Are they adults or are they children?
Are they some hybrid of both that switches around according to personal preference of THEM not US?
A single word with no attached meaning can color an entire afternoon.
It runs both ways.
I confess that as my kids have gotten older, I've started remembering that there is a "ME" in here somewhere. There are days that the "ME" is more external than is apparently bearable for the other inhabitants of the planet than they are accustomed to dealing with and enduring.
It's odd how we never see clearly what we put everyone else through. Some days, I confess that I'm afraid to know what I do to other people under the guise of 'helping' or 'advising' them.
Despite intentions being somewhat decent, I'm inevitably stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea when it comes to human interactions. I see one outcome following a nicely dotted line from my ideas that swirl in my head and the reality that is played out in my actual presence.
It was so clear-cut and easy in my head.
But I forgot about that pesky personal moral agency given to every single one of God's children as a gift. Sometimes that is a gift that I wonder about.
When kids are little they NEED you.
When they are growing into their own persons, they push you away only to come running back when they need to be reassured and refreshed from the battle of life that has visited itself upon their young and inexperienced person.
Inevitably comes that day when they no longer need you at all in the way that you have had decades of familiarity in working through.
Now, the need has changed and no one managed to send a memo, a handbook of instruction or even a forwarding address to the person that cherubic infant is on the way to becoming as a self-assured and confident adult.
It's like a ballet on eggshells. Sometimes you break an egg and wind up with the remnants of yolk firmly stuck upon you to deal with as you explore the suddenly steep learning curve of seeing your little baby transform before your eyes from a little chick needing the loving care of your enfolding wings into a full grown and soaring eagle testing its wingspan against an amazingly blue sky dotted with the clouds of adversity.
No matter how much you want to save them from the inevitable, life shows up on their doorstep and your own. Not all of these intrusions of reality are unpleasant, however. Many of them are wonderful and exceed all expectations.
Hopefully, they will find someone with whom they can share their life and times in a way that was once your own joy to discover.
They have happiness and abundance on the same shoreline as the passage of time also brings the winds of change and waves of trials.
They are no longer children.
When did it happen?
Was I just not paying attention?
We still have awkward interactions of circumstances where our definition of what is to happen doesn't mesh at all.
But it is quickly overtaken by the sheer wonder of seeing that once tiny bundle of need become a thoroughly competent and willing participant in the adult side of life that can bring so many rewards.
I don't want to keep my children babies forever. We get a taste of that with Jared each day and I pray each day that he will someday get his chance to experience life with no hesitation and no obstacles in his way.
But some days, I wouldn't mind a refresher course on holding a little barefoot body clad in tiny overalls and kissing the top of the sweet smelling baby head.
I kinda miss that.
May 11, 2010
May 10, 2010
Musical Personality Disorder
Fairly well versed in a variety of musical styles and genres, I am comfortable shifting from one to another in a single play list without too much struggle.
It isn't a moment of particular gravitas to hear the Mo Tab on one track and the Commitments on the next. And Elvis sandwiched between Carrie Underwood and Van Halen presents no agony of delete or repeat for my itchy selection finger.
But with each particular selection, a different portion of my personality or warped psyche is exposed for what it truly is... which may or may not be frightening to small children and pregnant women.
In my heart of hearts, I am a percussionist who can drive the rhythm section of any song. In reality, I often struggle to find the beat. I DID play the drums through school and can manage to find a simple groove from time to time, but not enough to truly make a career of it unless we are discussing ways to impress people by pounding out a drum beat while cleaning the shower stall.
I also play the guitar. Sometimes, I can mimic what is being presented by the 'big dogs' and hold my own with them. Other times, I am just playing air guitar and wishing.
When I hear the symphony draw the music of an orchestral arrangement to elegant and joyous heights, I have at least a minor appreciation for the struggle and effort required to blend together the notes and the number of musicians who desire to match their skill to the conductor's vision of what should happen.
