Upping The Joy Factor

My friend Sheila has a show on KZUM called "The Joy Factor."  It's a jewel of a show, each week highlighting someone who has (GASP!) found joy in his or her life.  I don't catch it each week, but I am comforted to know that there are just enough joyful people in Lincoln to keep the show going.

Sometimes, I think the word "joy" embarrasses Americans, as though there is something wrong with us if we don't feel bad. Or complicated.  Or busy.  Or overwhelmed.

Seriously, how stupid is that?

Today, I am wrapping up one of my most joyful summers ever (yeah, I said ever) and a part of me realizes that some folks might consider such an admission to be quaint and naive.  I would like to propose an alternative theory--namely, that the people who bypass joy for something that feels heavier and more serious may very well be the naive ones.

We've had some great evening skies this summer, skies that are jaw-droppingly beautiful for those lucky enough to have caught their fifteen-minute display.  Whenever I've found myself outside during one of these celestial events, a part of my brain feels pity towards those who are staring at a screen or a pile of papers rather than the sky just outside their doors.

It is good--very good--to be awed by nature.  In fact, I would say that it is the best of all possible ways to be put in our place, to be reminded that we are not the be-all-end-all of anything, really.

Maybe it's this humility that has made my summer so magical--the realization that there are a billion systems and microbes and moments that do not care about me in the least and yet they anchor me to this life that is so stunning, so beautiful, so ever-changing, even when I look into the mirror and wonder if I have changed at all in the last 51 years.

Joy is not for the faint-hearted.

I hope I never grow too afraid to accept a sliver of it here and there.

Frugal Generosity

Remember those semi-creepy, single-paneled "Love Is. . . " comics that ran in the paper when we were growing up?  The doe-eyed characters formed in some pre-Anime universe where someone could actually make a living filling in those blanks?

Ours is too snarky a village for such things to thrive today.  And yet, I was reminded of that comic just this morning, filling out that very sentence myself.

Love is. . . three bags of groceries from Super Saver.

Eric's one pair of shoes is just about shot.  His feet swim inside them, aired out by the tears that have pulled away the stitching.  For all practical purposes, he is on his own now, hovering at the poverty line, yet still so hesitant to ask for the chance to do a load of wash now and then.

Enter Allison, Allison who has more shoes than a young Imelda Marcos, and a generous heart to match.  Allison, the younger sister who, yesterday, insisted upon driving her brother to Super Saver to buy him some groceries.

The same sister who took him to Target two months ago, where she bought him bedding and kitchen supplies, anxious that his new apartment be well stocked.  I'm sure she would have preferred funkier sheets than the grey-blue ones Eric chose, but she made her peace with his less-than-stylin' style and bought them anyway.

You don't lug around two humans-in-waiting for nine months each and not fall in love with them.  It goes without saying that Eric and Allison mean the world to me.  That they mean the world to each other, too, though?  And that I am lucky enough to occasionally witness that exchange?

Well, love is. . . something, isn't it?

Enough with the Uppity

I saw an exceedingly average movie yesterday--"World War Z"--a zombie-filled twitch fest made surprisingly palatable by the chiseled chin and ice blue eyes of Brad Pitt (although, really, he could have used a nice cut and style).  It was a tense, exciting and ultimately forgettable flick, making it a fine way to pass a summer afternoon.

Back in the early and mid 80s, I tried really hard to make room for some high-brow culture.  I really wanted to say profound things about 'The Seventh Seal," even though it scared the heck out of me. Back then,  I choked down platefuls of albums by harpists and sitar players, hipsters and divas.  But they always kept coming back up in the middle of the night.

Eventually, I just gave up trying to fit in with the In Crowd and shuffled my way back in line with the other commoners, our mouths agape, ready to be fed the next piping-hot pop-culture entree.

"Mmmmm, I'm detecting synthy notes of "Wham" married with a subtle undertone of Finger Lickin' Good!"

Gone is the 30-year-old shame of being caught with my hand in the Target till.  No more do I preface my weekend recollections with "Well, the Underground was closed for a private party." Even better than having to frame my experiences in apologies, I don't even have to bother recalling them at all, mostly because they are already forgotten.

I had long-ago hints that such forgettable fare was a good fit for me.  Back in the disaster-laden 70s, when a kid could watch Shelly Winters swell up and explode like a beached whale ("Poseidon Adventure," 1972) and O.J. Simpson bust a fiery move on the 13th floor of a flaming skyscraper ("The Towering Inferno," 1974), I could step outside the theater and no sooner get my pupils back in order when I realized I had absolutely no detailed recollection of what I'd just seen.

