A Conspiracy of Strangers

I don't remember signing anything, but, clearly, everyone at Holmes Lake--from the Western Meadowlarks and lone vulture to the fishermen and Shiba Inu--had somehow decided we wouldn't talk about it. 

And so, it was in a state of near silence that we took it all in, this perfect Nebraska morning.

Even the lake paused in reverence, unfettered by winds, its crystalline appearance broken only by the occasional "vee" of a mallard exploring its watery realm.  I was self conscious about my shoes noisily meeting the gravel path, envious of Finn's leathery pads, his paws tapping lightly atop it all.

It was such a jaw-droppingly beautiful morning that, at one point, I just couldn't help myself,  and I breached our unspoken contract.

"Have you ever seen a more beautiful morning?" I uttered to another walker, immediately regretting the question.

Thank goodness she was thick-tongued and silent in response, offering only a mild nod in my general direction.  She knew what I should have known--that it was ridiculous to even try to put words to this thing we shared.  That even speaking of it presented a kind of veiled threat to this temporary Eden, and that I had just eaten the apple, acutely aware of the momentary shift of things.

Halfway around the lake, I had trouble imagining any other place I'd rather be or any other form of transportation that could hold a stick to feet on earth.

Well, that's not entirely true.  I actually could imagine somewhere else and even went so far as to make a second secret pact in the early warmth of the day.  Someday, I told myself, I will walk the Camino Trail in Spain, all 484 miles of it, one step at a time.

Until then?  Until then, I will walk happily--sometimes in silence, sometimes with a quiet song or shared story on my lips--along the Camino Trails of my home, atop the wind-blown dam at Holmes Lake, through the virgin grasslands of Spring Creek, weaving my way among the hallowed dead at Wyuka, trying hard to honor the secret pact I've made with the larger world.

A Dash of Unabashed

I don't often think of moods or states of being as seasonal things, but, as I write this, I'm starting to believe that there just might be something to that theory.

As Finn and I made our way through Woods Park early this morning, a  place where clueless squirrels and invisible scents awaited us, I was not expecting to see two teen girls enjoying the playground's swing set.  Not yet 7 a.m., the sight of their silent, contented movement, undeterred by the presence of a middle-aged woman and her hound, made me think of a word I love--unabashed.

Summer is an excellent time to put on our unabashed selves, giving not two whits about what others may think of us or our behavior, thankyouverymuch.

As we neared the playground, I held my breath, hoping not to pop the unabashed bubble that protected those girls.  Had my shoes been roomier, I believe I would have crossed my toes, too, so as not break the magic of that moment.

I was delighted that they ignored me, unwilling, even, to slow the pumping of their usually self-conscious legs.  They were, in a word (or two or three), happily lost in the moment.

Just a week into my own summer, I could relate to their moment of unabashed joy, having already lost myself in books and bike rides and strutting, little dances exploding through me in aisle nine at Target.

For a people obsessed with Google Maps and GPS systems, we really should get lost a bit more.  Instead of spending so much time fretting about how to get there--wherever "there" may be--we should be open to unabashedly losing ourselves in the here, unconcerned about the opinions or even the presence of others.

I know I'm asking a lot.  But I think we'd be pleasantly surprised by the results, our wet, new wings unfolding in the warm breeze of a summer morning, the possibilities seemingly endless.

Dog is Good, Dog is Great

Things really do improve with time, and not just in that "Antiques Roadshow" sort of way.  Take Finn, for instance, a dog that has grown exponentially cuter since I first met him a year and a half ago.  I'm not sure if he's been secretly secreting pheromones in my general direction lately, but I do know that I have become absolutely nuts about that hound.

Sure, he's got his bad habits--God help you if you have the gall to ring our doorbell or if you are a man in a hat bending down to pet him, not to mention that weird, wiry fur of his, which is winning him exactly zero admirers.  But the guy's got the smarts and personality of a comic-book hero.

As much as I've loved every dog I've ever had (minus, on certain days, Ginger the brown poodle, who could be snippy and petulant, especially with young children), when it comes to sheer brain power and entertainment potential,  I've never had a dog like Finn.

Give him a Gallup StrengthFinders survey and Finn would nail the "positive activator" categories.  The guy could care less that I often wake before 4 a.m.  When I rise for the day, he rises for the day.  And he acts like it's the greatest thing ever that we are waking before the Robins, more or less the Broxes and Housers and (sometimes) the Kellases.

The fact that Finn thinks I walk on water has done nothing to hurt my impression of him.  Perhaps he's got a touch of Gallupian "woo" running through his scrawny frame, given how effective his smiling, sideward glances are as we head out on yet another walk through the neighborhood.  Regardless, I have allowed myself to be happily swayed  by his fuzzy-faced manipulations.