I direct the music... generally when no one is home but me and the dog and she doesn't normally complain if I miscue her on an entrance. Frankly, she is so used to living with a musicalsavant schizophrenic, she usually just yawns and rolls over.
One of my greatest pleasures is strolling through my musical memory of songs good and bad, happy and depressing and songs that just act as a time portal to a specific moment that is catalogued in my lifetime of memories.
Funny thing is, a great deal of who I am and what I have allowed myself to become is connected directly to the music that was going on at the time.
I remember the music that was playing when the first boy I was not directly related to asked me to dance. "Color My World" by Chicago. I learned to play it on the piano just to preserve that moment. No, I didn't love the guy - I didn't even KNOW him.
Frankly, it was a church dance where the boys were all COMMANDED to dance with every single girl in the building "regardless of whether or not she is a 'dog'" and the fact that it was more commandment and obligation than choice and opportunity was sort of like taking a rasp to a piece of rough plywood and calling it beautiful music. But it was dancing and it got us off of our butts for at least a few minutes that night.
It wasn't until I got into college that I realized that my musical tastes were abnormal in comparison to the other gals in the dorm. They were devoted heart, body and soul to singular artists or groups.
I felt no such constraints. How could you love only ONE artist or group or style when the world was filled with so many who needed a momentary piece of your musical worship??? Yeah, it was a form of idolatry, but we all grow at different rates, so sue me.
Happy with Frank Sinatra and The Bee Gees equally and completely at home with Olivia Newton-John all occupying beloved slots in my record collection. Alabama crooned songs that reminded me of home and the 'what could be' that all young girls dream over combined with the Roseanne Cash songs that I was SURE that I sounded just like while in the shower. My roommates disagreed, I'm sure.
As I have gotten older, my tastes haven't changed so much as they have expanded. I have welcomed new artists into my collection, but have kept room for those songs and artists that mark the passage of both time and a mental bookmark.
It doesn't take much to send me on a trip. All I need is a particular song and I know where I was and with whom I was spending my time or if I was alone.
Even now, listening to the EXTREMELY odd collection that lives on my iPod or iTouch, I know it is a truer measure of who I am in reality than the carefully crafted persona that I show to the world. I can be cultured and calm.
People who truly know me aren't fooled by the "Sunday go to meeting" face.
Truthfully, I'm not trying to fool anyone. The reality is that I am still very much a work in progress. Sometimes, a song says everything I want to say but often lack the words on my own. Songs come into my life that share emotion that I may be uncomfortable under other circumstances in showing. But let that music play and it changes who I am, if only for a moment.
Sometimes, I hear songs that I truly wish I could dance to the way I see other people dance. Even when everything still worked and didn't hurt, my body simply hasn't ever moved in those lithe and sinuous movements that other people seem to be possessed with and in control over. But I move however I can, generally in the shower so no one can see or laugh at the spectacle.
In my egotistical mind's eye, there are some songs that I hear that make me think "gee, I could do that one for a ward activity or family party". Unabashedly, I sing along and picture myself wearing a 'rocker chick' ensemble that I used to own and a body that hasn't been mine in decades. I play and sing with the skill of a pro and have lights and sound that would make Kelly Clarkson envious.
Do I care that people know that I am a lunatic? Maybe not. I have the feeling most people have personalities every bit at splintered as mine on the music that moves their own heart in ways that cannot be enumerated to one not afflicted in a similar manner.
I can listen to the soundtrack to "Coyote Ugly" and see myself on the bar dancing and singing and commanding the music to be mine. Likewise, I listen to the Alto Air #20 from Handel's Messiah and be fully convinced that it could be something that I could share and enjoy.
I'm not sure that all of my musical leanings are extremes from the sacred to the profane. I sure hope not. But if God didn't like music, why is there so much variety from which to choose?
Enough for now. It's time to enjoy Francine Reeves bringing on a fine arrangement of "Wild Women Don't Get the Blues". Sweet, sweet music... and, you know, with a smokey bar and a sweet jazz band to back me, I could do this....
