Am*Bitch*ous

Our mothers did not grow up with Madonna. And neither did our dads for that matter.  My mother used to polish the copper bottoms of her pans (she still cooks with the pans she received as a wedding gift, and they still gleam).  She was industrious, smart, and restless. Once her children were grown, she fell into the underemployment any 50's-style mom encounters when they no longer have to wipe bums and wash bibs.  During this chapter in family development, uber-intelligent women got depressed out of sheer boredom and experienced a signnificant lack of self-worth (think: Betty Draper). By the time I (the youngest of four) was in the eighth grade, my mom built a career on her common sense and her high school diploma. Near the end of her professional life, she made a choice to leave a job as a hospital administrator that no longer suited her, only to be headhunted the next day to lead the marketing department for a large health organization.  She was calling the shots in her career.  And my monkey mind can't help but wonder, what if my mother had grown up with Madonna?  Would she have been president of the free world? A leader of a mass movement? A writer?  An inventor?  The Martha or Oprah of her generation? What would have become of us, her four children that she fed, clothed, and educated?  If she had grown up with Madonna, would she have provided the three square meals that nourished us in our childhood?  Would we have gone to church every Sunday? Would the linens have been washed every week?  Would my dad have stayed home and parented more?  Since a few impressionable years during adolescence were heavily influenced by Madonna and because  I struggle with the guilt associated with full time work outside the home since my children were infants,  I can't figure out whether Madonna's cultural influence on my generation is a curse or a blessing.  So here it lives as a lessing. 

My mother's generation had its idols (Marilyn, Judy).  There are certainly tragic female celebrities now (Brittany, Lindsey,) but besides maybe Bette Davis?, Eleanor Roosevelt?, my mom lacked many role models that were unapologetically in control of their own lives. When Madonna broke into the cultural scene of the MTV 80's, it wasn't clear that she was going to influence a generation of women; everyone thought she was a tart, selling her sexuality; there was nothing new about the oldest profession.  What was new was her seductive recipe of sexuality, financial power, and unfaltering self-esteem, timely delivered during the "material" "me" generation of the 80's.  Madonna might have been a whore, but she was no a victim.  I didn't even like Madonna or her music very much.  And she certainly was not the only powerful woman in history.  Still, I can't deny the impact she had on my girlhood. One might compare it to a boy maturing during Elvis's reign.  Whether you liked Elvis or not, it was going to shape your worldview. Similar to the fervor over Elvis's sexuality,  all of the the mothers in the 80's lamented that their daughters were glorifying the archetypal whore.  My mother, who's house smelled like the polished wood in church, knew there was no immunity to a force like Madonna.  There was such power in her persona; she tapped into the assuredness of a man and acted with a male's sense of entitlement.  She was 'am-bitch-ous.' Her personal process (which was witnessed publicly) was intoxicating.  Sure, Virginia Woolf and Anne Morrow Lindbergh did a bit of "public processing", but neither of them grossed 8 million dollars for selling  pictures of their pussy. 

I heard Lynard Skynard's "What's Your Name Little Girl" and Rod Stewart's "Tonight's the Night" on the car radio yesterday.  Imagine if Madonna had been a role model for the female ingenues in these songs.  The groupie in Skynard's song might have swindled them into a record contract that made her rich and left them penniless.  Or what of Rod's 'virgin child' that he tried to deflower?  She probably would have gone P90X on him or made him go down her first. Imagine if Rod sang that song to a pubescent Pink?  She would have rolled his ass or gave him the best blow job of his life. Who knows?  Madonna made girls' behavior unpredictable.  She changed the script.  Roman Polanski's underage honey pot? That little bitch would have made that pederast sign a pre-nup, found some hillbilly state where they could legally marry and then she'd divorce the shit out of his bank account.  None of the above scenarios would be possible without Madonna. If I had more time, I would convince you that Hillary Rodham Clinton wouldn't be Secretary of State if it weren't for Madonna.  She is the original Bitch, which is a word that we women have reclaimed, by the way. 

