Be a Woman

A reader told me she has a friend who writes beautiful poetry, about what it means to be a girl growing up and a woman living in Mexico. I met a young woman Friday whose name is Anaïs. I asked her if she was named for Anaïs Nin, one of my favorite authors. Her mother had named her after Nin, a woman who wrote about some uniquely female experiences. My ten-year-old granddaughter writes poetry. A while back, I put some poetry in Hero In Your Soul. It enabled me to express some very powerful emotions about my older sister in such a cathartic way.

Across the world, the girls and women of Mirman Baheer bravely compose poetry in Afghanistan. Eliza Griswold wrote a compelling piece about them in the April 27, 2012 issue of New York Times Magazine. How different my life would be if I would have been born in Afghanistan instead of here in America. It's likely my date of birth would not even be recorded because girls are just not that important, and that I would not have been allowed to go to school. I can't even imagine how awful that would have been, for school was my saving grace, as I have written in a previous post here. If I did learn to read or write, it would have been in secret. Doing something as brazen as composing poetry could get me at the least, beaten, or at the worst, killed. What I have taken for granted, the privilege of expressing myself freely and openly, is something that is denied many of my sisters around the world. I believe I need to do something about this, but I haven't figured out what to do yet. It just isn't right that I should have this privilege and they should not.

We women in America have finally arrived. We are now afforded all the privileges that men have enjoyed. The struggle here is over, thanks to our sisters, aunts, mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers. But we haven't come this far to become complacent. We should not rest until every little girl in the world is allowed to go to school, until we have created such a place where every woman can be a poet.

When I was a little girl, the older girls had good-smelling cedar chests called "hope chests." They would collect things to be used later in their homes, when they married. A silver teapot. A beautiful tablecloth. A baby's rattle. In England, a hope chest is called a "glory box." Hope chests as furniture have sort of fallen out of fashion, but hopes and dreams in the hearts of little girls have not.

I challenge myself as I challenge my female readers. What can we do to give these women hope? What can we do so that they can experience all the glory of being a woman?

Susan

"Glory Box" by Geoff Barrow, Beth Gibbons, Adrian Utley and Isaac Hayes

Reality

One of the fun things about being a parent is seeing your kids experience things for the first time and watching their reactions. We had a lot of good times as a family with our boat. One year we went on a spring break trip with two other families. We had eight boys among us, my older son being 12 at the time and the youngest probably 6. We were at a campground on a lake, and when we weren't playing in the water, the boys liked to do what my older son called "exploring." One day they set out to explore a hill with my older son as the leader. It felt safe for them to do that because we could see everything from our campsite. The hill had little ledges on it. We adults all sat there talking and watching the boys across the way have fun. We noticed a young couple, probably late teens or early 20's, approach the general area of our sons. The woman was wearing a two-piece swimsuit and was very slightly built. Bear with me, because you'll need this information for later in my story. The couple sat down on a ledge, and the woman took off her swimsuit top.

Shortly after that, the pack of boys came around the corner and happened upon this sight. The couple was visibly startled, and the young woman quickly covered herself up, but not before the kids all got a good look. The couple decided to move on, probably to find a more private place.

When the kids came back to the campsite, they told us all about the lady with no swimsuit top. Everyone was sort of talking all at once, then it quieted down and my son had an expression of disappointed confusion on his face as he said, "I thought breasts were supposed to be big." His dad gently explained that people and their body parts come in all sizes. Reality can be so harsh sometimes, no?

Susan

The News

My friend's boyfriend crashed her computer by being on the Fox News website. Not really. He was on that website, and her computer just happened to die at that exact time. Her daughter and I had fun with him on that one. He's a nice guy, but pretty conservative.

I think it's important for all of us to keep up with what's going on in the world. How can we change the world when we don't even know what's happening? One of the many wonderful things about the internet is we can choose from different sources. I like the way The Guardian, a UK newspaper, reports on happenings here in the US. It's a unique perspective. Some news sources are more credible than others.

There is a lot of bad stuff and sad stuff out there, and sometimes it seems like that's all we read or see. A lot of journalism has been sensationalized, too. There is much of good in the world, and for every horrible story there are many great stories out there. Every day people like you and I, who in our own small way, make the world a happier place. Imagine the headlines:

"Well-known politician is faithful to his wife"
"Dedicated mother drives straight home from work each night"
"Patient father helps his reluctant daughter with homework"
"Great son puts all his dirty dishes in the dishwasher"
"Tired husband still makes time to rub his wife's feet"
"Honest employee treats business as if it was his own"
"Dedicated teacher treats special needs children with kindness"
"Divorced couple co-parent children with consistency and teamwork"
"Big sister reads to her younger siblings"

Susan

Pink

My car is a Volkswagen Beetle. Pink. It's her color and her name. For years, I would say it would be great to have a pink Beetle. Or a purple one. I would imagine buying one in one of the standard colors and having it painted. It isn't an uncommon fantasy for women, I have discovered.

