Taboos

It is amazing how consumed by guilt a life can be. The very basics of personality, the ones that emerge by two or three years old can feel so wrong that that part stays under tabs for years, maybe forever. Yet, whatever it is comes with this being, is part and parcel of who I am.

Once I am able to step away and look at myself without fear of being judged by others, interesting things begin to emerge unhindered from a psyche raised to feel shame for every little thing that makes me different from you. If validation is necessary, the very fact that taboos vary greatly from one place to another and one time to another, should be enough to expand the quorum.

I am not talking about murder, or stealing, or hurting people. I am talking about personal preferences, things like loving lasagna, or hating rice, and so much more. The only thing that makes many of them hurtful is the way the people around us react to them. The more obvious ones might be the color of my friend's skin, or her nationality, or the clothing I choose, or the body art I decorate myself with. A million more come to mind, the deeper I go the more unique they become.

Shame is a horrible punishment. Once it has a grip, it is almost impossible to shake off. Without it an awful lot of psychiatrists and counselors would be out of jobs. Yet, I hear people re-validating it all the time. Sometimes with words, but usually with actions that are so much more painful. A sneer, a snub, any of a hundred ways people use to express their disapproval can be so damaging. I cannot believe the ones who do it, believe it is right, but they do. Fear of people hurting our loved ones makes us try to bring them up to fit the norm in as many ways as possible.

Wouldn't it be nice, if the norm reached out and embraced a wider variety of us?

This Isn't Progress

I remember worrying about babies who only ate macaroni and cheese and corn. Now many of them eat pre processed fibers with artificial flavorings and fat added for taste, shaped to look like whatever food it is masquerading as. The elderly are probably one of the few groups who still remember plain old food and if they live in institutions the food they are served often makes them think their taste buds have gone ahead and died ahead of them. Imagine pureed vitamins and carbs molded to look like a pork chop.

The art of cooking is dying and since most of us cannot afford to take our families to good restaurants night after night, fast food has replaced pot roast, green beans and potatoes. We don't want to eat too much meat, or too many carbs, or too much salt and we don't really know how to jump in there and throw something together that is healthy like they do on tv. Most of us don't just happen to have little bags of fresh herbs lying around, or jars of exotic little things to "throw together." Mothers come home from work tired. Fathers come in exhausted and after everyone is driven to their gyms and sports events they opt out for the dollar menu at fast food places where even the salads are loaded with things no human being should ever eat.

I have gone to the sandwich shops that advertise only real food and it is lunch meat. I know no one wants to say that, but it is not meat cut off a roast, or left over chops and the salad greens are way too green for way too long. We have just lowered the bar. I remember meat. It is not slick and slimy. It has texture and taste other than salt and fat.
I am guilty too. It is cheaper to eat white bread and processed cheese than whole wheat and real cheese and even eggs are becoming obscenely expensive. Organic, free range eggs actually do look and taste much better than the cheaper ones, but if it comes down to eggs or no eggs, I will eat the others. Organic, free range, that means the chickens live like they used to when I was a child and Aunt Chloe threw them feed from her apron.

This isn't progress folks. People are at the stores using credit cards for consumable products just to feed their families. I notice Wic allows people to get cheese product and maybe it is fine. Certainly it is better than letting people go hungry, but I wonder how far we are from the Chinese melamine days.

My brother cares for a family of four on about $1200 and they manage to eat decently, but it requires my sister-in-law being very careful and very picky about what she buys. So what does a mother of one living on $550 feed her child? We aren't as far from the starving masses as Americans might like to think. I went to an elementary school and saw their feed a child breakfast and lunches. They were processed cereals, lunchmeat and frozen pizza and they were not very good versions of any of these.

My new year resolution is going to be directed towards trying to eat healthier. I am lucky. I have the time to cook. I don't have any extra money, but I can make it work better than I did last year.

Facade of Peace

I am coming more and more to think that the cause does not justify the action. Cause is a subjective thing. I suspect that no one truly understands the basis for another's cause. Belief systems run deep and are so multi-layered that onions seem like simple things compared to them. Every second of a life is impacted by something and how these somethings are tied together creates a way of being.

I do not ever remember not feeling justified the instant I did something. I might not have felt so later, but in that moment it felt right. Even when I punched the Rabbi's son in the nose! (I was nine or ten years old and he wouldn't leave us alone while we were trying to play house on our neighbor's porch. My world was the 1950's world of cowboy shows and I remember thinking, "what would it be like to punch him in the nose?" I was not a violent child. We were not allowed to hit at all in our family and I, as the oldest, was held to an even higher standard than my younger siblings, but I hit that boy right in the nose! I'd like to say I learned a great lesson, but I probably only learned several smaller ones. One, it was not particularly satisfying. It did not sound like the ones on television. It was a pathetic little thunk. Two, it hurt my hand probably as much as it hurt his nose. Three, he ran home crying and his father called my mother who was so humiliated by "the little heathen she had raised" that I was in a lot of trouble.) But not once, did I not feel justified in what I had done! I decided it had been a poor choice, but mostly because I had not made my point -- leave us alone.

I hit the Rabbi's son. That action is done and any repercussions that fall from his understanding of that are here. Now I know that was just a childish rift. Ira hit a lot of other people before and after that afternoon, so I don't think it had any real meaning for him, except a girl hit him and made him cry. I, on the other hand, never smacked my siblings, but I used to dream of getting back at them for my grievances in other ways. And that is what I am trying to say. The frustration, the anger, the pain, the sense of being misused, or misunderstood comes from each inside each of us. If I use that to justify my actions and prove that I am right, so do all the others who strike out.

Everything has to start somewhere, but it would be nice if some things could also end. I bomb you in retribution. Your grandma is killed so you bomb me back. My niece dies so I bomb you back. The actions are done. They add immeasurable layers to the belief systems of those they touch. Not one brings grandma or my niece back. Not one promotes peace. At the best they prolong the facade of peace that covers underground violence until it has the strength to burst forth and explode upon the earth once more. Everyone feels validated and everyone pays the terrible price of continuing to suffer.

It is the same on smaller scales too. You hurt my feelings, so I get back at you by shunning you. You step on my toes, so I throw you out of my life. Until we sit down and work out the feelings behind all of this, it festers like a pimple lying just under the skin waiting to pop out.

No one wins if nothing is resolved, or if the solution is simply conquering the physical forces that be. Not even if a peace treaty is signed, not even if democratic elections begin, not even if next year the sun shines for 365 days of perfect growing weather and the fields flourish and the flowers bloom. As long as the darkness exists it continues to grow and it will continue to revisit the earth creating bigger, deeper, darker abysses for those who are yet to be born. Even the old sci-fi idea of us obliterating ourselves will not change things if the one person left has not learned that actions count more than who is right.

Most of us was unmentionable back then...

Nostalgia: a mixed feeling of happiness, sadness, and longing when recalling a person, place, or event from the past, or the past in general
Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2004 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

I just watched "Sabrina" with Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart. Bogart reminds me of a short version of my grandfather. Hepburn has always seemed like the quintessential woman to me. I don't mind watching "Sabrina" because it has no real nostalgic ties for me. I never thought of Bogart as looking like my grandfather until tonight.

Many people I know love old music that was popular when they were in high school, or college. Music from those periods reminds me of those times and that makes me feel sad. I wasn't extraordinarily happy then and I have absolutely no longing to be back there. When I hear a slow sad saxophone I think of my mother and all the dreams she gave up. When I hear yakety yak on the sax, I also think of my mother.

Nostalgia is like that for me. It brings back the feelings of other times. The yearning, the wanting, the needing to please, the confusion of life lived on the inside looking out. I tried to analyze things, to make sense of them. One of my earliest memories is trying to figure out why my mother thought that turning my lamp sideways made it less bright. It seemed just as bright as ever to me. It just shone in a different place. I was looking through the bars of my crib as I wondered this, but I was glad to have that light on no matter what the reasoning was.

I watched movies about care free, happy go lucky people who ran around laughing over things that were not funny. I ran around doing things that were not funny with my own friends and laughed because we were supposed to. It wasn't sad, but it wasn't funny, or really fun either. It was just a wierd way to pass time and pretend we were something we were not.

We moved a lot. I always thought that maybe if we had stayed in one place I might have fit in better. Looking back I think maybe I would have at least had more time to find my place. In my world everything had a place. I mean absolutely everything. When I sat down, my feet were supposed to be crossed at the ankle, one arm resting lightly on a table, or chair arm. Walking was done head up, but not sticking forward, shoulders back, chest out, but not too far. Hair was ratted and sprayed and covered in netting so it did not dare to move in the wind, or curl in the dampness. Girdles and bras kept our unmentionable parts, and most of us was unmentionable back then, from moving. I could not date until I had a "coming out" party. I came out of one encyclopedia of rules and merged into another equally restrictive and confusing set.

Finally I actually did move far away to Kansas. In Kansas I was my own person, but eventually we moved back to Illinois and all the old nostalgic memories kept finding ways to creep back into my life at various and odd times. Echoes of my past are like that little guy in the movie who jabbers away nonstop and sounds very important -- it isn't quite possible to make out what he is saying, but he never stops saying it.

I have spent a lot of time and effort getting past nostalgia. Perhaps my only problem is that when life starts feeling repetitive and nostalgic, it is my cue to move on, find a place in the now. I love the now. It sets me free to be the me that is present and accounted for, a freer, happier me. I love old movies if the story is good, old music if the tunes grab me, old books if the plot pulls me in. The memories I keep tucked away for some future day when I might need to reference them for something I am writing, or decide it is time to be sad.

