I wasn't paying attention to anything around me, I kind of had tunnel vision for a few moments, until I heard a man say, "Is that your son?" and he pointed to Jake and I said, "Yes." He was one of the parents from Eastview Little League, one who had cleaned up the infield after the third inning. He smiled at me and said, "He is such a polite young man" and I must have looked confused, thinking, how would he know that when he clarified, "After we cleaned the infield, he was the only one on either team who said Thank You to both of us." And, I couldn't help it, I smiled and thanked him for saying that, telling him that I would convey his sentiment to Jake later on. And in that moment, and in many moments since I've had Jake, I've been more proud of the person he is than I have been of any accomplishment that he's attained. He is a fine person and a good hearted human being. He has the qualities that will make him successful regardless of what he wants to do with his life. He's just special and while all parents think that about their children, I know it. I see it every day and I feel it. Jake is special.
I wish I could say that he was the hero of the game; that he hit the grandslam and won the game, won the championship, but, it didn't happen like that and when the third pitch went by, I felt it in my heart, I saw it on his face and he tried so hard, so valiantly, not to let anyone see it. But I knew, I watched it as he collected his Runner up trophy, as he packed up his bag and as he walked toward me, trying desperately to hold it in, asking me if we could "just go." And I fell in step beside him as the tears rolled down his face and as we drove home, the frustration and sadness came through and my son, who I held down in the emergency room when he had 18 stitches, who I held in my arms when he had ear infections, who still holds my hand when we walk together out in public; I watched him suffer and there wasn't anything that I could do to help him. I touched him arm and I told him that I loved him and that it would be okay. I told him that he needed to let himself feel it, all of it and then, he needed to let it go because there would be and there will be other moments. And, I told him, that one day, he would get his grandslam; maybe it will be a college acceptance letter or a yes to a marriage proposal, maybe it will be a winning lottery ticket or courtside seats to Game 7 in the NBA finals or maybe it will be when he is standing on the sideline watching his own child step up to bat, in a similar situation and knowing that he would give up everything just so that his child would feel a modicum of success, of joy... And when that happens, he'll know and he'll be the better man for it.
The ultimate test of whether or not you raised a boy well is not watching him hit a grandslam or marry the prom queen; the ultimate test is seeing him turn into a warm, generous, giving man that others want to be around. Jake is that boy and someday, very soon, he will be that man...
We are very proud of you Jake and we love you very much... always.
When Jake was 3 years old, on his third day of preschool no less, I got a phone call from the director of Good Shepherd and, to this day, I will never forget it. I said hello and she instantly told me, "Jake has had an accident, you need to come and take him to the hospital" Click and the line went blank. Nick was only 6 months old at the time and he was napping at that moment. I remember from the second I dropped the phone, all the way until I ran through the parking lot, hearing him scream, the stark terror that crept through my entire body. It wasn't instant. It was like someone had injected the fear and worry one needle at a time into my body and it moved slowly, painfully throughout my entire being until it reached my brain and then it clouded it so that I couldn't think straight, I couldn't breathe, all I could do was move toward my little boy. I ran through the lot, into the classroom and I saw the teacher holding him, cradling him to her chest and he was screaming and sobbing and later, she told me that she saw the color drain from my face when I saw him, but, I also recall telling myself to calm down, to act like an adult, to take charge of the situation. I remember walking over to him and kissing his face and telling him that everything would be okay. Even as the teacher removed the cloth from his forehead and I could see the gaping hole above my 3 year old's left eyebrow. His teacher held him as I drove them both to the hospital. As we waited for the doctor to take him in, my mother in law came to sit with me. A retired surgical nurse, she is the one to call in these situations, calm and collected and trusting of physicians. She was a rock that afternoon. We had to wait for awhile as there were other more vital emergencies before the gaping hole in my kid's head so the nurse gave Jake a popsicle. I even remember that it was orange and double sided. He ate it and then he sat down, never crying again or complaining or yelling or anything about why he had to wait or what he was doing there or why it hurt. He was probably in shock my mother in law said, but thankfully so, thankfully. Not too long after that, the physician took us in and told us that he'd have to stitch up Jake's head unless we wanted to wait for a plastic surgeon. We opted not to after speaking with our pediatrician. Tim came flying in from work and helped me reassure Jake that everything would be fine, even as the nurse strapped him into the papoose and after she lay a paper towel across his face with only the wound exposed. We told him that we loved him and that we were proud of how brave he was and that we'd take him to Toys R Us if he would just hold on a little bit longer... and then, it was over and he was sitting up, smiling, asking for another popsicle and telling us that he was ready for a toy... resilience, maybe the best quality of a child.
