A Ridiculous Number of Journals

I have eight active journals. Really. Among them are the personal processing journal, the family quotes journal, a reading journal and my five-year journal. I also keep a gratitude journal. This year's journal was made by Ashley Chassé from New York by way of Ottawa, Canada. Much more about Ashley's work in a post later this summer.

As we round second toward the last half of 2010 I thought I'd publish a few snippets from this journal. My journal can be both a list of the obvious and a measure of the quality of the problems.

Some days the best I can do is be grateful that it's nearly over. I'm sure you can relate. For example the entry for June 1st is a good-problem-glad-the-day-is-nearly-over kind of entry:

I am grateful for the gas in my car and the money in my bank account that provided me with the opportunity to be snubbed by five employees at Jerry's Artarama in Tempe, Arizona - to be specific.

The day before (May 31st) I wrote: I'm grateful for misunderstandings and the chance to set them right. For the courage to see the ending and the endurance to see it through. For the heartache and bruised ego wedged in between.

No major revelations; hopefully a little special in the yuck. We as a family are stuck in the yuck. Trudging to be sure, and we've a fair ways to go. Since I drive that train, we seem to share a bit more laughter and shed a few less tears when I pull out Miss Chassé's journal and scribble a couple of sentences. It helps, maybe just because I think it to be so, and that is good enough for me.

The Waiting Place

"Oh, the Places You'll Go!" is my favorite Dr. Seuss book. I give a special gift set to everyone I know when they are going from and moving on toward.

"The Waiting Place... for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting."

I live in the "small town" of Phoenix, Arizona with three million other people. The neighboring "small town" that I am also tethered to is San Diego, California. You would not believe how small these two cities really are. Three degrees of separation and often less make it difficult for me to write about matters too close to the bull's eye.

Myself and many people I love in these two towns are "headed, I fear, toward a most useless place." Waiting for a date, an opinion, or a check. Waiting for medication, a friend, or a sign. Waiting for a text, a tweet or a status update. Mostly waiting for a Yes or No.

Here's the tricky part - I'm happy. In fact, in the face of this craziness and indeterminate waiting, this limbo, I am writing more than ever and finding joy in the crevices of my life. Paying attention to the details? Not so much - cuz the details right now suck pretty bad. I think It's more like opening up wide. Like Sound-of-Music-spinning-on-the-hill kind of wide. (Sorry if I just put that song in your head.) Less like demanding the precision of a flashlight and more like adjusting my eyes to the glow of a lantern.

Today we waited again, and again we heard nothing. None of us.

Tomorrow is Monday.

A Space to Call My Own

Busy morning.

Last friday I toured the Levine Machine Co. warehouse on the corner of 7th Street and Grant Street in the Phoenix warehouse district.

Mike Levine is a walking encyclopedia of Phoenix history. I mean way way way back. He's a fascinating man to talk with. Among his many interests and passions, Mike supports local arts and the development of local artists. The Levine website has some pictures of the warehouse at 605 E Grant Street (pictured here). There are incredible creative businesses housed on the larger west side of the warehouse.

The east side is smaller and where a performance artist, a digital artist, two painters and me have set up shop. He even planted two platforms for a stage in my space. It's really pretty amazing. I went down this morning to sign the lease and pick up my key. I feel so lucky to have come across this location.

Many thanks to Jim McPherson for working on several arts projects with me and keeping an eye open for space that might just meet my professional needs. Thanks so much, Jim.

What's so damn funny about that?

I suddenly realized last week that the first decade of the 21^st century is coming to an end. Since then, I’ve been thinking about what the last ten years have looked like for my family and me. I wanted to wax poetic here, but that is best left to the poets in my life. So, to sum up, we have experienced love and loss, victory and defeat, renewed hope and bitter despair. Not much different from your lives, I’m sure.

What made these years, and every year, bearable and illuminated, has been our ridiculous and fairly inappropriate collective sense of humor. Our familial meta-humor if you will. We make each other laugh to the point of gasping for air, pulling stomach muscles and shedding tears.

Even when my brother and I are at total odds with each other – barely able to be in the same room together – he can pull just the right movie quote out of thin air and make me pee in my pants (which is not that hard since I’ve given birth to two children). Or how about the days when my daughter would rather drill under her finger nails than hear my voice one more time, she will sing out “I LOVE YOU, MOM!” which is meant to sound like the F-bomb curse. I always laugh and then she laughs.

But sometimes the feelings are just too big for humor right in the moment, and so we make a gesture in unsure and awkward ways to give each other space for a little while. And sometimes, maybe especially in those times, we need permission to laugh again.

My mother died in 2007. That first week, I cried, but mostly I withheld so many tears that I could barely swallow. A whole gaggle of family arrived at Sky Harbor International Airport that week in August. Twenty minutes later they crossed the threshold of our back door. My aunt Betsy marched into the house demanding, “Where is she? Where’s Mare?” She found me leaning against the kitchen counter. Betsy pulled me close and whispered the most inappropriate and off-color statement in my ear. I erupted in surprised hysterics. For the first time since my mom passed, I let go of a belly laugh, and I let go of clenched sobs on Betsy’s shoulder.

Ask any kid and they’ll tell you that inappropriate laughter is the best. Getting the giggles when you’re supposed to be quiet, or good, or polite is more contagious than a summer cold. Or how about when someone says the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time, and another someone starts snorting? Those are the moments that will unite any group of strangers.