This all sounds like a blessing.  But when something is gained there is surely something lost. What have I lost?  There is a certain greed, narcissism, and control that comes with being am*bitch*ous.  How does my desire to fulfill my needs affect my relationships?  How does my desire to achieve my goals affect my parenting? Greed, narcissism, and control are not character traits you want to model for your children.  And, if every woman I know, lived like Madonna, who would do the laundry and mop the floors and wipe the toothpaste constellations from the mirror?  I supposed I'd hire out.  I'm also not sure if I appreciate being know as a "Formerly" (as in "formerly hot"; see last week's Sunday Times) or a Cougar, or a MILF.  And though I fully embrace the "public processing" popular for women in my demographic, I'm not sure our male counterparts can tolerate the 'Eat Pray Love' model of finding one's self.  Well, at least my male counterpart can't.  He considers Gilbert to be a bit self-absorbed. (I should note, that in a very complimentary moment, my husband, upon kissing me, said "Baby, you so ambitchous", thereby coining the phrase).   Men following their ambition to the point of downright adventure has been a cornerstone of masculinity (Jack London, Ernest Hemingway).  Now that women of a certain age in the U.S. are getting a taste of that pursuit, how can we responsibly walk the tightrope between empowerment and entitlement?  How can we embody the grace of Audrey Hepburn in our mothering, the tenacity of Jane Goodall in our careers, and the liberation of Madonna in our bedrooms?  (I shamelessly agree with Ludacris: I want to be a 'lady in the street and a freak in the bed.') The next sexual revolution must be a men's movement; Gen X men must reflect on Madonna's influence on their adolescent development because households can only sustain so much ambition.  Men must know that we do want it all and though we've seen women, like Madonna, have it all, we haven't associated the costs in achieving it.  This is new territory for us all.  How will men respond to women's new way of being in the world? 

   

Bounded in a Nutshell

The poet, Bob Arnold, is our neighbor.  In the front of his property, he has a giant chalkboard on which he scrawls quotes, poems, passages, prayers.  My five year old daughter and I often take walks to see Bob's weekly offering.  This week, the chalkboard communicated Hamlet's state of mind in Act II: "I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space." I find passages quite thought provoking, especially ones that are on billboards, in fortune cookies, or reach you by chance. Often, they speak to you, call attention to some part of you that you've been busy burying.  Reading this particular Shakespeare passage while standing on our snow-covered dirt road in Southern Vermont during a cold snap, I felt it speak to the state of things to come: the imminent bout of cabin fever, getting completely "bound" in my own "nutshell" of a mind, and utterly going mad with longing for spring.  The river next to the road was still flowing; the water moved quickly through a central passage through thick ice. Call it SAD (Seasonal Affect Disorder), call it winter blues, call it the season of cheese, red wine, meat, and fat. If you live rurally in New England, this is a time of survival--staying warm, staying dry, staying out of ditches on the side of the road.  There is a return to the basics and while this seasonal transition can be very centering and, if you are into the Yankee thing, it can be fortifying, it is also a time for turning inward.  And turning inward can be dicey.  Even after my years of studying Shakespeare, I had finally realized, while shivering in my frosty neighborhood reading my neighbor's outdoor chalkboard (did I mention that this was our "activity" for the day?), why Hamlet was set in Denmark.  He just would not have experienced such mental strife if he was the Prince of, say, Costa Rica, which by the way, is where I am currently living an alternate, fantasy reality in which I give guided walking tours through the rainforest during the day, drink beer and dance with the people in the bars at night, and surf on my days off. I am fit and tan and eat fruit, beans and rice, and chicken.  I have no spouse nor children and very little responsibility. 

During my deep thought,  my daughter whined, "Read it, Mama!"  I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space.  "What does that mean?", she asked. Instead of revealing my own ruminations I went straight for plot, without censoring the violence.  

"Well, Hamlet is a sad prince because his uncle murdered his father, the king, so that he could become king."  Without missing a beat, her small face turned to me, eyes bright with thought.

"You mean like how Scar killed Mufasa in The Lion King?"

"Yes, actually.  Exactly like that"  I replied.  I remained composed but inside I was reeling.  The voice in my head was bellowing in its best Bill Cosby voice: My girl!  That is my child! My daughter. My girl! That is my child there, the one with the enormous brain and the beautiful smile.  My child.  Really there is no prouder moment for a literary mama than when her offspring identifies a literary archetype, a pattern in a story, and provides a demonstrative example.  It surprised me that my daughter was able to nail the archetypal evil brother but cannot manage to make it to the bathroom on time.  

