Got A Light Under That Bushel?

I am fairly certain I gave Jesus cancer.  I am conflicted on if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

Where I live there are beggers on every street, seriously, every street.  I see the same people day afer day.  I know what their signs say, and their dogs names.

Some now have taken to the (now illegal) offer of a window washing while you wait at the red light.  People here do not know to turn their wipers on as a sign of "No thank you."  I am always amused and think of how many times I would come out of the Lincoln tunnel in the New York and that would be the first thing I would do.

Beggars, homeless, hobos, street people, street rats, pan handlers (in case I have some spare gold on me?), vagrants, bums, tramp, vagabond, deadbeat, and even mendicant.  Call these people what you will but you know them.   You switch lanes possibly to avoid them, you pray to God not for the persons suffering but for a green light so you do not have to be approached.  You stare straight ahead hoping not to be noticed.  Pretend to be on your smart phone and realize the absurdity of that.

Perhaps you are of another ilk, you always keep spare change, a can of water for a hot day, possibly an extra sandwhich,  Yeah, I am not one of those people.

I am of the former.  I hate to admit that.  Almost every time I come to a red light I am in fear of being bothered in my moving caccoon of annonymity.

Once in a while a question pops into my head.

"What if that was Jesus?"

I am not what you would call a woman of faith.  I was once, but that was a long time ago.  I am in constant recovery.

So, what if that was Jesus standing there on the corner?  Do I offer Him my Chanel bag or wallet?  The wallet is worth more than what is in it, usually nothing, and could be sold.

Sometimes I think of Jesus talking to Judas and saying, "Surely youre not saying we have the resources to save all the poor from their lot."

Obviously I recall that these words came from Andrew Lloyd Webber and not the Holy Bible. But it does get me singing and thus all this thought has made me pass the time without guilt through the red light, the beggar soon forgotten.

Until today.  Today I was at a particularly long light and I saw the homeless man up ahead making his ways to my car.  He did not nod at any other car, he did not pause at any other car, not even the obvious ones that would have money.  Instead he stopped at my 1999 green Civic with the dents and scratches.

The man was fairly tall, had dark skin, (which may have been dirt I can not say for sure.)  He had on dark pants, I am not sure of his shirt or shoes, bur he wore a long dark overcoat, frayed and tattered.  His hair was a little longer than shoulder length and he adorned a ccrocheted beanie cap.

He looked right at me and said, "There you are!"

I replied with a meek "Hi"

"Enthusiastically he said, "I have not seen you in a while!"

In my mind, "What if this is Jesus?"  So I asked, "How are you?"  A good start to posibly talking to the son of God.

His reply, "The Lord woke me up today, so I am great.  And He woke you up too so you must be having a good day."

Totally confused, and thinking to two days earlier when I was looking at mental facilities to check myself into because I feel myself slipping away, I mumbled, "I have some change."

Jesus at the red light said, "I would appreciate anything, but it is just so good to see you again."

I gave him all the change I had, and then I said, "Want a smoke?"

He said he would love one, and doesnt get to smoke all that often.  I quickly dug into my box of cigarettes and handed him a few.

"Thank you so much, and thank God for waking you up today too, you better go the cars will start honking at you."  He laughed and I drove off.

"That was odd", I thought.  I have lived in this town a long time and I even know the beggars that truly are just passing through,  I can tell you without hesitation, I have never in my life seen this man before. Yet he insisted not once but twice that he has seen me before.

A beggars ploy?  Possibly.

It was when I turned the corner that I realized today is Ash Wednesday and thus the begginning of Lent.  A subject I have written about many times.

I sort of chuckled thinking that was is the punishment for giving Jesus cancer?

Did I quit smoking suddenly? No.  Did I feel anything other than slightly amused that any God that may exist would show Himself to me as a beggar?  No.

I wsa irritated that I did not think to take His picture.  I look forward to tomorrow to driving that road I drive every day, twice a day to see if He is there again.

This is Austin, Keep Jesus Weird Y'all.

Excuse Me Do You Know Where I Can Buy a Hula Hoop?

I live in what most people know as a laid back hippie slacker town.  Some call it a city, and in many ways it is a city, it feels like a town to me.

The truth is, there is a hint of patchouli in the air when the wind blows, but I have yet to meet a slacker.  Most people work very hard for what they love.  They work during the week on their paintings, jewelry, dog snuggies, and poi sticks.