Time Warp

Technology has come so far. I remember being about twelve years old and wishing I could create the artwork in my head. I could hear the music, see the pictures, feel the ambiance. At the time I had a record player and a wondrous thing called a transistor radio that was my very own. I remember sitting at my Dad's old college desk late at night, ear plugged into music, writing under the puddle of light that came from an old lamp I had scavenged from the third floor playroom. The only problem was getting enough paper.

I painstakingly tried to create living scenarios on those sheets of paper. Pieces from my inner world that would someday be read by people who would actually be there with me in this particular time warp. But, I was twelve years old and pouring your thoughts out at that age is a very risky business, so I carefully hollowed out a space in one of the big old books my Dad had discarded and hid them away. I don't remember it getting too full and I don't remember whatever became of it, or the papers I put in there. I don't even really remember what I wrote, but I wrote a lot of it. I wish I could peek back at the me who was then.

Today it is so much easier to recreate a moment. I have a digital camera, music on my computer and a place to write that does not require paper! Still, the thoughts come from the same place and the need to communicate them into some sort of "solid" form is just as strong - the riskiness is still a bit of a concern too, only now I don't hide them away in an old musty book. I stash them on my little flash drive (and who knows, maybe someday they will be read by people stepping back into this moment in time.)

"I know I shall not pass this way again."

Perfect holiday. Peaceful. Filled with love. Contentment abounding.

I looked around this afternoon and thought about all the blessings we have. I think when times are tough people tend to do one of two things. They focus on what is going wrong, or they enjoy what they have. In today's world it is so easy for children, and sometimes adults too, to think that happiness comes from getting, or having the right things. I'll admit, when the house is condemned, or the car about to be repossessed, it is hard to be content, but it is possible.

All the cars and all the toys and all the houses in the world cannot replace one face at Christmas. As long as loved ones are near us we are blessed. Christmas is a good time to look around and remember this.

And for those who are missing a loved one this Christmas, there are still a lot of other faces around to be grateful for. Time is a river that moves inexorably forward and the words, "I know I shall not pass this way again" are as true today as the first time I heard them in a piano piece I was learning as a child.

Absolutely nothing is more of a blessing than the people in our lives.

Glancing

Tis the night before Christmas and on our dark street
Stands a jolly old man with black booted feet.
The children are reading, getting ready for bed
With visions of Santa Claus filling their heads.
Comin’ up the mountain, walking down the road
Jingle-ing, ringle-ing, past every abode.
Where he stashes his sleigh, no one has guessed.
But he waves at the children whose noses are pressed
Close to the windows with eyes popping out
‘Cause here is their hero! Just walking about!
Then laying his finger aside of his nose
And allowing one picture,
Down the mountain he goes
Not one word passed his lips as he faded from sight
But my heart is still flooded with the joys of this night.

Coming home from a holiday party, crushed into the backseat of a car with my grandson, I listened to the three of us filling in all the Santa details for Lennon and I wondered why it is so important for us that he believe?

Once we were home they went upstairs and I went inside to cram myself into the beautiful Santa suit we had borrowed for this night. There was a moment or two where I feared I might suffer the ignominious experience of being too big to fit into a Santa Claus suit! But it was a groundless fear. I did discover that Santa really needs the assistance of Mrs. Claus or some elves if he expects to get into all those pieces without a great deal of huffing and puffing, but eventually I had the boot toppers over tied black shoes, (the tying was almost a miracle,) the belt all the way around and buckled and the beard tucked up under my nose so it looked quite real (which I suppose the jolly old elf, himself, does not have to worry about .)

Packing the sleigh bells in the top of my bag, I set off up the mountain wearing about twenty pounds of costume on a rainy southern Christmas Eve and arrived on Newfound street hobbled by the age of this wondrous old spirit who had taken over my body. My bells how they jingled as I walked down the street, waving at cars who passed by and making lots of noise so the requisite children would know I was there.

I came to the window where my grandson stood, tiny little nose pressed to the rainy window, gazing intently into the night. I winked and waved, but it wasn’t until his father grabbed a video camera and shone its bright light on me that I understood. The glancing look of awe on his face, the joy and adoration in his eyes are something I will never forget.

Optimum Place

My world is a busy place, not because it is Christmas, but because I am alive and involved. Amazing concept, to be needed and loved. Adjusting to it may take some time.

I am always moving into, or away from something. Tipping this way and that, searching for the optimum place for my psyche accompanied by this biological mechanism that supports and carries me.

I think I have found it. A part of me says it is just a shame I found it so late. Another part says there is no possible way I could have found it earlier. Either way it is an intriguingly beautiful place to be.

Primal Fear

Irrational fears are the worst kind. How do I get over something I realize is ridiculous to begin with? All my life, fear of being ridiculous has made me look brave. I can do whatever I must do...

Except really get over my worst fears. What are they? I am horribly afraid of spiders, snakes and worms. Not because they might be poisonous, or might bite me, but because they move silently in oddly disturbing ways that just tweak some primal part of me. I am afraid of dogs only when I think they might bite. Otherwise I adore dogs, even sleep with one!

My brother lost a huge wolf spider in our house when we moved to the country in 1962 and I have had spider dreams ever since. Snakes? Other than being surprised by one as a Brownie Scout at day camp, I don't believe I had a truly bad experience until a few years ago when I stepped into a nest of them while mowing my yard in Nokomis, Illinois. They were everywhere that year, but not in the house. In Taylorville I had slugs all over the outside of my house and occasionally inside. They may be snails but my psyche regards them as worms and I am terrified of worms. My sister used to chase me with them and I would refuse to come home as long as she stood there with the worm in her hand. I can garden, but it requires wearing gloves. Here I have wolf spiders, big scary looking, leaping wolf spiders, but I deal with it. Not easily, but I do. The other day I found an earthworm curled up by my desk and called Bobby. He laughingly asked, "Do you require assistance removing him?" I did.

Tonight I almost lost it. I opened the door to let Chauncey out now that I have retrained him to go outside. Looking down I saw something long and sinuous on the door step. I went and got my glasses, turning back to see it moving into my living room! I cannot describe the horror I felt. I grabbed my phone and inadvertently turned it off in my panic. Waiting for that phone to reboot was horrible. The worm kept coming farther and farther into my house. I had no idea they could move so quickly. Then another one started to come in over the door jamb and by the time Barbie answered the phone a third one was coming! I was barely coherent as I asked if Bobby was home and found out he had gone in to work. I told her worms were coming into the house and I think she said, "They aren't moving too fast are they?" That didn't even register with me. It might as well have been rattle snakes dropping off a cliff into my boat. I could not have been more terrified. I asked if she was afraid of worms and she said no, but then I realized she could not leave Lennon upstairs alone and I could not cross that threshold flanked by writhing worms! I told her I would deal with it and I am sure she thinks I am a little nutsy.

I got a curtain rod and used it to push them back outside and that was horrible too. There was a small mass of them then, all tangled up together outside the storm door and one more trying to come back my way underneath the door. I called my brother in Illinois, who always manages to rescue me in some way and he said to try salt like I did for slugs. If that didn't work, I should call him back. I poured the rest of my kosher rock salt into the area between my screen door and wooden threshold. It will probably ruin the wood, but I honestly don't care. I closed the big door, turned on the lights and have kept a watchful eye on it for the past five hours. Nothing more has come through.

I put a puppy pad back in the bathroom for Chauncey because I can't open that door. I imagined all those worms trying to save themselves from drowning and when I opened the door they immediately followed the light into what they thought was salvation only to be shoved out and threatened with dehydration. They have done nothing wrong and I feel awful about this, but I can't help it. Watching them come crawling into my house like some sort of alien invasion from purgatory was more than a nightmare for me. I have tried all sorts of ways to get over it, but my blood pressure is still out of whack, I have hives and my body is itching all over. I was hungry but when I made toast a part of the bread didn't toast properly and the soft rubbery texture was so gross I was almost sick before I threw it away. I feel weepy and sick and completely annoyed with myself.

I finally opened the door a minute ago and peeked out. One poor long earthworm got caught and was killed by either the salt or the door. Bobby will have to remove his body tomorrow. I cannot do it. In fact, I don't know if I can actually open it up and step over the place where I last saw a pile of writhing worms trying to slither in here.

Totally irrational. Crazy even. But reality.

Down From Mount Olympus

Isn't it beautiful how many celebrations of light, love and longing take place at this time of year? Whether they spring from a need to call the sun back to the earth again, or the blessing of lights that burned long past their time, or the birth of the Christ child in Bethlehem, it is all about love. A love celebrated by people with their Godly beliefs and the gifts that come because of them.

It is a holy time for people all over this earth and I cannot help but believe that God wants it this way. In the midst of darkness, when people have time to peruse the way, the light of the world comes to lead us and what better way than to lead us in a language and way we can best understand. There are just too many stories, too many traditions, too many similarities across the cultures for me to believe otherwise.

We are the same people who have always lived upon this earth, craving the same basic things we have always craved. The stories change, the objects change, the names and the overt reasons change, but the foundation is always the same. I turn on television and see a story about beautiful people, people who live above and beyond what most of us can ever hope for. These people come to live among the poor, hidden as wayfaring strangers and in the end turn out to be millionaires who appear upon the doorstep of those they encountered as common people. In the end they appear transformed by expensive clothing and more expensive automobiles to bestow gifts upon those worthy people, leaving the impression that I, too, might be blessed by their magnanimity if I only I continue to do good things out of the sheer goodness of my heart. Then, after leaving their gift, these people return to their high standard of living and the world they belong to. I think it is called "Secret Millionaire" on television now. Once it might have been the story of the Stranger At The Door, or the stories of the Gods who came down from Mount Olympus to walk among us, unknown and looking for good people to reward. It is the story of hope for the hopeless and more hope for those who are already faithful.