Is it that much easier to recognize other's patterns than to recognize one's own?  Every time we leave our house, I prompt my daughter to use the potty.  "No Mama! I don't have to go!" I have cleaned up countless puddles, wet undies, damp socks. These are the moments when parents say to themselves "Go to the effing bathroom, kid!  I'm tired of cleaning piss up off the floor!"  It is easier to identify everyone else's bad habits and even easier to avoid our own.  But there is something about being snow bound in a New England winter that highlights one's bad habits. This makes New Year's resolutions all the more relevant and all the more irritating. 

So, what are my bad patterns? Well, I will sort that out for myself. But I will share my New Year's resolution.  I will try not to  rush.  Rushing makes me miserable and makes my family edgy. This will be quite a challenge because in addition to the regular preparation for the grind with two small children (lunches, school paperwork, diapers, extra clothes, snacks, etc.) winter adds a literal "layer"--snowsuits, boots, hats, mittens, extra socks, indoor shoes, sleds, ice skates, extra snacks, packing the woodstove, warming up the car, brushing off the windshield, shoveling the steps, chopping that friggin ice dam off the roof, and did the pee tank in the composting toilet freeze again!?!?!  That is the daily litany of chores---the to do list that constantly runs through my head.  I usually look at the clock and wonder if 8AM is too early for a drink.  By February, it won't be. If it is warmed whisky with lemon and honey, I might even call it medicine.  

Here's to turning inward, uncovering our patterns, and preparing to bloom in 2010. I always return to my beautiful springtime self.  I'm sure I have the winter to thank. Winter (like Vermont and like Denmark) is just a prison we choose to live inside. 

Nancy Botwin and Me

If you haven't watched the third season of Weeds, this posting may be beyond you.  I'll try to provide enough exposition of the show to be inclusive.  To start, Weeds is a dumb show.  So is Sex in the City. We're not talking high-quality, cable-drama like Six Feet Under or The Sopranos.  Still, I relish watching Weeds and Sex in the City; I'm always up for an episode, even a repeat.  They are funny and entertaining but their tremendous influence on the feminist and feminine landscape should not be obscured by their levity. First, I think we owe Carrie Bradshaw some gratitude for her effect on the blogosphere.  The writing of her column, which is the backbone of each episode, is essentially a blog; the audience sees it on her computer screen as we hear her interior monologue.  

The show's power is in it's presentation of many female archetypes.  We identify with the cynical, insecure, and ambitious Miranda, the professional, sometimes lewd,  and sexually adventurous Samantha, and the classic, naive, storybook Charlotte.  Each woman is beautiful (these gals take care of themselves), has an ultra-successful career, a fabulous wardrobe and a scintillating social life.  If you grew up in my generation there is a good chance you had the t-shirt that said "Girls Can Do Anything Boys Can Do Better." So, I identify with the City gals, admire them even.  But honestly, I never wanted to BE any of them.  Let's face it; until the final season, those ladies were unlucky at love.  The show's premise was to "live like men do" and "have sex like men do."  But in the end, Carrie and her friends found the sacrifices they made for their careers left them a bit lonely and unfulfilled.   And for all of the good sex they had, they had closets-full of bad sex.  I'll admit I was a bit jealous of their shoes and their ability to hang out together so often, but really, I'd rather be Nancy Botwin.  That bitch I envy.

Here's why.  In the third season Nancy has hot sex with a dashing Mexican druglord after he shows her his pet lion eat a goat.  I watched this scene and thought, "Where is my Mexican druglord?" I happen to have a thing for gangsters.  I'll blame it on watching Scarface and Goodfellas too many times during my formative years.  I think I thought I was supposed to like those guys---dangerous, rich, passionate.  Didn't men like them?  Don't men secretly want to be Robert Deniro? 50 Cent? John Dillinger (played by Johnny Depp)?  OK, Steve McQueen and John Wayne, at least.  You can still be a good guy as long as you're a badass.  

