Monsters and Light

People's lives are hard.

People have serious shit happen to them.  Moments, even a single moment can change every conceivable aspect of who we become.  Awful things that others might notice, but often in a glazed unfocused way, like staring at one of those 3-D hidden picture posters.  They don't want to see what's right in front of them, so they haze it over.  That way they don't have to step out of their comfort zones and do something about it.

To them ignorance is bliss.

But to the person who is trudging through the muck, through the darkness of those moments, this ignorance is just another blow of judgement and malice and shame.  When someone who is being hurt looks into the eyes of a friend, a family member, a teacher, a passerby, there is an unspoken, maybe even an unintentional plea there.  And if we, the friends or family members or passersby are present enough, still enough in our own minds, we can see it and ask questions and be human to this person who lives among the monsters.

Then ignorance can no longer be claimed.  

Then we know, or have a good idea.  And if there is a shred of virtue and compassion in our souls, we should do something about it.  Reach out.  Make waves if necessary.  Maybe those waves will shake loose the monsters that live in the depths.  And maybe the people stuck down there with them can ride those waves toward the light, toward healing and love.

The older I get the more stories I hear about the evil that is endured by so many every day (and largely overlooked).  Friends whose parents were dangerous or neglectful or who made painfully stupid decisions that spilled over onto their kids.  Kids suffering bullies.  People of all ages withstanding abuse and humiliation.  Pain.  Poverty.  Addiction.  Heartache.  Shame.  And that's to say nothing of my recent visit to Cleveland's Maltz Museum of Jewish Heritage where I stood dumbfounded in front of a map that showed the concentration of hate groups still active in the US and where I read through tear-filled eyes the unimaginable horrors of Holocaust survivors.  Or the true story the movie Spotlight tells of rampant sexual abuse and cover ups within the Catholic church.  

Jesus.  It sometimes seems like people are drowning in a sea of monsters.  

I think of these things when we sing "This Little Light of Mine" at church.  I think about how those of us who have been shielded from the monsters or survived them, how those of us who hold the light of hope and grace and mercy and compassion have an obligation to shine it, to seek out darkness with our lights and blind those @**&%!# monsters with it.  

There are endless questions this sparks regarding faith.  Like why does suffering happen?  Where is God when this is happening to people all over the world?  

But then I think he's in me.  And he's in you.  

And he's trying desperately to work through us.  Will we listen?  I need to do more, be more proactive in this light-shining business.  Because somewhere out in the world there is someone who is waiting for me to do something.  To hear their plea.  To make some waves.  To reach out and help.  To shine a light.

A simple everyday way to make this into a habit is to give people a freaking break.  Don't be so judgy.  That rude clerk at the store or the distracted waitress or that coworker who drives you insane...you don't know what monsters they have fought or are still fighting.  Sure, maybe some of them are just jerks.  But maybe if you look into their eyes and push aside your judgement, you will see a story there.  Maybe a plea.  Which is why we should offer kindness always.  Offer a closed mouth and an open ear.  Offer help if necessary.

Offer your light.  

Because if you shine your light, and I shine mine, my kids shine theirs, their friends shine theirs...soon this whole place will be so bright that the monsters won't have anywhere to hide.  

Sleeping Through Life

Bridges of Madison County

The book provides an crushing love story, and the movie offers two such gifted actors (which is a rare thing these days), Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood.

At different stages in my life, different parts of this story affect me. But always the character Francesca gets to me. Beyond the love story, she is a beautiful, educated, kind, simple, middle-aged wife, mother, farmer and teacher.

And she is present.

For example, she's sitting alone on the front porch one late night reading Yeats. It's so hot she's sweating, even at night wearing only a robe. Suddenly she stands up to face a breeze and opens her robe. Her robe flows behind her in the wind and her face shows an expression of, I don't know...of being alive. She is aware of herself, her mind, her body, the world around her. Alive. Present.

She says, "Just because someone chooses to settle down and have a family doesn't necessarily mean they're hypnotized. Just because I've never seen a gazelle stampede doesn't mean I'm asleep in my life."

Asleep in my life...that is profound to me.

She knows that the bliss and raw true emotions of having a family are equal to or greater than what someone living a life of "adventure" experiences. But she also realizes that being a mother and wife can be hypnotizing sometimes. Families bring joys and blessings that are incomparable, though often time right alongside the routines and ruts and schedules.

She also says, "When a woman makes the choice to marry, to have children; in one way her life begins but in another way it stops. You build a life of details. You become a mother, a wife, and you stop and stay steady so that your children can move. And when they leave they take your life of details with them. And then you're expected move again, only you don't remember what moves you because no-one has asked in so long. Not even yourself."

My God, it's amazing to me that a man wrote this.

Details, errands, schedules, responsibilities...days and weeks can be easily eaten away by these necessities.I see this in many of my friends' lives whose kids are older. Hell, my kids are very young and I'm already starting to experience this.

Socrates said something like the unexamined life is not worth living. I've always found truth in that. And I guess that's what I find so real and refreshing about Francesca's character. Even before this man stumbles into her life and changes her forever in an intense and tangible way; she's aware of herself and her mind. She's awake. Even through long hard days of farming and mothering and the mundane parts of living, she doesn't allow herself to be lost in it all.

I don't want to be lost in it all.