We want to meet God and have God notice how good we are. It is a real need for us humans to be good, i.e. to be loved. It transforms simple words into actions of unbelievable beauty. It calls saints out of sinners. It turns the tide more times than any of us will ever know when someone wavers between two paths and one has affirmations of any sort on it.

Be Godly. Lean towards the positive. Look for the goodness and don't be afraid to praise it. Let go of anger and retribution and replace them with a magic string those you love can put a finger on and follow into the light.

Frou-frous

Tonight I am watching the DVD my ex-husband made me for Christmas and I am remembering the Community Player Christmases, the years we spent with our children and surrogate families performing up to ten programs a season in front of over thirty five hundred people who waited for their glimpse of our celebrations.

The first few minutes are tear jerkers. I ache for my big house that was just perfect for cast parties, for the afternoons coaching and the evenings rehearsing. Halcyon times, gently prodding our twelve year old daughter towards the tune, or helping her learn the dance steps that would be her few minutes of glory on stage, learning lines with our five year old son, or pounding out songs on the piano to help our seven year old get ready for his annual solos. Some people came just to hear that little boy with the big voice.

Among other things I was a costume assistant, sitting up in the dark, empty audience seats hemming costumes or sewing frou-frous onto dresses. I even made the Santa suit they still use. My machine was so full of velvet and fluff I didn't think I would ever get it all out. My husband became the resident Santa breaking it in those first few years. My children were blessed with semi professional actors, dancers and singers as role models and mentors during that time period. It was heady and wonderful and lots of work. And we all loved it.

We did a lot of other plays during those years too, but it was Christmas that really stands out, because then the whole family was involved. The others were usually a mix of our middle son and one or the other of us, but seldom everyone. Now that little boy the audience wanted to grab up and hug when he sang, "I'm gettin' nuttin' for Christmas" complete with crocodile tears and smug little gestures, is a public defender and I think that if he is as good in court as he was on stage, he must be a winner. And the little girl who danced around an old Dutch clock dressed as the Sugar Plum Fairy has daughters almost the same age she was then. And the baby of the family now has a baby of his own!

And what began with tears of nostalgia, ends up with me laughing so hard I am crying tears of joy.

Kiss The Boo Boos

“You’ll probably stick with erroneous ideas if they’re all you have.” –Lee G. Bolman

Life is a stream so rich in currents and under currents, light, beautiful little fish and surprises that the occasional mud should not be intolerable. Yet, for some of us it is.

Growing up I would say I am tired, or this hurts, or I am scared and my mother would say, everybody feels that way, get over it. It made us strong, or so she thought and so did we, but it is the old story of the elephant in the room. No matter how hard I try to pretend it is not there, it seems like it is.

I am beginning to suspect ignoring it just made us unaware. Elephants take up a lot of room. Try ignoring them for too long and it can be exhausting. Not to mention, that the occasional elephant really is there and really will eventually stand up and even if I don't believe in it, that disbelief does not protect me from being seriously stomped on. Rather than ignoring the elephants, I am choosing to kiss all the boo boos they cause, no matter whether I believe in them, or not.

What starts out as a little boo boo can grow into major disruptive dis eases. That grain of sand everyone said would turn into a pearl, sometimes just causes so much irritation that cancer, or aneurysms, or all sorts of other bad things emerge. If kissing the boo boo when it first showed up prevented that, wouldn't it be a small price to pay? Human nature seems to have a perverse side that says, if I suffered, you should too. What was good for me will be good for you.

Don't believe it. Find the real love, even if it is desperately trying to grow out of some old messed up love seeds and allow yourself to reach out and kiss the boo boos. Somehow it just makes the mud easier to slog through.

Diary Standards

Looks like I am heading for diary standards for a while. Not a bad idea really. If I enjoy reading about the everyday lives of women four hundred years ago, perhaps in four hundred years, someone will find this interesting. Not from the view point that it is a rare view. In today's world, more than half of us are pouring our hearts out to the world. Just from the point of view that it is my world, my life. Maybe I will become a posthumously famous person! For what? I don't know, egocentric writing perhaps?

Anyway, I finally was able to go see a North Carolina doctor yesterday, which was more difficult than you might imagine. No one seems to want to take on new patients who do not have insurance, so I got in partly because it is a family practice and the guy promised he would take me before he knew I was un-insurable. I called the office, gave her my blood pressure stats, dropped Gus' name and waited for her to call me back. She did and I had an appointment, not with Gus himself, but with Betsy his new partner and the mother of a two year old who works three and a half days a week. The mother, not the two year old.

For a little over a hundred dollars I was informed of all the tests I cannot afford and sent off for the one I can. She rearranged my medicine, prescribed something new and now I wait and see. So far the waiting is much more comfortable than it was before I went to see her, so I am content. I am proud of the way I negotiated the crazy mountain streets and finally found the lab on my own. It made me feel very worldly and sophisticated so I went to Starbucks and bought my daughter-in-law a cup of her favorite coffee in a very unsophisticated way. First I asked if any of them knew her, then I said I wanted a small, skim milk chocolate coffee with whipped topping. She shouted out, "one grande mocha latte skim with???"

I followed that up by going to the local mall for the second time in my life, parking beside the new Barnes and Noble they are building because it was comforting to see a store I recognized and meandering through the halls as if I knew right where I was going. Believe it or not, I did end up at exactly the kiosk I was looking for, made a purchase and left to go pick up my prescriptions.

Doomed to using Walmart's four dollar prescriptions or going without, I got in line and fifteen minutes later discovered that it would still be a while. In the end it took about three hours from the time my doctor called it in until the time I could pick it up, but that still beat that first time when I moved out here and it took three weeks to refill a prescription.

Today I did a load of laundry upstairs, then Bobby, Lennon and I went to the market and came back to my house where Lennon and I played until his Mommy got home. Lennon has discovered that now he is ready to play with Chauncey, Chauncey is not too interested in playing with him. Before, Chauncey had a perverse need to torment Lennon at every step. Now he lies on a pillow staring at him as if he is not even there.

I watched a horrible documentary on PBS this evening and almost thought I might quit writing thots, but I know I won't.

The First Ones To The Dish

People love a cause, a common thread to hold onto and fight for with all the love and emotion we can have. However, if I am not one of these particular people, or one of their hangers on, they only seem like a bunch of zealots to me, which of course they are.

The zealots and the equally tenacious anti-zealots, who are really only zealots with different faces, are potentially dangerous sorts. I want Lennon to live his life with a zest and love that leaves him glowing with joy, but I am reluctant to have him find his bliss too early. If his bliss is something like categorizing butterflies, or writing obscure little things like My Thots, no problem. If his bliss is saving humanity, or the whales, or people dying of AIDS, it could be a death sentence. People have died for all these things, even Gods have died for some of these things. Of course Gods are either eternal, or just myths, depending on my point of view, but either way they meet some pretty grim ends.

What is worth suffering for? What is worth dying for? I mean really dying, not fading off the screen to be resurrected on tomorrow's soap opera. This living for real business is pretty serious stuff. People who forget this can be immensely powerful figures...in history, or battles, or any movement. They get lost in the ideas and make big changes in the world. Unfortunately they may also forget which changes are actually possible, or for the real good of those they are influencing, and which ones grow up out of runaway egos, thus ending their lives in infamy.

We can be like puppies, so excited about being the first ones to the dish, that we run over our little sisters and brothers on the way there. Taming that impulse is really hard, because if we don't eat -- we die. Dying physically, or spiritually, or even creatively is a fearful thought. Scary enough that some of us, who think too early, never accomplish anything.

There are people ready to push us over if we lean a little too far in one direction, yes-men who sacrifice us to the pitfalls of our own judgment, and people just waiting to shoot us down when we allow ourselves to become vulnerable. And if we aren't sensitive to all of these people, we cannot be sensitive enough to find our own true bliss. No wonder it is so hard. It sounds like another Bartholomew story. This one would be "Soft As Sunshine, Hard As Rocks."

Shock Value

I wonder if I am finally aging into that place I once thought my grandmother was in, that place everyone swears he or she will not enter when they grow older, where the world starts to look cold and insane.

Rudeness and insensitivity masquerade as a need to be truthful. Television shows, whose genre I talked about in jest at twenty, are actual programs now. In the name of entertainment people are displaying what is supposed to be their real lives, lives built around the theme, anything goes to get what I want because I have lots of money and am willing to do anything to get your attention. Dark clowns who make me cringe. We have reinstated the Roman arena with our own low grade entertainment disguised as people ready to preserve the brutal maintenance of social order at any cost in exchange for the supposedly understandable prize, not of a better life, but of a bundle of money, as if they are the same thing. And it is all reinforced by the solidarity of those who either benefit from this, or who are so angry it is an outlet for their own frustrations, or who are so far from being able to survive with dignity and success in today's world that they need to believe this is the way it really is.

Brutal people, conniving people and corrupt people, as well as exhibitionists, have been around a very long time, but when their form of reality becomes the norm, we become one step closer to the Bacchanalian lifestyle that led to the decay of Rome. Part of civilization, is at the very least, an outward manifestation, that we care. When it is no longer necessary to even pretend to believe in decency and ethical behavior, the danger arises that they might be lost.