There are times, it seems, when synapses are over valued.  And, while I'm at it, there are also times when it just isn't worth the work of impressing others.

And so, I'm glad I went to that mediocre movie yesterday. The seats were comfy, the theatre was dark and cool, I got to spend two hours with my man, I enjoyed a smuggled-in Cookie Company ET cookie and I didn't have to bother with all the details.  Like the plot line, for example.

I may not be able to regale you with the clever twists and turns of "World War Z," but I've still got the stubs to prove I was there.  And, for me, that is enough.

Metamorphosis

Wonder is the five-pointed star
tucked tidily into the Cottonwood's new growth,
where it waits, patient,
as the next red giant unhinges itself
from the rich blackness above

It is that moment when a roomful of strangers
transform themselves,
tipping into something intimate--
a single, self-satisfied organism
each part glad to be close to the other

Wonder is knowing the story
behind a song first uttered
in a long-ago barn,
where denim-clad farmers run
sweaty palms along their strong legs,
eyes focused
on the meandering line of women across the room,
each smelling of fresh bread and cotton

It is the crackle of synapse
like tying a shoe for the first time
. . . and I am left breathless in its wake

Wonder is turning 51 only to realize that
I might as well be 15,
such are the things yet to be discovered

It is to wake up,
willing to listen
to walk
even to touch
the barbed and knobby things that startle me
--the fear slipping off my hands,
warmed by facts and faith and
first-round introductions

Wonder--taken properly--
is always metamorphic,
nudging one from egg to larvae,
pupa to adult

And I know now
that wonder is
these wings I wear,
wings that will hold me aloft,
carrying me to
the promise of sweet nectar

Wonder is why I'm so willing to let go
and leap.

Natural Selection

I think I was in 5th grade when my parents signed up for a Marriage Encounter weekend.  As a 12-year-old, that meant absolutely nothing to me, except that my paltry allowance might be a day or two late.

Their marital recharge didn't spill over into my life until a few days later, when we started getting mysterious phone calls in the middle of the day, nothing but silence following my perky "Hellos." 

For whatever reason,  I was spending a lot of time near the kitchen's wall-mounted phone those days, because I always seemed to be the one answering these annoying anonymous calls.  Finally, one day, when I'd grown tired of the shenanigans and mildly chastised the silence on the other end,  I was shocked to hear my dad's voice--a mixture of agitation and embarrassment--sputter "Just get your mom, will you?!"

Apparently, these prank calls were encouraged by the Marriage Encounter folks as some sort of telecommunicated "love note" to be transmitted from one pooped parent to another, a way of saying "I'm here and I'm glad you are, too."

The calls pretty much ended after that one, although the marriage managed to continue--happily, I believe--for another 20 years or so until my dad's death in 1993.

While I have no real desire to again take up pranking people on the phone--unless it's someone at Cheapest Damn Cigarettes, just to hear him say "Cheapest Damn Cigarettes,"--I've just come away from my own Marriage Encounter weekend of sorts, rejuvenated in my desire to make connections with the larger world.

Or, as the case may be, with the smaller, but much more populated world that is humming just outside my front door. 

Oh, to fall in love with everything all over again!

Really, that's what this past week in the Master Naturalist program has been for me--one, long, lovely reconnect with the natural world.  And, over and over again, I found myself uttering "I'm here and I'm glad you are, too."

Spend a sunny hour on loamy virgin prairie, surrounded by little bluestem, daisy fleabane, ironweed and goldenrod,  and just try to walk away unchanged.  Run your hand across tiny remnants of long-ago oceans now napping on sun-warmed limestone and tell me you aren't humbled by such history.  Stand knee deep in a wetland pond, trying to wrap your mind around the nitrate-eating microbes floating atop it, magically transforming poison into a harmless gas and come to terms with the ridiculousness of man's dominion over nature.

By the time I stood on the shore of Pawnee Lake yesterday afternoon, receiving my official "Master Naturalist" badge, I realized I'd made more connections in a week than a horny speed-dating bachelor will make in a lifetime. 

Beyond all the lessons in geology, birds, flowers, groundwater, reptiles and mammals--or maybe as a result of their collective effect--I'd learned that we are all a tribe--the termites, the grasslands, the aquifers, the rocks, the birds, and all the fine and funny classmates and instructors among me--and that, the more we can fall in love with each other, the better off we all will be.

