It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

More Crossover -- Vatrena King

This is the week in which I direct you toward the work of others.  It's not that I'm at a loss for words myself; they just all happen to be directed article-ward this week.  Today's featured blogger/artist is the mother of one of Aidan's close friends, the bookkeeper at our school, and once upon a time, she used to be on a little TV show  called -- Ally McBeal.  Vatrena appeared regularly as one of the backup singers in the bar frequented by Ally and her friends.

But, we are all more than one thing, and Vatrena King is so much more than this one role.  The first time I heard her sing, she was emcee-ing an event for the school.  We were new that year, and I was blown away by this woman's voice.  As someone who "couldn't carry a tune with a forklift" to quote a good friend, I'm always in awe of those who can sing.  And Vatrena can! 

You don't meet Vatrena and think 'Music Celebrity.'  Mini-vans, kids, scrambling to keep socks on feet and lunches packed -- her life isn't that different from mine (other than the voice, figure, and melanin differentials).  We've even had long talks about goats.  Yep, this former L.A. studio singer lives on  a hill in Winters with her sons and an assortment of chickens and yes, goats.

How does one path lead to another?  Well, that's a short story long.  (you knew I'd get to the blog link sooner or later.)

If you haven't clicked over to any of these links -- I know, your mouse is broken, the cat needs to be fed, and you sprained your right index finger -- then check out this video below.  This song never fails to make a bad day better for me, and it reminds me that life is a journey -- sometimes the dips in the road are as important as the destination.  Enjoy! 

Co-Creating

“All things by immortal power,/Near or far,/Hiddenly,/To each other linked are,/That thou canst not stir a flower/Without troubling of a star.” – Francis Thompson

“No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;” – John Donne

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” – Newton’s Third Law

I could go on with the quotes, but I think you get the point.  We are all connected.  No action exists in a vacuum.  No choice, no word is without consequence.  We know this.  We see with incredible clarity the effects of the choices of others upon our lives.  But how often do we own our own actions and the ramifications of those actions, for good or ill?

In this era of instant connectivity, we need more than ever to be aware of the so-called “butterfly effect,” that gem of chaos theory.  The butterfly effect is a metaphor stating that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in South America can change the weather in Central Park.  It was used in reference to the predictability (or lack thereof) of long term weather patterns, referencing the incredibly complex equations upon which these patterns rest.  In life, the metaphor can be stretched a bit further.  Small, seemingly localized actions can take on tremendous consequence.  Sometimes these events are benign or amusing: a video of a laughing baby goes “viral,” a snake goes missing and within a few days has over 200,000 followers on Twitter.  Yet, other choices speak to a darker side of humanity. 

Speech is good.  I’m a writer; by default, I am a huge fan of open communication.  As a recovering, conflict-avoidant introvert, I also recognize the danger of keeping words buried within.  Yet, words have power.  The effect of language to inspire, wound, and persist is evident throughout documented history.  Through the internet, and particularly social media, we have developed a 10 second attention span (perhaps less, did you just blink?  Oh look, a kitty!) and an infinite presence.  The words that we publish with a single click last.  Forever?  Until the machines take over?  I don’t know, but they are out there.  Google yourself.  Go on, I dare you, just this once.  That comment you posted on a forum last year, it’s there.  It may even be on multiple sites.  You can’t undo it – no takebacks. 

In the 90’s, there was a great animated series called The Animaniacs.  This deliciously snarky show had a recurring short feature called “Good Idea, Bad Idea.”  The premise was simple.  A skeleton in a bowler hat enacted two similar sounding, yet disastrously different concepts.  “Good idea – climbing a mountain.  Bad idea – climbing a mountain lion.”  There are days when looking through Facebook, Twitter, etc, leads me to believe that either many people did not watch enough 90’s television, or that we integrated the wrong lessons. 

Good idea – posting a well-thought-out comment, correction, or critique below an article.  Bad idea – indiscriminately bashing the author for his views, choices, lifestyle, and hair color.

Good idea – honestly discussing an argument, misunderstanding, or other pain with a friend, spouse, etc.  Bad idea – trashing that person on your Facebook wall, their wall, or the walls of unsuspecting friends or strangers.