What used to be an attempt to draw attention to our most beautiful attributes is becoming a contest of shock value.

People seem to feel the need to divide into groups, each one turning up its nose at the others until it becomes a contest of the absurd. Racism and prejudice, no longer publicly acceptable, become a challenge to find ways around. We have trials like OJ Simpson's murder trial, cock fights, dog fights, strong man and woman fights in dark alleys where the powers that be can turn their heads. A strong man contender stabs his wife's tiny dog to death while she is fighting in Iraq and she returns to his arms. Children are molested and abused in the name of love. Torture in the name of justice and morality becomes more and more widely acceptable.

If this is civilization, I am so far from being part of it that I feel like a one eyed eagle with only one wing. I sit up here in my aerie, looking down on a world, I do not understand, chastising myself for my own intolerance. The part of me that wants to understand, battles with the part that says there is no understanding, it is simply hedonism gone wildly out of control.

It is the dark side battling with the light, the eternal battle that seems to define mankind, what separates us from the animals. Or so it seems to me.

Secrets

It is all about secrets. We all have them deep in our hearts, thinking they are hidden from the world by not speaking the words, by not drawing the pictures, but their energy cannot be contained.

It seeps out, surrounding us like a force field, protecting us even when we feel no need for protection, hiding our face from the fears that hover over us, eating holes in our hearts as real as those made by knives. Cutting us open little by little until, in the end, we succumb before our time. Perhaps it would be better to simply open up and let them out.

Reasons for secrets are often fairy tales, children's stories based on children's understanding. We are more innocent than we think, more beautiful than we can imagine and the suffering of exposing our secrets can be the final push towards Samadhi. It can be the moment when the Silence is so filled with light that we are blinded.

And it may not. It may only be the lessening of the pressure to be what we are not, the freedom to be more of what we are.

Whatever happens, I believe the secrets in our lives drive us in unnatural ways down highways paved with hazards. It is just very frightening to give up the known for the unknown, to admit we are not who we pretend to be. If only we can understand that our secrets already lay in the hands of a power greater than we can imagine, that it is only in this world they are invisible and we need to take them out, hold them gently in our arms, wrapped up in blankets if necessary, and gaze into their eyes. Once we get to know them, they are not as different from us as we might like to believe.

The Base Never Changes

I can fool the world into believing so many things, without even thinking that I am doing it. I can fool myself too, because I don't always want to know the truth.

Fooling is easy because truth is a shape shifter. The base never changes, but everything above that depends upon something and everyone looking sees something and every one listening hears something....

And all of it is filtered through the heart.

Sometimes Procrastination Pays Off

My life is so rich.

So many parts of my life have been beautiful, but over whelming. Now I seem to be in a place where it balances out. Working, playing, being, all have their own place and when I am not exhausted, are so much easier to really commit to in the moment.

Today I played with Lennon while his parents were working. Afterwards I came downstairs and did some yard work! Yes, I am doing yard work in December! The weather is perfect, and there are no bugs, and the plants are all still half asleep, so pruning was a snap. Sometimes procrastination pays off.

Tonight my hands were so cold I was sitting on them and fell asleep on the couch for nearly three hours. You cannot imagine how stiff I was when I woke up, but Chauncey was begging for a tummy rub. As soon as I regained feeling in all my parts that is what he got.

This really is the good life.

The Opera Singer's Voice

How good do I feel? Given a moment to moment change, that is a difficult question to answer, but I am learning more about myself everyday and that says a lot, because there are a lot of days in my life. I have a list of priorities that are a pretty good indicator for someone who needs to be told how she is.

High on my list is always my writing, which is both a cathartic and creative outlet. My writing really tells you where I am, although My Thots is only a small part of what I write.

Next is what I am reading. I love to read, but I consider it an extremely personal thing. I read everything from the current best sellers to children's books. Sometimes I only read my own writing. Other times I only read another particular person's writing, so what I am reading is probably a good indicator of where I am at in any given moment.

Third on the list is probably whatever it is I am vocalizing, which includes talking, singing, and playing a musical instrument. This usually comes at the highest of the highs and some of the lower lows. When I am feeling really good and really free I am likely to break out in my "opera singer's" voice. When I am so down I am barely functioning, the piano or Native American Flute become my voice, which is not to say I only play them when I am depressed. I don't. I play all the time. In fact, I sing most of the time, it is just a fun way to communicate with Lennon. I have a very good ear. Unfortunately, I have only a so-so voice.

By the time I get down to how I look, or feel about how I look, I have to be in a pretty good place. My experience with how I look has been shattered so many times by so many people that I tend to keep it safe behind a large wall of indifference. If I find myself starting to care about improving some part of me I have finally realized it is the harbinger of feeling very good. Looking good has become a game for me. It is like a little girl playing dress up. I don't play unless I am happy.

So, when I find myself customizing things on the computer, or painting, or sewing, or whitening my teeth, or trying different skin products my niece gave me a year or two ago -- I know I am in a pretty great place.

Contemplating Carrots

Carrots come from the under world, by the time they see the light, they have been ripped from their beds and the only security they have ever known. Carrot consciousness is beyond my ken, but I wonder how they experience, or if they experience. Are they dead after being separated from their stalk, or roots, or bed of earth? Do I eat dead carrots?

Does it matter?

It might. Cooked carrots never make my mouth itch......

You Will Not Be Sorry

Know that you are in the right place. Know that whatever is happening to you and around you and because of you has a reason. I believe this reason is only that you should notice. Notice and become who you are. Notice and become even more of who you are. You cannot be anyone else, but you can be more and you can be less. No one else will ever know, but you will know and that is enough.

The walk along the way is a long one. To skim along its surface, race towards its end is okay. But I tell you that there is no end to race to, and the surface is only the reflection of your face in the light. Follow that face into its depths, allow yourself to fall into the beautiful you that is buried in the heart of all being and you will not be sorry.

Never believe there is not enough time for the important things in life. Take the time, use it to build yourself a house so beautiful and so strong that it will sustain you where ever you are. You will notice that Importance takes on new faces as time goes by. Embrace them all one by one and get to know yourself. You will not be sorry.

Some day you will look up and see a breath takingly exquisite moment. Stunned by its glancing intensity, time will stop, and life will bloom like the lotus as its head first breaks the surface of the waters.

Do not be afraid. It is only you.

The Aging Process Is Reciprocal

I was just going to bed and my feet kept sticking to the floor of my kitchen and bath. I don't know if it was the slipper or the floor, but it was driving me crazy, so I stopped and mopped the floor. Now I am awake and annoyed and remembering someone saying she just spent the day scrubbing the dirt out of the cracks in her kitchen floor on her hands and knees, (using an eyebrow brush if I recall correctly and working until the blood ran from her eyes and she could no longer rise from the job to re-enter the world of the sane.)

She may not have put it quite that way, but that is the gist of it.

If you are one of those people who are pathologically challenged to kill yourself working I have some advice for you. Don't do it. At least if you are going to do it don't be surprised if no one else notices without being told. I remember the same woman used to have a sign up in her living room that said, "Dust is a protective covering." We were soul sisters back then. I used to rely on her to wash my windows, haul the rocks out of my backyard, change the sheets and weed the garden. I still do, but it takes her ten hours to get here, so cleaning day is less frequent than it used to be.

Of course if you just enjoy the pain of masochistic working, go for it. I would never deny anyone the right to enjoy a moment to its fullest. I just can't quite envision a book called The Joy of Floor Scrubbing. Although I would be glad to try and ghost write it for her (while she bathes my dog and brushes him out.)

One of the paradoxes of growing older is fading eyesight. It makes some things hard to see and others a delight to look at. I noticed the aging process is also reciprocal. As my eyes grow dimmer, my skin looks better and better. I even have a new diet that goes, be careful what you eat, you may have to wash that dish yourself!

But back to this woman, who also had a sign in front of her toilet way back when I used to escape into the bathroom to read and let her watch our children. It said, "If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie." We all change. I want you to know I mopped my floor at one am, with a magnetic mop head and spray wash I squirted from the handle. If it is still sticky in the morning, would you like to come for a visit?

The Important Questions

The President Elect of the United States Of America!

Given the chance to ask him questions what would I ask?

Have you quit smoking? What did you eat for breakfast? What level do you read at?

The important questions, like the ones someone must have asked Bush in order to elect him four years ago.

A real super hero can deal with a few tics

Am I unique? I seriously doubt it and yet the heroes I find to be most compelling are not the ones who leap tall buildings in a single bound, or do good deeds after being mutilated by modern science. I wouldn't rule anyone out just because they do these things, it just isn't enough to make my taste buds tingle.

I need a hero I can relate to and the closest I have ever come to dealing with transforming monsters was in a dream I had, that my mother, who smoked cigarettes and had a Zippo lighter, was coming up the steps of my elementary school to get me and all she had to do was flick her fingers to create fire. I didn't deal well with that then and I can't really relate to it now.

My heroes are the quiet people, those who live in the world, but apart from it; those who deal with darkness by placing themselves between it and me; or between it and some other everyday person. The drama comes in the discovery of the darkness and the exploration of its relationship to me. The sexual tension is in the strength of the hero who, while suffering the same desires I do, avoids the pitfalls I might succumb to.

It is the desire to save the hero from saving me, the adoration that comes naturally when someone is willing to sacrifice themselves before they sacrifice what they believe, that makes me fall in love. And it is this love that holds them up to the light so I can see how beautiful and strong they are through and through.