Here's to a long and happy marriage between us all.

Spring Creek, 11 a.m.

"How can a bird that is born for joy

sit in a cage and sing?"  

--William Blake

I swallowed it last Spring

on a chilly day, the grey sky stretching lazily above me.

A tiny pebble pushed deep down

--grist for my future, I told myself, 

like silt, both fine and unrefined.

Slowly, it burbled its way back up again

emerging just this morning,

while I tried valiantly to keep my balance,

 my haunches now wet from the cool spring-fed waters

And there, with one fist closed over a handful of tiny snails,

and the other fishing for a sandal,

I stumbled from the waters,

christened by the shine of a hundred tomorrows

Laughing, my clothes

heavy with the wet scent of dead things,

I climbed up the bank,

net in hand,

lugging with me this life of mine,

made new by a lone pebble now pointing a way
in the road,
a way that felt new to me.

Tee Pain

I discovered something last night that took my breath away.

Amazingly, Mark has more clothes than I do. "Amazingly" not because I am a clothes horse (although some of my outfits do make me look vaguely equine,  like Mr. Ed in his peak years).  Rather,  I say "amazingly" because it is perfectly reasonable for anyone who has ever seen us to wonder if either one of us has ever given two hoots about Halston.

When I mentioned my findings, Mark simply said that he has trouble throwing things out.

On the cusp of our 24th wedding anniversary, I suppose I should be relieved to hear this.

Certainly, I've got my own handful of clothes--mostly t-shirts--that I can't seem to set free, despite all the evidence against them.  This is a historic problem for me, going way back to the 70s--my East Hills Swimming Pool days--when I could, without shame or forethought, (neither can exist in the presence of the other) wear the same three shirts all summer long.  Back then, I was like a walking version of the KLMS summer playlist, heavy rotation without all the variety.

It's a current problem, too, though.  Just three mornings ago, when my Newspaper editor showed up at my house to pick up a few things, I was wearing my curry-colored "Nebraska" shirt, one of three I picked up from Walgreens for $10 total about 8 years ago.  A humid morning, I was actively in my "You're Soaking in it, Madge" phase,  halfway through the laborious process of bottling our latest hooch.  (Did I mention how busy I am in the summer?)

This particular shirt--the curry color really brings out my eyes--is also air conditioned, letting in a nice breeze in the armpits as well as at the back of my neck.  That my hair was a bit matted from sweat and I smelled like yeast and hops just added to the package.  

We'll see if my editor shows up in my classroom the first day of school. . . .

My point?  In this shameful throwaway society we live in, surely Mark and I should be held up as counterculture heroes, tirelessly giving it to the man with our threadbare rebel togs.  Surely,  someone--preferably Cindy Lange-Kubick--could write up a snappy little piece about the two of us, highlighting both our bravery and our brilliance, pointing to the myriad ways in which we probably are saving the country--if not the universe itself--from what can, on certain days, feel like certain doom.

The eternal optimist, I'm holding out that our day is coming, hopefully soon, because this hole-riddled KZUM shirt I'm wearing doesn't have long.

Like, maybe two, three years, at most. 

Miracle on Woods Avenue

A tiny, little miracle happened yesterday, right here on Woods Avenue.  And by "tiny," I am being literal, because this miracle weighed 5 or 6 pounds, tops.  

(Yes, I know...it would be a miracle if I gave birth, at age 51.  And if the baby were born at home.  And if it only weighed 5 or 6 pounds.  None of these scenarios, however, took place.  Thank heavens).

This miracle's name is Lily, a bi-colored dachshund who hales from South Dakota.  Yes, apparently some South Dakotans manage to look beyond their stony presidential profiles, their buffalo in the buttes, and their steamy hot springs and actually find a reason to cross the border.  I'm pretty sure Lily's reason (and let's be honest, here--someone else made the decision for her) had more to do with vacationing human beings than with the lure of a nearly-finished Pinnacle Arena.  

Regardless, Lily had taken up temporary residence on Woods Avenue, and I know of no better canine B&B than my neighbor's home, a place resplendent with happy hounds anchored on stubby, Teutonic legs. 

Still, there was that problematic gap between the fence and the ground--no bigger than an all-star wrestler's hand--left there by imperfect workmen who forgot to check their work twice before digging in.  And, if you happen to weigh 5 or 6 pounds (a weight I can barely recall myself), that gap must have seemed as big as the Grand Canyon, and rife with exotic possibilities.