So, yes.  I'm not so dumb as to think that his motives are entirely pure.  I know that, without my opposable thumbs and ATM card, he'd pretty much be screwed at meal time.  But I also know that--even given my propensity to ignore dust bunnies and toilet-bowl rings--a gig on Woods Avenue beats the heck out of the noisy, urine-soaked confines of his Missouri rescue facility.

Clearly, Finn--if not exactly coming out of this smelling like roses (more like fox urine and bad breath)--benefits from our symbiotic relationship.  Ah, but so do I.  So do I.  And I have absolutely no plans to alter this "You do for me, I do for you" gig we've got going.

That's how much I love this dog.

Canoodling for Friends

I haven't been on a date in decades.  I'd like to think that this is good news to my husband, Mark.

But, while I may not have dated in decades, I have felt the giddiness that comes with forming a new relationship. Such is the pleasure of friendship without all those pesky benefits.

Not counting my teenaged stint back in the 70s, I've been at East High for 22 years.  You'd think I would have met everyone there is to meet there by now.  And yet, this year--a year that, at times, was so taxing for me--also was lined with the silvery glitter of new friendships.

Consider Yulia, my sparkly, new friend who texts too much and does Zumba with an authentic Russian accent; Halie and Diane, both of whom endured my stupid lunch-time antics with aplomb and, eventually, an impressive display of sharp-tongued wit; Stephanie, whom I've known from afar since I'd gotten my first LPS job 24 years ago, and who magically and intimately emerged onto my scene like a 17-year locust, vibrant and fresh; Andrew, my cohort and pop-culture savant; Sam, with her impeccable handwriting, excellent stories and surprisingly parallel life; Doug, the musician and techno wonk, our friendship sealed tight after he viewed--and, more importantly, fell in love with--my copy of the Talking Heads' "Stop Making Sense," . . .

With 51 years under my ever-expanding belt, I still find myself valuing relationships over representations of material or professional success.  Given the choice of a three-stall garage or a chance encounter with a future friend (not that anyone's offered me the garage), I'll take the friend every single time.  That's because the friend has the potential to fill me, while the garage?  It is simply there to be filled itself.  And never with anything particularly interesting.

No surprise here, but I was never much of a dater in my youth.  If boys gave me extra attention at all, it usually was because I was a fairly decent kick soccer player who also happened to be able to burp half the alphabet in a single sitting.  Bottom line?  I was not the girl one brought home to mother, unless the guy did so in a "look what I found at the zoo" kind of way.  I'm not complaining, though, because I relish my male friends with the same giddiness I feel when considering all the fine women who've overlooked my faults and called me "friend." 

While some folks have mastered the ability to locate a deeply discounted Coach purse or a higher rung in their corporate ladders,  I must say that I've gotten pretty good at sniffing out good people who will settle for--nay, even celebrate--the "as is" me that I am. 

When it comes to good friendships, it seems to me that what most people seek is someone who shares a steady thread with them, warts and all.  I, for one, have benefited greatly from that spool of thread, its colors ever varying and always able to hold things happily together.

Run Away, Simba! Run Away!

It was early July, 1995.  My mind was filled with smoking cap sticks, black snakes and colored smoke balls, so I can be forgiven for almost overlooking the small child in the alley.

Barefoot and pudgy, the caramel-colored girl stood transfixed as I put punk to fuse, blowing up my children's future college funds with gleeful abandon.  When I  caught a glimpse of her peeking over our backyard fence, the "mother" portion of my brain finally kicked in.

"Eric, come meet your new neighbor, Dylan."

The rest, as they say, is history.

Next Thursday, Eric and Dylan will move into an apartment near the State Capital, just far enough away from the local prostitution ring to dissuade future distractions. 

. . . or so I tell myself.

And, really, I couldn't be happier.  Well, okay, I could be happier, but it would be that selfish kind of happiness, the kind that is wrapped in a white-knuckled kung-fu grip intended to preserve a present that really doesn't require or even qualify for preservation.

Even Allison, whose 17 years have caught up with her in a rather delightful and surprising way, unknowingly is prying my fat-knuckled fingers from her lithe, tanned arm.

Looks like "mom" is fast becoming an outdated term, much like "Space Food Sticks" and "8-track tape."  Before I know it, I'll be swapping out most of my cookbooks for new ones whose recipes are formulated for one or two people. . . .