If they happen to also do some quirky little thing like spin webs, or morph into motorcycles, it's okay with me. A real super hero can deal with a few tics here and there.

Gabrielle

Gabrielle is no longer with us. I have never been able to house break her. Not only did she not "get it" she also did things dogs never ever do. She would go to the bathroom on my bed! On my couch! In her bed! I tried everything I could think of. She was already on the very best food, she was up to date on her shots. She was clean and loved, but eventually was spending most of her time in a little play pen I made out of four pieces of plastic gate. Unless she was outside I could not allow her to be loose in the house.

Every morning and all day long her bedding would be soaked through and little piles of puppy poo would be chewed up all through it. I did leave her a place to go in there, but she never seemed to feel the need to use it. I called the vet and we talked. Eventually she suggested they do some tests. It was way more than I can even begin to afford right now and there is no guarantee anything is physically wrong except that she had begun peeing on me when we sat together on the couch.

It is possible that I was duped. Gabrielle did not come from champion parents and an outstanding show breeder like Chauncey did, but I never had a dog that did before and they were mostly fine, but maybe Gabrielle was over bred and maybe all those great pictures of kids and horses were a sham. I don't think so, though. I feel badly about it, but I do not have the money to run tests, so I did the next best thing.

I asked my groomer if she would be interested in taking her, seeing what she could do with her. I was up front with her. She would have started grooming Gabby this month. She is four and half months old. Once she has figured out what is wrong she may keep her, or she may sell her. She has a pet store. They don't sell pets, but they do have connections for people looking for a pet there.

So now it is once more just Chauncey and me. Maybe we'll have to try to do a little more walking and maybe I'll just use my laser light more. Chauncey loves chasing it. I use it to get him over to the part of the yard where he goes to the bathroom faster when it is cold outside. He acts more like a cat when he is chasing that little dot of red light, or maybe just a silly shih-tzu.

But this thot is about Gabrielle. She has moved on.

Once Upon A Time

I do not want your permission to do anything in my life. It is my life and all the decisions are mine to make. Right or wrong, I am an intelligent adult who can stand on her own two feet and give as good as she gets. Anything less than this would make me ashamed of myself.

Having said all of the above, I prefer not to do those things that cause confrontations. One more reason I don't want anyone I need to ask permission of when I do, or don't do, something. Having to justify an action is stressful. Worrying about having to justify it is even more stressful for me. I am a worry wart from way back. All this not worrying I force myself to do is a learned response to the truth, but when I am asleep things can creep back in and stir up trouble.

There is a part of me that grew up in the years when young girls believed that if only their bodies and faces were pretty enough and the world was mean enough to them, a knight in shining armor would gallop in and carry them away to nurture them for the rest of their lives. I haven't believed that in a very long time and if I did, I would wonder what kind of man wanted a woman he had to rescue and then take care of forever and ever, because she was too weak to take care of herself. I suspect it would be the kind of man who needed to rescue young pretty girls to feel good about himself and that would raise another whole story out of the ashes.

Anyway, the part of me that ever believed in such fairy tales was shed a long time ago, but it does hold an allure. How nice it would be, sometimes, to be able to curl up into a lap bigger than me, knowing I didn't have a care in the world, that everything was all taken care of. How nice it is when people who know me say good things about me. I want to hear those things. I want to believe them. They are as close as I get to that lap we grown-ups know does not actually exist, at least not on this plain.

And so life goes on, paradox after paradox and the wanting and believing weave themselves in and out of the reality until sometimes it is hard to tell the difference between them. That is what I call dreams and sometimes they are so sweet.

90% Emotion

I am a very intense person, a very emotional person. I have heard people are 90% water. I am more inclined to believe I am 90% emotion. It is hard to prove since emotions tend to feel heavier to the one they belong to and are difficult to measure.

For anyone who doesn't know what this is like, imagine being skinned alive and held up to the vagaries of the weather. The sun makes your blood boil, the wind cuts through you like a knife and rain rolls off of you in sheets of such intensity it can be either ecstasy or torture. Just a bit too intense for most people to deal with on an hour to hour basis.

Short bursts of me are all anyone really wants and I deal with rejection very poorly. Like the witch in the Wizard of Oz, pour a cup of rejection on me and I begin to shrink. Don't laugh. I couldn't believe a bucket of water got rid of that witch, but it did.

I am now in my cocoon stage, spun out of bursts of love that surge my way, keeping me protected and safe from the emotionally laden world beyond.

It might not work for someone else, but for me it is a Godsend.

Trophy Children

Lennon is three today and although you will never convince me that he is anything less than a beautiful and gifted genius ..... I am only the gramma. It is possible that he is only a well fed member of our species. We beings have so much potential and yet we are often so blind we do not see what is right before us.

Much of our preferred life style is founded on food I will not feed my dog because it isn't good for him, medicine that is more about avoiding law suits than treating the whole person, and a system of education established to teach the bare basics to large groups of children. An intense desire to have trophy children has even turned big chunks of that education into mere mirages. Our precious little beings are malnourished in the most heinous and God forsaken way it is possible to imagine and in some cases the more money there is the worse the abuse becomes.

Lennon, like all little beings, came into the world primed and ready to learn. He hasn't been put on a shelf and fed panacea tic nothingness while waiting to go into the system. Instead he has just been loved and fed what his little body and mind are starving for. When he is hungry for green beans, we offer him green beans in as many varieties as we can think of. When he is hungry for naming things, or counting them, or communicating them, we do the same thing. Although our money and education might help in choosing what he is offered, it is the attention to him that matters most.

Presented with the gift of a child, the celebration that follows should be a large and varied feast, much much more than the pyramid set forth by a government's minimum standards. I had a cookbook in the late seventies, early eighties that said it all, Feed Me I'm Yours.

I Can Spell Lennon

Lennon will be three this week. His real birthday is Wednesday, but he is having a party on Saturday. Sounds like quite an ordeal with about thirty people total! I've never been here for one of his parties, but I understand that there are two parents for every child or two, so that is how it mounts up.

I found a spider man sit and spin that I am wrapping in an Incredible Hulk bath poncho and tying with orange ribbon for the party. He loves super heroes and orange and green. He also loves to spin around and become Super Lennon. Of course I need to do this also when I become Super Gramma! (Believe me I am a pretty amazing Super Gramma!) I even found an orange fish to write the birthday wish on and hang from the poncho.

I had more fun with his regular birthday. I chose one thing he will outgrow, one he will grow into and one he can grow himself. I put it all into a bag and cut out his name in one long card on orange paper. He can spell his name with the Mickey Mouse Song. Len--non--I can spell Lennon. Ang--ell--I can spell Angell. Lennon Angell...... He can do his address to the Superman Song and it is very dramatic! 164-New- found- street. Canton! North Carolina!! USA..... When my daughter was young I discovered if you can sing, you can learn anything at any age!

I found a shirt and pants set that say, Conserve water, drink chocolate milk. He will actually think that is as funny as I do. He calls his chocolate milk coffee and likes his with a touch of whip cream and a bit of caramel drizzled over it. This is what he will out grow.
I bought him an amaryllis to grow himself. He will love watering it and watching it grow and they grow pretty fast and are pretty spectacular.

And I bought him a book he will grow into over time. Right now he will appreciate it, but later on, I expect it will be even more interesting for him. It is a book on Barack Obama by Jonah Winter, with beautiful pictures and a simple straightforward biography. He, like his Gramma, loved Barack Obama from the first time he saw him and then when Obama had his picture taken in Metropolis, Illinois with the Superman statue, he was totally sold. (Hey, I know adults who have voted for people based on less knowledge than this.)

Lennon went with his Daddy and I to vote this year and he pushed the buttons that chose Obama. He was so proud of himself that he had to tell everyone, even before we left the polls. "I voted for Barack Obama! Yes We Can!" His little fist rising into the air with all the enthusiasm of one of Hitler's little boy scouts, but this time on the side of goodness and light. He will love the Obama book. It talks about what makes a man strong.

Children give us a chance to be the best we can be, to make every moment count because they do. Everything is important to a two year old and I am looking forward to the important things in a three year old's world next.

Sane and Plain

I love my little house looking out over the mountain. I love having my own little fenced in yard. I love being in a small town that still has a decent grocery store. I love being near a larger town where most things are available.

I love having my family upstairs, knowing the footsteps I hear are those of people I love. I can tell by the sound who it is. Being able to watch my grandson grow up with so much love and attention is a blessing beyond comprehension. I do not worry about him at all. Both his mother and his father are totally devoted to him in every way.

I love the fact that we can be our own people and still be conscious of each others needs. It is a sweet civilized way to live. Our occasional lack of communication is simply that. One that can be easily rectified by talking to the correct person next time and not depending on any go betweens.

It is a sane, plain, honest way to live. I love living here.

Don't throw yourself on the altar

I thought I was becoming a sweet little old lady, filled only with smiles, kind words, and a quiet little life, but that is not to be. I discover that I am filled with the same old thoughts, needs and ways that I have had most of my life. Might be that coming off the celexa cracked the shell of the little old lady and, like a big black bug with black and dirty feet, I am coming to get me. Not to eat me up, but to rescue me from dying while I am still alive. If anything all these parts of me are honed to a sharper edge.

