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.

Never Poor Enough

I didn't qualify for aid when I attended college.  Fortunately, my parents made enough money to buy me an education that introduced me to an intellectual life filled with book-reading, beer-swilling, poetry-slamming, tube-pulling, beach-combing, idea-sharing, and Dead-touring.  Along with the fun, I did do the academic work and though I did not emerge a true scholar, college vindicated what I had known all along: my suburban up-bringing was comfortable and soulless.  Thus, the genesis of the struggle between my material and spiritual self.  

My process of individuating from my parents and their perceived,  provincial life was extreme; while most just leave the nest for a job, an apartment and a sex life, I had to leave on a quest.  I hit the road to find a great tattoo artist, shack up at an intentional community, groove to a hot show, connect with a guru, or climb a sacred mountain  (Aren't they all sacred afterall?). Oh, and did I mention that I had to be contrary? 

After living "seasonally" for years, it was time to get responsible.  Graduate school beckoned. It was time to pay for school again, but this time my parents weren't paying. So I did the next (perceived) responsible thing: I took out a huge student loan. I nobly studied Environmental Education, a field that is not guaranteed to bring a return on one's scholastic investment.   

Upon graduation, I paid.  And paid, and paid.  I'm still paying, twelve years later.  After my daughter was born and I took a pay cut to have a maternity leave, I petitioned the loan company  for "economic hardship. "  (This is when you don't pay OR accrue interest--a good deal.) The representative asked me if I might be able to make less money as I was $25 over the qualifying income!?  Bitch.  And recently, my husband and I discovered that we are too broke to refinance our house but too rich to qualify for any of those nifty, new government programs.  Somehow, despite all of my adolescent effort to escape my middle-class background, I just can't seem to get poor enough. 

In this recession, many people are writing about the "involuntary simplicity" ideology they are forced to adopt. My husband and I were active in the voluntary simplicity movement years ago, which now seems humorous: only someone with resources or access to them would even consider such a notion as voluntary simplicity.  You wouldn't consider advising a single mom in the ghetto to "down-size", "simplify", or "right-size." Shit is pretty straight simple when you're broke. Not that I disregard spiritual asceticism; I would just prefer to pray dressed in organic cotton, fasting on raw organics and Pellegrino.  I have reconciled my membership in the ranks of the Bohemian Bourgeousie with my religious aspirations.  I understand that my preference to have a bio-diesel Airstream rather than an Escalade is really just a matter of taste and is a subjective, value judgment. 

 

Where I came from, you were "poor" or "wicked, fuckin' poor" or worse, you were from Lynn or Revere.  I do not confuse abundance with monetary wealth, nor do I confuse it with class.  I know that I am only cash poor.  Having the opportunity to acquire a student loan puts me out of the global, poverty spectrum. Most women in the world probably wish that some micro-lending European will enter their village and set up some arts cooperative just so their daughters have a shot at becoming literate.  I have two cars, two laptops, two healthy children, two bottles of wine in my kitchen.  An ark of abundance.  I have family. I have friends. I am smiling. I am grateful. I am happy.  I am not crying poormouth. I have angels.  

The Buddha would say that my desire creates my suffering. But really, it's my debt.  Every world religion admonishes against debt. One cannot attain realization trapped under a debt. But what if one's debt is for something necessary like food?  Or in my case, for schooling?I chose to borrow the money and my one regret is that I didn't borrow from the mob; they would have had a better interest rate.   Capitalism could be the easy target to blame here, but so what?  That doesn't feel helpful. I can't change which way the wind is blowing but I can change my sails. It seems my lessing for today is that "less is more" especially when it comes to student loans.  Until my loan balance is less, I'll just keep paying and I'll try to do it joyfully.  I'll be grateful that I attended graduate school at all  and I will refrain from writing, in the subject line of the check, "Kiss my fuckin grits, you asswipes. " which I am inspired to do every month because I know that the Buddha would advise against that, too. 

Dads Have More Fun

Do you remember that scene from "Mrs. Doubtfire", when the dutiful, full-time working mom, Sally Field, comes home with cake and balloons for her son's birthday, only to find hubby, Robin Williams', chaperoning a full-fledged birthday orgy with barnyard animals, couch jumping, and outrageous shenanigans?  Or perhaps you are familiar with the seemingly universal ritual of fathers getting kids all "keyed-up" with a serious session of horseplay at bedtime? It prompts me to ask, are dads really just more fun? 