Laughter is the call for emotional presence – for filling up with feelings of euphoria and of overwhelming fear. Laughing when I’m angry (because I’m really feeling sad) helps me come up for air, and eventually moves me into the solution. I said eventually. J Laughter is validation of my victory and my injury; permission to celebrate and to bleed; and the next step toward a dream and a revelation.

Sure it’s all hard and some days are just so unbelievably sucky that I'm just sure the suck can’t get any worse – like when my mom died. Even then, I craved the bridge between the suck and the hope. I needed that orchestra of laughter that I share with my family and friends: deafening howls, snorts, giggles, guffaws, hiccups, and honks. That is where I want to live. Where I want to rest my head. Where I want to feel it all.

Holding On To A Thread

I had lunch with my friend Kerry. We’ve known each other for nearly 30 years. We have wreaked havoc, loved and lost together. She is dear to me. We met for coffee at one of my favorite local coffee haunts, Copper Star Coffee. Two large lattes later, she asked me, “So, how are you?”

“Breathing. I’m practicing breathing right now.” Kerry scooped up her handbag (a lovely turquoise bag I might add) and produced her key chain. She unfastened a string doll hanging from her ring. Handing it to me she said, “You need Willow, that’s what she does, she helps you breathe.”

“What is it?” Kerry pulled out a single sheet of glossy paper well creased and worn, “She’s a string doll from this company. They’re kind of like personal voodoo dolls for good. Check ‘em out.” So I stuck the makeshift catalog in my bag, and we continued our conversation. I had to admit that I was taken with Willow. She’s cute and kind of a nice reminder to take a deep breath… and then have a meltdown.

The next day, my kids looked at the glossy flyer on the way to school. Seven hours later, at pick up, my now 12 year-old son asked for the flyer again. Halfway home, he announced, “These things are really cool. Monster Man is my favorite and Red Devil is my second favorite.” I was intrigued, “What would you do with them, buddy?”

“I’d put Monster Man in my swim bag because he ‘helps you see the beauty inside the not-so-beautiful.’ Sometimes after practice I don’t feel very good about myself. I’d put Red Devil on my desk since he ‘helps keep your temper in check during those extra trying times.’ You know how homework really gets to me sometimes? I thought he’d be good for that.” Wow. He had clearly given this a lot of thought. Then he added that he also liked E-Moe because that doll felt sad so you don’t have to.

Big feelings and big thoughts springing from just the idea of String Dolls that might help him get through the day. We got home, the kids unpacked, and got their snacks. I wandered back to my office and wondered about faith. My son has literally survived many trials in his life. For him, faith or religion or… whatever, is a waste of time. Pointless. Naïve. And yet, in less than 24 hours with just the idea of String Dolls, he’s ready to place his emotional care within the wrapping of just a single string. He talked about them again last night. “What do you like about them buddy?” “I don’t know,” he said, “I just do. I really want them.”

I have several tokens on my desk, in my purse, and in my pocket that remind me who I am and what I’m about. Like Willow. So I ordered Monster Man, Red Devil and E-Moe so he can find little reminders of himself in his life. I hope he sees the beauty within, the cool in his anger, and bravery in his sadness. Mostly I want him to find hope. Holding on. To a thread.

Gratitude Cool

Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and 20 minutes after that, Christmas. Because it’s that time of year to really look gratitude in the face, I wanted to write about two gifts I received some years back. I don’t like “looking for the silver lining” or “counting my lucky stars”. I’m interested in gratitude that feels real to me – that is part of the world where I live. I look for the cool in the yuck.

Rather than “looking for the silver lining”, a woman I knew for a short time many years ago suggested that I be grateful for the rain cloud. In other words, I am grateful for the roof I get to put on my house, the apology I get to make to my brother, and the havoc I get to wreak in my checking account. I like turning the problem on its ear and forcing myself to reconcile the privilege with the pain. It’s so easy for me to forget that the keys on my keychain are important representations of privilege: house, car, work, storage unit, and my brother’s house. If I’m honest, I probably complain about one of those things every day. When I can remember to be grateful for the quality of those problems - the “get” within and not the “silver” without - I am in a much better place.

I look up in the night sky as much as the next person, but personally I’d like something more tangible to count than “my lucky stars” – if counting is what I’m doing. I heard about the ABC gratitude list from a new friend when I first moved to San Diego. To be honest, I thought it seemed ridiculous. Simple for the simple-minded. And then one day… as the story goes… I landed in the emergency room pregnant with my first child, in trouble, and alone. I lay in that room waiting for Brad, and my friend’s list came to mind: “Start with the letter ‘A’ and name something you’re grateful for that begins with ‘A’.” So for me it went: A:apple, B:Brad, C:cat, D:dad and so forth. I repeated the alphabet very quickly without thinking about or judging the associations I made. It was sweet and kind of funny. I was still scared and alone, but that was a little bit more okay.

These stories are not meant to be Pollyanna band aids and in no way an echo of “this too shall pass.” For me they’re just a way to mix it up – to challenge my current perspective even for a few minutes. Of course I’ll still be sad, scared and angry. I don’t believe that gratitude is the absence of common sense or survival instincts. Gratitude is a fleeting infusion of context and peace. And the only way I know how to find it is by looking for the cool in the yuck.