Ah, but back to the miracle.  Long story slightly shorter, Lily--who, I will remind you, did not call Woods Avenue or even Lincoln, Nebraska "home"-- was pulled by the irresistible gravitational force of the Pretty-Great Beyond and suddenly found herself "out there," with nothing more than her collar and a fading memory of kibbles and chew toys.

A day or two later, a panic-laced yet well-lettered "MISSING DACHSHUND" sign appeared, nailed to a Locust tree. (Is there anything sadder than a hand-written "missing" sign, its letters still damp with fear and regret?)  Despite an earlier sighting of said bi-colored hound, at that time wandering precariously close to the death trap known as "O" Street, in our private thoughts, most neighbors held out little hope that Lily, who had never considered Woods Avenue "home," would ever return to the quaint, well-painted bungalow just up the street. 

Little did we know.

Ten minutes late for a swim party, I was anxious to make up for lost time when I headed out for the pool yesterday afternoon.  In my haste, it's possible that I was slightly annoyed by the Honda Accord sitting askance in the road ahead.  My lips in pre-snarl formation, I quickly released those particular muscles from their sneering duty when I realized it was my neighbor's car and it was stopped just feet away from a delighted woman whose leash was being gratefully tugged by a bi-colored dachshund.

Lily.  Lily, who is South Dakotan.  Lily, who had clocked in nearly 72 hours Out There, which is a particularly dangerous place when referred to as "Out There," rather than "the neighborhood park" or "Starbucks" or "the Rice's backyard."  Lily, who had no reason to remember the location of her B&B.

Except that, somehow, she did remember it.  Just long enough to wend her stubby-legged little way back to the warm, cozy porch just up the street.

And, for a happy, few minutes, nary a one of us remembered that Mohammed Morsi lay holed up in some secret Egyptian locale, his supporters beating the pudding out of their neighbors who happened to disagree with them.  For those magical moments, I could not for the life of me recall what the words "terrorist" or "Limbaugh" or "Property-tax valuation" meant.

Now, I'd be hard pressed to find a dog that I love more than Finn right now.  But, at about 1:25 yesterday afternoon, I saw only Lily--squat, beautiful, mottled, slightly dehydrated Lily, who had found her way back home somehow.

It was an honest-to-goodness "happily ever after" and I was delighted to be there for it.

Time is Still on My Side

STARDATE:  July 10, 2013.

I'm now entering the "black veil" days of summer, so to speak.  Invariably, about five minutes after the last Black Cat of the 4th fizzles in the street, "friends" nibble nervously on their lips while they utter--usually with a barely containable hint of pleasure--"What?  Three, four weeks left until school starts?"

They think they're getting under my skin (my slightly tanned, sun-spotted skin, might I add).  Well, they're not.  At least not very much.  That's because, even before the last, hissing words "school starts" escape from their quavering lips, I'm already reframing their question.   

"Well, I still have more free time left than most Americans get in a year."

And that usually does the job.

Still, their question does make me reflect on how things have gone, up to this particularly steamy point in time.

Typically, my answer leans towards "So far, so good."

This particular summer kicked off with an exceptionally robust case of amnesia educationus, some giant magnet apparently passing close enough to sufficiently wipe my brain of all things Reading, Writing and 'Rithmatic (although not much was required to address the "rithmatic" portion of things).  Within hours of summer beginning, I struggled to recall the theme of this year's school annual, more or less whether or not I still had money in my school-lunch account.

These two facts proved to be powerful harbingers of things to come.

If I were to theme this summer, "Nebraska, the Good Life" seems like a natural choice.  Plus, it proves that this particular state motto was well worth the pennies spent developing it.

From Cather's "My Antonia" (in which she even writes the land as a compelling character)to  all the rocks and plants and birds and things (confirming the compositional wizardry of the '70s duo America, as though there had ever been any question), this has indeed been a Nebraska kind of summer.

So far, I've seen friends--and avoided them, ridden the trails (though not enough, I admit), walked around my neighbor and an area lake (nearly enough), hit the road, stayed up late (10 p.m. CST is midnight in San Fransisco!), grilled meats and vegetables, read books, sat on neighbors' porches with a cold beverage or two-ish, painted my nails, played Scrabble, bathed Finn, bathed myself, gone down a water slide, made beer (bottling it today), hung with my family, discovered new songs, shaved my legs (I think, at least), done crosswords and cryptoquotes and word scrambles,  . . . and all without the aid of a list or a calendar or an alarm clock.

