Mark and I are an agreeable sort. Our parenting styles, politics, palates and musical preferences are more similar than they are different. But we don't agree upon everything.
Like coffee, which Mark ranks as one of his top ten things IN THE WORLD. I kid you not--in the world! I know this because he reminded me of that ranking just this morning, when I curled my lips at his steaming cup of joe.
"How can you NOT love coffee?!" he sputtered, his breath already fouled by the venerable bean.
Even back in high school--at a time in human history when high schoolers had never pondered drinking coffee and Starbucks was just some sugar-and-cream-laden dream in an infant entrepreneur's mind--I compared the taste of the hot beverage to licking an ashtray.
Granted, I had never had a sip of coffee or run my tongue across an ashtray, but that descriptor still resonates with me even today.
And, really, where would humanity be if we agreed with each other all the time? What would happen to all those kooky variants and skin colors and music styles if everyone's taste was in sync with each others?
I'll tell you what would happen--we'd find outselve in H-E-double-hockey-sticks, that's what!
Because we are free to disagree (wasn't that a Marlo Thomas song?), we also are free to grow, something that would be hard to come by if everyone liked the very same things. For instance, because some people I like very much happen to like rap--a genre I'm not naturally drawn to--I have come to find a place in my heart--and in my iTunes collection--for a little Jay Z, tucked between the Talking Heads and Michelle Shocked.
Shocked, indeed!
All this variety--which both pop and corporate cultures try so hard to flatten out and deny--keeps things interesting. And human. And, I could argue, humane.
My senses are heightened--not dulled--by exposure to new things and different people. The first time I had a student with foot-long, perfectly-formed spikes atop his head (the perfect venue, he discovered, for straws), I was confronted with my prejudice and presumptions. Turns out, he was a great kid, with really, really stiff hair.
Whoopee. All that former fuss for nothing.
Huh. So, maybe I should try coffee. Maybe I'm missing out on yet another way to connect with people. Maybe, three cups into my brave-new-beverage foray, I'd finally overcome my deep-seated java prejudices.
Maybe the best part of waking up really is Folgers in the cup.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
A Holiday, A Holy Day
Last night, I dreamed of undulating vees of geese, wending their way through the inky night sky. It was a listening and looking kind of dream, one in which my eyes were drawn to the eerie honks and glowing underbellies of these night fliers as they poked holes through the constellations of an Autumn night.
When I awoke, I was sure I had been there, witnessing their long overnight trek to warmer climes.
It was a vivid and peaceful dream, centered wholly on the here and now. Which is why I, too, have decided to center myself wholly on the here and now this Thanksgiving day.
Unlike most Thanksgivings, in which I reflect and imagine, I will spend today looking and listening. This Thanksgiving, I leave history to the historians and the future to the fortune tellers, focusing, instead, on the rustling of the Pin Oak leaves, clinging stubbornly to their stems. On the Blue Jays harassing the Sharp-Shinned Hawk who, in turn, is harassing the nervous Chickadees at the feeder.
Today, I give thanks for two slumbering children--young adults, really--whose soft, steady breathing somehow makes its way down the dusty wood stairs and lands gently upon me.
I give thanks for the bracing breeze that greets us in the fields of Woods Park, where other bundled-up couples have let loose their bounding dogs, free at last, free at last.
Today, I take in great mouthfuls of musty, crisp air, marveling at its restorative powers, growing ever more alert with each intake. And I gladly let Hobbes dawdle along, discovering the new smells of a different path than the one we took yesterday.
I think that maybe this is the best way to spend Thanksgiving, in the moment, and I wonder why it has taken me nearly a half century to realize that. But I don't wonder long, because wondering is about the past and the future, more than it is about right now.
And today, this Thanksgiving, I plan to relish only the "right now."
When I awoke, I was sure I had been there, witnessing their long overnight trek to warmer climes.
It was a vivid and peaceful dream, centered wholly on the here and now. Which is why I, too, have decided to center myself wholly on the here and now this Thanksgiving day.