Ah, but there are so many reasons that this new phase is one to celebrate:
    --Both kids possess a diligence that neither of their parents can recall ever possessing.  I mean, my God, they knowingly sign up for challenging classes, even when they realize they will struggle at times.  Hardly sounds like the mother who took Racquetball for three consecutive quarters, . . . .
    --Both have (mostly) willingly taken on the role of financing at least part of their lives, quietly accepting that it's just easier (and maybe even better) to buy their own clothes and pay the rent themselves.
    --Neither one appears to be a falling-down drunk or gambling addict.  Or Internet porn star, for that matter.
    --And, perhaps most importantly, both have a good nose for quality friendships, finding people who are solid, steady, reliable and kind.  This fact alone makes me more willing--nay, almost enthusiastic--to step aside and unlock the gates.

So, run away, my Simbas!  Run away and make wonderful lives for yourselves, ones in which you seek out your parents not for financial backing or bail, but rather for occasional doses of love, laughter and understanding, reminders that the ties that bind can also set you free to become yourselves.
   

Manufactured Moments

I've held three jobs in my life that would qualify as "line work," all of them in my teens.  In one, I made waterbed rails for my friend's company, pulling foam and faux leather taut over pine skeletons, so that restless voyagers dreaming aboard their watery inland boats might not fall overboard between REM cycles.

The two remaining line jobs were in the kitchens of local health facilities, where I (mostly) made sure that I was assembling a medically-sound meal for the patients and residents.  I say "mostly" because what teen who has been nursed on Cap'n Crunch and Cheetos really gets the importance of a low-sodium diet?

Although a person could make a pretty decent--if not cynical--argument that education now teeters on following the manufacturing model, my assembly-line days at work are barely visible in my middle-aged rear-view mirror, reduced to vague memories of pale chicken breasts cuddling up with low-salt green beans.


And yet, . . . .

And yet, there is ample evidence surrounding me that humans love the manufacturing model and lean heavily on it, even when not drawing an income from it.

Today, I wake to summer, not because the earth has tilted just so, but because a very-much manufactured and formulaic calendar tells me it is summer.  Having fulfilled my work contract for the year, I woke today with lightness and a much more casual attire, my bare feet and pasty legs amply featured.

My Audubon Daily Desk Calendar may say "May 29, 2013" but I know that this actually is code for "WAHOOOO!  I'm free!  I'm free!"  And, like any line worker worth her weight in gold, I adjust accordingly, easily switching gears from "Which brown pants should I wear today?" to "Is there enough air in my tires to hit the trails?"

These life cycles--whether manufactured or ethereal--are welcomed chapters in our lives' instruction books.  Humans (and every other thing, for that matter) crave and need these rhythms, these signals that say "Today is different from yesterday.  Take note." 

Frankly,  I could not survive--more or less thrive--without them.

The Newest Storytellers

Earlier this week, I read Joel Stine's "Time" magazine piece on the Millennials, the name given to this generation of teens and twenty-somethings.  He's a funny writer, so I knew it'd be entertaining.  Beyond the laughs, though, it was also spot on.  I was especially intrigued by the idea that this generation isn't particularly rebellious, in part because they have no authorities against whom to rebel.

Why is that, I wondered.  What has taken away the sting and stigma of authority for these young people?

And then it dawned on me.

Stories.

Millennials are saving themselves by telling stories.  Tiny, little stories that, thanks primarily to the Internet, now move like the breeze, digitally whispered and shared across time lines and gender lines, party lines and money lines. 

The Man has never been a big fan of storytelling, thus the reason that, throughout history, so many governments have preferred an illiterate citizenry over a well-read one.  Thank God for missionaries, who smuggled their Bibles into gaping pockets of illiterate peoples, saving them, in the end, with words as much as with The Word.

Today's missionaries--amassed under the umbrellas of Google and YouTube, Twitter and Facebook--have less-ethereal motives than their predecessors.  But their effects are just as far-reaching, if not exactly eternal.

With so many venues for sharing their stories, it is easy for the Millennials to bypass the authoritative, traditional channels offered by governments and corporations.  Now unshackled, their stories are free to travel at will, no longer suppressed by fearful authorities.

It follows, then, that where suppression is absent, oppression is much harder to find.

These kids play so well with each other because they know each other's stories so well.   And, in this atmosphere of free-flowing stories, there are no secrets anymore.  Homelessness is not "out there."  Rather, it is in the human form of Jonathon, a classmate whose family is staying at the City Mission.  Race is an outdated term, pushed aside by friends whose blood courses with swirls of Africa and Asia, Hawaii and Mexico.  This is a generation drawn with blurred lines.

Their stories have set them free, these Millennials.  And they are not afraid to share them, even if us older folks still wince at the boldness of their plot lines.