I am noticing that I can smell lies, even little white ones, at five hundred paces and they still infuriate me. Why? I am not sure. Perhaps it is because someone considers me stupid enough to believe such drivel, or perhaps it is because I hate seeing someone lie to themselves when the truth would be so liberating. Painful maybe, but not as unbearably painful as one might think. We human beings are resilient creatures. As a whole we have survived much worse things than most of us ever have to deal with.

Forced kindness masquerading as love is only passive aggressive meanness. It is says, " I am letting you suffer the consequences of a situation I have set you up for, not the consequences of your own actions, but I am going to try and make you (and me) and everyone else believe it is the consequences of YOUR actions, not mine. I am a good person." I grew up with some of this kind of "love" and I chose to try not to pass it on. Most of the people I know who live this way do not even see who they are, but that does not negate the injury it causes to those who trust and love them. It is the ultimate lie, embraced by millions as self sacrificing love.

And that brings me to something I really abhor, self sacrificing love. Don't throw yourself on the alter of misguided intentions for me, or anyone else's sake. It only brings out the blood lust in us. I'm not talking about the real kind of self sacrifice which says, I will do what I believe is truly best for you no matter how hard it is, but the kind that says, "look at poor me, see what I have suffered for you?" Boy does that lay a guilt trip on the already suffering love object! The behavior born of this is frustration and anger and disrespect, and confusion too.

One of the things I love about living here is the lack of most of this. It allows me to be me. I am a very loving person, a very caring person, but I am also a very intelligent person. I cannot lie to myself and believe it and I have learned to live with that. It really works for me and I wish I could show others how it could work for them. Our children, our family, our real friends, do not want us to be paragons of purity. They only want to live in rational reality where the rules don't change from day to day and the love is real.

Too poor to stand in line

Just when I am trying to stay in a loving, peaceful place Christmas comes along. In the name of (Christ?) 2000 people trampled a Walmart worker to death to buy what? What exactly is worth killing another human being for? Toys? Sheets? Groceries? In my opinion they should have closed the doors behind them and hauled them all in for manslaughter at the very least. Not a very kind thought? Well, obviously these are not very kind people.

These are not starving Haitians whose five year old children weigh less than thirty pounds because they are sharing a handful of corn kernels between a grandmother and her grandchildren. These are people so psyched up by the media and their own ideas of what the holidays are about that they are willing to do whatever it takes to get what they deem necessary.

I, along with many others, get misty eyed over stories like The Gift of the Magi. I loved it when my children's elementary teachers refused to have a gift exchange. Instead they collected money and bought gifts to put under the tree at the mall for underprivileged children. Even this brings to mind how many so called underprivileged children's parents are the first in line for the free toys and bikes and games given out by churches and charities, and add them to the haul they get from everyone else. Then the real underprivileged children, whose parents cannot afford to get off work to stand in line still go without. I have a friend who remembers lining up in a holey sweater on Christmas Eve to get a free used coat from the Jesus Saves Mission when she was eight years old. That leaves me misty eyed.

This is not something new to me. I remember one year when my own children were still very young and willingly gave up some of their gifts so another family could have a Christmas. Other years we gave our kindly used toys away just before Christmas to make room for the new. Not exactly a heart wrenching thing to do when there was so much to go around. I doubt if my children even remember it. We were fortunate. We never lacked for anything, but we lived in a neighborhood where not having everything was unusual. Once one of my preteen children even asked why we were so poor one summer!

It is time to teach our children the value of true love while they are still ours to teach. No need to be mean or miserly, but it is just plain wrong to be greedy. Where the lines between these things are drawn is a personal decision, but I hope it falls far away from killing people for Christmas bargains.

Those spaces between the words

I look at this white page before me and realize how much I look forward to it. For me the blank page is like the second before taking my first tiny bite of creme brulee, or the time just before my favorite author's newest book comes out. It is filled with anticipation, excitement, and joy. It is the harbinger of immense possibilities lying before me just waiting for first word to fall, the start of a new life born out of my mind to step into the world and take its first breath. Before I could write I still had the stories, but now they are in black and white they seem to take on more substance.

I cannot quote myself accurately and that used to bother me until I went to a reading given by a poet I admire and it was exactly that -- a reading! Watching her I first understood why I cannot memorize my own work. The words are too important. Not to you most likely, but to me. I sometimes spend an incredible amount of time picking just the right word, the difference being similar to that of adding a quarter teaspoon of salt, or a eighth of a teaspoon of chili powder. One is just salty soup, tasty maybe, but not what I wanted. The other is chili, exactly what I wanted.

Likewise I realize that it is what I do not say that is sometimes the most important thing of all. Those spaces between the words, those unseen comments floating above and beyond the sentences are the flesh lying upon the bones of my writing. If they aren't there I am not really touching my reader's consciousness. It is the difference between Dick and Jane's mindless escapades and finally getting to read Hot as Summer Cold as Winter in third grade. I still remember the day I read it.

It is these spaces that can cause me so much anguish in my life, because I read them in other people's writing too and the problem with reading between the lines can be misinterpretation due to translation difficulties. Think of smiles. Now think of that Cheshire cat who still haunts my nightmares, and Bozo the clown and Stephen King's clowns and throw in a baby's genuine whole body smile. There's a whole lot of interpretation going on in that word smile.

Now I try to let all my feelings simmer a while before I act upon them, allow the stew to develop its own full bodied flavor so to speak. (Maybe because it is the day after Thanksgiving and I am still stuffed that all my analogies seem to be coming back to food?) I often discover that either the writer did not mean what I inferred, or he changed his mind before he wrote again. Either way I am happy to have waited.

As you can see I have managed to create a whole life around writing (and reading). I cannot imagine it any other way.

Greed is in the corner

Happy Thanksgiving, aah...at last, a holiday based less on buying something and more on a concept we need to pay more attention to. (Which may be why it is going almost unnoticed in much of this year's going ons.)

Yes, most people will buy a turkey, but it is not an absolute necessity. I know people who will not eat turkey on this Thanksgiving day. I know people who will choose to eat at nursing homes and hospitals and soup kitchens. And I know people who will have big traditional Thanksgiving dinners filled with the stress of super cleaning because Aunt Mabel is coming and extra cooking so everyone will have the dish they love most and so many people in one home that a conflict negotiator might explode trying to keep the peace, but in the end, the idea is right. We have much to be thankful for and they are all things that cannot be bought.

We are here. If only for this one reason, thanksgiving is definitely required. It doesn't matter who we are and where here is, because we is all of us and here is here!

Greed has been duly acknowledged and sent to the corner to mull over her offenses to society and the world. Who knows what will come of it, but at least the way has been opened for our country. At these crossroads other countries have sometimes taken the other way and all hope of democracy and justice have been set aside. The United States Of America still stands tall with her head high and her chest out, saying, these are all my people and not one among them is worth more than the other because of color, or ethnicity, or religion, and definitely not because of some crass thing like gold. You may not believe this and you have the right to that belief, but you cannot deny justice to another without denying yourself.

Ideals are not reality, but we have passed the first test. We are one step closer to that beautiful story of the Pilgrims sitting down to a table laden with the fruit of their toiling and sharing it with all those around them.

Last year I was afraid we had lost sight of who and what we are. This year I give thanks with all my heart for the joy of knowing opportunities still abound.

Never Out Of Style

Long, long ago, a woman gave her grand daughter a set of small porcelain dishes, a tea set. Tiny dinnerware so fine and elegant the light would shine through its edges like a milky stain glass window. It was more than that, though. It was a dinner set with tiny covered casserole, gravy boat and serving platter. There were small knives, forks and spoons. It was a taste of old Charleston elegance, a sip of time past when little girls wore long curls, long dresses and played on real stoves made small. It was a reminder of the grandmother's childhood when that first embroidered handkerchief appeared before she was five. A time when children were miniature adults and treasured beings whose time on earth was filled with being useful, or cut mercilessly short by a lack of antibiotics and simple necessities. It was a gift of love meant to be used and savored for a very long time.

The little girl's mother did not understand. She took the beautiful gift, placed it high on a shelf and never allowed the little girl to play with it. Once in a while the mother took it down, dusted off the top of the box, pulled the straw gently away from the tiny plates and allowed her to look at it, but if the child reached out even one chubby little finger she was quickly admonished not to touch and the box was put back on the shelf for another day. What that day was supposed to be no one will ever know because eventually the little girl grew up and forgot about her tiny box of beautiful cups and saucers.

One day the little girl fell in love and married. The grandmother made her a beautiful red table cloth and a set of napkins to match as a wedding gift, not something most people received in the sixties when life was all ironstone and avocado and harvest gold. It was a small linen cloth, made to fit a bridge table, or tea table and given to a generation even less likely to play bridge than the one before it. Still, it was a lovely gift, made with a craftsmanship and style forgotten by most women who were more likely to sew gingham mini dresses and wear love beads than drink tea from porcelain cups. The girl used it when she made chocolate fondues and then put it away and forgot it.

Many years later, when that little girl had children of her own, she remembered her tea set and the small red table cloth that was tucked away on another shelf way back high in the closet. She remembered what her mother had said and did not give the tiny dishes to her own daughter to play with, but she did get them out a few times and served tea on the small red table cloth to very appreciative little girls. And boys too, because her sons also invited friends over for luncheon and ate cookie cutter peanut butter and jelly sandwiches off of the plates while drinking apple juice from the little cups. Time passed and her little girl grew up and had little girls of her own.

She didn't see these little girls very often, but one day, while they were still small she got out the tea set and the little red table cloth and they ate their lunch on the little table at the end of her kitchen counter and it was such a sweet moment she never forgot it. It made her think of her own grandmother, a. little girl who grew up far away in the Carolinas and learned to sew when today's children were still watching Sesame Street. These little girls grew up too.