It isn't a moment of particular gravitas to hear the Mo Tab on one track and the Commitments on the next. And Elvis sandwiched between Carrie Underwood and Van Halen presents no agony of delete or repeat for my itchy selection finger.
But with each particular selection, a different portion of my personality or warped psyche is exposed for what it truly is... which may or may not be frightening to small children and pregnant women.
In my heart of hearts, I am a percussionist who can drive the rhythm section of any song. In reality, I often struggle to find the beat. I DID play the drums through school and can manage to find a simple groove from time to time, but not enough to truly make a career of it unless we are discussing ways to impress people by pounding out a drum beat while cleaning the shower stall.
I also play the guitar. Sometimes, I can mimic what is being presented by the 'big dogs' and hold my own with them. Other times, I am just playing air guitar and wishing.
When I hear the symphony draw the music of an orchestral arrangement to elegant and joyous heights, I have at least a minor appreciation for the struggle and effort required to blend together the notes and the number of musicians who desire to match their skill to the conductor's vision of what should happen.
I direct the music... generally when no one is home but me and the dog and she doesn't normally complain if I miscue her on an entrance. Frankly, she is so used to living with a musical
One of my greatest pleasures is strolling through my musical memory of songs good and bad, happy and depressing and songs that just act as a time portal to a specific moment that is catalogued in my lifetime of memories.
Funny thing is, a great deal of who I am and what I have allowed myself to become is connected directly to the music that was going on at the time.
I remember the music that was playing when the first boy I was not directly related to asked me to dance. "Color My World" by Chicago. I learned to play it on the piano just to preserve that moment. No, I didn't love the guy - I didn't even KNOW him.
Frankly, it was a church dance where the boys were all COMMANDED to dance with every single girl in the building "regardless of whether or not she is a 'dog'" and the fact that it was more commandment and obligation than choice and opportunity was sort of like taking a rasp to a piece of rough plywood and calling it beautiful music. But it was dancing and it got us off of our butts for at least a few minutes that night.
It wasn't until I got into college that I realized that my musical tastes were abnormal in comparison to the other gals in the dorm. They were devoted heart, body and soul to singular artists or groups.
I felt no such constraints. How could you love only ONE artist or group or style when the world was filled with so many who needed a momentary piece of your musical worship??? Yeah, it was a form of idolatry, but we all grow at different rates, so sue me.
Happy with Frank Sinatra and The Bee Gees equally and completely at home with Olivia Newton-John all occupying beloved slots in my record collection. Alabama crooned songs that reminded me of home and the 'what could be' that all young girls dream over combined with the Roseanne Cash songs that I was SURE that I sounded just like while in the shower. My roommates disagreed, I'm sure.
As I have gotten older, my tastes haven't changed so much as they have expanded. I have welcomed new artists into my collection, but have kept room for those songs and artists that mark the passage of both time and a mental bookmark.
It doesn't take much to send me on a trip. All I need is a particular song and I know where I was and with whom I was spending my time or if I was alone.
Even now, listening to the EXTREMELY odd collection that lives on my iPod or iTouch, I know it is a truer measure of who I am in reality than the carefully crafted persona that I show to the world. I can be cultured and calm.
People who truly know me aren't fooled by the "Sunday go to meeting" face.
Truthfully, I'm not trying to fool anyone. The reality is that I am still very much a work in progress. Sometimes, a song says everything I want to say but often lack the words on my own. Songs come into my life that share emotion that I may be uncomfortable under other circumstances in showing. But let that music play and it changes who I am, if only for a moment.
Sometimes, I hear songs that I truly wish I could dance to the way I see other people dance. Even when everything still worked and didn't hurt, my body simply hasn't ever moved in those lithe and sinuous movements that other people seem to be possessed with and in control over. But I move however I can, generally in the shower so no one can see or laugh at the spectacle.