For years, I drove a reliable Toyota Camry. They are great cars and mine was wonderful. One day I was thinking about how the Camry was thirteen, kind of reaching that point where things start to go wrong. Just out of curiosity, I went to autotrader.com and looked up Beetles. I put in my price range and my zip code, nothing else in the search field. I was just exploring what I could get for what I wanted to pay. Soon I had the result of my search. Guess who popped up first? You are probably already ahead of me here. Pink. A Beetle that was ALREADY pink. Wow. What are the chances? She was ridiculously overpriced. I saw that when I Kelley Blue Booked a Beetle and then looked into the price of custom paint. Even with her gorgeous color, the asking price was way too much. But still...

The next morning, I started up the Camry and the check engine light came on and stayed on. Now you and I both know a check engine light can mean very little, and in this case I just took it to my mechanic and he cleared it for me. But it seemed strangely coincidental. It could mean nothing, but still...

I called Pink's owner, and we arranged a meeting. Love at first sight, no doubt about it. We talked a little bit about price. My mechanic checked Pink out and she got a clean bill of health. Some people like to say that VW's are expensive to maintain and repair, and that it's hard to find someone to work on them. That is because they are German cars, and not everyone knows how to work on German cars. My mechanic and Pink seemed to get along just fine. I decided on a fair price that I was willing to pay, and as we negotiated, Pink's owner and I arrived at a number we could both live with. Pink has been mine now for over a year. She has a personality all her own. She takes me where I want to go.

A couple of weeks ago, a little girl, maybe age 4 or 5, was in the grocery store parking lot with her mom and they exclaimed over the wonderfulness and wonderfilledness of Pink. Then the little girl put her hands on her hips, looked at me with a most serious expression and said, "Cars don't come in pink." Her mom explained to her that no they don't, you have to have them specially painted.

Cars don't come in pink. No. They don't. But sometimes they do.

Susan

Depth

Both my sons played sports as they were growing up. It took me to a new world, one I hadn't known before. Back then the kids were allowed to bounce the soccer ball off their heads, a practice which has stopped because of the risk of concussions. I remember the first time I saw it, I thought "How terrible..." but I am nothing if not supportive, so I kept my concerns about his brain to myself. (His brain is fine.) I am proud to tell you I know the difference between a perfect game and a no-hitter. I can appreciate a team having a deep bench. "They have a lot of depth," I will say, nodding my head wisely. When it comes to sports, I know things.

Depth. Our human relationships have depth. I have this theory that each person who comes into our lives does so for at least two reasons. For example, she might be your next door neighbor. He may be another dad on the school field trip. Those are the obvious reasons. But there is always a second reason the person crossed your path. It could be that you become ill, and that neighbor's father is a retired surgeon who gives you invaluable guidance and advice.  It could be that you would love to work for a certain company and that dad in your child's class knows someone doing the recruiting there. Networking. You know people who know people.

Now the people in our more intimate circle likely are there for more than just two reasons. I think it's a minimum of two. Hopefully our closest relationships are the deepest.

Last night my friend and I were talking about her career and a direction she might like to go. I mentioned the names of some of her clients and shared with her my theory. "Who knows why these people are in your life?" I asked.

My theory is just my theory. It has no science behind it. But it is rather interesting that this morning, my friend forwarded an email to me. It was from one of the clients I named last night, and it had a suggestion about something that just might prove to be a real bonus to her career. The client sent it at 10:35 last night, right around the time she and I were having this conversation. Interesting, no?

Susan

Hypocrisy

"Who you are speaks so loudly, I cannot hear what you say." Ralph Waldo Emerson

A while back I had an interview for a job as personal assistant to a motivational speaker. If I told you his name, it's likely you have heard of him. Brilliant man. I didn't meet him, because I didn't make it to that third interview where I would actually be talking with him. I was a little disappointed, because I thought it would be great to be a part of his organization and what he talks about ties into my philosophy about life really well.

The woman from his company who interviewed me over the phone told me how demanding he is, what a perfectionist he is. I thought back to the first man for whom I was a personal assistant, back in the day when we were called secretaries. I was all of 19 years old when I went to work for him, and was with him for 5 years, which is 25% of your life when you are that age. I thought if I could handle him, I could handle anyone. During the second interview, which was at their offices, she told me again how demanding he was. There were two other people who joined the second interview, and with knowing glances and nods to each other, they also told me how demanding he can be.

So I didn't get the job. Several months later, one of my classmates mentioned that she was assistant to a motivational speaker, and I asked if it was him. It wasn't, but she said her boss knows him, and he is a "terrible person." She said he treats everyone like crap. She added that the one time she had met him, she offered her hand for a handshake, and he took it then publicly humiliated her by berating her in a loud voice for how limp her handshake was and how poor her eye contact was. Then he immediately turned and walked away from her. Summarily dismissed. This young woman was in my public speaking class, and she came across in all of her speeches as mature and poised and extremely well spoken. She carries herself very well, and I will bet that her handshake is plenty firm enough and her eye contact is plenty direct enough. But not good enough for this man, I guess.

