MInd Trips

Where would you go on this magical old bike? I'd visit a couple of places in the past:

- The bench under the magnolia tree in full bloom on the American University campus where I fell in love with my history professor. I could have done without the 7 years of angst, drama and drivel that followed, but I'll never forget that silent lightning strike of two people colliding in space and time and having their molecules rearranged.

- I'd go to the beach with my kids and watch my young son come up the beach dragging an enormous dead sea turtle he'd found behind him with a rope. Because he was so purely happy and later that became a rarity for him and our relationship, I'd love to go back to that moment and appreciate it more.

- I'd follow the Pacific Coast Highway toward Mendocino again, the great ocean swelling and heaving and changing colors on one side of the road, the swell and curve of the tawny California hills on the other, a surge of Vivaldi leading me on, uniting sea and land, heaven and earth.

Aging Boomer Smiles Bravely

Whenever I read about "aging boomers" lately, the subtext is "old person who is using up all our resources and should be abandoned on an ice floe." Suddenly my age is anathema. I am a drag on progress, a parasite on society. Forget that I'm still working fulltime, taking spinning classes, using a computer, iPhone and Nintendo DS (okay, that one is stupid), trying to do my bit to fight global warming and mountain top removal and never holding up the security line at airports trying to figure out what's legal to take in my carryon. I even have a Power Monkey! No, evidently that's not enough to justify my continued existence ("What, you're STILL alive?!). Evidently, I also need to admit that the '60s were stupid, that I was a compulsive shopper, that I was too ambitious and feministy for my own good and that I'm sucking the lifeblood of future generations by having a longer life expectancy. Was I so dismissive of The Greatest Generation, the one that came before mine? If so, it's probably payback to be the enemy now. Karma sucks, and I can hear my mother laughing about it. No longer hip, only waiting for that inevitable hip replacement that will take up a valuable hospital bed that could be put to better use by a 35-year-old. All I can say to young writers who are blaming boomers for the current economy is this is what 65 looks like, and good luck when you get there because someone younger than you will inevitably be bitching about how your generation fucked up the world. I just wish I could be around to enjoy it. Maybe if I eat more yogurt and do more pushups...

People Who Say Yes

I should be used to Mean Girls by now after 15 years of publishing a magazine for women. I've had my fair share of nasty letters from women who think I deserve a comeuppance. Letters accusing me of being an elitist (hey, I want to respond, my toilet was outdoors the first 12 years of my life!), a man hater (yikes, my list of lovers says I have the opposite problem--I might be a slut!), a fake feminist (is there a secret handshake and password?), a plastic surgery pusher (I'd probably do it too if I weren't so afraid of pain and anesthesia), an abortion loving liberal (yep, I'm pro choice forever). At first, I used to cry whenever I got a critical letter. Then I got mad. Now I try to shake it off and not give my energy away to strangers. But every letter like that makes me realize how judgmental I've been at times of women I don't even know, and how that shames and teaches me. But it also makes me realize how much time all of us spend getting angry about the wrong things. I want to save my anger for men who beat up women, for rapists who walk free, for girls who aren't allowed to go to school. And I want to celebrate people who are creating something, making art out of their lives, throwing a party for no reason other than being alive. I want to be one of those people, but I have a long way to go.

Celestial Tomato

On the way to my car this morning, I picked one of my new homegrown tomatoes and put it on the seat next to me. When I got to work, I decided to let it ripen a bit more on the dashboard, but when I locked the car I noticed the sky was reflected in the car window and the tomato seemed to be floating in midair. Of course I think this tomato is a miracle, lacking only the face of Jesus or the Virgin of Guadalupe to warrant crowds of worshippers, but beyond that, it reminded me yet again to look for beauty everywhere. Today, my dental hygienist asked me if I was going to be doing anything fun this summer, and I almost said "not really," but caught myself in mid-naysay and answered, "Every day is fun." We both laughed at the novelty of that thought. Not that I remember to live by that often enough, but I'm going to try to look for more celestial tomatoes every day.

What Allures Me Now

* The Frozen Thames by Helen Humphreys. The Thames has frozen 40 times in recorded history, and Humphreys has written 40 tiny stories based on events that happened each time the river iced over.  It's poetic history.

* This pin from Lochers.com is so cheeky and deceptive. It looks like something a proud mommy would wear...until you lean in a bit closer.