Good idea – posting a single correction to an error in a review of your book.  (Better idea, privately communicating that correction to the author; or just leaving well-enough alone.)  Bad idea – posting a nuclear meltdown series of rants on the reviewer’s blog.

Good idea – engaging members of other faiths in discussion about the similarities and differences of your religion.  Talking about fears, concerns, and hopes.  Bad idea (Tragically disastrous idea) – burning the holy text of another faith.

The examples could go on almost as long as these words will bounce around whatever electronic trampoline the internet provides, but I think you get the point.  Recently, I interviewed a life coach for an article I was writing.  In our discussion, she said something that stuck.  She mentioned the importance of recognizing that we “co-create” our circumstances.  This concept is fundamental.  It goes back to childhood.  Come on, say it with me… “It takes two to start a fight.”  Indulging in a culture of victimhood serves no one.  Occasionally, as with certain violent crimes, we may be true victims of circumstance.  However, we choose our circumstances more often than they choose us, and failure to acknowledge our ownership of our lives denigrates not only ourselves but humanity as a whole.

When we speak, we choose to release words that others may not want to hear.  Just as it is our right and choice to speak our “truth,” it is the right of others to disagree with or to be offended by that truth.  When I write, I force myself to pretend that I am writing in an impenetrable bubble.  I can’t put my thoughts into words if I imagine a world looking over my shoulders and being hurt or offended.  But, before I seal the envelope or hit send, I must imagine every one of those people, and admit to myself that even my most benign words may give pain or offense.  When the comments come, I have to be prepared for the reality that I will be misunderstood, that I will be judged.  Here I have choices:  lash out in pain; retreat into my hole and never type another word; or look again at my words, making corrections or accepting that my truth may not be the truth of others.

With the evolution of the ever-present, but somewhat ersatz support network of social media, it is easy to succumb to the lure of airing every emotion publicly in our search for understanding.  I’ve done it. I bet you have too.  But, how much do we have the right to share?  When it is no longer just our pain, but that of another person, does the dirty laundry get to go out on the line?  Speaking of lines, where is that line?  What is the distinction between venting about a rough day with my unruly children and exposing the growing pains of my kids to the world?  Where is the line between bitching with the girlfriends about “men” and releasing a private beef with one’s spouse to all?  And, do you really want to put that argument out there?  How long will it be before others see your role?  Can you look in that mirror?

All of these things pale before the horror of religious warfare.  Even I can’t blame modern culture for this one.  Humans have destroyed one another in the name of God or of gods for millennia.  But I was struck by the words of one of the pastors responsible for the Quran burning in Florida.  “Wayne Sapp, a pastor at the church, called the events "tragic," but said he did not regret the actions of his church.

"I in no way feel like our church is responsible for what happened," Sapp said in a telephone interview on Friday.” – NPR

If you feel strongly enough about another faith to burn its holiest text, shouldn’t you own your view enough to accept that members of that faith may have a violent or outraged reaction to your act?

One last quote to close:

“Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.” Max Ehrmann, “Desiderata”

 

 

 

Backstitch

The needle pierces the fabric, drawing the thread behind.  I pull the thread forward, and on the back side, reverse and bring the needle halfway back through the stitch.  What?  Wait?  Go backward?

There is probably a huge pedagogical heresy involved in drinking red wine and watching Battlestar Galactica while sewing placemats for a Waldorf kindergarten, but at the end of a mentally taxing day yesterday, this seemed like the best way to occupy my hands and ‘turn off’ my mind.  Of course, the problem and poorly kept secret, is that if my mind has an ‘off’ switch, I haven’t found it yet.  This, by the way, is not any sort of claim to intelligence, just a testament to my brain’s perpetual chatter.  When I’m tired it becomes even less regulated, as though thirty pre-schoolers have taken up residence inside my skull.

Sewing by hand calms the babbling hordes somewhat.  I think it gives them something to watch.  But as I sewed last night, I contemplated the backstitch.  As my career shift gets underway, I’ve been focused on forward momentum and rather obsessed about making some progress toward every goal every day.  If one piece gets left undone, I tend to believe that the day was a failure.  Yet, last night, I caught myself pondering the value of regression.