So he's not "demanding." He's mean. And what he says in his workshops, and what he writes in his books, sounds wonderful, but it's not what he lives. Hypocrisy. No one is perfect, but if you're going to say it, you need to have the guts to live it. The man I worked for back when I was her age was demanding. But he wasn't mean and he wasn't a hypocrite.

I really have a beef with people who treat those under them like they are beneath them. I really have a beef with older people who treat younger people with disrespect. To make a long story short, I am glad I didn't get that job because I have a feeling this man and I just never would have gotten along.


Susan

Earworm

Tapeworm, ringworm, hookworm, earworm. Earworm is when a song gets in your head and you can't get it out, even when you desperately wish you could. Yesterday as I pulled into the parking lot at work, this song that I adore was playing on the radio, so I generously shared my version of it with my fellow workers throughout the day. It is only right that I do the same for you. Enjoy your earworm! Toniiiiiiiiight we are young...

Susan

"We Are Young" written by Jeffrey Bhasker, Jack Antonoff, Andrew Dost and Nathaniel Ruess

David and Goliath

I have a new hero. Her name is Sara Ganim, and she is all of twenty-four years old. She is the recipient of the prestigious Sidney Award for socially conscious journalism. The Baltimore Sun has compared her to Woodward and Bernstein, the two young men who broke the Watergate story back in the 1970's. CNN has just hired her. When she was 22, Ganim worked for a tiny little newspaper in the small town of State College, Pennsylvania. If you've never heard of Ganim, maybe the name Jerry Sandusky rings a bell. Or how about the late Joe Paterno, affectionately known as Joe Pa? Ever heard of him?

With dogged determination and cleverly using the online message boards and social media around the university, Penn State grad Sara Ganim is the woman who broke the story of Jerry Sandusky, the man accused of raping innocent young boys. A judge just ruled against Sandusky's motion to dismiss charges, and the trial starts June 5.

It's a modern day David and Goliath story, where a young unknown person with just a slingshot causes the mighty to fall. Sara Ganim. Remember that name, because we haven't heard the last of this great young woman.

Susan

Everything I Need

Next Friday I will be getting a new computer, flat screen monitor and printer, all fully loaded and ready to just plug in. My old computer died long ago, and I have been using the computers at my college, at my public library and relying a lot on my iphone. Having a computer of my own in my home will change a lot of things for me. It will make my school work much easier. It will allow me to take some online classes, which will help me manage my free time and work schedule much better. It will let me spend more time working on my novel (which is coming along well, by the way.) I am very excited and very thankful.

But that's not even the best part. Let me tell you how this all came about. Since New Year's Eve of 2010, one of my daily affirmations is, "I have everything I need, when I need it." Right now I don't earn enough money to meet all my living expenses every month, and have been watching my savings balance go a little lower each month. I really do believe what I say, that I have everything I need, when I need it. And not just money. It goes beyond that.

One of my best friends was in a bit of a financial pickle. I helped her out. I wasn't expecting anything in return. She had a need, I could help, and so I did. Right around this time, I had a Spanish exam on a chapter on technology. While speaking with my professor during the oral part of the exam, she asked me if I had a computer at home. As we talked, she told me (in English) that our college has a program where students who meet a certain criteria can get a free computer. So I applied, I qualified, and from an ethical standpoint, I believe that the money I have in savings is low enough that I can take advantage of this wonderful opportunity without feeling like someone more deserving should have it. Without feeling like a moocher.

The timing of all of this is nothing short of miraculous. I am thinking that maybe this is a little extra bonus for me. A way of reassuring me that when you do the right thing, when you give, you don't have to worry about not having enough for yourself. I have everything I need, when I need it. It was a nice idea on December 31, 2010. Somewhere along the way, it became one of my core beliefs. Next Friday, I will open Pink's hatchback and load it all in, take it home and set it up. Having a computer of my own, free. Having everything I need, when I need it, priceless.

Susan

Begin Again

"For what it's worth, it's never too late, or in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit. Stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again." F. Scott Fitzgerald

I am a morning person. I tend to think that we are hard wired to be early birds or night owls. I love waking up. I love my morning coffee, first thing. It is part drug (caffeine) part delicious hot beverage and part ritual. I am at my most reflective in the morning. I think all kinds of wonderful thoughts as I sit and drink my coffee. Sometimes things dawn on me (pun intended) that I had never thought of before. Of course, getting up early means that I fade out early in the evening, too. I have one night class, and occasionally I work at my job until 10:30 in the evening. I can function, but I don't exactly blossom at those times. Naps are my friend, but even with a good nap, I am no night owl.