The weekend comes and they have to (with their permits attained) pack all the goods so nothing gets damaged and figure out which place is the best to try and sell their wares.  Some markets are good for some weekends, sometimes they drive hours for others.  Does not sound like a slacker to me.

The other day at the grocery store while in line, I looked through the contents of the person in front of my basket.  Oh come on you all do it.  And you end up feeling superior, inferior, indifferent, or as if you found your soul mate buying bulk millet. 

As I looked I saw all organic locally grown vegetables I had never even heard of.  My girl friend and I have recently started juicing (note to self do not let girlfriend watch any more documentaries with me, or I will be packing for Mount Everest).

We have not been militant since day one and made an agreement not to proselytize what we are doing.  No matter what.  Even if I drop 100lbs in three days and am able to walk on wire between the UT Tower and the Coop (girlfriend has not seen that one yet), I would not brag of juicing.

Juicing has been going well.  There are days I look at the expensive blender and want to throw it crashing out the window while I eat a Snickers bar.

Mmmmm Snickers.

I have been guilty of doing the occassional McFast Food.  I have a 14 yer old that needs to eat and it is really hard to cook when juicing (even more so when you actually hate cooking).

I started taking my daughter to Starbucks.  It's liquid, it must still count, and a Grande Mocha peppermint whatever has to be better for you than mcFast Food.

All this went through my mind as I perused the contents of the basket in front of me.  Then I looked at the woman.

She fit the contents.  Lean, Yoga mat in cool Indian case, slight sweat indicates it must have been Bikram yoga.  Her hair slightly long and held back in a hemp headband.  Her shoes, expensive, but okay because the company donates a pair for every one you buy.  He tee shirt had an OM on it,
I was sure all her chakras were perfectly aligned, and she truly believed kale tasted good and not like the contents of my dirt devil.

Then I saw her face.  She was not smiling.  She looked unhappy, unaligned.  I wondered if she was just in a hurry or if she needed a McFast Burger.

I loaded my groceries on the conveyor belt, she looked and smiled.  Many were the same, because, well, I am juicing.  She smiled as if I too were one with the kale.  I smiled back and broke the bond when I loaded the tub of prefab potato salad my daughter loves to eat.

Bond broken.

We are a no bag city now, and usually I forget my bags, this time I had them.  I was quick to follow Miss Chakra out to the parking lot and saw her get into her mini cooper.  It made me miss my Suburban.

Then I saw it.  She smiled.  She exhaled and smoke came out of her mouth.  She was lighting a cigarette!  Granted it was one of the all natural ones that supposedly has no tar or sugar or the fun stuff I like in mine.  But she was smoking!

It was her version of the McFast Smoke.

She was gloriously happy and I could not help but smile as I loaded my groceries knowing I found a friend in this hippie slacker town where it is sometimes so hard to be perfect.

And Here's to You Mrs. Gaga

I am going to be honest here; if I was put in a room with a gun to my head and told to name three Lady Gaga songs or I would die, it would be time to write my obituary.

I even had to Google how she spells her name before continuing this piece.

I just have not cared about her.  I wondered over the last few years of her fame about my lack of enthusiasm concerning her.

I now know the reason.  I was there for the original. Or at least the original of "my" generation.  I had Madonna. 

Yes there are differences between the two; one wore cone bras, the other sirloin dresses. 

Upon reflection It is actually their similarities that suddenly make me care about Miss Gaga.  Not the fact that frankly neither can truly carry a tune, or that they are attention whores, or that they try so desperately for a shock factor.

They are both educators.

Madonna taught us things, besides how to bleach our hair to a point of damage no conditioner could save. 

Madonna taught us it was okay to have sex.  Yes I said it.  Madonna gave us permission to not only have sex but for the love of God ENJOY it.  She taught us sex could be a fun thing, (or maybe that was George Michael.)  

In 1991 Salt-n-Pepa wanted to talk about sex.  So now we have a generation that not only had sex, enjoyed sex, but could also talk about sex.

At about that time I had been having so much sex that I was a mother raising a bunch of kids, and my personal music choice came from a purple dinosaur.  I did raise my children on the soundtrack to RENT as it was (and still is) my favorite musical.  You have not heard anything until you hear your six year old singing the lyrics, "Sodomy, it's between God and me."

At some point the kids grew up and went through their own musical choices, and I was right there with them shedding a slight tear when Baby Spice said she no longer wanted to be part of the group.  I helped hang the Backstreet Boys Poster on my daughter's wall.  When my son got knocked down, he got up again.

