Marlo Thomas: Supreme Thinker

It seems to me that most misunderstandings have their roots in broad brushes. 

I wonder what would happen if we replaced the broad brush with a toothpick.  What if, instead of assuming that those who are different from us are also somehow all the same, we simply left it at different? 

To be sure, the assumption  that everyone and everything is different brings us much closer to the truth than the assumption of sameness.  It also makes for a richer, much more interesting life.  And a more peaceful one, too.

In such thinking, "us and them" is replaced with "you and me" or, simply, "us."

No more "them," whoever they were.

By acknowledging the uniqueness of others, we begin to pay more attention to them.  Suddenly, the tiny details become great mysteries slowly unfolding before our eyes.  We begin relishing the differences, taken aback by the richness of life, rather than made hard by our obsession with sameness.

Such thinking would wreak havoc on today's political system.  How do we rally people if there is no more "us and them?"  Most organized religions would be rattled by it, as well, having succumbed long ago to the human inclination to build up walls, however reverently they may have been assembled.

I know my own thinking and way of being would be jolted by such a radical notion.  But I also know that I am capable of learning and changing. 

The odd thing about acknowledging that everything and everyone is different is that it has a funny way of bringing us all together.  In many ways, I think today's teens have a much better grasp on this than us old fogies do.  Their worlds seem to have no edges at all, wiped out by the borderless wonders of technology and the victories of old battles still won.   Women vote.  Duh.  Blacks are citizens.  Duh.  Gays can marry in some states.  Duh. 

We're all different.  Duh. 

It's not much of a motto, but I think it's a worthwhile starting place.

-----------
Marlo Thomas, sing it!

Of Foot Rubs and Media Diets

I'm pondering a diet.  One of those radical, body- and soul-cleansing events that wrenches out all of the bad and leaves a person feeling both dizzy and clarified.

I'm pondering a media diet.

Yeah, I know.   I teach journalism.  But I'm having trouble consuming it these days.  Take last night, after I'd fed myself 30 minutes of national news.  It was like eating four plates of nachos.  Alone.  Even after a long walk, I was having trouble digesting it all.  And I woke up positively blue this morning, hungover from too much politics and violence and brokenness.

Thank God for my morning walk.  Thank God that the heat has pushed out the good people even earlier into the day, so that I could be blanketed in their simple kindness this morning. 

By the time we reached the rusty sculpture at Woods Park, Finn and I had merged with tank-top lady and red-dress lady and their fine rescue dogs.  Eight people later,  I was starting to feel my body purging all the news that had burdened me.  The sun finally awoke while we were wending our way up "M" Street, its rays poking through surprising morning clouds, their bright fingers lighting up the sidewalk in front of us. 

True, my walk did not solve the world's problems.  But it did help to right my mind a bit, so that I might better see the people and things right here in front of me, and trust that good people are standing at the ready in places that are much uglier than this one I know.

Even Jesus--to the surprise of many, I'm sure--told his disciples to cut themselves some slack.  "The poor will always be with you," he told a flabbergasted Martha, as her sister gave him the ultimate foot rub.

I don't think he was telling Martha not to care so much as he was reminding her that there is value in simply being present, there is good in the small acts of love we lavish upon each other.

One of the people I saw this morning was Jim, a homeless man who has been living in the park's gazebo for the past several days.  One of the poor among us, he had no name to me until I veered off my path to meet him where he was. 

I am not of the habit to do such things, but I felt compelled to make that connection.  I'm guessing it had something to do with all of the horrible things I'd read and heard yesterday.  I was looking for good and I found a bit of it there, underneath the gazebo's metal roof, crickets chirping their approval alongside us.

Twenty Three Years and Counting

Twenty three years ago today, I wore mascara for the last time.  Well, that might not be entirely true, but it definitely was the last time that I wore mascara, a floor-length dress and a veil all at the same time.

These days, a burka sounds pretty good.

There aren't many moments in our lives when we recognize--at that very moment--that this is a Moment.  Getting married was definitely a Capital-M moment for me.

A box of our wedding-day photos and ephemera found its way to me this past week, thanks to my mom's recent move.  It was strange to run my fingers over photos I'd never seen before.  And I was taken aback by my mom's previously-unknown records of the event.

"It was a cool evening with occasional showers."  "Ivory freesia, ivory lilies and champagne roses with dark foliage."

Photos of dear neighbors and old friends, of a favorite cousin and a soon-to-be sister-in-law.  Many people I haven't seen in years and others who are no longer alive.

This box of memories is a strange reminder of the road map of my married life.  It was so long ago--almost half of my lifetime--and, in many ways, Mark and I were different people then.  Certainly, we've grown softer and more prone to gravity since then.

But that softness is more than a physical description.  It's also a sign of our tolerance of each other and of all the ways we've learned to meet in the middle, that magical place where emotions are gentler and conversations mostly friendly.

I am mighty grateful that Mark Holt took the plunge 23 years ago today.  God knows it was a brave act.  Foolish, too, I suppose.

I know that the notion of pledging ourselves to one other person--"til death do us part"-- might seem a bit quaint in this amped-up age of ours.  But, for me, at least, it is still a noble pursuit, one filled with just enough laughter and respect that I somehow can be myself, skin tags and all, knowing Mark will find his way home to me each day.

A Warts-And-All Wakeup Call

Recently, I was accused by a good friend of having no apparent problems.  Obviously, I was really offended by this callous and off-base observation.  God knows I work as hard as the next  modern-day woman to feel like crap about my continual inability to do it all.  Sure, I may act like I don't care about all those beauty products and butt-firming exercises, but, deep down--like, almost more than two inches below the cushy proof of my secretive potato-chip addiction--I am acutely aware of how I don't measure up.

