Soylent Mean

A long time ago, my sister and her husband went out of town and asked me to keep an eye on their house.  What I really kept an eye on, though, was their Nintendo system and the Mario Brothers game nestled inside it.  For five days and nights, I worked that joystick the way a dancer works her pole, with vigor and regularity, my playing time interrupted only by occasional cramps and dyspepsia.

During those days, I played so much "Mario" that, by the time I left for work each morning, I actually believed that, if I nudged the car in front of me, gold coins would pop out of its roof.   More than once, I had to remind myself that insurance agents, not gold coins, would come after me if I followed through with my plans.

And so began my two-year love affair with Nintendo.  It also represented a demise in my dating relationship with Mark, since neither of us was willing to leave the magical, treasure-filled world of Mario (or Zelda) to go catch a movie with friends.

I wonder if the same thing has happened in Washington.  Is it possible that politicians have so fallen in love with catchphrases and Super PACS that they can no longer discern fantasy from reality?

I fear that a line in the sand is no longer any good at helping people to behave, its medium too fragile to withstand the perceived push from the other side.  No, it seems to me that political factions are digging a new Grand Canyon between each other, and that, before too long, no one will have the gumption to build a bridge long enough to meet in the middle. 

Nuances and fresh perspectives are no longer welcomed at the table, which is like banning multivitamins because they are just too...multi.

That's why I was so bowled over by yesterday's U.S. Supreme Court decision, affirming parts of the Affordable Care Act.  Yes, the act is a mess, but I believe it is a mess in the right direction.  That Chief Justice John Roberts, whose opinion was expected by both political parties to reflect a particular slant,  came out in favor of the ruling was almost mind-boggling.

Equally mind-boggling was the spin cycle that immediately followed the ruling.  I got about five minutes to bask in the unusual glow of a seemingly apolitical ruling until everyone and their mother began chiming in, more often than not representing one of two emotional extremes--giddiness or disgust.

These bookend emotions--giddiness and disgust--are further evidence that we have lost touch with reality.  Not many people felt pretty good about the ruling.  Gone are the days of such middling emotions, stomped out by enemies and vitriol, us and them. 

My God, people.  Even a dog, who instinctively knows that a cat is its mortal enemy, must stop and admire the slinky curvature and devilish craftiness of its feline opponent.  Even that dog wags its tail and wonders, if only for one moment, what it would be like to give chase and engage.

And us?  Well, we're too intent on throwing stones to notice the nuances of those we've grown to hate so much.  We're too busy eating our own to care much about saving ourselves.

Updating My "Daughter" Software

My mom is trying my patience these days and I think I know the problem. 

I'm using old information. 

I'm still stuck in Sally 1.0 when my mom has moved on to Sally 2.0.  Actually, she's probably in Sally 5.0 mode, but I'm the youngest,--impetuous and spoiled--so you can excuse at least some of my unwillingness to accept this latest update of hers. 

Oh, I have seen the signs of this latest--the last--chapter of my mom's life, and I have fought them stubbornly.  While I tell myself that I "get" it, that I can help her navigate these waters, the truth is something much muddier than that. 

Turns out I am too impatient for a life that has spread itself over 85 years.  I connect the dots and see what I think is the best route and I grow impatient when my mom takes her sweet time, stretching out the days as she makes her peace with them.  I want to box up her memories, to weed and thin them, so that they all can fit into her new home, but I don't want to wait while she inspects and remembers each one.

This, I know, is my problem, not hers. 

How on earth could I expect my mom to go quietly into this next chapter?  What could I say that could make her new home sound like anything but a bridge between being and not being?  Sure, it's got all the candy--the good food, the swimming pool, the elevator RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO THEIR PLACE! 

I am asking her to give up great heaps of her being.  And, like Veruca Salt, I want it to happen now. 

Instead, I should look to my mom as a model, dawdling through these days with her, beside her.  I should take her hand and sit with her, while she thumbs the seashell her father gave her, nudging the stories from it. 