Unlike most Thanksgivings, in which I reflect and imagine, I will spend today looking and listening. This Thanksgiving, I leave history to the historians and the future to the fortune tellers, focusing, instead, on the rustling of the Pin Oak leaves, clinging stubbornly to their stems. On the Blue Jays harassing the Sharp-Shinned Hawk who, in turn, is harassing the nervous Chickadees at the feeder.
Today, I give thanks for two slumbering children--young adults, really--whose soft, steady breathing somehow makes its way down the dusty wood stairs and lands gently upon me.
I give thanks for the bracing breeze that greets us in the fields of Woods Park, where other bundled-up couples have let loose their bounding dogs, free at last, free at last.
Today, I take in great mouthfuls of musty, crisp air, marveling at its restorative powers, growing ever more alert with each intake. And I gladly let Hobbes dawdle along, discovering the new smells of a different path than the one we took yesterday.
I think that maybe this is the best way to spend Thanksgiving, in the moment, and I wonder why it has taken me nearly a half century to realize that. But I don't wonder long, because wondering is about the past and the future, more than it is about right now.
And today, this Thanksgiving, I plan to relish only the "right now."
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Move Over, Meth...Here Comes Snatch It!
"Snatch It."
Sounds innocent enough, but inside that sleek tube of lettered tiles festers something dark and dangerous. If you don't believe me, just ask my friend Jill, or any member of my family.
None of them will play the game with me. Ever. Again. In fact, the only person on the face of the earth who will sit down and play Snatch It with me is Kristie, my other Scrabble partner.
...who, some days, I love a lot more than Jill, the way a meth addict loves an unopened box of Sudafed.
The first time my Scrabble partners and I sat down to play Snatch It, I felt my blood pressure rise and could taste adrenalin on the roof of my mouth.
A deceptively simple game, Snatch It's rules are straightforward--spill the lettered tiles on a table, turn them over and then, one at a time, reveal the letters. You can form words from the pile of tiles or by adding letters to the words your former friends already have formed. And stealing them from their pile. Bwah ha ha ha!
...did I mention that I could actually taste adrenalin in my mouth?
Jill knew immediately that this was not a game for her. Her face tightened, she sighed a lot and, under her hooded eyes, I could tell she was falling out of love with Kristie and me, with each convulsive cry we screamed.
These days, Kristie and I play it in private. Preferably when my house is empty. We have tried to reign in our compulsions, those desires to scream out a string of unintelligible "words" as we search for the one that actually exists...
"madTI! TIDma! itDAM! ADMIT! ADMIT! ADMIT, DAMMIT!!"
...but, mostly, we've failed to change our ways.
And god help us if daughter Allison roams through the room when we're playing. Inevitably, our shoulders fall a bit and we try to avoid eye contact with our 15-year-old witness.
"OMG! You are playing it AGAIN?! You disgust me."
We feel ashamed of ourselves--for about 30 seconds. But then, when we're alone again, and the adrenalin tickles the roofs of our mouths, our fingers inevitably find their way to that awful, addictive, most glorious pile of mystery tiles, where we know--we just KNOW!--that a really good word awaits us, ready to be snatched and horded.
Sounds innocent enough, but inside that sleek tube of lettered tiles festers something dark and dangerous. If you don't believe me, just ask my friend Jill, or any member of my family.
None of them will play the game with me. Ever. Again. In fact, the only person on the face of the earth who will sit down and play Snatch It with me is Kristie, my other Scrabble partner.
...who, some days, I love a lot more than Jill, the way a meth addict loves an unopened box of Sudafed.
The first time my Scrabble partners and I sat down to play Snatch It, I felt my blood pressure rise and could taste adrenalin on the roof of my mouth.
A deceptively simple game, Snatch It's rules are straightforward--spill the lettered tiles on a table, turn them over and then, one at a time, reveal the letters. You can form words from the pile of tiles or by adding letters to the words your former friends already have formed. And stealing them from their pile. Bwah ha ha ha!
...did I mention that I could actually taste adrenalin in my mouth?
Jill knew immediately that this was not a game for her. Her face tightened, she sighed a lot and, under her hooded eyes, I could tell she was falling out of love with Kristie and me, with each convulsive cry we screamed.
These days, Kristie and I play it in private. Preferably when my house is empty. We have tried to reign in our compulsions, those desires to scream out a string of unintelligible "words" as we search for the one that actually exists...
