I am not a particularly fast reader, but I am diligent (assuming a person can be diligent in 15-minute chunks). So, when a book manages to sink its luscious claws into me and I also have a nice pile of time on my plate, I am like Greg Louganis leaping off of third tower--diving in completely and deeply.
These past two days--when I wasn't working or eating or sleeping or walking Finn--I covered myself with the mesmerizing words of Neil Gaiman's "The Ocean at the End of the Lane," a strange, sometimes frightening, beautiful little book that somehow managed to tell me its story in 48 hours' time, despite me feeling like I've known its characters all of my life.
Compelling stories have a way of bending time, of fuzzying its edges and stretching its skin.
As I type this, I keep looking up from the keyboard, my eyes falling on the now-closed book laying on the desk across from me. And I can't help feeling that Lettie Hempstock is--this very minute--writing herself new adventures in the white spaces between the words I just read. Like a dream whose storyline seems to have started long ago, or an accident that I speed past on my way to work, surely these events and characters were unfolding before I arrived and will continue to play themselves out long after I've dropped their hard-bound home into the "return" slot.
It's been a summer of great, absorbing reads, stories I've eaten up both slowly and in the blink of an eye.
Turns out, these books did more than just provide me with good stories--stories of rolling prairies ("My Antonia"), disparate friendships ("Dreams of Significant Girls"), distended bowels ("Gulp"), disturbing histories ("Molokai"), dystopian futures ("Insurgent" and "Son"), love and heartache ("Tell the Wolves I'm Home"), borrowed lives ("Every Day"), misunderstood spark ("My Name is Mina") and mystical childhoods ("The Ocean at the End of the Lane").
These books also have reminded me of the wisdom of being present, taking the time, and diving in. While people these days show a capacity for diving in (if not the discernment to decide what, exactly, they are diving into), we really aren't so great at the other two--being present and taking the time. But that's where books come in.
A well-told story requires patience and focus, small prices to pay for the rewards that it delivers. Namely, a richer, deeper, more connected life, even if you are 51 and happen to live just a stone's throw from where you were born.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Late-Night Lamentation
Twenty years into this thing and I've never established a good night-time "check in" plan for my kids. When you fall asleep at 9 p.m. most nights, you're never going to win the "Best Parent" award for making sure the chitlins are safe and settled in their beds.
For some reason, though, last night I found myself laying in bed, fretting about teens for three, long, sweaty hours. And I knew that my daughter was downstairs.
Why all the fuss, then? Was I doing a little parental penance for all those restful, silent nights I have had, unconscious and unconcerned that my kids had returned to their home, safe and sound?
I think the fretting was framed mostly in my gratitude that Allison had gotten to spend the evening with two friends she'd met at a film camp this summer. These two kids found their way to Lincoln--one from Omaha, the other from Fairbury--to spend some time together. Even before they left our house for the county fair, I found myself worrying about their late-night drives home.
I'm not the greatest night-time driver, especially on the interstate, where cars go much faster than I'd care to travel, not to mention the way the night sky sucks up all the lights around me and makes me doubt what I think is a curve just ahead.
And so, for three hours last night, I battled images of a tired teenaged boy, alone in his Honda CRV, trying to maneuver his way onto the interstate, weaving between drunk drivers and highway dividers. I imagined a tired dad nodding off on the way back home, his daughter asleep in the seat next to him.
Finally, around 1 a.m., I got out of bed to face what I was sure was the tragic soundtrack of these young lives. Instead, I found Allison, alone in the basement, listening quietly to music while roaming the Internet. Assuming I was in a sleep-induced stupor, she was unable to understand my concern, her friends long gone, already home, tucked in by parents who stayed up to long enough say "hi."
My desire for my children's safety--and the safety of other people's children--is both deep seeded and delusional. There are times when that concern clouds everything and weighs too heavily on my shoulders. Those are the days when I wake to the latest news in Eric's new neighborhood, most of that news bad. Those are the days I wake to find that Allison is that much closer to the next chapter of her life, and I imagine myself stunned and on my haunches, wondering what I am supposed to do next.
In my own childhood--happily devoid of bike helmets and closed-toed shoes, yet surprisingly safe, nonetheless--I don't believe I spent a single moment pondering my parents' concerns, their long nights of broken sleep as they fretted about their children's futures. I now realize that they carried out their job in the best possible way--silently, stuffing down their concerns just long enough to make their kids feel free and happy.
Against all odds--despite all the rotten things and sick people in this world--Allison's friends found their way home last night, happily oblivious of the mother they barely knew, the middle-aged woman who fought off sleep to stand vigil for them.
For some reason, though, last night I found myself laying in bed, fretting about teens for three, long, sweaty hours. And I knew that my daughter was downstairs.
Why all the fuss, then? Was I doing a little parental penance for all those restful, silent nights I have had, unconscious and unconcerned that my kids had returned to their home, safe and sound?
I think the fretting was framed mostly in my gratitude that Allison had gotten to spend the evening with two friends she'd met at a film camp this summer. These two kids found their way to Lincoln--one from Omaha, the other from Fairbury--to spend some time together. Even before they left our house for the county fair, I found myself worrying about their late-night drives home.
I'm not the greatest night-time driver, especially on the interstate, where cars go much faster than I'd care to travel, not to mention the way the night sky sucks up all the lights around me and makes me doubt what I think is a curve just ahead.
And so, for three hours last night, I battled images of a tired teenaged boy, alone in his Honda CRV, trying to maneuver his way onto the interstate, weaving between drunk drivers and highway dividers. I imagined a tired dad nodding off on the way back home, his daughter asleep in the seat next to him.
Finally, around 1 a.m., I got out of bed to face what I was sure was the tragic soundtrack of these young lives. Instead, I found Allison, alone in the basement, listening quietly to music while roaming the Internet. Assuming I was in a sleep-induced stupor, she was unable to understand my concern, her friends long gone, already home, tucked in by parents who stayed up to long enough say "hi."
My desire for my children's safety--and the safety of other people's children--is both deep seeded and delusional. There are times when that concern clouds everything and weighs too heavily on my shoulders. Those are the days when I wake to the latest news in Eric's new neighborhood, most of that news bad. Those are the days I wake to find that Allison is that much closer to the next chapter of her life, and I imagine myself stunned and on my haunches, wondering what I am supposed to do next.
In my own childhood--happily devoid of bike helmets and closed-toed shoes, yet surprisingly safe, nonetheless--I don't believe I spent a single moment pondering my parents' concerns, their long nights of broken sleep as they fretted about their children's futures. I now realize that they carried out their job in the best possible way--silently, stuffing down their concerns just long enough to make their kids feel free and happy.
Against all odds--despite all the rotten things and sick people in this world--Allison's friends found their way home last night, happily oblivious of the mother they barely knew, the middle-aged woman who fought off sleep to stand vigil for them.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, July 22, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
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.
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.
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