Now, more than ever, I need to be the Buddhist daughter, the one who exists right here, right now, with no thought of the future.  I need to walk this journey with her, appreciating it for what it is--this  moment in which we happen to be together. 

I can be a better daughter and today is as good a day as any to find my own 2.0.

Summer Lovin'

It is not my intention to brag.  Bragging, after all, is an ugly habit that makes other people hate you.  Heck, even a booger-eating moron (who, by definition, has at least one ugly habit) gets more pity than a braggart.  So, how do I write about my love affair with summer without making people choke on their own vomit?

I guess I don't.   So, here we go.

First, a disclaimer.  I am an aficionado of all four seasons, which is one reason I don't live in Phoenix.  The fact that I've never been offered a job there is maybe another reason.  Oh, and then there's the fact that I don't play golf.  Anyway, I need four seasons, the way a flower needs the rain.  And I need them each and every year.

Ah, but this blog is about summer, that glorious, glaring season without edges or purpose.  And, while there are many years of my youth that I don't care to repeat--eighteen, to be exact--summer  truly is the season of my youth.  It is the season of Saturday swim meets, dipping my chlorinated finger into a box of jello between heats.  It is the season of bike rides and beers--two things that don't always go so well together, but they seem like a really good idea at the time.

Summer is when my fashion devil flexes its middle finger at the world, defiantly shouting "I don't CARE if I wore this t-shirt yesterday.  It STILL smells okay! And, besides, it just makes sense to sleep in tomorrow's outfit!"

For me, summer is the season that suspends time, not that I own a watch anyway.  In fact, as I type this, I have no idea what day of the week it is, more or less what a calendar might tell me.  Quite frankly, time doesn't really matter to me right now.  I'm more focused on Fritos.

Summer is both indulgent and forgiving, active and lazy.  It is too much and not quite enough.  Summer is a bookends season, better at the extremes than the in-betweens.  It is long bike rides and languorous Scrabble games, "Frasier" reruns and piles of books by the bed.  It is the best of both worlds--movement and stasis--and too much of everything.

Summer is the reason I can show up each August and pretend to be a professional again.  This ninety-day amateur hour keeps me happily employed the other three seasons of the year.  Ah, but enough about work.  This is a blog about play. 

 Lots and lots of play. . . .

Loving My "Friend" Sandwich

Friends are like the checker at my neighborhood grocery store.  They see all my secrets revealed--the tampons, the beer, even the Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch-- and still manage to smile at me. 

Like that checker, friends make me glad I showed up, even though they know everything about me.  Yes, even that!

This is one reason I do not take my friendships lightly.  It would be like the U.S. dismissing Iran's request for more plutonium as though it were child's play.  No, I understand that things could blow at any time for a variety of reasons and I want to do whatever I can to avoid those disasters before they develop.  Consider it my own form of unilateral disarmament in reverse.  I overlook their warts in hopes that they might overlook mine. 

Friends are my fuel that gets me going.  Granted, methane is not the fuel I'd choose, but this is a matter I have been forced to overlook.  If not actually ignore.

I can't believe how many funny people I know.  It doesn't even matter which pool I happen to be swimming in--my "school" pool, my "neighbor" pool, my "childhood" pool.  Each pool is in perpetual high tide because of all the laughter taking place within them.  Every one of these people has seen me at my worst--or at the very least my "not-so-hot, thank you." And still they manage to laugh about it.

School friends witness my shortfalls daily--sometimes multiple times a day if they're bringing in their students to work with me.  They see me forget things, lose my audience, get impatient with a 14-year-old (imagine!).  And they quietly lift me up and reinforce me, filling in the gaps like a patient bricklayer who knows just what to do.

Neighbor friends see and hear my shortfalls each time I accidentally leave a window open at night.  No doubt, they've heard me say rotten things to my children, seen me skitter across the kitchen in my skivvies and smelled me in the garbage cans that fester on the curb, the lids long gone. And still they wave as I pull in the drive each day.