When Sam and Lena are grown, I don't want to have forgotten what moves me. I love my children and Rich to disgusting degrees. I would give my life for them without a second thought. Honestly. They bring me more joy and fulfillment than anything else I've ever known. They occupy my mind completely most days and I'm glad for that, I want that, I owe them that. They're my family.

But I don't want to give them so much of myself that there's nothing left of me when the kids are grown. I don't think with my introspective tendencies that would ever happen, but like I said before, my kids are very young. And I know parenting gets harder as they (and you) get older. Who knows what might happen. Or how much of me it will take to teach them and love them and guide them the right way. I'd rather be spent completely after presenting two loving and smart and faithful people to this world than to half-ass parent them and make their lives and this world worse just because I refused to do what needed to be done.

I'm rambling.

Here's my point. I will do whatever it takes to be the parent my kids need me to be. And I will pray that I don't lose myself in the process. Either way, I just don't ever want to be asleep in my life.

Byron's Don Juan...

I've been watching Don Juan DeMarco here and there over the last couple of days from a recording on our DVR. As someone who suffers from an incurable case of romanticism, I love this movie. It is surely the tale Byron meant to portray with his Don Juan. And it speaks to that silly, daydreamy, poetic, passionate side of me.

I think most women have a side like that, even if we don't let on to it often. It can be hard and embarrassing to open up to it, to be vulnerable enough to let down our guards when a man might look at or speak to us that way. We laugh. We say it’s corny or hokey or lame.

And, unfortunately, a lot of men come off that way when they try to be poetic or passionate, or we can see right through their façade and into their intentions, which are far from our own.

Men…

But sometimes, some of them with pure intentions can get us to open up and hear it. And believe it. And believe them.

What a rare and wondrous thing that is.

I thank God for poetic souls and passionate people. People who can feel and think. And people who express it all.

Like when Don Juan says:

“There are only four questions of value in life. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for? And what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same: only love.”

Or when some of the most powerful poets write:

“Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.” (Shakespeare)

“The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.” (Shakespeare)

“I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion - I have shudder'd at it. I shudder no more. I could be martyr'd for my religion. Love is my religion, and I could die for that. I could die for you.” (Keats)

“Touch has a memory.” (Keats)

“…if all I have said and done, and am still but too ready to say and do, have not sufficiently proved what my feelings are, and must ever be, towards you, my love, I have no other proof to offer.” (Byron)

“Oh, God! that we had met in time, our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; when thou hadst loved without a crime, and I been less unworthy thee! Then to the things whose bliss or woe, like mine, is wild and worthless all, that world resign---such scenes forego, where those who feel must surely fall.” (Byron)

New Obsession

As most of you who know me are aware, I have a tendency to focus on something obsessively and then drop it a few weeks/months/days later.

Writing my book (stalled at 50 pages), knitting and crocheting (I'm always picking that back up from months of no activity), my hair (ever evolving), painting or redecorating a room, an ideal...it's my least favorite characteristic about myself. I hate that, as a norm, my flame for a new-found passion burns out before I follow it through.

I think a lot of us share this undesirable trait, not that that diminishes my self-loathing about it. It's just nice to know someone out there commiserates.

My latest obsession is my closet and my extensive, meandering wardrobe with seemingly no connective thread to tie together my style. It's a hodgepodge. It's a shirt (or 6) that I picked up here, a skirt I picked up there...not much that is cohesive or worthwhile.

Color, there's lots of color. Beyond that, I'm not sure what my style is. I buy items with no idea of what I'll wear with them, no outfit in my head I'm trying to complete or create. Just random items.

You may have noticed I've added a few new blogs to my "blogs I follow" list. Style blogs. Fashion blogs. Blogs that give me great ideas. Blogs about thrifting and accessorizing and putting together things you already own that you may not have ever thought of before to recreate your style.

Shopping in your own closet.

Looking at what you already own in a different light.

Taking risks, mixing colors, over accessorizing, being retro and girly without apology (like this look by keiko lynn).

I'm pushing myself, wearing things I've never worn together, inspired by those wonderful blogs I'm following. And by my ultra inspiring friends.

Like my friend Molly, a style inspiration. She's simple and understated and beautiful. In fact, a couple weeks ago she wore the cutest short semi-bubble skirt to work, a skirt she's never worn to work because, for some reason, she's self conscious. Gorgeous and fit and awesome, but still self-conscious. But you could tell that once she got over the crap that we all heap on ourselves, she felt good in that skirt. It was her style and her personality and it made her feel good about herself.

That made an impression on me and inspired me. Molly...so glad she's in my life...

So, after that Molly skirt empowerment moment, I began searching online, discovered www.pinterest.com, discovered those style blogs, discovered that with a few new accessories, some thrift store trips for hidden gems, and a new take on my giant closet; I could really get into this wardrobe reinvention thing.

That's where I am. Trying on, mixing up, making lists, making Goodwill piles, being honest about my body and what looks good on it (like my bare legs aren't all that awful)...it's so much fun.

We'll see how long this lasts. But if I finally get some organization, some good ideas, some real style out of it, even if it fizzles out, it's worth it. It's shallow and won't change the world or anything of the sort, but aren't we all, especially moms, worth some me-time, worth doing something that makes us feel good about us without feeling guilty?

I vote YES!