Nancy cites "calm" as her one fear.  She is the ultimate seductress, always flirtatiously and childishly slurping her iced lattes.  She's not stupid, but you'd think she might be; she did choose to become a weed dealer instead of a lawyer or a waitress.  She claims that this choice was forced because she needed to maintain her affluent lifestyle.  So maybe she's actually quite smart.  With her boho-chic wardrobe and her doe eyes, she is a master at working the virgin/whore thing  to get what she wants from all of the men on the show.  In many ways, Nancy Botwin is the ultimate anti-feminist while at the same time being a bit of a role model for my inner child.  I did elementary school biographies on Clara Barton, Florence Nightingale,  Annie Oakely, Belle Starr, Bonnie Parker, Sandra Day-O'Connor, and Gloria Steinem. Guess which ladies captured this young girl's imagination?  Sure, Sandra Day O'Connor's achievements were historic and Florence Nightingale's were compassionate and all, but Annie Oakley was in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and Gloria Steinem had been a Playboy bunny.  I, mean, really, how cool is that? 

It is not just Nancy's adventurous spirit that attracts me, it's her lifestyle; and it is her lifestyle that has the most sway on how we perceive women, for good or for ill.   Check it out:

1.  She's a MILF:  Before I had children, I thought this term was utterly offensive.  Now I think it is a compliment.  Nancy is a single mom; this gives her some street credit.  And she is a hot mom.  Snoop-Dogg ripped a rap and, in it, named a killer strain of mota after her.  Is there any higher honor?

2.  She's a widow: Nancy does not carry the burden of having a failed marriage.  Her husband died so she gains our sympathy.  She never finished her degree so what else was she supposed to do but sell drugs?  We excuse her poor choices because how could she possibly have known better?  She dropped out of college to become a housewife!

3.  She has a "manny": Her brother- in-law is on hand to be a father figure to her two sons and to help out in a crisis.  It matters not that he is a kind-hearted deadbeat.  He's family so he's sticking around, but she is not married to this loser/stoner and does not have to have sex with him.  

4.  She has cash.

5.  She has excitement.  Like, real adventure.  My excitement occurs when all of the missing socks magically find their mates.  This happens when I am caught up on ALL the laundry.  This magic happens four times a year.

6.  She has hot sex with gangsters.

Ah...there it is.  I've looped it full circle.  I'm not sure if Nancy Botwin did as much damage to feminism as Sarah Palin did---they both use sexuality to get what they want.  Perhaps we can't bring another sister down for using her "wiles."  Use 'em if you got 'em, I say.  And if you don't, well you can become the next Sandra Day O'Connor.  Another layer to this analysis of post-modern womanhood is that 60 is the new 30---didn't you know?  We live longer, we're healthier, we procreate later but get thinner faster. By my estimation, 40 year-old women are the most powerful demographic---we're smart, sexy, ambitious, and accomplished.  But, because we're really only 20, we're still a little irresponsible and reckless.  But I think it is OK to nurture our inner outlaws.  Just nurture responsibly.

I Married a Jew and You Can Too, Part 2

OK. A note to all writers and creative people out there:  Never promise a Part II.  Obligating one's self to a sequel is absolutely stifling.  So I am going to wrap this up like Hanukah gelt, just in time for the holidays.  I'll start with an inappropriate joke to purge my writer's block.  A Milanese woman living in the United States shared this with me last week:  "What is the difference between a Catholic mother and a Jewish mother?  The Catholic mother thinks her son is a human being from the moment of conception and the Jewish mother thinks her son is fetus until he graduates from high school."  I laughed, of course, because there was a cultural truth there that resonated with me.  My upbringing was anything but cautious.  There were expectations of behavior certainly, but there was a groundedness and heavenliness to everything.  I'm splicing religion and culture here, but the intellectual nature of Judaism seems to always ask the why, while the Irish sensibility seems to ask why not.  Well, for one thing, I function on instinct, my husband on reason (perhaps influenced by gender too, hmm...).  I just do; I react; I yell; I move on.  He ponders, he broods, he gets wounded. This explains why in "Good Will Hunting" Matt Damon tells co-star Minnie Driver that "I'm Irish; I can deal with something being fucked up forever." (Or was that from "The Departed?") I'd bet that there are more Jews  in therapy than there are Irishmen.  Just a guess.  And there are probably more Paddys at the pub.  

Our different cultural landscapes inform how we parent.  I may allow the kids to eat a pixie stick for the sheer fun of it.  My husband examines the consequences of such an indulgence and  rarely sides with the depravity of the cheap thrill.  I love cheap thrills and depravity. These contrary attitudes manifest themselves in two areas of our lives: guilt and Christmas.  