"madTI! TIDma! itDAM! ADMIT! ADMIT! ADMIT, DAMMIT!!"
...but, mostly, we've failed to change our ways.
And god help us if daughter Allison roams through the room when we're playing. Inevitably, our shoulders fall a bit and we try to avoid eye contact with our 15-year-old witness.
"OMG! You are playing it AGAIN?! You disgust me."
We feel ashamed of ourselves--for about 30 seconds. But then, when we're alone again, and the adrenalin tickles the roofs of our mouths, our fingers inevitably find their way to that awful, addictive, most glorious pile of mystery tiles, where we know--we just KNOW!--that a really good word awaits us, ready to be snatched and horded.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
3:17 a.m on Woods Avenue
Most days, an elderly dog with a history of seizures requires very little of a person. Mostly, a few square feet of unused space, where he can lay on his lumpy, discount dog bed with a threadbare blanket tossed across his bony shoulders.
3:17 on a Thursday morning is not most days, though.
The uneven tinkling of elder dog paws always requires attention at 3:17 a.m.
Unsure of what roused him--dreams of fresh cat turds, a broken synapse in the brain or the rumbling insistence of his own innards--Hobbes becomes a force to be reckoned with, when day has yet to nudge out night.
And so, early this morning (or late last night, depending on your perspective), I shook off my own dreams (not of cat turds, mind you) to address the real or imagined needs of my dog. Ultimately, it seems, I cannot abide the idea of a confused dog tumbling to his death down darkened wood stairs in the middle of the night.
Haunted by that imagined downward tumble, I blindly scoured the floor next to my bed, hoping to find a pair of slippers and some pajama bottoms. I found neither.
We both half stumbled down the stairs and I let Hobbes out back to address whatever needs required addressing. Clad only in my "i > u" nerd shirt and pink undies (I know, I know--shocking!), I huddled in the first-floor bathroom, waiting for Hobbes to do his own business.
Apparently, I waited a tad too long, for he was nowhere to be seen, when I cracked open the back door. Half cursing under my putrid morning breath, I wended my way to the front door, guided only by the light cast off of my shockingly pink undies. I stuck my head out the door, having spied Hobbes sniffing at the garbage can by the curb.
"psssssst! pssssst! hoooooobbbbbbbbes!" I half whispered.
It was as though he had never heard that name "Hobbes." And I was dead to him, replaced, instead, with the scent of some unnamed animal's musky urine, which had his full attention.
There is no way to silently glide up wood stairs in a house that was constructed in another century. But I did my best. Just as I did my best to locate a @*#! pair of pants and some slippers for what would be my early, early morning outing to kill my dog.
Back downstairs, I fumbled with the shorts I'd found, putting them on inside out, long pockets hanging bizarrely from my motherly hips. Managed to put my slippers on the wrong feet, too, but I didn't really care at this point, so intent was I to retrieve my lucky-to-be-alive dog. I opened the front door and began to step out.
"Your dog just went up your drive, ma'am."
It is stunning that vocal chords can vibrate at 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning (yes, some time had passed).
"Oh, uh, yeah. Thank you," I uttered to the bundled-up black man who was walking down the middle of my street. At 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning.
While I was pretty sure that he was not there to ravage my shabby-chic clad, half-century old body, I was slightly weirded out by the exchange.
As I'm sure was he. God knows how he eventually shook the image of me, bra-less, in t-shirt and inside-out shorts, with men's fluffy slippers on my feet.
I found Hobbes out back, still alive. At least for now. I let him in but most certainly did NOT reward him with a kibble of any kind. Instead, I left him downstairs, where he could stew in his clinky old dog claws.
Somehow, my bed had managed to hang onto a bit of my body heat, tucked away under the covers. Not that I would be sleeping again.
For the next ten minutes, I went through all the stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression, . . . finally settling on acceptance, which led me here. To the computer's keyboard. To try to make sense out of why I am wide awake at what is now 4:48 a.m., while Hobbes blissfully snores upstairs, no recollection of what it was that woke him long ago.
3:17 on a Thursday morning is not most days, though.