One of the things I like about the morning is the promise that it brings. It's a new day! The only day I have, because yesterday is gone forever and tomorrow? None of us has any promise that we will even have a tomorrow. Today. It's a clean slate, where I give myself permission to start all over again. If I messed up yesterday, I forgive myself and move on.

I have started all over again many times in life. Sometimes the older we get, the more inclined we are to see starting over as some sort of failure. It's not. It's a privilege, actually. To be allowed, or to put it more correctly, to give ourselves permission to start over. Fitzgerald puts it perfectly when he says it is never too late to be whoever you want to be.

Today. Best day ever.

Susan

"Today" written by Billy Corgan

Naked

"Eros shall have naked bodies; friendship naked personalities." C. S. Lewis

On purpose I have not written much about my marriage, which I ended almost three years ago. Some of it is that my ex-husband is a good man, a great father and someone who was instrumental in my becoming the person I am today. I feel a need to express some things without painting him in a negative light, to tell some stories that don't disrespect him, and so I struggle with walking that fine line. The failure of our seventeen year marriage was as much me as it was him. After we separated, we met once a week for dinner for almost three months and did an autopsy of our relationship. That was not conducive to good digestion, believe me. Who in their right mind conducts an autopsy while eating a meal? But that's what we did. I also went to therapy because it was crucial for me to understand all the ways in which I had failed, so that I could take responsibility and be fully accountable for my part.

I remember one time midway through my marriage, I was home sick from work and had Dr. Phil on. I am not a fan of his type of psychology, but what he said that day really affected me. He spoke of allowing our partner to come in to the most intimate place of in our hearts. I had a visceral reaction. No way! No one comes in there. That place belongs to me. I guard it zealously. The idea of it really upset me, and I remember talking with a friend a few days later about it. She looked at me strangely and said, "Why wouldn't you want your husband in there? Isn't that what intimacy is all about?" Well. Yes. Of course, that is what intimacy is all about but it sounded hideous and scary and awful to me.

It's plain to see that he and I lacked trust. I didn't trust him not to hurt me. Some of that was my own baggage and some of it was his behavior, a pattern of cruel emotional and verbal abuse. I didn't trust him. With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, I now see that there were a number of red flags that went up before I married him, which I chose to ignore. I was physically naked with him countless times. We had sex with the lights on. When the kids weren't around I would walk around naked. When we went on vacation, just the two of us alone, I would sleep naked. I loved sex and was often the initiator.  I was not at all self-conscious being naked physically around him, but I have to ask myself was there ever a time when my personality was naked with him? Was there ever a time when I had my guard completely down? Was there ever a time I beckoned him to come into my most intimate, most secret place in my heart?

No. He was never allowed in there. I was kind and loving and generous and supportive. I did many of the things and made many of the gestures that I believed a good wife should, but my soul never, not one time, stood naked before this man. Never. This has come as a startling revelation to me here lately, as I have begun to become much more vulnerable, first here in my blog, and with other people in real life. I have become pretty bold at sharing my stories, even when they paint me in a very bad light. It is very simple really, that when I trust people and when I feel safe, I can show my naked personality. When I think about a time in the future when I might meet another man, I think I can't wait to invite him into that most intimate place in my heart. I can't wait for him to see my naked soul.

Susan

Betrayal

"Not to transmit an experience is to betray it." Elie Wiesel

Yesterday was National Holocaust Remembrance Day. I was working on a post, but I didn't publish it because it really didn't say what I wanted it to say. I guess you and I are comfortable enough with each other now, I guess you know me well enough now that I am good with just putting it out there with no need to impress you. So here it is unfinished, unvarnished, unedited.

My parents' generation was the one that fought in World War II. My own father didn't. I'm not quite sure why and he is not alive anymore for me to ask him. I think I vaguely remember something about his blood pressure being too low to pass the physical. I have low blood pressure (that always pleases my doctor) so it could be the case.

That generation doesn't talk about what they experienced, what they saw, what they did. I had a client years ago who was a Pearl Harbor survivor. Seventeen years old at the time (he had lied about his age to enlist) and he told me, "I peed my pants."

I understand their stoicism. Those people who were children during the Great Depression, who came of age during World War II, well they like their secrets. Maybe some of it is wanting to give us, their children, a better life, and why burden us with the gruesome details of war? Perhaps some of it is they were men who were raised not to cry, not to show emotion, and recounting their experiences would take them to a place men aren't supposed to go.

It is a betrayal to keep those secrets. They aren't betraying me or my kids or my grandkids. They are betraying themselves. One of my professors said that the worst violation is to deny someone their reality or truth. There are those people in the world today who think the Holocaust was a hoax. I'm shaking my head here. I have experienced just a sliver of man's (human's) inhumanity to man (humans.) Just a tiny sliver compared to those like Elie Wiesel, who as a young boy lost his family, went on to live in a concentration camp and then to speak of the unspeakable. To deny him his truth betrays him all over again. To deny those brave men and women, who are becoming all too few, their reality of what life was really like in the 1930's and 1940's their truth, is the worst betrayal.