One of Peter's most winning statements when we were dating was when he enlightened me on the difference between Jewish guilt and Catholic guilt.  He shared that, "Jewish guilt is more, 'Oy, did I hurt you?', and Catholic guilt is 'Shit, did God see me do that?' "  Each perspective represents a different way of being in the world. 

 

And then there's Christmas.  Really, who can resist the pageantry of Christmas in the Catholic Church?  The advent candles and calendars, the manger, the statuary, the peace and goodwill, the birthday baby.  The first Christmas after my daughter was born, I displayed the nativity scene.  "What's with the Jesus stuff?" Peter asked.  I explained that it was important that she understood the story of the holiday.  His logical mind agreed and accepted the tiny, ceramic savior in our home. This Christmas season, Peter even agreed to abandon our "religious lite" Protestant/Vermonty feel-good Sunday church service for Catholic Mass; I think the infectious spirit of Christmas got to him too.  

But Hanukah is also on its way and my daughter came home and declared that she was the "only one" in her class that celebrated Hanukah.  Great.  The only one. Her teacher even asked me if we celebrated the Jewish holidays, because, if we didn't, she "doesn't bother including them because it seems irrelevant to the class." Great.  How diverse. I suddenly felt very Jewish.  So, next week I'm going to class to read some Hanukah books from the PJ Library (the most amazing Jewish organization that sends children's books to your house every month, complete with basic information about holidays and traditions.  Perfect for lapsed, secular, and progressive Jewish families).  I'll make latkes and applesauce (local and organic!) for the class and spin some dreidels (which are pretty hard to come by in Vermont) with the kids.  I wonder how I, a recovering Catholic, ended up as the token Jew in a small Vermont town. But if I don't do it, who will?  How can a whole class of kindergardeners not learn that there are so many beautiful traditions in the world? How can my daughter believe that being the "only one" means she is something "other", someone marginalized?  One only needs to watch "Borat" to see how widespread anti-semitism is in the U.S. I might as well start with the five year olds in Vermont.  They should know some Jewish folks.  Don't ya think? 

I Married a Jew and You Can Too, Part I

As an Irish-Catholic girl growing up just outside Boston, I did something not one of my thirty-two cousins did: I married a Jew.  From a young age, I was quite familiar with and awe-struck by Judaism.  I had many Jewish friends and the bar and bat mitzvahs I attended during my middle-school years set many party benchmarks for our regional, adolescent society.  The Jewish kids in town had serious social capital.  Though most people I knew had cousins in Southie and the popular boys in school started dressing like New Kids on the Block, our school was racially, economically, and religiously mixed.  And everyone was more or less friends, or at least friendly.  So I was shocked, after a few years into my marriage, when my husband declared "You're such an anti-Semite!"  

What?  How could that be possible?  Two of my best friends are Jewish.  I love Jews.  Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler, Barbara Streisand, Neil Diamond, Jon Stewart, Matisyahu, Goldie Hawn, Sarah Jessica Parker and I LOVE Ari Gold (fictional Jew, but still)----OK.  I know that sounds like I like Jews when they shuck and jive for the Gentiles but I married a Jew.  Actually, I married  a New York Jew, which represents an entirely different cultural group than the somewhat religious, Bostonian Jews I knew growing up. To get even more specific, my husband was a progressive, political, agnostic Jew (think: Woody Allen taking Golda Meir to see "A Mighty Wind" and running into Mollie Katzen and Jerry Sienfeld at the theater.)  To be sure, my husband and I (like any new couple) had some cultural territory to explore.  My husband had a few odd behaviors that perplexed me.  When I questioned them, he always offered the same answer:  "Because I'm a Jew."  There was one saving grace in our rivaling, interfaith partnership: he was a Mets fan. 

No matter where we were or in what company, somehow my husband always connected the conversation to politics, social justice, or equity.  The Irish might bitch about the "feckin' POMS", but we don't go on and on about oppression.  Life's just too bloody short.  Also, I have never seen him hungover.  I've never really seen him drunk, like stumbling, not-able-to-drive, drunk.  He also has a taste for things that I would only feed to a cat, like pickled herring.  His mother does not use candles in her house for fear of burning it down and when family members die, you might inherit their musical instruments.  He knows specifics about Russian and Eastern European History. Somehow these details were part of his identity.  My family was uber-religious so it was hard for me to accept my husband's non-practicing  form of Judaism as valid.  "But you're not even Jewish." I'd say.   I confused religion and culture. 