The uneven tinkling of elder dog paws always requires attention at 3:17 a.m.
Unsure of what roused him--dreams of fresh cat turds, a broken synapse in the brain or the rumbling insistence of his own innards--Hobbes becomes a force to be reckoned with, when day has yet to nudge out night.
And so, early this morning (or late last night, depending on your perspective), I shook off my own dreams (not of cat turds, mind you) to address the real or imagined needs of my dog. Ultimately, it seems, I cannot abide the idea of a confused dog tumbling to his death down darkened wood stairs in the middle of the night.
Haunted by that imagined downward tumble, I blindly scoured the floor next to my bed, hoping to find a pair of slippers and some pajama bottoms. I found neither.
We both half stumbled down the stairs and I let Hobbes out back to address whatever needs required addressing. Clad only in my "i > u" nerd shirt and pink undies (I know, I know--shocking!), I huddled in the first-floor bathroom, waiting for Hobbes to do his own business.
Apparently, I waited a tad too long, for he was nowhere to be seen, when I cracked open the back door. Half cursing under my putrid morning breath, I wended my way to the front door, guided only by the light cast off of my shockingly pink undies. I stuck my head out the door, having spied Hobbes sniffing at the garbage can by the curb.
"psssssst! pssssst! hoooooobbbbbbbbes!" I half whispered.
It was as though he had never heard that name "Hobbes." And I was dead to him, replaced, instead, with the scent of some unnamed animal's musky urine, which had his full attention.
There is no way to silently glide up wood stairs in a house that was constructed in another century. But I did my best. Just as I did my best to locate a @*#! pair of pants and some slippers for what would be my early, early morning outing to kill my dog.
Back downstairs, I fumbled with the shorts I'd found, putting them on inside out, long pockets hanging bizarrely from my motherly hips. Managed to put my slippers on the wrong feet, too, but I didn't really care at this point, so intent was I to retrieve my lucky-to-be-alive dog. I opened the front door and began to step out.
"Your dog just went up your drive, ma'am."
It is stunning that vocal chords can vibrate at 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning (yes, some time had passed).
"Oh, uh, yeah. Thank you," I uttered to the bundled-up black man who was walking down the middle of my street. At 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning.
While I was pretty sure that he was not there to ravage my shabby-chic clad, half-century old body, I was slightly weirded out by the exchange.
As I'm sure was he. God knows how he eventually shook the image of me, bra-less, in t-shirt and inside-out shorts, with men's fluffy slippers on my feet.
I found Hobbes out back, still alive. At least for now. I let him in but most certainly did NOT reward him with a kibble of any kind. Instead, I left him downstairs, where he could stew in his clinky old dog claws.
Somehow, my bed had managed to hang onto a bit of my body heat, tucked away under the covers. Not that I would be sleeping again.
For the next ten minutes, I went through all the stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression, . . . finally settling on acceptance, which led me here. To the computer's keyboard. To try to make sense out of why I am wide awake at what is now 4:48 a.m., while Hobbes blissfully snores upstairs, no recollection of what it was that woke him long ago.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Of Mannerly Midwesterners and One Shiba Inu
Midwesterners are an impeccably polite bunch. I think that's why the national news is so befuddling to us. Especially these days. How on earth, we think, could people talk that way to each other? How is it possible that they can find no common threads between them? And how in Sam Hill could a person remain silent when another so clearly was in need?
Our coastal cousins laugh at our quaintness, as though treating each other well is so, like, yesterday. On occasion, we cave to their edgy jabs, trying on acts of snarkiness the way a teetotaler samples bourbon, our sips of sassiness so small as to register almost nothing, so great is our fear of infection.
But then, we slip back into the rightness of respect, preferring to acknowledge both strangers and neighbors, without exactly requiring long conversations of either of them.
I remember reading a piece a few years ago about a group of Hasidic Jews who left New York for the upper plains of Minnesota. When asked how the transition was going, every one of them talked about how hard it was to get used to strangers saying "hi" to them.