Now the little girl who received a beautiful porcelain set of dishes from her grandmother when she was very small, is a grandmother one more time. Today was her birthday, so she got out her lovely little dishes and wiped them clean of the dust that has accumulated while they waited for the newest little diner. He is two years old, about the same age the little girl's grandmother was when she drank her first Cambridge tea. The little red table cloth covered his small table and it was set for a party. There was a tiny cake shaped like a dog, ice cream carved into tiny white balls, small hot dogs stuffed with cheese and baked in biscuits and chocolate poured from a porcelain tea pot. He used the small red napkin by the side of his plate, sang happy birthday in his high baby voice and it was a perfect day.

It was an old fashioned birthday, once more in the Carolinas. A birthday filled not with expensive store bought gifts no one can afford, but the gifts of love and good cheer and good manners surrounding the singing of songs and instruments played by those attending. It was a birthday filled with sweet smiles and sweet hugs and sweet food just like it might have been when his great great grandmother was growing up in the long aftermath of the civil war. It was a gift passed down through the ages from another grandmother who loved a little girl as much as I love Brooke and Tiffany and Lennon.

Love's legacy never goes out of style.

"Friendship is something that raised us almost above humanity...It is the sort of love one can imagine between angels." --C.S. Lewis

Today is my birthday. It is not a milestone, except that I made it this far, but I am celebrating by re-connecting. My life has been very segmented. I have moved often and I have changed directions several times.

Some of my friends, I was going to write past friends, but I don't want to think that way anymore, would be surprised by the others. Others are not easily surprised by anything. In the past I have tended to yield whatever it is I am changing from to the past where we slowly drift apart. I don't want to do that anymore.

I figure if I can reconnect with someone I met in kindergarten and he remembers me then everything in between here and there cannot be too scary. You see that is what I think has kept me from doing this sooner. Fear. Fear of rejection, or scorn, or not being good enough. Maybe that is the milestone for this year. I am more accepting of who I am and less afraid it will not be enough.

I have room for lots of friends and if I am still interested, perhaps they are too. We, all of us, have done a lot of living and growing during the years and it is fun to share these things. Tonight I heard from a friend who is now living in Fiji and about to be married!

The idea of friendship has been complicated for me in the past. I have heard so many people I trust and respect voice their ideas on it. I have heard that friends can be lovers, but lovers can never be friends again. I have heard lots of things I don't believe anymore. I received the above quote in an email from a dear friend today and it made me really stop and think. First of all I really like C.S. Lewis' writing and secondly, he experienced a love that was romantic and sweet and terribly tragic. He knew what he was talking about.

So now my gift to me is to search out these ultimate experiences in my own life, to be as connected and loving as I want to be and am allowed to be.

"What goes up, must come down."

Things that are top heavy, topple over. The heaviest end lands first. Hot air rises to the top where it is easier to see through. If something is up in the air, eventually it will come back down. Don't be surprised if it hits you in the head. You have more time to move your feet. If something is down, don't think it will eventually rise up - unless you set it on fire. Heat rises.

Cold slows things down, makes them slower. Ice is very slow, so are rocks and trees. Some people are cold too. Mirages make things look warm.

Regard mirages and cold things and heavy things with great care.

Now Never Ends

It is true. Everything they say; it is true. What goes around comes around. What comes around goes around. You reap what you sow. Today is tomorrow yesterday, all those old sayings are true, but they are not THE Truth, the sort with a capital T. They are just the beginning of the story. They are the teasers, not the bitter end and that is what most of us need to figure out.

Because the sowing and the reaping just keep right on happening. The reaping brings forth new seeds, seeds that survived and so the sowing becomes one done with slightly different seeds and the next reaping reflects this. In this moment I am reaping and sowing in infinity. And the coming and going around are gathering so much momentum that it is like a carousel caught in time. I am limited only by myself, by my own perceptions, my own ability to hang on and look around.

Nothing changes. It has all happened before and will all happen again. The words pointing to it alter. The eyes perceiving it grow bright and dim. The mind understanding it is limited only by its self.

In the end there probably is no end, I still don't know. I do know that it is me in this moment that experiences what it is, and that is all I have to work with. Yes, Virginia, you can make a purse out of a sow's ear. You can turn this moment into one of ecstasy or agony. You can be whatever it is you are in all reality and you can keep on being that as long as you want to. This is the important stuff, the gist of it all. This is the light at the end of the tunnel and the tunnel and the tunnel. Didn't anyone ever tell you that it is what happens in that dark tunnel that makes the difference? Some tunnels are long and some are so short they don't exist, but they are the road here.

So buck up. Whatever happens in this moment is up to you and it will take everything you have to be it. The good news is you can't fail, because Now never ends.

Not Well

Journaling, for someone who loves to write, sounds simple. but doing it honestly is harder than I anticipated. First of all I am really not feeling well today. I am coughing so hard at times that I hear something pop inside me. It is a familiar sound, but I can't for the life of me remember why. My head and neck feel so hot that I keep holding whatever cold I am drinking up to touch them. My lower back aches enough that I cannot ignore it. It helps to bend forward for a while, but I am suffering from some sort of gastrointestinal problem. Nothing horrendous. I just feel bad enough that everything is hard, so I keep pushing to do those things that I deem necessary.

On the other side, the outside, I am finding myself easily moved, weepy. I am so easily moved that the simplest things become so heart touching that I wonder at myself. A local news station does a series on pay it forward every Thursday. I saw it tonight and remembered when a dear friend gave me money and told me to just pay it forward when I could. I don't know if it counts if it is to family, but I did pay it forward and I always try to give a little something when I can.

Journaling

A friend suggested I journal the changes I notice as I go through this transition. Trying to think of a way to journal one more thing, I decided that for today, at least, I will journal it in my thoughts.

I have noticed changes, not all good and not all bad. The bad ones I am hoping are only temporary inconveniences that will go away with time. Little things, you know, for example my brain feels like it is slipping around inside my skull like a large wet sponge! It brings with it all sorts of interesting little side bits. Like feeling dizzy when I least expect it, or having GI cramps now and then. One that I noticed for the first few days of last week was a shortening of my abdominal muscles. Actually they only felt like they were too short and turning to stone. Had I not found that one on the Internet one night I might have panicked and gone to a doctor. That little wonder seems to be gone now.

The good changes have been much more subtle. I noticed that I sort of felt like Rip Van Winkle, waking up and wondering why things seemed different. Not the least of which was that I "felt" something. I haven't really done much of for a while. Oh I knew I was supposed to feel and I did care, but not enough to really act on it much. It is like coming out of a cocoon. Things are gradually taking on a clarity I hadn't missed. I actually wanted to go out and straighten up the garage, move my stuff farther back into the basement so my son could get to his wood pile easier. I can no longer sit and stare off into limbo without a thought in the world for unreasonably long times. I can still meditate, but it is a choice, not just time that disappears. I have a desire to be creative, not just in thought, but actuality. And I am noticing that I am growing just more and more head over heels in awe of The Lennon! I thought it might be him, but
I think it is me noticing him more.

I am more aware. I am more here.

Unchanged And Unchanging

I am Pygmalion and Galatea, Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn, the excavator and the pit.

It is my job to find the jewel within, the chalice, the seed inside the stone apple, the life that is the epitome of life.

A bit of dusting, some major hacking away and finally out with the tiny diamond chisel to refine the details until what is left is so ethereal it is hard to discern at all.

Like a Trojan horse, I am not what I appear to be at all. Bones and muscle, crinkly eyes and smile lines, character and voice, tone and tune, all are only the coat and undercoat of the real me. Peel them away, one by one until they are all gone and I am here.

Here where I always was, where I always am. Here in the present, unchanged and unchanging.

Unadorned by all these heavy trappings I find myself where I never thought to look. Past my wrinkle lines and baby teeth. Past my birth and death. Past all thought and desire....I exist alive and living. Water from ice. Lava from rock. Breath beyond breath. Beyond definition. Beyond recognition. Almost beyond discernment...

I Am the I am.

Stressors

Modern medicine is marvelous in so many ways. I would not have survived my infancy without it, but much of it is still a guessing game. I give the doctor the symptoms. The doctor tries to think of what might alter these symptoms. If I am accurate and he is a good guesser, which he is educated to be, then we are part way there. Next comes deciding which pharmaceutics to use. The companies put out a lot of advertising and there is a lot of hype that is not necessarily helpful. Who wants to take something that can cause, nosebleeds, suicidal thoughts, aches, pains, nausea and an assortment of other things that may be worse than the ailment in the first place?

As my sister says, if there is something that can make her feel better, give it to her, because she finds no redeeming qualities in suffering for the sake of suffering. She does fine with most things. I do not. I once took an antibiotic that caused such violent purging from both ends that I would almost rather die than repeat the experience and I have had many others that caused less violent, but equally awful results. I cannot even take Ibuprofen.

So, when my doctor prescribed a very small dose of a drug that seemed to alleviate the dark cloud that has hovered over my head for longer than I can remember, I was very happy. Before settling on this one, I tried several others that caused very bad side effects, but not this one -- I thought. I felt lighter. Life seemed brighter, but the insidious things crept up so slowly I didn't realize they were here, or I blamed my life style and myself for them.