Those moments that define who we are as human beings are few and far between because some of us don't even realize that they are happening. Like when you give a couple of bucks to that homeless man on the corner; might not seem like a big deal, but then again, it is to him. Maybe that money helped him to hold on for one more day. The thing I've come to understand though is that as a parent, I'd trade all of my moments so that my children could have one of their own. And even though I know that it's not necessary or even an option, I would gladly give them any success that I've had so that each of them could have at least one memory of their own where they were important, where they mattered just a bit more in that situation than anyone else. Not that they did, but that they felt that way. And, I would venture to say that most parents feel like that. Their happiness means more than our own... that's part of the reason why we had them. We want to see them shine...
I was standing next to the fence, watching Jake swing the bat as he waited for the pitcher to warm up and I turned away and said under my breath, I can't watch. I was so nervous for him, for the possibility that he would get the chance, right then, with all of us there, to have one of those moments. I waited and crossed my fingers. I wasn't paying attention to anything around me, I kind of had tunnel vision for a few moments, until I heard a man say, "Is that your son?" and he pointed to Jake and I said, "Yes." He was one of the parents from Eastview Little League, one who had cleaned up the infield after the third inning. He smiled at me and said, "He is such a polite young man" and I must have looked confused, thinking, how would he know that when he clarified, "After we cleaned the infield, he was the only one on either team who said Thank You to both of us." And, I couldn't help it, I smiled and thanked him for saying that, telling him that I would convey his sentiment to Jake later on. And in that moment, and in many moments since I've had Jake, I've been more proud of the person he is than I have been of any accomplishment that he's attained. He is a fine person and a good hearted human being. He has the qualities that will make him successful regardless of what he wants to do with his life. He's just special and while all parents think that about their children, I know it. I see it every day and I feel it. Jake is special.
I wish I could say that he was the hero of the game; that he hit the grandslam and won the game, won the championship, but, it didn't happen like that and when the third pitch went by, I felt it in my heart, I saw it on his face and he tried so hard, so valiantly, not to let anyone see it. But I knew, I watched it as he collected his Runner up trophy, as he packed up his bag and as he walked toward me, trying desperately to hold it in, asking me if we could "just go." And I fell in step beside him as the tears rolled down his face and as we drove home, the frustration and sadness came through and my son, who I held down in the emergency room when he had 18 stitches, who I held in my arms when he had ear infections, who still holds my hand when we walk together out in public; I watched him suffer and there wasn't anything that I could do to help him. I touched him arm and I told him that I loved him and that it would be okay. I told him that he needed to let himself feel it, all of it and then, he needed to let it go because there would be and there will be other moments. And, I told him, that one day, he would get his grandslam; maybe it will be a college acceptance letter or a yes to a marriage proposal, maybe it will be a winning lottery ticket or courtside seats to Game 7 in the NBA finals or maybe it will be when he is standing on the sideline watching his own child step up to bat, in a similar situation and knowing that he would give up everything just so that his child would feel a modicum of success, of joy... And when that happens, he'll know and he'll be the better man for it.
The ultimate test of whether or not you raised a boy well is not watching him hit a grandslam or marry the prom queen; the ultimate test is seeing him turn into a warm, generous, giving man that others want to be around. Jake is that boy and someday, very soon, he will be that man...
We are very proud of you Jake and we love you very much... always.
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