There has been many a time when I've returned from my "me-time" (usually one hour spent deliberating over being productive or just being) to find my valiant husband mellowly playing with the still pajama-ed children, chores undone, house in disarray.  Everyone is happy; why am I so pissed? 

My relationships have often suffered because of my industriousness. I often choose utility over happiness and justify it with some sort of "work is love in action" philosophy.  There is the feeling that if I get one step behind of the to-do list, the work will become a tsunami---the wave insurmountable, the damage infinite. Fuck, that's debilitating.  

Confronted by this mental limitation, I decided to pull a Byron Katie and use her useful "reversal" technique.  Really, just Psych 101 "projection", but she has packaged it so folks can hear it and she has made millions on the trick.  So here I go; I shift the question: "Are dads really more fun?"  to "Why am I not more fun?" Ah...eureka!  Why aren't I more fun? 

I am not sure of the answer.  Am I just a product of my generation?  I was fed the 1960's feminist agenda and BELIEVED that I could do anything boys could do better.  And I BELIEVED that I could have it all---career, family, lovely *clean* home, vacations, satisfying creative life?  But I've done it; I "[brought] home the bacon, [fried] it up in a pan, and never let you forget you [were] a man." But what was the cost? What is the cost? Especially, when I relate more to Martha than I do to Gloria.  No one told us girls that to have time to do Martha's crafts you needed a paycheck and time on your hands (a.k.a. rich husband).  

I call for the next wave of feminism. What will it look like? Will motherhood be revered and women who work out of the home supported and single moms worshiped? I realized while watching "Mad Men" that the men, though they seem like they have it all, are ultimately trapped, because the women were not liberated. Emerson said it best, "If you put a chain around the neck of a slave,  the other end fastens itself around your own." Betty Draper should have had more fun and so will I. 

The Psychology of an Ant

Last night, there they were: ants.  They arrived as ants do, stereotypically.  They crawled on my floors and shelves like troops storming the beach at Normandy.  I had not seen an ant in the house previously and then one day, invasion.  

I watched these focused visitors and feared the worst, occupation.  There were multitudes, all of a sudden, where there had been none.  It was unsettling.  And grotesque.  Wood floors, white ceilings, and stocked shelves, were quickly speckled with healthy picnic-variety ants. These were not darling, diminutive sugar ants; these were big suckers, not quite a carpenter, but certainly the Carpenter Ants third string. 

It was 10 PM when they invaded and their arrival raised some questions.  Where did they come from?  Why now?  How do they mobilize their troops with such military precision?  What motivates them? I knew the answer to this last one. What motivates them? Food.  But really, were they simply motivated by the possibility of a meal? Or were they interested in world domination? 

I had some choices to make as to how to rid my house of these uninvited visitors, but I couldn't shake that last question: what motivates them? My friend, Vanessa, recently asked "What makes people tick?"  My immediate response was "Money. Sex. Power." I guess I was feeling cynical.  The Psych 101 answer to the question is acceptance and belonging, which is precisely what money, sex, and power can deliver. What is the spiritual answer?  Connectedness? Transcendence?  Ants and bees are admired for their efficiency and I dare say, dedication.  They do not seem dedicated only to the community or to finding food.  They appear to be dedicated to their purpose.   Ants: a perfect practice in purpose.  

This is not reassuring, especially to those of us who are perpetually purposeless.  I suppose we can be connected in our purposelessness and that may do the world some good or at least not do it any harm.  The ants and their purpose were gone by morning and I have not seen them since. Perhaps my lack of purpose can be as transient.  

What is a "lessing"?

"Lessing" is my portmanteau word for "lesson" and "blessing." My life lessons are rarely born from calamity. Death, fire, flood--humans are prepared for disaster; we usually respond valiantly. It is the tiresome demands of 21st century living that will drive a woman bananas. Daily Lessings is the record of events that really piss me off and of my attempt to transform these irritants into small life lessons and even into daily blessings. (Can one really be grateful for parking tickets, burnt lightbulbs, bank fees, vermin, clogged drains, stubbed toes, or dirty gutters? I don't know, but this girl aims to find out.) Forcing myself to recognize a "lessing" keeps me engaged in a reflective practice and in the great, ongoing spiritual conversation. Here's to any shred of wisdom I may gain in this process.