I just heard about a student new to East, and to the Midwest, who can relate to this discomfort. Having, at one point, lived on the streets of L.A., he made his way to our school, via stops in other states and institutions. I haven't met him yet, but his 6'5 frame and good looks have caught the eyes of the student body. Especially the female student body. Apparently, he's struggling a bit at school. Not because he doesn't feel welcomed. Rather, because he's not used to being welcomed. Or greeted by strangers.
This morning, as I walked around Holmes Lake, I was taken aback only once, by a group of serious runners who, stretched across the width of the trail, neither altered their paths nor acknowledged me as they ran by. Otherwise, the walk was pleasant and peaceful, broken up by polite "hellos" and one longer conversation with a stranger, whose dog, Foxy, I recognized from a photo in this morning's paper.
Foxy's owner, an older woman whose name I did not get, was as friendly as the day is long. And the dog--a good-looking Shiba Inu with alert eyes and soft, soft fur--lured me to stop and have myself a chat. Here's what I learned from our two-minute conversation:
•Foxy is a rescue dog who, in his first few months of life, already had had two owners
•Foxy's current (and, I'm sure, last) owners are a retired couple who have the time to spend with him each day
•Foxy's friendliness and calm nature are unusual for a Shiba Inu
•Foxy can catch a kibble, mid air. And roll over. And lay patiently in wait, despite that kibble just sitting there, inches from his nose.
As the conversation wrapped up, another couple, walking by us, stopped and asked questions about Foxy. And then, Foxy's owner and I reached out and squeezed each other's arms. This woman, a stranger five minutes earlier, was now imprinted on my impeccably polite Midwestern brain. And I was glad to have her there.
Our coastal cousins laugh at our quaintness, as though treating each other well is so, like, yesterday. On occasion, we cave to their edgy jabs, trying on acts of snarkiness the way a teetotaler samples bourbon, our sips of sassiness so small as to register almost nothing, so great is our fear of infection.
But then, we slip back into the rightness of respect, preferring to acknowledge both strangers and neighbors, without exactly requiring long conversations of either of them.
I remember reading a piece a few years ago about a group of Hasidic Jews who left New York for the upper plains of Minnesota. When asked how the transition was going, every one of them talked about how hard it was to get used to strangers saying "hi" to them.
I just heard about a student new to East, and to the Midwest, who can relate to this discomfort. Having, at one point, lived on the streets of L.A., he made his way to our school, via stops in other states and institutions. I haven't met him yet, but his 6'5 frame and good looks have caught the eyes of the student body. Especially the female student body. Apparently, he's struggling a bit at school. Not because he doesn't feel welcomed. Rather, because he's not used to being welcomed. Or greeted by strangers.
This morning, as I walked around Holmes Lake, I was taken aback only once, by a group of serious runners who, stretched across the width of the trail, neither altered their paths nor acknowledged me as they ran by. Otherwise, the walk was pleasant and peaceful, broken up by polite "hellos" and one longer conversation with a stranger, whose dog, Foxy, I recognized from a photo in this morning's paper.
Foxy's owner, an older woman whose name I did not get, was as friendly as the day is long. And the dog--a good-looking Shiba Inu with alert eyes and soft, soft fur--lured me to stop and have myself a chat. Here's what I learned from our two-minute conversation:
•Foxy is a rescue dog who, in his first few months of life, already had had two owners
•Foxy's current (and, I'm sure, last) owners are a retired couple who have the time to spend with him each day
•Foxy's friendliness and calm nature are unusual for a Shiba Inu
•Foxy can catch a kibble, mid air. And roll over. And lay patiently in wait, despite that kibble just sitting there, inches from his nose.
As the conversation wrapped up, another couple, walking by us, stopped and asked questions about Foxy. And then, Foxy's owner and I reached out and squeezed each other's arms. This woman, a stranger five minutes earlier, was now imprinted on my impeccably polite Midwestern brain. And I was glad to have her there.
O, Solo Mio!
Some days--heck, some lives--can be transformed in a matter of minutes. And so it was that my own Friday--if not my life--was blessedly scrubbed clean yesterday during the low-hum mayhem that is library lunch duty.
Absent of the 1 p.m. dance fests that used to frame a Friday in the library (my friend and dance partner Genny now stationed in another room in the school), perhaps we were all in need of a little musical interlude.