Childhood friends live with this weird two-sided coin of me, sometimes confused by which Jane shows up when.  Their memories know me as the cocky tomboy, always up for a stupid challenge.   But these memories are muddied by the woman in front of them, someone who somehow managed to birth two people and stay married to another.  None of it really adds up, but they hang in there with me anyway.

I love being a teacher.  But I can imagine my life without teaching in it.  I cannot, however, imagine life without friends in it.  They are the salve to my wounds, the giggle in my jiggly puff.  They are the reading glasses I reach for when I want to see things and feel things more clearly.

Like water, I imagine I couldn't live long without them.

An Internal-Storm Warning!

The skies still dark with night, Mark and I had an early-morning conversation that left a bad taste in my mouth.  Then again, maybe there just is a bad taste in my mouth.  He mentioned that, in the midst of last night's storm, there were times when he wasn't sure what was waking him--the booming thunder or my snoring. 

Tis a sad day when one's mate mistakes your snoring for a maelstrom.

And so I've come to realize the harsh truth of half-century living--somewhere along the line, I've swapped my maintenance plans of yore for something much more practical--trying to minimize the "gross out" factor.  Thing is, it's turning into a full-time job.

Consider two more things that happened before I even left the bed this morning.  First, there was Finn, who now has taken to sleeping under our bed for most of the night, emerging pre-dawn to join us on top.  Inevitably, he'll stick his snout next to my lips and breathe in--sometimes for a minute or two.  He never kisses me during this routine.  I can only imagine that he thinks he's located some festering, three-days-dead vermin in our bed and desires nothing more than to fill his little lungs with my bacteria-riddled bouquet.

After recovering from Finn's sniff test, I reached into my nightstand drawer and pulled out a file.  Considering that I routinely scratch my slumbering legs with my razor-like heels,  this girl's gotta be willing to do "fancy," even before the rooster crows.  Working my heels like a frantic parmesan-factory peon, I finally created a mostly even playing field down yonder and could begin my day.

These are the new realities of my life--a life now filled with frantic tweezing, unfettered farting, bilious bowels, thunderous snoring and more rough spots than I can shake a stick or a file at. 

It's a miracle my family still talks to me.  We'll see if I have any friends by Wednesday, considering I leave for a girl trip tomorrow morning.  

Of Convicts and Convictions

"Convict" and "convictions" are too close in nature not to be concentric at times.  After all, people can become prisoners of their convictions, penned in by the absolutes.  And, just as every convict has a victim, so, too, can people become victims of others' convictions.

As for me, it seems more likely that I'll become a convict before I can identify a single conviction that envelops me.  Maybe that's kind of sad, thinking that I can't name even one thing I hold to so tightly that each moment reflects it.  For me, just getting out of bed each morning tends to muddy things.  Sure, I have tenets that guide me--kindness, truth-seeking and honesty, for example.  But I don't believe I've ever batted .1000 on a single one of those.  Heck, I've usually blown all three before breakfast each day. 

Then again, I do wake up early.  Very early.

I'm so conflicted that even the act of loving God doesn't seem to simplify things.  Indeed, for me, loving God has the opposite effect--making things even more complicated and confounding.  Even the essence of most religions--loving neighbor as self--is a toughie, especially when I need so many home improvements myself.

It seems I spend most days doing two things--navigating and negotiating.  I read the situation, apply what I know, figure out what I don't know (which is usually a much larger slice of the pie) and start building a bridge or two between those gaps.

It's satisfying work, to be sure.  But never clean or tidy.


I think that's why I'm so disgusted with politics today.  Too many politicians want clean and tidy, all-or-nothing and we keep getting more of the nothing.  They become penned in by their convictions--or the convictions of their constituents.  And convictions flourish best in the realm of paper.  They become much tougher to maintain when skin is the medium.

Jesus was a squeamish sort because he challenged his people's very convictions.  I imagine He'd prefer His name not be invoked so much these days.  Or at least to be cited correctly.

Heck, even Ronald Reagan knew the value of reaching across the aisle.  And I respected him for that.