I am thankful for people like Wiesel who have told their stories, who have shared their truths, who have opened up that ugly can of worms, who have shared their pain with the world. I hope we learn from them. Never again. Never again.

Susan

Inside Out

A group of us women were talking. All of the others were young enough to be my daughters. One of them said she is often told that she appears sad or angry or even intimidating, when her face is at rest. I didn't join in on this conversation, but I thought that sullen would be an apt description. She is actually a delightful person, and when she smiles her face lights up. When she becomes animated, she really shines. She just hasn't learned yet to let some of what's on the inside to leak out.

It is a fact that we women have more pressure on us to smile or look happy. To soften that hard face, to be more approachable. While it is okay, maybe even good, for men to have a serious demeanor, when we are serious we can be labeled as sad, angry, intimidating or sullen. One of the other women said, "Yeah, what are you supposed to do, walk around smiling all the time like a clown?" It really bothered our friend to be perceived this way, and even for those of us who don't care if people think we are the "B word," part of dealing with other people is being approachable.

For women in positions of authority, being perceived as the "B word" means that people tend to resist us. If we must be the ones to get things accomplished, to motivate others to get with the program, we sometimes need to let a little of our humanity out.

When I was younger, I thought that was phony. That I had to pretend to be someone  I was not. Actually, it's more about being authentic, because behind our faces all of us have something wonderful to offer the world. Why not let the inside out?

Susan

"Cold Hard Bitch" written by Nic Cester and Cameron Muncey

Self-Awareness

I am so cheerful at work that my colleagues kid me about it. One of my co-workers told me one day, "You put a smile on people's faces. I hope you know that." What a nice thing to say. Customers for the most part love me, probably because they see that I am genuine. I really do care if they found everything they were looking for. I really do think our store rewards card is rewarding. I really do hope they have a nice day. I really do think it matters if their pillows match the swatch of fabric or the paint chip they brought in. I really do hope they come back and see us.

 I know a lot of people who work in customer service who have a real disdain or even a dislike for customers, a contempt thinly veiled by all the right words and phrases. No doubt about it, it can be challenging working with the public, but really I have a job because we have customers, so why should I hate on them? It came as a surprise to everyone (word travels fast around my workplace) last week when a customer complained to my manager that I was rude. He asked for specifics, and she had none, she just repeated, "She was (long pause as if she was searching for her brain for something) just (shorter pause) rude." He described her to me, and I vaguely remembered someone who fit her description, a customer unhappy about our store's return policy that did not work in her favor. Of course, it's possible that I can be rude, but not very likely.

There were no repercussions for me. I wasn't reprimanded for it and the manager explained he was only telling me because he was required to. My co-workers were supportive, because they all like me and knew it was probably the customer and not me who was the problem.  But after it happened, I found myself feeling edgy and not as cheerful as I usually am. I had to work at adjusting my attitude, because it was early in my shift, and what was happening was this. Someone had accused me of being rude, when I wasn't. But just hearing that caused me to be in danger of actually being rude and perhaps taking it out on all the other innocent customers I would be waiting on for the rest of the day. I was able to regroup pretty quickly, and soon I was back to my usual happy self.

It was a good reminder to me of how important it is to be self-aware, and of not allowing the little negative things to ruin an otherwise perfectly good day.

Susan

Of Heroes and Heroines

Joseph Campbell is one of my favorite authors. His first (and probably most famous) book was "The Hero with a Thousand Faces." Many Christians, especially those who are on the evangelical side of the spectrum, believe their faith is quite unique. While I respect their right to believe as they wish, there are many stories and myths that are quite similar to that of Jesus. The hero is an archetype. The hero with a thousand faces, Jesus being (in my opinion) one of them.

I recently read "The Heroine's Journey: A Woman's Quest for Wholeness" by Maureen Murdock. A student of Campbell, Murdock wrote the book because she felt Campbell's work did not adequately address the needs of women. Campbell was still alive when her book was published, and she was quite anxious for his opinion. She didn't like what he had to say, but after reading her book, I must completely agree with Campbell.  He said, "Women don't need to make the journey. In the whole mythological journey, the woman is there. All she has to do is realize she's the place that people are trying to get to."

Already there. Isn't it ironic that we run around trying to get somewhere, when we are already there? I am a feminist. I believe that men and women are equal. I believe that a woman has a right to complete power over her own body. I believe in equal pay for equal work. I believe we need a level playing field for all people, female people and male people.

But we are different. Life is enough of a struggle from time to time, so why would I or any of my sisters want to make the arduous hero's journey when we are already there?