We found humor in our differences. My husband found my eccentricities amusing.  On the way to a friend's party I asked him, "What are you drinking tonight?" He looked at me as if I had suggested we drive around the block until we ran out of gas.  He was as amazed at how I planned my liquor for the night as he was that I said a prayer to Saint Anthony anytime I lost something.  He thought it a bit queer and superstitious that I had Saints medals and rosaries around our statue of the Buddha.  None of this mattered until we had kids. Or maybe it mattered, but like an early period, we didn't see it coming.  

It's true, what they say, marrying your own kind is easier.  There is so much that you don't need to explain.  But, once we had kids and the holidays rolled around, it seemed there was a lot of explaining to do, to the kids and to each other.  Suddenly being Irish Catholic seemed to matter.  Just being from Boston seemed to matter.  And my husband felt the same way about being Jewish and being from New York.  Oy vey.

"What's with the Jesus stuff?", he asked.  

"Well, it's a manger and it's Christmas and the kids need to know the story of Christmas." 

"Well, what about Hannukah?" 

"If you want to do Hannukah, go ahead." 

My preparation became my power.  I knew he didn't even have a menorah, let alone know the story of the Maccabees well enough to share it with the kids.  I knew the Old Testament.  I knew more about Judaism than he did.  I felt righteous.  I would win our little, homegrown religious war...

  

Dear reader, you will have to wait for this story's lessing.  It is a two-parter.  Will Michelle and Peter find common ground?  Will they embrace tolerance and diversity?  Will Michelle recognize her anti-Semitism?  Will Michelle ever get Peter drunk?  Stay tuned....

 

Time to Hide

I've got time on my mind.  It struck me that my blog is "daily" lessings, but I only post weekly.  Somehow, "weekly lessings" doesn't have the same ring. Time on my hands, running out of time, remember that time?, how much time do I have?, t i-i-i-me is on my side (yes it is), nick of time, what time?, another time, some time---time is a shining star in American colloquialisms.  Time can be an event (what a time we had!) or a strange, dubious, span of minutes, hours, months, years (in another time, in a galaxy, far, far away.) The enlightened ones would like us to believe that time is infinite, but for us mortals, it sure seems finite. 

I will never forget the day, cozy in a Colorado dorm room, when I read Be Here Now and was astounded by Ram Dass' statement that we can not "save time."  "Time can only be spent." How one spends their time, that was essential.  Fuck, yeah, I thought.  This concept excused me from buying any handy-dandy-time-saving-can't live without it-jane just got one-gadget.  Then comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Michelle with a baby carriage.  And a mortgage.  And a car payment.  And a job to pay for it all.  OK, so adulthood seems short on time and tall on responsibilities.  Solution? I bought a microwave. 

Still, I couldn't cope with my lack of time and others disliked my acceptance of "fluid" time (the standard that fifteen minutes constitutes tardiness---and really, this code only became problematic when I had to attend one hour meetings in "adult world").   Yesterday I argued with a meter maid that she couldn't possibly give me a ticket; I was ONE minute late.  "Late's late", she said.  And it's true.  Especially when it comes to periods, weddings, plays, and yoga classes. Sometimes, being late means missing out.  

I wonder if one's acceptance that our time on this planet is finite (we'll enjoy it for ninety years or so) renders a person more punctual.  Are people just trying to suck every minute out of life?  And how does this "minute" compare to Thoreau's "marrow"?  Time sucks indeed.  

I've had two lessings regarding time this week: the first, I am unemployed.  I went from working full-time (and then some) and raising two, small children, to not working out side of the home at all.  I'm shocked to learn that I do not get as much "done" around the house as I did when I was working.  I also have not "made/found the time" to exercise or rearrange the closet or write letters, or volunteer with the elderly.   My productivity was higher when my life was ultra-compartmentalized.  Every moment was filled, but not full.  There was no breath.  Now my days are more like a green, rolling pasture not a skyscraper reaching for the clouds (dare I say to nowhere?).  OK, that sounds dramatic, but I believe that our inward glance mirrors the outer world.  And let me tell you, if your day is constructed like a  skyscraper, well you are sure as shit going to build some in your world.  We need a place to do all that compartmentalizing.  I'll call it "architectural soul ecology."  Oh, that would be bullshit if I didn't like it so much. 