In my egotistical mind's eye, there are some songs that I hear that make me think "gee, I could do that one for a ward activity or family party". Unabashedly, I sing along and picture myself wearing a 'rocker chick' ensemble that I used to own and a body that hasn't been mine in decades. I play and sing with the skill of a pro and have lights and sound that would make Kelly Clarkson envious.
Do I care that people know that I am a lunatic? Maybe not. I have the feeling most people have personalities every bit at splintered as mine on the music that moves their own heart in ways that cannot be enumerated to one not afflicted in a similar manner.
I can listen to the soundtrack to "Coyote Ugly" and see myself on the bar dancing and singing and commanding the music to be mine. Likewise, I listen to the Alto Air #20 from Handel's Messiah and be fully convinced that it could be something that I could share and enjoy.
I'm not sure that all of my musical leanings are extremes from the sacred to the profane. I sure hope not. But if God didn't like music, why is there so much variety from which to choose?
Enough for now. It's time to enjoy Francine Reeves bringing on a fine arrangement of "Wild Women Don't Get the Blues". Sweet, sweet music... and, you know, with a smokey bar and a sweet jazz band to back me, I could do this....
May 7, 2010
People of Walmart
In the interest of fairness, I have made my share of trips to our local Wal-Mart less than fashionably attired and I'm reasonably sure at least one of those trips involved socks that did not match.
Our world is filled with diversity. No singular location demonstrates this more thoroughly than a trip to your local 24-hour Wal-Mart. Particularly if you are using the bottom end of that 24-hour period to make your visit.
Regular people and a few wingnuts go out during the day.
The wingnut parade and the oddballs go out at night.
These folks are more concerned with getting what they want with 24-hour convenience than with a dress code.
Because a dress code isn't a big deal, then by default their clothing IS a big deal. Or in some cases... their LACK of clothing.
I have myself witnessed a man in our local Wal-Mart wearing a woman's shirt (it was a frilly pink number) that bared his hairy middrift. MMMMM. Just what I want to look at while I'm considering which bag of salad will be going home with me that day. NOT!
I'm not sure if his late night clothing choice was simply an "oops" or something more serious. And frankly, I wasn't about to ask since he outweighed me by a good 75 pounds or more and my ankle still isn't up to sprinter speed.
Then there was the lady who was wearing an extremely revealing catsuit type of outfit for her trip to the pharmacy. Eartha Kitt she was not. There should be some sort of legal limit on weight and body shape when it comes to outfits like that. They are not meant for the eyes of the young! I took anatomy and physiology in school and trust me when I tell you NONE of the cadavers looked like this.
I promise, I'm not judging... I have my own body/fashion/dressing issues to deal with that take up volumes of time and space to discuss. But when these folks I've mentioned as well as the ones on the website go to the local Wal-Mart, did they manage to even drift casually past a full-length mirror... at any time?
Periodically, I find myself perusing the photos pictured there to make sure I'm not featured prominantly or exposing myself in some dire fashion.
Enjoy... or reel in horror.
Our world is filled with diversity. No singular location demonstrates this more thoroughly than a trip to your local 24-hour Wal-Mart. Particularly if you are using the bottom end of that 24-hour period to make your visit.
Regular people and a few wingnuts go out during the day.
The wingnut parade and the oddballs go out at night.
These folks are more concerned with getting what they want with 24-hour convenience than with a dress code.
Because a dress code isn't a big deal, then by default their clothing IS a big deal. Or in some cases... their LACK of clothing.
I have myself witnessed a man in our local Wal-Mart wearing a woman's shirt (it was a frilly pink number) that bared his hairy middrift. MMMMM. Just what I want to look at while I'm considering which bag of salad will be going home with me that day. NOT!
I'm not sure if his late night clothing choice was simply an "oops" or something more serious. And frankly, I wasn't about to ask since he outweighed me by a good 75 pounds or more and my ankle still isn't up to sprinter speed.