Susan

Chemistry

"What we call our destiny is truly our character and that character can be altered. The knowledge that we are responsible for our actions and attitudes does not need to be discouraging, because it also means that we are free to change our destiny. One is not in bondage to the past, which has shaped our feelings, to race, inheritance, background. All this can be altered if we have the courage to examine how it formed us. We can alter the chemistry provided we have the courage to dissect the elements." Anaïs Nin

Two of my favorite Muppets are Dr. Bunsen Honeydew and his assistant, Beaker. Dr. Honeydew is a fearless risk taker. Beaker, while anxious and a little jumpy, nevertheless always goes along with the program. While one might think that Dr. Honeydew is the courageous one, I think they both are very brave. Perhaps Beaker has even more guts than the doctor, for he must trust both Dr. Honeydew and the process. The two of them have this amazing chemistry as they experiment with...well, with chemistry.

It is exciting to know that I can put on my lab coat, strap on some big funny goggles, and set out to alter the chemistry of me. I have been doing this a lot lately. Sometimes I am self-assured like Dr. Honeydew. Sometimes I am more tentative and nervous like Beaker. It doesn't matter how I feel. It doesn't matter if things go a little awry. I am just trying things out. A little of this. A little less of that. That's why it's called an experiment, right?

How about you? Where's your lab coat? Where are your goggles?

Susan

Muppets copyrighted by The Muppets Studio

Asking For It

While on Nantucket, my son and I read "The Hunger Games." No spoilers, so feel free to continue on. The main character in the book forces herself to do things she doesn't want to do. I smiled when I read the part of the book where she does this, because this is something I do, too. "Susie," I will tell myself inside my head, "go do this. Go do that."

For me, when I start to incorporate something new in my life, I have to kind of make myself do it. Then as time goes on, it gets easier and soon it's as natural as breathing. Then I look back at my old behavior and think, "Who was that girl?"

I've told you that I have begun to ask for what I want or need. So far, every answer has been yes. I know that in time, as I grow in this new behavior, I will be told no. That will be all right. A no will not stop me from asking the next time.

Last week I asked for what I wanted, and I got it. And I got more! I was shocked, because my greatest hope was that I would get a yes. I never expected to get more than I asked for. When it happened, I really didn't even understand what had taken place. It wasn't until the next morning, when I was sitting on our beautiful yellow sofa drinking my morning coffee, that the gravity of what had taken place hit me. I got more! I started to cry a little at that most wonderful surprise.

Susan

Unravel Me

A colorful ball of yarn wrapped tightly and carefully
At the top of the stairs, falls and falls and falls
Unravelling

A ball of me wrapped tightly and carefully
Guarding my vulnerability
Unravelling

I wake with hands clenched in fists so tight
That my fingers ache, opening
Unravelling

Yards of yarn loosely piled on the floor
Stretch them out, please stretch them out
Unravel me

Tax Day

It's Tax Day here in America. "I just hate to give the government money," I overheard a woman say to her friend last week.

Our government does not always spend our tax dollars in ways I approve of. I think our income tax system needs a major overhaul. During my lifetime, I have been all over the map economically speaking. There were years when I was married to my ex-husband, when I had a good paying job and he was doing well as a self-employed person, that we had a very competent accountant to help us find honest ways to keep our tax liability low. This year I did my taxes in early February. They are quite uncomplicated now. It took me all of about fifteen minutes, and I earned so little money that I had no federal or state liability. I paid into social security and medicare because everyone does that, but other than that I received all the money back that had been withheld. I even got a check for earned income credit. I paid no taxes. I didn't "give the government any money." This gives me no joy, believe me.

Isn't having to pay taxes a good thing, really? It means you have been prosperous enough to give something back. We complain about taxes here in America, when in reality compared to other developed countries, our tax rate is really, really low. We are all about capitalism and pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, and we take pride in telling ourselves how hard we worked to have everything we can get, and we aren't going to part with any of it willingly. I admire people who through hard work and determination, are able to amass some wealth honestly, people who never got a penny from hurting someone else. I think they should enjoy the fruits of their labor.

But really, isn't it sad that there are those of us unwilling to give back a little bit more so everyone in our country could have health care and a better shot at the American dream? Isn't it sad that when we talk about these issues, the term "socialist" is thrown around? There are many nations who are democratic in government but have social programs that make life a little easier for all citizens. Isn't it sad that America is so wealthy, while so many of her people are struggling, and some actually suffering.

I am not complaining about my own life at all. I am fortunate. I am blessed. I live in one of the most beautiful parts of our country. My home is warm and cozy and decorated beautifully. I attend a really great community college with some really wonderful professors. I feel lucky to have a job. I have a small cushion in my bank account. Pink is paid for. I have excellent health that allows me to keep up with 17 units at school and 25 hours a week at work. In a few years, I will be spending my days hanging out with those wonderful middle school kids, as I attempt to teach them something and they undoubtedly will be teaching me a lot of things. And I really, really look forward to the day that once again, I will be paying taxes.