I suppose I should make my peace with things.  I mean, clearly, I will never be skinny enough, successful enough, tan enough, feminine enough or exhausted enough to break into the top one million of "Women Who Really Give a Damn About What Really Matters and Know What To Do with That Feeling."

Actually, what my friend's comment really said to me was that people don't look closely enough when casting their nets of judgment upon others.  I mean, do you know anyone who doesn't get out of bed with the secret hope that their business has closed down and that Channel 10/11 is running an all-day "Frasier" fest?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, cut me some slack, people.  Truth is, I really do wish I were skinnier, blonder, buffer, more interested in moving up the "power" ladder at work.

But I'm not.  That's just not how I was made.

Don't fool yourself, though. I carry around my fair share of luggage, even if it's made with some kind of invisibility material.  I have a sister who died at birth.  A dad who died just shy of Eric's first birthday.  A brother who never lived long enough to meet Allison.  There is a miscarriage, a job loss or two, a big heap of missed opportunities that still conjure up feelings of guilt.

Still, I guess I wonder why I have to mention these things at all.  Do I really need to pull out my merit badges every time someone claims I've got it better than them?  Truth is, I know I have it better than I deserve.  Just as I know that I'm grateful for all the good.

My warts may be hidden from others' eyes, but I've got them, nonetheless.  And, actually, I am glad to have them. They keep me honest.  And alert.  Best of all, my own warts help me to recognize the warts in others and to love those imperfect people anyway. 

And I secretly hope that others will return the favor, cutting me some slack for my own abrasions and shortfalls.  After all, I think we become better friends and neighbors when we just assume there'll be some unpleasant truths along the way.

Of Shadows and Light

It seems to me that shadows get a bad rap. Too often, shadows represent impending doom or hard times teetering on the horizon.  Which is why talk of them often is accompanied by booming, minor chords on an old, dusty church organ. 

Shadows, however, require light.  Let's be clear about that. 

So, when scientists recently announced they'd seen God's shadow--the suggestion of the existence of the elusive Higgs boson particle--I was downright giddy. 

I happen to believe that this crusty, cynical world of ours could use a bit more light.  And if shadows are the proof of such a thing, then bring them on.

This partnership of light and shadows, though, can be hard on a modern soul.  I'm reminded of the collective, horrified gasp that writer Annie Dillard heard as she and thousands of others took to the foothills of Washington state to witness a rare, total solar eclipse.  Their horror came as the long shadow of the eclipse raced along the spine of the hills--at thousands of miles an hour--eating up what was at once familiar and comforting to these people.

I suppose, then, it is to be expected that there will be a similar collective gasp in the wake of this most recent scientific discovery.  We are, after all, creatures of habit.

I, however, am hungry for some new habits.  I'm ready for some shedding of our culture's collective snarkiness and cynicism.  Let's wallow in wonder for a bit, roll it around on our tongues, delighting in its undefinable flavor. 

For once, let's stand, slack jawed and silent, in the shadows of something shiny and pure, a tenuous, golden thread that connects us with both past and future. 

Let's relish the shadow that suggests something much bigger than the rest of us.

I Got That Boom Boom Pow!

Did you know it's possible to flip over a Burley, those yellow bike trailers that yuppies use to haul around their little kids?  Yeah, I know this because I've done it.  Back in about 1994, in my haste to get to a fireworks stand, I flipped Eric and Burley on the curb of a rather busy street.

Thank God I righted him quickly and still got to the stand before they ran out of ground blooms.

You might say I've rethunk the Fourth of July these past few years.  

Where I once was willing to forgo a week of baby formula or diapers (for the children, not me) in order to get another bagful of explosives, these days I' prefer to enjoy a Shiner Bock or two on the side porch, secretly flipping off the neighbor boys as they figure out new ways to disfigure their sisters' Barbie dolls.  And I'm not even a fan of Barbie dolls . . . .

Where once I saw only infinite possibilities--the delight derived from Dancing Butterflies, scintillating smoking cap sticks and enigmatic exploding tanks, now I see only garbage and hearing loss. 

Sure, I will always hold dear the memories of damaging our neighbor's trampoline with our barrage of bottle rockets.  True, I still giggle when I recall that smoking-cap stick exploding in my mom's girdle or the irresistible scent of a boxful of snakes licked by the flames of a Bic lighter.  So, it's possible that the very ingredients of the Fourth have changed, leaving me less than enthused for nightfall.

Seems reasonable that a country so hungry for combat would eventually insist on more gunpowder in the mix.  Clearly, then,  something has happened at the fireworks factories in the last decade that makes an M80 now seem almost laughable.  I mean, surely, it's not all the fault of my own quavering eardrums.

And, really, I can take two nights of noisy nuttiness.  My neighbor kids are well trained in the use of a push broom and, come July 6, only the most hopeless of them--the ones destined for juvie or public schools--still answer the powdery swan song of their unignited explosives.   If I were to be absolutely honest, the people who really are chapping my patriotic patootie these days are the ones who make a living running this country.

They are the ones who take the wind from my red-white-and-blue sails.

Which is why, at midnight tonight, when the only flavor my tongue can detect is the metallic tang of a thousand spent fireworks, the ones that will leave a bad taste in my mouth are the politicians--worse, even, than the bevy of boys taking turns blowing up things.

At least the boys take turns.