* The Help by Kathryn Stockett. I gulped it down in one furious read. If you belong to a bookclub, it would be a great choice. 

* Spinning. I tried it a few months ago and hated it. Tried it again this week and suddenly got interested. Didn't fall in love with it, but all of a sudden I loved that my body could do it and that I'm soaking wet and psyched when it's over. We'll see if I can keep it up.  And going to a class first thing in the morning means exercise is OVER for the day. Hallelujah.

* This ring from Bjorg jewelry. They say they'll have a U.S. online site soon. I'll be there!

30% Chance of Tears

The last few weeks, we've had the same predictable daily forecast: scattered storms, clouds, some sun, and a 30% chance of some sort of weather event -- rain, water spouts, tornadoes, hurricanes, plagues of toads. Situation unstable. My own moods have vacillated between blue sky optimism, looming thunderheads, oppressive gray pessimism, barometric shifts and sudden showers. Yesterday, I felt a storm building all day and finally put on my sunglasses and raced out of my house for a power walk. I cried the whole way, hoping people I passed would think it was just sweat was running down my face. Knowing I had a therapy session scheduled the next day seeded the rain clouds, and I wanted to get the crying out of the way ahead of time. If I have a cleaning lady coming to my house, I spend the night before picking up and putting away, and  if I'm going to see the shrink, I start stuffing things in a mental closet and tidying up any loose emotions that might be showing. So why do I go to someone for help and then pretend everything is fine? It's like calling 911 and then locking the doors so the firemen can't get in. Always being "fine" is part of my problem. Especially now, when I'm questioning the point of my job, worrying about growing older and becoming invisible, trying to let go of what I no longer need, wondering if I can create a new life and what that would look like. I wish I had an Emotional Doppler Radar app on my iPhone to warn me of rough weather ahead and a guru to help me ride out the storms that are bound to lie ahead in this part of my life. Or at least hold the umbrella and pass the Kleenex.

Bittersweet

I'm finding that writing my "autobiography" in 2400 words is more difficult than I imagined. Not only in trying to compress a life into such a short form, but also in trying to describe my life in a new language, new vocabulary. I think everyone gets used to certain stories they construct in their minds about how they grew up, stories they tell themselves or people they meet. It's not necessarily an untrue version, but it does tend to become ossified over time or fall into certain cliches or set pieces. Maybe the story is "My happy childhood" or maybe it's "My tragic childhood" -- wherever it falls on the spectrum of experience, we tend to assign everyone roles that over time become mythologized in our minds. Deconstructing that story in order to see your life with fresh eyes is like teaching yourself to write with your left hand if you're righthanded. For instance, I'm resisting writing about my relationship with my mother, which was complicated and unresolved on my part when she died. I tried writing it straight on, but it sounded like something out of a therapy session. I had to sneak up on it through little flash memories from the past, like the walks she took us on in the fall on the dusty back roads of our town, where we collected dried flowers and plants to put in the house. Especially branches of bittersweet berries bursting out of their shells--a happy uncomplicated memory. My mom reverting to the country girl she'd been. My mom who loved nature. My mom who knew the names of so many plants. Not the mother who found it so difficult to show affection. Not the mother abandoned and empty after my father left. Not the sadness I didn't know was coming. Bittersweet.

Startng Out

I'm giving myself  homework assignments for the summer, because evidently I need artificial deadlines in order to accomplish ANYTHING. So today was the first day of very own version of Summer School. I planned for it in the same way I used to prepare for the first day of school. Remember buying new supplies, getting your outfit ready the night before, waking up early full of anticipation? I can't say I had the same level of excitement this time, but I've been doing a lot of reading and unlearning in advance of my self-imposed start date of June 1. My goal is to approach writing with a "beginner mind" for a change, with enthusiasm instead of dread or fear of failure. I write for a living every day and it's fun, creative writing, but it's my job. So I wanted to try something different, a project just for me and one that has a beginning and end date. Coming home every night and writing could be a drag after a full day of doing the same thing, but I'm trying to think of homework that resembles play more than work. (I'll probably post some of the assignments I give myself on my other blog--Creative First Aid--from time to time, so feel free to audit the class!) Today, I started a 2400-word autobiography, but I'm not proceeding in any kind of chronological fashion. So far, so fun. I just hope I don't get sent to detention or flunk out. I want to write my way toward that gate in the distance, the one that's the color of a David Hockney pool, the color of imagination, the color of Wallace Steven's blue guitar.