Susan

Hope

A few times, I've been in meetings or seminars and heard the "ice breaker" question: What famous person, living or dead, would you like to have dinner with? My answer is Sir Winston Churchill. What a remarkable man, who lived at such a pivotal time in history. He also had a great sense of humor, and what is a good dinner with a great man without a little laughter?

Churchill said, "All the great things are simple, and many can be expressed in a single word: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope."

When I learned last week that George Zimmerman was in custody, it gave me hope. Finally, someone did the right thing. Tomorrow my dear roommate-friend and I will be mailing an envelope to Trayvon Martin's mother, in care of her attorney. It will be a pretty card my friend bought, something beautiful she wrote, some music her son recorded when he was a teenager, and my blog post, "I am Sabrina Fulton."

We've talked about the possibility that it may never reach her, because perhaps those who know her best will decide it's not helpful. We are okay with that, and it's because we believe that just the positive energy of doing it will reach her, one way or the other.

Hope. From us to her, with love.

Susan

I Once Was a Girl on Nantucket

Yesterday my younger son and I returned from a wonderful vacation together on the beautiful Massachusetts island the sailors called "The Gray Lady." She was named that because she is often covered with fog. Her people love their island and were friendly and eager to share her with us. There was not a drop of rain while we were there. The daffodils had come out early this year for our arrival. The birds that I loved as a child but don't see here in California, robins, were playing in the yard. The full moon over the ocean was an amazing sight.

The Wampanoug Native Americans called Nantucket "Place of Peace" and that is how we found her. Six days together, with no particular place we had to be, no distractions. What a luxury. It was wonderful to tell my son good-night and not good-bye in the evening. It was a joy to wake in the morning and have him there. He's an adult, out on his own, and he and I have not lived under the same roof for three years.

I was reading that there has recently been an upward trend of more multi-generational families living together here in America. It's attributed mostly to the economy, with people out of work and losing their homes, it makes sense for adult kids to move back in with their parents, or for a grandparent to move into the home. We in our country are very invested in the nuclear family, just mom and dad and the kids, and we seem to view anything else as less than ideal, maybe even a failure. As moms we raise our kids to be independent, and we consider it a success when we have worked ourselves out of a job. We miss them, but we tell ourselves it's the way it should be. We tell ourselves it's good for them to be independent. We tell ourselves that the occasional visits, phone calls, emails and texts are enough. We tell ourselves it's okay.

I am here to tell you. It is not. It is not okay. It is not okay that this young man on whom the sun rises and sets in my life for twenty-seven years is not my baby anymore. Not okay. I was joking with my dear roommate-friend. Only halfway joking, really. I told her we needed a giant house so that my two sons, her son, their girlfriends and wife, her two dogs and my three grandchildren could live together. I would weep with joy every day to have them there with me. How great would that be? I know. I know. It's not going to happen. It's my fantasy. But at the end of the day, I want to say good-night and not good-bye.

So it's not okay that I don't see my sons every day. But I can live with it. I am really happy with what I do have, and for the memories we made in that beautiful Place of Peace.

Susan

Best Job Ever

My younger son was updating my smart phone, and there was a security question. "What is your favorite job?" he read to me, his hands resting on the keyboard of his computer. "Oh!" I shouted with enthusiasm, and he was a little startled. "Mom! Being a mom is my favorite job." We both laughed. It's true. I have big dreams and big plans for me, before I leave this planet. But nothing I ever do could be as important or as fulfilling as being a mother.

I wanted to be a mother from the time I was around 21. I craved motherhood. I longed for children. I did not come to motherhood via the usual route. My two sons are my stepchildren. What a joy. What an honor. What a privilege to help raise these two wonderful young men to adulthood, and to continue to be a part of their lives. Being a mom was everything I had hoped for, and more.

In the sacred writings of Islam, Judaism and Christianity, you can read about a prophet and a seer named Samuel. He was a man of faith who made the lives of those around him better with his generosity and kindness. He was the last Judge of Israel, an influential but humble man who had a mother named Hannah.

Samuel almost never happened. Let me tell you the story. One of two wives at a time when polygamy was the norm, Hannah was infertile while the other wife had many sons and daughters. Nothing was understood about infertility back then. It was called being barren. Some thought God had shut up Hannah's womb. It was shameful to not have any children. Maybe a curse. Who knew?

Hannah wanted more than anything to have a child. She prayed continually to no avail. She bargained with God, promising that if she had a baby she would dedicate him to God. She would become so distraught over it that she couldn't eat. Her husband was hurt that she was hurting, and to tell the truth, his feelings were a little hurt. "I love you, Hannah," he would say. "You know you're my favorite wife. Isn't my love enough for you?" Honestly, it wasn't enough. I think some men (not all certainly, but some men) don't understand us women when it comes to children.

One day, Hannah was in the temple praying for a child. She was very emotional, yet no sound came out of her mouth, as her lips moved. The priest Eli, sure she was drunk, approached her and told her to leave. Being drunk in church. Disgusting. Then she poured out her heart to him, and Eli understood. He joined Hannah in prayer. She was soon calm and confident that she would have a baby. She even felt well enough to eat. Eli had not only heard her, but he understood her heart's desire.