 I just got back from staring at the ocean for five day.  Even in those five days, it was obvious that nature holds no black-and-white convictions.  I saw plenty of navigating and negotiating, the hum of life continually takings its own temperature as it found a new path, a new pattern, a new way to make it to another sunset. 

Seems to have worked for nature.  I don't know why such a thing couldn't help us, as well.

"You can never step in the same river twice for new waters are always flowing on to you."
--Heraclitus of Ephesus

A Day Without Sunshine AIn't So Bad, Anita Bryant

Stop, Look & Listen.

Those words were a common mantra of my youth, taking me very nearly to 8th grade, when I really should have stopped, looked and listened but forgot to.  Until then, though, those words were so important that I capitalized them today, even though, technically, only one deserves the upper case. 

Such are the decisions we make when things are really, really important.

This past week, I returned to my childhood mantra and did plenty of stopping, looking and listening.  That I was doing it while on the beach in Florida made it an easy mantra to follow.  Well, that's not exactly true. See, the first few days of our vacation were cloaked in clouds and rain.  And not even the voluminous, skyscraper clouds and wicked rains typical of tropical Florida.  No, these were flat, slate skies spitting long, wet sneezes across our windshield. 

By breakfast the second morning, after again waking to rumbles and rain, it's possible I uttered something so awful that it would have made Snoop Dog choke on his chow.  Granted, an aggressive Escalade (is there any other kind?) yanked it from my lips, but those two words clearly marked the low point of the vacation. 

We needed some sun and we needed it bad. 

Fortunately, by the time I ate the last strip of bacon on my breakfast plate, the sun began peaking through the clouds.  So foreign to us now, I wasn't sure it was safe to stare directly into it, but I was willing to risk it just to prove to myself that it still orbited our planet. 

Later that morning, while strolling the beach, my childhood mantra returned to me, a life preserver resting atop its youthful waist. 

Stop, Look and Listen I did.  The rhythmic hum of the gulf filled my ears and turned me away from my darkness.  That's when I began noticing the police tape scattered all along the beach, marking not crime scenes but the magical places where sea turtles had trudged from their watery climes to lay their eggs.  That's when I saw the swollen v-shaped patterns the heavy mothers had left in the sand as they looked for a place to bury their future hopes. 


The nature dweeb had emerged from its broken sleep and I could not wipe the smile off my face.  Hunched over, following the last tide line, I hunted for small treasures, former homes of ocean life left scattered among the sea grass.  Tiny, imperfect whelks, cat's paws bleached white in the sun, turkey wings, mermaid's toenails, coquinas, conchs and moon eyes, settling in after a long, tumultuous journey. 

I had found my rhythm and it felt very good indeed.  Even tipping the two-man kayak was okay by me, although I'm grateful it happened by a dock and not in the mangrove forest awaiting us just around the corner.  Finally, I had learned, once again, to Stop, Look and Listen and I was rewarded ten-fold for my troubles.  I was in the land of manatees and dolphins,  blue herons and roseated spoonbills, sea turtles and beach bikes and I was going to soak it all in.

On our last morning, Mark and I awoke at 5 and walked the beach one last time.  The day before, we'd missed spying a turtle by ten small minutes.  We enjoyed the experience vicariously, as we talked to a couple who spoke rapturously about the experience.  They'd been coming to Siesta Key for years in hopes of seeing a sea turtle.  I had goosebumps just listening to them.  And so,  we figured we just might find one if we got out there early enough. 

There was no sea turtle on the beach that morning, but Mark and I figured we were the first two people on earth to witness the trails left by two overnight visitors, neither of whom had built a nest. 

I left Florida rested and happy, having once again learned that Stop, Look & Listen is an important mantra, no matter how old we are.

An Ideal Job, Indeed

All kinds of good things come from my kids working at Ideal Grocery store.  And a few bad ones, too.  But even they are kind of good, too, in a storytelling sort of way.

Like the woman who handed Allison a bag of goodies--three pretzels, two peanuts and an M & M, to be exact--and then belittled my daughter when she couldn't get the booty to weigh in on the scale.   She did not hesitate to give Allison her two cents' worth--literally, since that's how much the concoction cost her.