I used to say that my children would be hard pressed to find a genre of music I did not like.  I was proven wrong when my oldest began blaring ICP from her room.  Yet I never told her to turn it down. 

There seemed to be a lack of sexuality in the music my children listened to.  It was all good clean fun.
When we played Ani DiFranco in the car on the way to school my five year old sang along, and as parents WE were the ones saying she could not sing, "Fuck you" unless she was in the car with us and the song was playing.

They each found their own music in their own way, from dubstep to Bowie, to One Direction (yes I think Liam looks cuter with his hair longer).

And now we are back to Lady Gaga.  She has not seemed to hit the radar of my children as much as other musical acts have.  They know the songs, and can sing the lyrics, but they are not shocked or impressed or moved much at all by her music in any way that I can tell.

I figured out why.  My children were raised in a house where yes we did talk about sex, but we also talked about homosexuality.  All five of my children were taught it was perfectly fine and normal to be gay.  They grew up knowing this even if a dinosaur did not sing about it.

I may not follow Lady Gaga's latest song or outfit, but I follow her politics, and she has done something Madonna did not do.  She has said it is okay to be who you are, no matter what gender, race or, sexual orientation.

Wow.  That is something I can respect about her.

 A torch has been passed yet again and Miss Gaga is using her platform shoes to proclaim that people should chill out and accept who they are, and other people should have acceptance and tolerance as well.

I may not dance to her songs in a unitard with the bikini bottoms on the outside of the unitard (thank God).  But I do give her credit for the message she is delivering in such a way that is reaching the children and teens of today.

It is a crazy idea but maybe it is true that all we need is love.

Back to School

It is back to school time and I am amused when I sit waiting for my daughter to come out of her school.  She has, in the past attended a school where it was hard to find her when the bell rang, as every girl looked the same.

Now she is in high school and she is in The Fine Arts Academy as a dance major.  This high school is basically the equivalent to the high school of preforming arts in the movie FAME, sadly without spontaneous lunch songs.

I watch the children coming out of the doors, some have pink hair shaved on the sides and look very surly.  Some are tossing a football looking very assure, some hold books appearing astute.

Today I saw a girl with a mullet wearing a KISS tee shirt and a leather cuff on her right wrist.  We would have been friends.

The most astounding thing I saw was a parent yelling at their child to hurry up, this parent used all the cliche empty parental threats that were not at all threats.

"Hurry up! The world does not revolve around you!"

"I swear if you don't get in this car....we have to get your brother, why are you always thinking of yourself?"

I had to chuckle as I still sat and waited for my own child.

I have five children. 

There was a time when I caught myself yelling at them to clean their messy rooms, I was tired of tripping over toys or worse getting a damn piece of Littlest Pet Shop stuck in my foot.

I lost it.  I yelled, "YOU ALL ARE SO SPOILED ROTTEN, YOU ACT SO ENTITLED, YOU DON'T TAKE CARE OF ANYTHING, WHY DO YOU ONLY THINK OF YOURSELVES?!"

I stopped.  I looked around at the mass of toys and realized my children did not buy them, I did.  I looked at each child individually.  Each child had a time where the world did in fact revolve around them and only them.  Each child had a time where they were the only one. 

I have often said to new parents that the very best advice I can give them is to not rescue their child at every turn.  Let them forget their homework and not rush to school to bring it to them. Even if you are lucky enough to be a stay at home parent that is not part of your job.  Get over the guilt.  If you rescue them you will only be teaching them not to care for themselves.

If you think your child acts spoiled, ask yourself who spoiled them?  Who bought all the toys? Who said yes at every whimper and whine?

If your child acts entitled who replaced their cell phone they lost or dropped in the pool? Of course they are entitled. you made them that way.

If your child is ungrateful who did not teach them proper manners or gratitude?

We tell our children to say thank you to grandparents or friends when they are given a gift, but do you teach your child to say thank you for dinner?

I am by far not a perfect parent.  My children are not perfect people.  What they are is happy.  They like to be in my company and talk to me.  They tell me things most kids would not share, and lets be honest what they don't tell me I probably already know but figure it is best left unsaid.

My children are very smart.  Most of them have decided or made life choices that limited their career or college choices.  Instead they use their intellect to search out what they want to learn, and what makes them happy as people, and happy in the relationships they create.

I am not taking all the credit for this, they were given a lot of freedom to make messes.  As toddlers they could play naked in mud for hours, as teens they broke rules and learned from their decisions. When I went through my own dark place my children were left alone mostly learning from each other.  I was here physically but not mentally.