Enter Paul, my secret crush who, simply by wending his smiling way through the throngs of lunching, munching, ever-bunching students, can put a kick in my step. By the way, if you have never seen a librarian with a kick in her step, then you are missing something big.
Then again, if you have never met Paul, whom I've written about before, then you are missing something even bigger.
Paul's five-minute lunchtime visit with me included pieces of our usual routine: he immediately picked up the due-date stamper and inked up his hand with the designation "Dec. 03, 2011" and we joked about his upcoming due date. Then, he helped me check out a few books to other students, including Natalie, a student new to East whom, if a teacher were apt to have her favorites, would make my own top-ten list. I mean, if a teacher did that sort of thing. . . .
Then Paul, listening to Natalie and me discuss the opera she attended earlier in the week, threw me for a musical loop. Threw everyone within earshot for a musical loop.
He broke into song. Not just a top-forty, heard-it-on-the-radio song, though. No, Paul broke out into an operatic piece.
In Italian.
Did I mention that Paul receives Special Education services at East High? Perhaps we need to remind ourselves of what that word "special" really means. . . .
Eyes closed, head pointed upward, Paul released an oddly affecting tremolo from his lips, the words framed in Sicilian roots and sung with ease.
It was like one of those experiences that I hear supreme athletes have from time to time, in which the moments stretch out far beyond the tick of the second hand, each unraveling in slo-mo, our attention riveted to the unfolding.
Natalie, who, in her former school, had a bit of a reputation for being an impatient rabble-rouser, let a slow, appreciative smile stretch across her ebony face, mesmerized by this impromptu performance.
Such is the transformative power of Josh Grobin, I guess, whom Paul acknowledged for teaching him the song.
(My God! Paul even cited his sources! What's not for this librarian to love about him?!)
And then, the bell rang. Kids logged off of their computers, put away their chess games, pushed in their chairs and began heading for their next class, some stopping to pat Paul on the back.
And me?
Well, I just stood there, dumbfounded and utterly happy. Basking in the afterglow of Paul's aria, transformed.
Absent of the 1 p.m. dance fests that used to frame a Friday in the library (my friend and dance partner Genny now stationed in another room in the school), perhaps we were all in need of a little musical interlude.
Enter Paul, my secret crush who, simply by wending his smiling way through the throngs of lunching, munching, ever-bunching students, can put a kick in my step. By the way, if you have never seen a librarian with a kick in her step, then you are missing something big.
Then again, if you have never met Paul, whom I've written about before, then you are missing something even bigger.
Paul's five-minute lunchtime visit with me included pieces of our usual routine: he immediately picked up the due-date stamper and inked up his hand with the designation "Dec. 03, 2011" and we joked about his upcoming due date. Then, he helped me check out a few books to other students, including Natalie, a student new to East whom, if a teacher were apt to have her favorites, would make my own top-ten list. I mean, if a teacher did that sort of thing. . . .
Then Paul, listening to Natalie and me discuss the opera she attended earlier in the week, threw me for a musical loop. Threw everyone within earshot for a musical loop.
He broke into song. Not just a top-forty, heard-it-on-the-radio song, though. No, Paul broke out into an operatic piece.
In Italian.
Did I mention that Paul receives Special Education services at East High? Perhaps we need to remind ourselves of what that word "special" really means. . . .
Eyes closed, head pointed upward, Paul released an oddly affecting tremolo from his lips, the words framed in Sicilian roots and sung with ease.
It was like one of those experiences that I hear supreme athletes have from time to time, in which the moments stretch out far beyond the tick of the second hand, each unraveling in slo-mo, our attention riveted to the unfolding.
Natalie, who, in her former school, had a bit of a reputation for being an impatient rabble-rouser, let a slow, appreciative smile stretch across her ebony face, mesmerized by this impromptu performance.
Such is the transformative power of Josh Grobin, I guess, whom Paul acknowledged for teaching him the song.
(My God! Paul even cited his sources! What's not for this librarian to love about him?!)
And then, the bell rang. Kids logged off of their computers, put away their chess games, pushed in their chairs and began heading for their next class, some stopping to pat Paul on the back.
And me?