Then there was the lady who was wearing an extremely revealing catsuit type of outfit for her trip to the pharmacy. Eartha Kitt she was not. There should be some sort of legal limit on weight and body shape when it comes to outfits like that. They are not meant for the eyes of the young! I took anatomy and physiology in school and trust me when I tell you NONE of the cadavers looked like this.
I promise, I'm not judging... I have my own body/fashion/dressing issues to deal with that take up volumes of time and space to discuss. But when these folks I've mentioned as well as the ones on the website go to the local Wal-Mart, did they manage to even drift casually past a full-length mirror... at any time?
Periodically, I find myself perusing the photos pictured there to make sure I'm not featured prominantly or exposing myself in some dire fashion.
Enjoy... or reel in horror.
May 6, 2010
Singing in the bathtub
Is there anything more rewarding than finishing a grimy, sweaty job that has to be done and hopping into the fresh, fragrant arms of a nice steamy shower or sliding into a sudsy tub of hot water?
It's like all of your work was worth it for those moments bobbing along in the tub or feeling the pulsating of the massaging shower head spray its magical watery fingers along an aching back.
Of course, while contemplating soaps, loofahs and various colors of washcloths from the stack brings up all kinds of thoughts that are normally pushed either to the back burner or completely off the stove entirely.
Can my voice echo enough reverb in the tile shower stall to equal the magnificence of Reba singing "Fancy" or will the tub offer a more mellow tune as I warble out a Gladys Knight number sans the Pips?
Sometimes, I have the window by the shower open to allow steam to escape to the yard and I have wondered what the neighbors think, if anything, about the song-filled ritual of cleanliness that goes on.
I've heard it said that cleanliness is next to Godliness and wonder if the addition of music adds or detracts from the potential Godliness? Does God like the Pips? Or would He prefer Aida?
Although my musical tastes are fairly eclectic and I do have a broad base from which to choose, I'd hate to know that when my time comes, that should I happen to be in the shower when the fateful tick of the clock arrives, my opportunity at a heavenly berth was unsecured because I was belting out my own rendition of a show tune that didn't pass muster with the Heavenly Chorus.
While it is true that I participate in church choirs and in my youth was in choirs from primary school through college, and even now enjoy the rich and beautiful music of a well rehearsed choir, I must confess to spending plenty of quality alone time singing into hairbrushes and combs while blowdrying my hair. I'll admit from time to time, I have also employed a hot curling iron as a microphone between roll-ups. I've been known to sing in the car as I drive along gathering the stares of the other people on the road who must certainly wonder why the license examiner would allow a mentally defective person to have a license to drive.
But far and away, it seems that the muse of music strikes the most often while I'm lathering up in a soapy, humid environment. I'm not exactly sure what creates the urge to bring on my inner "Lion King" while I'm shaving a leg or two. And frankly, if the neighbors ARE disturbed by the cacaphony of sound belting out of the bathroom window, they have, up to this point, been remarkably restrained in their response. No bags of flaming dog poop have appeared on my front porch... yet.
Perhaps it all harks back to a Tweety Bird cartoon I watched as a wee small gnat of a child. There he was in all his feathered and yellow glory immersed in a pint sized claw-foot tub with an oversized back scrubbing brush singing to the top of his lungs. The evil eye of Sylvester was spying on him necessitating a quick hop from the tub and a wrap in a tiny towel to clothes the window blinds for privacy from the prying eyes of a hungry cat. Although the rest of the cartoon has long since faded from memory, I can still hear that lispy, high-pitched Tweety Bird voice carrying his tune in the tub.
I have found the lyrics and post them here as a dip in the pond of warm memories.
If you find yourself singing along, don't blame me. I just provide the lyrics, I don't ask you to entertain your neighborhood from your own open bathroom window.