If you have such a busy life that you have no time to let your child learn how to tie their own shoe, you need to re evaluate some things.  Yes it can be frustrating sitting on the floor watching them fuddle with their chubby fingers to make rabbit ears and cross them over (or however you teach the art of shoe tying), but it can also be amusing and a wonderful opportunity to encourage and let them know they can do it on their own.  When they do finally get that shoe tied by themselves you will have given them the opportunity to be proud and excited at their own achievement.

As they grow you need to let go of what you feel their achievements should be, and follow their lead in support.

Keep Your sense of humor
Be patient
Pick your battles
Let them make mistakes
Love them



As a last note, when you want to have those uncomfortable talks and aren't ready to sit down at a table I find the car works best.  Make sure you have at least a 30 minute ride that involves a highway.  They wont jump out and are literally a captive audience.  It also helps to let them have control of the radio stations.

How Not to Write a Book

Never ever ever tell anyone you are writing a book.  Chances are they are too.  Or they will ask what it is about, a natural question.  But if you are not entirely sure what it is about and are letting the characters direct you, it is a hard question to answer.

I am now going to tell you exactly how not to write a book.

1) Spend hours making the perfect playlist that you will listen to when you write

 2) Eat an entire pound bag of M&M's while making the above playlist so you feel too fat to write.  Because naturally you want to be thin for the book release and book tour.

3) Imagine the hotel room you will be staying in when you are on your book tour.

4) Feel sick from the imaginary sushi you had while in the hotel.

 5) Stress that no one shows up to your reading at Barnes and Noble.

6) Wonder if there will even be Barnes and Nobles left by the time your book is finished.

7) Dance to that one song on the playlist that you probably should not have put on the "Writing my book list."

8) redo playlist.

9) Realize that you would never have gotten sick from sushi because you hate sushi and would not have ordered it. But your imaginary publicist took you out to dinner, you nibbled and could not wait to grab a burger to eat in the hotel room while treating yourself to a pay per view movie on the hotel's TV.  A movie you meant to go see when it was in the theaters, but in actuality you were really too lazy to actually go.

10) Worry about run-on sentences.

11) Get the cat off the keyboard.  This takes at least ten tries and leaves you feeling guilty.

12) Pet the cat.

13) Convince yourself that if you just quit your job the book would get written.

14) Mentally compose a resignation letter.

15) Completely wrong song, back to the playlist for more editing.

16) Have an imaginary argument with family members over the book because they think you revealed too much even if you did change names, dates, genders, and all relatable facts.

17) Listen closely to the lyrics of the song currently playing and smile because you are so in love.

18) Ignore the reminder that pops up to call your mother because you just do not have the mental energy to talk to her and feel the pain of all that is missing due to her disease.

19) Think of the character in your book that has some of the qualities of your mother, and promise to finish the book in time for her to read it.

20)  Close out facebook and open up Word and look at the blank screen and realize you need a diet coke and cigarettes to get started.  Close the laptop.

Congratulations, contrary to what this list represents, realize you wrote it down, which means you wrote something, which means  you ARE a writer. 

Hallelujah!  (Rufus Wainwright version song #28 on playlist)

Color Me Sepia

When you give your daughter the advice "Be open and allow yourself to be vulnerable" for writing a psychology essay, that essay may just turn out to be about you.

  Or in this case, me.

My insides contracted when she told me she wrote an essay about me, abs tight, ready for the blow.

As I read, I relaxed.  I have to say there was nothing in there that I did not expect to see.  There was however one of my deepest fears.

My fear of how my children view me.

Turns out they, or at least she, see me mostly as depressed, or asleep. 

My youngest daughter lay with head in my lap the other night while I mindlessly played with her hair.  She is a remarkable child, and in a matter of weeks will be 14 year old.  To me, she is my baby.

I brushed and twirled her hair and contemplated what it must be like for her having lost her father at such an early age.  I was 12 when mine died and I at least have some first hand memories.  My daughter has none, only anecdotes, photos and videos (that need to be transferred to the latest technology so she can watch them).

The daughter writing the essay was a few weeks shy of 10 years old when her father died.  She has memories.  Her memories, like mine are sepia toned, and filled with camping trips, vacations, and story times.

Her formative years after his death are what she writes about.  The years I mentally checked out and was for the most part a zombie.

I wish I could implant in her brain that I was there, I was trying to smile, laugh and enjoy each and every moment.

As a family on a whole we went through some pretty hard times, I made mistakes.  Small ones and huge ones.  I own up to them now and have been for the last few years.