Who would think that something that made me feel so much better was also the culprit for the extra weight, or the skin problems, or the numbness that sometimes allowed me to sit for hours without noticing? Most feelings became distant, except when I was in a sort of euphoric overload that I attributed to my soul work. Now, after nearly three years, I am weaning off of this drug and it is harder than I thought it would be. I have been completely off of it for one week now.

The good news is that I am starting to experience feelings I thought I was too old to care about and they are nice! The not so good news is that I am also experiencing occasional sweating, and a tightening of the muscles inside my abdominal wall sometimes, that is very painful and I sometimes feel very dizzy or off balance, like my brain is loose in my head when I stand up, or bend over. Twice I have felt extraordinarily aggravated, but that may just be reality. Gabrielle does not want to potty train. Before, I just sort of thought, oh well... Supposedly all this will go away after two weeks or so. I hope so. I had no idea that a prescription drug could cause these problems and it doesn't for a majority of the people. (Or perhaps those people just haven't noticed yet, because I didn't notice a lot while I was on it.)

So, my thots are a bit discombobulated right now. Sometimes they are maudlin and other times they are ferocious. I am hoping neither will turn out to be the real me in a few weeks. My life is good. There should be no real stressors, except for money, it's time to try again.

Here

I went outside this morning and it was so bright I could barely stand it at first, but the warmth felt good against my face and so I sat there for a few minutes. I noticed the butterfly bush, most of its leaves gone, basically a bare bones bush now, but it had a clarity, a sharpness to it that was strange. I looked at it longer, thinking it must be my eyes adjusting to the light, but everything was extraordinarily bright.

I gazed at the bush to see if it would change, but it did not. Its sharpness even seemed to intensify some. I tried to think if this could be a sign of something wrong with my body. What was it van Gogh saw that he put in his paintings? This didn't seem distorted though, only so incredibly crisp that it reminded me of my photo shop program when I over used the sharpness button.

That was it! Only how could this be in real life? I sat there for longer than I intended to, eventually losing my train of thought about the way things looked. I lost myself in it all, became detached in a way that seem to make me more a part of everything. It was as if the me who is here crumbled into the Here until there was only Here.

I don't really know when it ended. I don't really even remember coming inside. I only remember the clarity, the sharpness, the light. I had almost forgotten it happened until a few moments ago.

Bless You!

I was upstairs with Lennon the other day and I sneezed. Immediately, a little voice from the other room called out, "bless you." I am so blessed to be able to be near my grandchild. I am even more blessed that he is an early talker. He has been communicating with words for a very long time now and he is still two years old.

It is incredibly fascinating to know what a two year old thinks and what his reasoning is behind his actions. I don't have to second guess him and his insight is wonderful to hear. Of course all the processes are not completely developed yet, but they are even more endearing when they are next to others that are. For example, he knows the sounds all the consonants make, so he looks brilliant when I ask what dog starts with and he says "D." But let me ask how to spell a word like car and one day he will spell it while the next he will say, "C...A......bcdefghijklmnop... and go on to sing the alphabet song. We are working on his phone number now. He can count almost to a hundred, with a few prompts. He can actually point and count easily up to ten things, like his superheros. He can take one superhero away and count the nine that are left and so on. But the phone number? So far we get to 828-648, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 ......! Even though he wants to be able to call Daddy and can identify the numbers if I tell him to push six, two, eight, etc. Rattling off the number means nothing to him yet. A mind is an awesome thing and I don't think I realized how fascinating it is, even though I once taught three year old preschool.

Being allowed to be one on one with just one child is so much fun. It doesn't seem to be any harder for him to learn to speak than to count, or read. It's all just one big happy adventure. I wonder what he will remember of any of this? I am not such a quick learner. He must have fifty superheros and I know the names of only a handful while he knows all their names and who they are in "real life." Clark Kent is Superman. That one I know, but he is patient with me and will repeat names over and over, infinitely kind, breaking them down into as small a sound as I need to finally get it.

He is learning to debate too. He will ask for a sandwich, or hear me in the kitchen and run out saying, "What cha thinking about?" He likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Blue or red jelly, depending on the day and sometimes will say, "how bout we jus forget the peanut butter?" He finds his own body interesting and mysterious. Going potty is still a big deal. He must disrobe, get his stool out and wait to see if "its" going to work. Sometimes he just looks up and shakes his head, "It's not working now."

My sister brought him a swing to hang from a rafter, or tree and not having a place to put it, I just hung it up, temporarily, in front of my yard swing then forgot about it. We were bringing in the groceries yesterday and I looked up to see him trying to sit on his swing, but of course it was too close to mine to really work. He came over and tried to explain to me that I needed to move it, there was not enough room where it was. He loves to solve problems and will bring me my glasses, or a flash light, or whatever else he thinks might be useful.

Most of all, though, I love it when he must find a way to communicate about something he does not have a word for. He will describe the shape, the color, the size, what it is for, even pointing out things that are similar in some way. It is fascinating to see what he considers similarities sometimes and once I understand, it usually makes sense. The other thing he does is when I will say to stop doing something and he will tell me, "but I want to do that!" There is no artifice here. He knows what he wants to do (and usually why.) "I like to put Ironman in the freezer." "I like the way the water looks when I pour it from here."

He is a whole thinking, problem solving, caring little creature and I wouldn't know half of it if he didn't talk to me.

Powerless

Not being able to breathe effects everything, so I don't know if the angst I am feeling is just this cold I have, or something else. In my dreams I am not enough. And being not enough means that everything else is jeopardized. It takes away my power, my security. It takes away the identity I have endowed myself with during the past thirty years, leaving me vulnerable to criticism no one would have dared to voice ten years ago.

My dreams are stark, but full of twists and turns where danger lurks in every yet to be seen place. I am responsible for another human being, or more, but there is always someone standing between me and the thing I am seeking. That someone misunderstands everything I say and do and no matter how hard I try to explain, they cannot seem to get it.

I find myself under intense pressure to go ahead of everyone, find the right ways, find the thing we are looking for and do it before they get there so I can make it as easy as possible for them to understand. The rushing makes me afraid I will make mistakes. The people I run into along the way are so frustrating I want to scream, but I don't dare. These people, be they ever so misinformed and slow, still possess the Power. I don't know exactly what that Power is, but I know it can make my life horrible.

And that is why I am up at three thirty in the morning. I just can't bear to deal with these people anymore. They are driving me nuts, which is a little frightening since "they" are people in my dreams and therefore really just me.

Life Seems To Be A Feast

Greed goes a long way towards explaining this world's woes, but it is really only another one of those generalizations which are generally cop outs to reality. I remember when my aunt died and we wanted to leave. The old nurse on duty said, "The surgeon needs to see you, talk to you." It had never really occurred to me that he would take her death personally and deeply. I was too wrapped up in my own grief.

Young professionals expend a lot of money, time, hours and sacrifices to get where they are. They have options that would allow them to take easier roads than many of them do. There are always chances to take the eight to five route in almost any field, but the ones who don't often give up both the easy hours and the easy money. The old jokes about professors teaching because they can't really do the job, or doctors working in ERs because they can't do anything else are no more true than any other generalization. I was not a mother because I couldn't do anything else. I felt what I was doing was the most important thing in the world, developing the next generation.

I know a young public defender who could be sitting in a prestigious office raking in the money. Instead he works night and day desperately trying to give his clients the very best advice and defense he possibly can. He cares. He knows that what he does, or does not do, may ultimately change the life of another human being and everyone connected to him.

And so what do these young people do to unwind? The ones I know do not drive around town in big trucks tossing beer cans out the window, or get stoned and sit around smiling at themselves, or seeing if they can swipe merchandise from the local stores. The ones I know tend to pursue hobbies with as much gusto and determination as they did their careers. They rock climb, or ski, or do photography, or read voraciously, or sew, or fly, or play in bands, or any of a million other things. Life seems to be a feast that they cannot get enough of.

And they treat their mothers with love and a divine sense of humor, connecting with her the way she once connected with them, like all children do.

What Do You See?

I have to ask my sister. "What do you see?"
I need to know.
Not that I doubt my own eyes, my own judgment, but I want to see through her eyes.
I want to feel the image pressed against her retina, smell the odor of it within the confines of her receptors.
I want my hand to reach out and feel what she feels and he feels and they feel and you feel.

Right here, among us, the creator constantly works. Everywhere, mountains of creations, worlds of creations, simple, plain, ornate in a million different ways, surround us. Each one, only the same one, made again and again. The medium never changes. The hands work with the same level of skill and the skill never varies. Not one is any more precious than the other, not one looks different in its creator's eyes, like a cook preparing innumerable meatballs for a great feast they are all the same, only these are Faberge meatballs, their value beyond comprehension.

Each one shaped with love and exquisite care. Each one honed and fired and decorated and then, just before letting it go, a thumb presses slightly into the cradled object. One thumbprint, a small indentation for identification. A shallow shadow of a place left to hold all the differences that can be. Almost invisible, it is the only place visible to many of us and it is a shape shifter, a reflecting pond displaying our own selves, not the one before us.

How odd that we judge ourselves so harshly thinking that it is someone else. How strange the conclusions we draw from such a shallow place. How bizzare the levels of resentments and pain that pile upon us from something so immaterial, so miniscule and fleetingly fragile. How often do we crack the object during our perusal, imagining a tiny little flaw the creator deemed a signature? This ever changing flicker of uniqueness becomes the visage blocking our view and we spend our entire lives seeking what we are.

And so I ask my sister, "What do you see?" Thinking that perhaps I should stir the soup one more time, this time with my eyes closed so that I may immerse myself in us.