Hannah went home and she conceived a child, a boy named Samuel, which means, "God has heard." Hannah was true to her promise. When Samuel was three years old, she took him to Eli and left him there to live so that he could receive his religious instruction. Hannah didn't regard Samuel as her possession. She allowed him to fulfill his destiny. She did everything she could to make sure this little boy would become everything he could be. She loved generously and unselfishly, and her son grew to be a man who blessed many people. She was happy to share Samuel with the world.

Women are rarely even called by name in ancient scripture, and very little is known about Hannah and what else she did with her life. But knowing what I know about her, I think just being known as Samuel's mother is enough for Hannah. More than enough.

Susan


.

A Tale of Three Brothers

A hearing is scheduled today in Sparta, North Carolina family court to determine the fate of Isaiah, age 4, and his two little brothers. They have been in foster care, and the foster parents have petitioned to adopt them. The state terminated their mother's parental rights. There's just one little pesky detail that stands between these little boys and the American Dream. Their biological father, fully able to care for them, provide for them and with a proven track record of nurturing at least as well as and better than many mothers.

Isaiah's father broke the law; several laws to be exact. No two ways about it. A Mexican citizen, he lived and worked illegally in the United States for several years. While he was here, he married an Anglo American citizen. They had three children, all American citizens as well. They were different from, but not unlike many struggling folks who live in one of the poorest areas of our nation, the foothills of the Appalachian mountains. Isaiah's father did not have car insurance, registration for his car or a driver's license. On probation for driving without a license, one day he was called in to the probation office and Immigration was waiting for him. He was sent back to Mexico.

Without her husband, with a history of mental health issues and no stable income, Isaiah's mother was deemed unfit by the state and the three little boys were taken away from her. She wants the boys to be with their father. Her family wants the boys to be with their father. The father desperately wants his sons with him.

The state of North Carolina has certain guidelines to determine best interests of a child. Isaiah's father fails to meet them. He has no legal street address (no one in his village does), the home he lives in has extended family and thus too many people in the house (and extended family is now a bad thing?) and his home has concrete floors (definitely not part of the American dream.) The state instructed him to stay in contact with the children by calling the foster home to speak with the older two and inquire about the baby on particular days at particular times, and he was unable to do so because he just happened to be at work at those designated times.

Here in my home state of California, we are much more accustomed to dealing with these issues and it's likely Isaiah and his brothers would have been allowed to go to Mexico to be with their father long ago. That's because California does not judge standard of living in Mexico by California guidelines. It's a cultural thing.

Isaiah's father is having his basic human rights violated in the most grievous way. Isaiah and his two little brothers are being punished in the worst possible way. I imagine the foster parents love the boys and believe they can give them a good life. I imagine the authorities in North Carolina are well intentioned people only doing their jobs, but the underlying arrogance of us as Anglos is very disturbing. If you would ask any of us if family is the most important thing in our lives, we would all probably say yes. But in the Latino culture, family is not just the most important thing. It is everything.

Susan

Come Out and Play

I grew up in a simpler, more innocent time, where kids played outside in the summertime until it got dark. We knew not to get into a car with a stranger, but we weren't afraid of the world in general. We rode our bikes to the corner store to get a popsicle. We walked to each other's houses and knocked on the door. We would ask the parents if our friend was allowed to come out and play.

Two years ago yesterday I began this blog. Happy Blogiversary to me, and to you, too, since you are reading this. Thank you for reading. I hope I never waste your time. I hope you always find a ray of light in the sometimes dark things I write about. I hope you find something resonates with you in what have become my increasingly personal stories.

I am always truthful with you. I don't tell you everything about me, partly because my stories involve other people and I will not hurt them or embarrass them. But what I do tell you, is always the truth.

You may notice that I take really large concepts, thoughts and feelings and condense them down into something very small. It is how my brain kind of naturally operates, a way I give my world some order. It's kind of like I have cut off the top of my head (not bloody at all) and let you peer inside.

As time has gone on, I have begun to open my heart to you as well. It's something that is going on in my real life, too. I am on purpose making myself become more and more vulnerable. I am opening my heart to people and to experiences. It's like I am letting the little child inside of me come out and play. One of the dearest people in the world to me told me, "It's safe for her to come out now. You will take care of her and we will, too."

So the kid who I still am comes out of the house, one of her shoes coming untied,  her hair sticking straight up as she throws on a sweater. She skips and runs and plays and sometimes falls down, but no one ever died from a skinned knee. She asks for what she needs, and the grown-up me is continually surprised at how easily she gets it and how happy it makes her. She lacks any sort of self-consciousness, and this disarms those around her. She is just who she is, and she frees up other people to be who they are, too.

What about you? Can you come out and play?

Susan