Well, I just stood there, dumbfounded and utterly happy. Basking in the afterglow of Paul's aria, transformed.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
A Fine Recipe: 1/4 Cup of Yearning
Thanks to author Kathleen Dean Moore, I now have a name for it, that mournful musical note that is, itself, the very essence of yearning.
The augmented fourth.
How can it be that a name--even a drab, rigid one like "augmented fourth"--can somehow replicate the magic of what it represents?
And yet. . . .
"Augmented" takes its time rolling off my tongue. It is not an easy word to say. Even a bit sad, somehow, almost ending in defeat. "Awg'-ment-ed." Like the single note in all those minor-chord songs that I play over and over again, each time washing over me with surprising emotional vigor.
Should I be surprised to learn that no songs in the early Christian church had augmented fourths in them, so alluring are their effects? But to call them diobolus in musica--the devil's chord? I think the early church fathers got it wrong.
In my yearning, I am connected to everything, both seen and unseen. It is that yearning that compels me to "forget" something at the store, just so I can catch a glimpse of my son--my tall, gentle, loving son--in one of his natural environments. It is that yearning that leads me to clang a few pans midmorning on a Saturday, in hopes that I'll rouse Allison and be invited to slip under her covers, curling up next to her warm body while she sloughs the sleep from her body.
It is the bittersweet power of the augmented fourth that makes me fall in love with the natural world every time I step outside.
In a way, I suppose, yearning is always about stepping outside--either physically or symbolically.
In fact, I think that yearning may be the thread that connects all things. It makes us kinder, softer, more aware of our surroundings. It makes me ache at the recent nakedness of our tall Locust tree, yet also stand in awe as I watch it transformed into something magical, with all the stars of the sky stapled to it, in the inky blackness of an early winter morning. It is the mournful song of a wolf or loon, looking for a mate.
Yearning pops our arrogant human balloons, reminding us that, as much as anything else, we are here to look out for each other--for the plants and the animals, as much as for the bumbling humans that fill our days.
Such is the power of augmented fourths.
My thanks to author/naturalist/philosopher Kathleen Dean Moore for naming those strummed vibrations that run up and down my spine. Her books "Wild Comforts" and "The Pine Island Paradox" are well worth your time.
The augmented fourth.
How can it be that a name--even a drab, rigid one like "augmented fourth"--can somehow replicate the magic of what it represents?
And yet. . . .
"Augmented" takes its time rolling off my tongue. It is not an easy word to say. Even a bit sad, somehow, almost ending in defeat. "Awg'-ment-ed." Like the single note in all those minor-chord songs that I play over and over again, each time washing over me with surprising emotional vigor.
Should I be surprised to learn that no songs in the early Christian church had augmented fourths in them, so alluring are their effects? But to call them diobolus in musica--the devil's chord? I think the early church fathers got it wrong.
In my yearning, I am connected to everything, both seen and unseen. It is that yearning that compels me to "forget" something at the store, just so I can catch a glimpse of my son--my tall, gentle, loving son--in one of his natural environments. It is that yearning that leads me to clang a few pans midmorning on a Saturday, in hopes that I'll rouse Allison and be invited to slip under her covers, curling up next to her warm body while she sloughs the sleep from her body.
It is the bittersweet power of the augmented fourth that makes me fall in love with the natural world every time I step outside.
In a way, I suppose, yearning is always about stepping outside--either physically or symbolically.
In fact, I think that yearning may be the thread that connects all things. It makes us kinder, softer, more aware of our surroundings. It makes me ache at the recent nakedness of our tall Locust tree, yet also stand in awe as I watch it transformed into something magical, with all the stars of the sky stapled to it, in the inky blackness of an early winter morning. It is the mournful song of a wolf or loon, looking for a mate.
Yearning pops our arrogant human balloons, reminding us that, as much as anything else, we are here to look out for each other--for the plants and the animals, as much as for the bumbling humans that fill our days.
Such is the power of augmented fourths.
My thanks to author/naturalist/philosopher Kathleen Dean Moore for naming those strummed vibrations that run up and down my spine. Her books "Wild Comforts" and "The Pine Island Paradox" are well worth your time.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
You be you
"Act your age."