It has been a long time and I am now in love again.  It is a different love, not just because I am in love with a woman.  It is different because I am older, more cautious of my heart and we have a few more walls to break down. 

It is different because I made her a mother to my children, a job she embraces and does with ease.  It is different because I am not alone anymore.

Easter was last weekend and the table was sparse.  One child in college, one who had to work, it was not the over crowded bustling action I am used to on holidays.  Yet, at some point a few of us managed to annoy the other few by spontaneously bursting into "Day By Day" from Godspell.

My family will randomly juggle, dance, sing, do back tucks, make hilarious videos, claim photos steal their souls, argue, laugh, cook, show me a new tattoo or book they have read.

My older children will curl up in my bed to watch a movie with me, or invite me to bingo.

We have struggled, maybe more than some and less than others.  I have stayed.

If I could write an essay back to my daughter, it would be short.

"I am awake now.  I am happy.  I am sorry.  I love you."

To the rest of the family I would say, "I see thee more clearly, I love thee more dearly, I follow thee more nearly."

So watch what you post on Twitter.

Excuse Me Do You Have a Napkin?

When I announced I was getting married for the first time, my groom to be's best friend laughed and said, "I'd like to see you move his napkin."

I had no idea what this meant.

My first husband had lived alone for most of his life, when he was not sent to a Catholic boarding school.  He had some eccentric ways.  His windows were covered with book cases, which were packed with books.  He did not go out much, had his set of friends that he had forever,he was (and still is) funny, smart, and ofttimes charming.

  At the wee age of 29 he was fairly set in his ways.  He is also a writer.  When he would sit down daily to write he would carefully places all his immediate needs in order, book, pen, ashtray, lighter, cigarettes, and a glass of water with a napkin under it.

The napkin.

To move the napkin would be to change something, to alter his universe, to invade his space, to make my presence known. 

I tried to move his napkin in many ways during the course of our marriage.  We had two children, we moved (a lot), but I was unable to move the napkin for any significant length of time, and we parted on good terms.  On the day we divorced we had lunch together.

Many years, more children and losing my second husband to cancer, I am again in a relationship.  I spent almost 9 years alone before finding and committing to another relationship.

Something has felt "off" for me from the moment she moved in.  Nothing I could name, but rather felt.  Nothing so dramatic that I wanted to end the relationship. 

Just something.

My first husband is traveling the world at the moment.  He is a free spirit now with little possessions.  What he owns he can fit into one suitcase, a far cry from our five bedroom house with a pool we once lived in. 

I was thinking about him and I realized he no longer has his napkin.  He has become flexible and fluent to change. 

I knew then that I am the one now with the napkin.  I have lived in this house doing things how I prefer them for so long that I  am afraid I can not move my napkin.  Some ways or habits are not even ones I particularly enjoy, it is just the way I have been doing them.

As a result I have at times been resentful to my love.

When did I become the one who is not flexible and fluent to change?  I am the one who invites chaos into the house with children, animals, mess.  All she wants to do is help.

She has, for the most part lived with someone her entire life, roommates in college, various lovers, random roommates.  She is used to the ways of cohabiting.  I thought I was the one who was well versed in those ways.

I have forgotten.

I have at times been bitter.  Bitter than my first husband is free to do as he pleases.  Bitter that I am stuck in a house and city I do not love, and now bitter that someone I invited in is trying to change things. Even for the better.

It is time for my napkin to go.  If I hold on to my napkin it will be all I have and I want more than that.  I want unrestricted love.  I want to let go and jump again.  I have before and I want to again.

My napkin is a lie.  My napkin will not keep bad things from happening, it will not prevent possible illness, it will not make everything "okay".  It will however prevent me from truly loving, from changing, from letting go.

Letting go of the past.

Letting go of the present fears.

I know that if I continue to hang on to my napkin I will never love her in the fullest way that I can give her and that is not what I want for her, or me, or the myriad of children, pets and mess we have.

I need no one to take away the napkin, I throw away in the way I obtained it, alone.

It is scary, it isn't easy, but it is so worth it.  For years I needed it to survive.  I needed to learn how to be alone.  I fought very hard to imagine a lifetime without loving again, and I succeeded.  Now I will relearn what it means to give in love and not just accept in love.

Look at your own glass.  Are you holding a napkin that is preventing you from something?  A change, a love, a habit?

Let's go green and clean up all the napkins we have.  I am excited for the extra space in my heart to be filled.

And yes, scared.