The second lessing: playing hide and seek with my kids. Our version is called "Roar."  We hide and whomever is "it" is some type of amorphous "roaring" monster or presence. I never want to play but I do and when I do I get lost in the game and it is thrilling. After all, there is that counting and then the hunt.  Ready or not that thing is coming to get you.  Ready or not.  There is no finality in children's games.  You get caught, you get a prison break.  You die, you start a new game.  All of that practice should prepare us for an adventurous life but it doesn't.  Here's the trick: how can your day look like my rolling field and have a  little thrill of the hunt?  How can we refrain from mindlessly building skyscrapers in our souls?  Because, sooner or later, time's up.   

Why Aren't You Using a Retinoid?

Anne Lamott writes that her favorite prayers are "Please, please, please, please" and "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you." Simple, direct, useful, desperate.  I once heard that Robert DeNiro asked a Jesuit for his favorite, short prayer and the brother answered "Fuck it" as in, "Fuck it, it's in God's hands."  I have adopted this as my favorite and most useful prayer. 

This short sentiment embodies faith, as it helps distinguish what is in our control and what is not.  It helps us give in more than it excuses us for giving up.  As a certified *control freak*, the notion that something might be out of my control is tough to accept. Even war, famine, or typhoons can be connected to my choices as a citizen or a consumer.  For those of us who are ecologists or peace activists, the very act of using a paper cup, buying Nikes, filling our tank, or eating meat can wrack us with unnecessary guilt for weeks.  Knowing that all actions indeed have consequences, I often wonder how I might walk my path in balance with right will and intuition?  

There is no more apt a metaphor to illustrate this balance of intention and faith than the use of a retinoid.  With twenty-five years of sound research behind them, retinoids have emerged in the dermatological market as a skin necessity.  They are proven to reduce and prevent wrinkles, even tone, fade age spots, and get this, reverse pre-cancerous cells.  So, why aren't you using one?  

You probably have some sort of guilt around it, equating it with Botox or plastic surgery or something distasteful. But this stuff is just Vitamin-A.  I've ingested stronger elixirs just to make it through an afternoon.  Go ahead and judge me, but I am happy to *naturally* slow the aging process to a graceful stroll.  Many youth-seekers try retinoids for two weeks only to quit.  Quitters! The catch to this miracle in a tube is that it takes a year to see results and for the first few months, one may experience redness, peeling, and extreme breakouts.  One must have faith that the shit will work and one must suffer some discomfort and embarrassment.  

Retinoids bring all of the "dirt" trapped under your old skin to the surface.   Just like dieting and exercise, meditating, or marriage, one has to stick with it to fully enjoy the benefits.  There is nothing more uncomfortable than the beginning of a meditation practice.  One must sit, observe one's thoughts, and pretty much spiral into a serious session of self-loathing as the knees and ass ache and the mind refuses to turn off.  But, for those disciplined meditators or athletes out there, you know practice hurts in the beginning but has huge payoffs when you reach, what Tom Robbins describes as, "the million silver fish darting through the consciousness." 

If retinoids have only been around for twenty-five years and can have such tremendous results, imagine what religion can do. That shit has been around for thousands of years.  Yes, organized religion has some bloody, shameful histories, but surely there is beauty there; why would there be so many followers of the world's wisdom traditions? And, surely, following any religious path will have its share of discomfort and embarrassment (There was nothing more humiliating than going to public school on Ash Wednesday and really, yarmulkes aren't sexy, and Fridays nights are impossible to keep sacred, as are Sunday mornings and living in New England, one of the intellectual capitals of the planet, one appears foolish to say they believe in God, especially if they're educated, blah, blah, blah.)  So many excuses to not adopt a practice, but really, what do you have to lose? Just the weight.  And you have everything else to gain.  Choosing any path and adhering to its practices must bring some insight.  And walking the path of right-will and faith using my Retin-A, I can become wise without the wrinkles usually associated with wisdom.