In the long history of humankind, I don't think those words have ever been uttered as anything other than a soul-sucking threat. In fact, that phrase may very well be the ultimate party pooper, more effective, even, than lime jello with carrots.
Young or old, no one wants to be told to "act your age."
And, really, what does that mean anyway?
Act stereotypically? Live less large? Ignore your joy?
And no one should want to be the bearer of such dreaded expectations. It's one reason I occasionally remind my own children that it is never their job to take away someone else's joy. Usually, those reminders come when one of the kids is sharpening his or her tongue at someone else's expense.
And yes, I've whittled myself that very same tongue from time to time, caving to the low-bar desire to point out someone else's clumsy humanity.
. . . as though my Chic jeans are all that and then some. . . .
I have no idea what it means to act 49 and eleven months. I do, however, have a pretty good idea of what it means to act 'Jane Louise Raglin Holt." And, given the alternative--to behave in some sort of standard, predetermined, stiffly mature "50-ish" kind of way, I think I'll always prefer to act like me. warts and all.
. . . or maybe I should say "skin tags and all."
I'm as clumsy and complicated as they come. One minute, I'm farting like an 8-year-old boy. Another, I am staunchly defending the rightness of meeting deadlines. Some nights, I sleep like a 97-year-old woman. And, on crisp, Fall mornings, I tend to see God in the blanket of dew that sparkles in the sunlight. I love popping bubble wrap and busting a move to a funky song. And I still don't own a purse but I'll drop a pretty penny on a fine pair of shoes.
There are also those occasional times when I seem to absolutely stink at being me. Times when my skin feels all wrong and the colors of the world are a bit askance. These times never last, though. And, I suppose, they just bring out a different part of me--a sad, uncertain part that I just don't know very well.
Like I said, I am as clumsy and complicated as anyone.
As I hover at the half-century mark, I think it's time this old world and all the people in it--those quirky, complicated people who can't seem to rise to the standards we've set for them--would be better served if we just banned those three words "Act your age" and replaced them with something a little more honest and practical.
Something like "Be you." Because we're pretty much the only people who can act out that role with any kind of authenticity.
In the long history of humankind, I don't think those words have ever been uttered as anything other than a soul-sucking threat. In fact, that phrase may very well be the ultimate party pooper, more effective, even, than lime jello with carrots.
Young or old, no one wants to be told to "act your age."
And, really, what does that mean anyway?
Act stereotypically? Live less large? Ignore your joy?
And no one should want to be the bearer of such dreaded expectations. It's one reason I occasionally remind my own children that it is never their job to take away someone else's joy. Usually, those reminders come when one of the kids is sharpening his or her tongue at someone else's expense.
And yes, I've whittled myself that very same tongue from time to time, caving to the low-bar desire to point out someone else's clumsy humanity.
. . . as though my Chic jeans are all that and then some. . . .
I have no idea what it means to act 49 and eleven months. I do, however, have a pretty good idea of what it means to act 'Jane Louise Raglin Holt." And, given the alternative--to behave in some sort of standard, predetermined, stiffly mature "50-ish" kind of way, I think I'll always prefer to act like me. warts and all.
. . . or maybe I should say "skin tags and all."
I'm as clumsy and complicated as they come. One minute, I'm farting like an 8-year-old boy. Another, I am staunchly defending the rightness of meeting deadlines. Some nights, I sleep like a 97-year-old woman. And, on crisp, Fall mornings, I tend to see God in the blanket of dew that sparkles in the sunlight. I love popping bubble wrap and busting a move to a funky song. And I still don't own a purse but I'll drop a pretty penny on a fine pair of shoes.
There are also those occasional times when I seem to absolutely stink at being me. Times when my skin feels all wrong and the colors of the world are a bit askance. These times never last, though. And, I suppose, they just bring out a different part of me--a sad, uncertain part that I just don't know very well.
Like I said, I am as clumsy and complicated as anyone.
As I hover at the half-century mark, I think it's time this old world and all the people in it--those quirky, complicated people who can't seem to rise to the standards we've set for them--would be better served if we just banned those three words "Act your age" and replaced them with something a little more honest and practical.
Something like "Be you." Because we're pretty much the only people who can act out that role with any kind of authenticity.
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