Oh, and I still have more free weeks in front of my than most Americans have all year.

No wonder people keep sneering at me.

Best Wishes

I used to think that East High was the greatest school in the city.  Maybe even in the whole state.  

Nothing happened that lowered my opinion of my workplace, but I no longer feel the need to pin a gold medal on its brick exterior.  Why?  Because, at some point, I realized that it would be far better for everyone if--wherever they taught or attended--they believed that their school was the best.

Don't mistake my revelation for a love affair with self esteem, though.  I don't want every school labeled "best" because I'm worried about hurt feelings.   I really don't like the idea of puffing up kids with helium and hoopla, awarding them blue ribbons just for showing up and giving it a fair whirl.  I don't want kids--or schools--to be good because there's a shiny prize on the end of the stick.  I want them to be good, period.  Actually, I want them to be great. 

And, by "them" I mean "all of them."

Like a parity product, let's let every single school that feels it in its bones call itself "the best."  Imagine what would happen if every kid, every teacher, every principal, every parent declared their experience "the best."   I think they'd do their darnedest to live up to it and things would shine just a wee bit more.

And, by "best," I don't mean "the best I could do."    One feels like an apology while the other causes a person to sit up and take notice.

Oh, I'm still given to bouts of "besting," handing out all kinds of awards to my life--best neighborhood, best friends, best family, best music collection, best dog, best summers. . . .  Actually, every one of those statements rings true with me.  And I don't need a single soul to agree with me in order for those things to remain true.

That's the nice thing about parity living--my happiness, my satisfaction, is not dependent upon sapping someone else's happiness or satisfaction.  We can all go home to our mighty nice lives, our sleeves acting like chamois cloths, softening and shining everything we happen to bump into. 

Win win, wouldn't you say? 

Mix It Up

Want to really tick off someone?  Just hate their favorite song.  Heck, it doesn't even have to be a favorite.  Just gag a bit--preferably right when your friend starts excitedly banging her hands against the dashboard.

People really like their music.  And everyone hates it when a friend does not possess our superb taste in music.  Sweet Jesus....remind me why was it we became friends in the first place!?

I have liked so many crappy songs in my life that it would require Lincoln to expand its dump just to make room for them all.  And I'll be damned if I'm handing over a single one of them.  Yeah, even "Love's Theme" by Love Unlimited Orchestra.

As a teacher teetering on the far end of relevant, I wish I'd been born with the gift of music, so that I could deliver my otherwise most excellent plagiarism lesson  in the key of "D."  Packaged in a few musical hooks, I'd be able to turn my students onto the wisdom that flows through me like a pre-colonoscopy beverage.

Given that I possess only the ear of a musical genius, though, I must make my peace with the idea that I can only identify really excellent songs, if not actually replicate them.

And so, until I walk through those pearly gates of Heaven (with Loretta Lynn's "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'" in the background, just to keep St. Peter on his airy little toes), I will find my contentment in loving all kinds of songs--whether they be good, bad or ugly to the underdeveloped ears of my so-called friends--knowing that God will most certainly ask me to be a DJ at a really cool club in the clouds, assuming I continue collecting the greatest songs ever written.   

Ever.

A Declaration of Interdependence

I hold this truth,
which should be evident,
that, while all are created equal,
all also are created equally dependent.

Walking around Holmes Lake this morning, I was reminded--over and over again--of just how much I need other forms of life to make my own life whole. 

I certainly needed that meadowlark I saw atop the dam.  And so, we made room for each other, neither one  having to cede much land to the other.  His brilliant yellow breast took my breath away and I hoped that, in return, he took some pleasure in knowing I wouldn't flush him from his place.

I needed to see the half dozen vultures tanning on the beach, so out of place not pinned to the sky.

I needed to see the remnants of bottle rockets, laying like Pick-Up-Sticks next to the bridge.   And the woman who passed me while I was hunched over, gathering up the remains, needed to see me cleaning up a bit.

I needed to watch the blue heron, standing motionless in the shallows just feet from me. 

I needed to hear bird song and bullfrogs, bike tires on gravel and baseballs finding bats. 

And, on this particular Fourth of July morning, by the time Finn and I reached our car, I found that what I needed most was to declare not my independence but rather my interdependence.  It is better to make my way through this life with others at my side, acknowledging my need for their love, their silence, their voices, their presence.

Better to lean into rather than away from this life and all of its characters.  That is where the real stories are made, in the complicated, glorious thick of things.