Or the woman who yelled at Allison when she put in the wrong code for juice oranges (who in the heck buys juice oranges anyway?).  After Allison went through--and deducted--the price of every flipping kind of orange until she found the right one, the woman then got downright helpful.  "These are BA-NA-NAS.  And these are GREEN GRAPES."

Both kids (and a slew of customers, as well) know to look for John, the short man who wears the Burger King crown, who shops on Saturday mornings.  And Allison secretly hopes he won't have underwear on his head, too, something else he's been known to don.

Now that she works at Ideal, Allison will grab an apple from the fridge and say "This is a really good #4201," speaking in CPU codes that are a mystery to me. 

And both kids now realize just how naked a person is when he or she shops.  Given that Ideal is no Russ's B & R, though, I don't think either one has witnessed actual nudity.  Still,  our  grocery carts tell a thousand stories we would not otherwise offer up freely.  I may try to bury those Brach's peanut-caramel clusters underneath a bag of carrots, but, come Judgement Day (i.e., ring-up time), it's pretty obvious what's what.  Candy AND kettle chips?  For shame!

Thanks to Ideal, Eric and Allison now know how to manage money--their own and others'.  They each can pack a mean, well-balanced bag of groceries, make small talk with strangers, and learn to take in stride the crabs and kooks that come through those doors. 

Oh, and they are perfecting their storytelling skills, too, one memorable customer at a time.  I, for one, am always excited when their bikes pull in the drive after a long and fruitful day at the neighborhood grocery store, because I know a good story is in store.

Birds Do It. Bees Do It.

As my own memory slips out of gear more and more often, making each outing a bit of an adventure, I'm struck by the deep memories that compel the larger world into action.  Just this morning, as Finn and I were walking around Woods Park, I watched an inky undulation of geese, hard wired to a particular group shape that seems to point them to watery climes.  Which of their ancestors was the first to discover the benefits of this aerial drafting?  And do they draw numbers to see who will lead it all?

Birds have always amazed and delighted me, though.  I want to lift their hoods and check out all that wiring--that crazy, crazy wiring that calls them between two lands.  That's probably why I could not put down John Janovy's "Yellow Legs," his account of a single bird--a single bird!--and its circular flight between Canada and South America. 

This morning,  I pondered the brain of a passing goldfinch as it flapped its loping way to a nearby tree,  leaving an undulating vapor trail in the shape of a lazy "w".  Why that particular mid-air arc, I wonder.

I'm glad I don't know the answer.  It would be awful to know it all.  Besides, it would just be more to forget.

There are times, though, that these ancient creature memories nearly cause my brain to explode.  Take those monarchs that got sidetracked to D.C.  Even those seeking office in that strange place more often than not get lost when they finally arrive.  Yet these monarchs, despite having never before visited the Jefferson Memorial or U.S. Capitol, managed not to lose their heads there.  Somehow, something deep inside those tiny heads remembered where they were supposed to be, and got them back on track again.  I imagine those wayward creatures telling their friends scandalous stories amid the leaves of the oyamel fir trees of Michoacan.


Even Mark's garden (it really is his--I am simply the one who observes and nods her approval) is rife with invisible memory.  I try to imagine the complicated cache that is the tiny seed of a bee balm plant, its instructions tucked away between pockets of air and membrane, awaiting water and soil to release the memories--purple or pink, pointed in just such a way.  Or I stand, gape jawed, watching two cabbage moths flying in synch, like the Blue Angels cloaked in silk, and I wonder what kind of synapses are firing between them.

Really, it's just laughable that we humans think we are the top of the heap.  I can no more fathom what it is that leads a bee to a certain flower than I can recall what it is that I needed at the store, once I'm inside it. 

No.  Better that we ponder the cyclical workings, the collective memory of the larger planet and all the tiny things that inhabit it.  It is there, lost in those thoughts, that I am both humbled and amazed, glad to be a part of it all.