Singing In The Bathtub
Magidson/Washington/Cleary
1. Singing in the bathtub
Sitting all alone
Tearing out a tonsil
Just like a baritone
2. Singing through the soap suds
Life is full of hope
I can sing with feeling
While feeling the soap
3. Oh the ring around the bathtub
Isn't so nice to see
But the ring around the bathtub
Is a rainbow to me
4. I can yodel opera
Even while I scrub
Everybody's happy
While singing in the tub
5. Never take a shower
It's an awful pain
Singing in the shower's
Like singing in the rain
6. Oh there is dirt to be abolished
But don't forget one thing
While the body's washed and polished
Sing, brother, sing
7. Reaching for a towel
Happy once again
Watching all my troubles
Go swirling down the drain
It's like all of your work was worth it for those moments bobbing along in the tub or feeling the pulsating of the massaging shower head spray its magical watery fingers along an aching back.
Of course, while contemplating soaps, loofahs and various colors of washcloths from the stack brings up all kinds of thoughts that are normally pushed either to the back burner or completely off the stove entirely.
Can my voice echo enough reverb in the tile shower stall to equal the magnificence of Reba singing "Fancy" or will the tub offer a more mellow tune as I warble out a Gladys Knight number sans the Pips?
Sometimes, I have the window by the shower open to allow steam to escape to the yard and I have wondered what the neighbors think, if anything, about the song-filled ritual of cleanliness that goes on.
I've heard it said that cleanliness is next to Godliness and wonder if the addition of music adds or detracts from the potential Godliness? Does God like the Pips? Or would He prefer Aida?
Although my musical tastes are fairly eclectic and I do have a broad base from which to choose, I'd hate to know that when my time comes, that should I happen to be in the shower when the fateful tick of the clock arrives, my opportunity at a heavenly berth was unsecured because I was belting out my own rendition of a show tune that didn't pass muster with the Heavenly Chorus.
While it is true that I participate in church choirs and in my youth was in choirs from primary school through college, and even now enjoy the rich and beautiful music of a well rehearsed choir, I must confess to spending plenty of quality alone time singing into hairbrushes and combs while blowdrying my hair. I'll admit from time to time, I have also employed a hot curling iron as a microphone between roll-ups. I've been known to sing in the car as I drive along gathering the stares of the other people on the road who must certainly wonder why the license examiner would allow a mentally defective person to have a license to drive.
But far and away, it seems that the muse of music strikes the most often while I'm lathering up in a soapy, humid environment. I'm not exactly sure what creates the urge to bring on my inner "Lion King" while I'm shaving a leg or two. And frankly, if the neighbors ARE disturbed by the cacaphony of sound belting out of the bathroom window, they have, up to this point, been remarkably restrained in their response. No bags of flaming dog poop have appeared on my front porch... yet.
Perhaps it all harks back to a Tweety Bird cartoon I watched as a wee small gnat of a child. There he was in all his feathered and yellow glory immersed in a pint sized claw-foot tub with an oversized back scrubbing brush singing to the top of his lungs. The evil eye of Sylvester was spying on him necessitating a quick hop from the tub and a wrap in a tiny towel to clothes the window blinds for privacy from the prying eyes of a hungry cat. Although the rest of the cartoon has long since faded from memory, I can still hear that lispy, high-pitched Tweety Bird voice carrying his tune in the tub.
I have found the lyrics and post them here as a dip in the pond of warm memories.
If you find yourself singing along, don't blame me. I just provide the lyrics, I don't ask you to entertain your neighborhood from your own open bathroom window.
Singing In The Bathtub
Magidson/Washington/Cleary
1. Singing in the bathtub
Sitting all alone
Tearing out a tonsil
Just like a baritone
2. Singing through the soap suds
Life is full of hope
I can sing with feeling
While feeling the soap
3. Oh the ring around the bathtub
Isn't so nice to see
But the ring around the bathtub
Is a rainbow to me
4. I can yodel opera
Even while I scrub
Everybody's happy
While singing in the tub
5. Never take a shower
It's an awful pain
Singing in the shower's
Like singing in the rain
6. Oh there is dirt to be abolished
But don't forget one thing
While the body's washed and polished
Sing, brother, sing
7. Reaching for a towel
Happy once again
Watching all my troubles
Go swirling down the drain
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)