When I was younger, I always sewed seams with a straight or running stitch.  Always moving forward was faster, better, right?  While the stitches seemed more efficient to me when I was young, the seams pulled, twisting and puckering the fabric, and gaps appeared if stitches were too long or uneven.  As I’ve matured, I’ve taken up the back stitch – step forward, partial step back.  At first this regression frustrated me, but ultimately the seams lie flat, straight, and strong.

Pulling the thread straight through life, in a decades-long running stitch is human instinct.  We get frustrated by reversals in our fortunes, thought, feelings, and growth.  But sometimes we need that partial step backward – the regression – to show us where we have been, to anchor us to important moments in development, to hold our seam straight and strong.  We need the backward steps to teach us as we move forward.

Last stitch.  Pull the thread through the loop, around again to bind the knot, snip the thread, and flatten the fabric.  The placemat is an even rectangle, sage green print on one side, lavender on the reverse.  No puckers or holes mar the edges.  Done.

 

iPhone Amnesia

At the close of one of the early seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer – forgive me for not knowing exactly which one; the DVDs are boxed away – we see Buffy trudging down a dark street, leaving Sunnydale behind.  Everything she valued is lost to her in that moment: friends, love, family.  In the commentary, creator – and mad genius – Joss Whedon states that he wanted to see how his creation would react with everything taken from her; he felt that complete loss would define her character.

My iPhone suffered a similar loss of resources yesterday.  During its first backup onto my computer, it had what can best be described as a massive brain injury.  My phone has complete amnesia; apps, e-mails, notes, calendar items, phone numbers -- everything was obliterated with the unwitting click of my mouse.  In the moments surrounding the concurrent thoughts of ‘huh, that’s funny; the wallpaper changed’ and ‘oh my God, where did everything go?’I realized how unreasonably dependent I have become on technology – not only for data storage, but more insidiously for a form of validation.  My contact lists, my e-mails, my Twitter feeds, my Facebook updates, even the silly Words With Friends app: all of these link me to others, give me a perception (sometimes valid, more often false) of being loved, of being that holy grail of my introverted youth – popular.

While much of my phone’s neurological trauma is annoying and certainly inconvenient, catastrophe is unlikely to ensue.  My husband reminds me that everything important that was put onto the phone can be re-entered.  Still, I find myself unnerved and, in a strange sense, grieving.  As I scrolled through the now-empty contacts list, I realized that what I had lost was not data, it was the adult version of a security blanket.  Like a child toting a blanket or stuffie from room to room, I carry my phone everywhere, and check it incessantly.  Yes, it even sleeps by my bed at night.  I tell myself that I need my phone to check for e-mails or other “important” messages.  What I am really checking is myself.  Mike is right; the contacts that I need, I can find through the network of friends and family, old e-mails, etc.  But, there is a category that probably won’t make it back onto my phone, the group of numbers and e-mail addresses that gave me the greatest feeling of “belonging.”  From conducting numerous interviews over the past year, I had amassed a collection of author phone numbers and e-mails.  These contacts were for the sole purpose of the interview, and I wouldn’t have dreamed of imposing upon any of these people again, but the numbers stayed in my list.  They were my membership card, the secret password allowing me entry into the clubhouse of writers.  What I have known all along, but pushed aside, is that the password changes, the membership was a guest card, and that speaking to authors does not make me one of them.  My writing career, successes and failures, has to stand on its own.  No security blanket will change it, or me.

Whedon wanted to see what Buffy was made of.  Of course, it turns out, she was made of pretty good stuff.  In properly edited fashion, and with the intervention of a few monsters, she was able to pick up the pieces of her life one by one and return, wiser for the experience to her place in Sunnydale.  Even as I spent an hour with Apple tech support yesterday, my brain began formulating plans for reconstructing the life of my phone.  This is what we do when faced with loss.  Even as our brains process and grieve, some deeper portion of us rises to the surface and begins outlining steps for reconstruction.  As I made mental notes to Facebook message friends for their information, to download my apps, my mind saw boxes.

Recently, our family has been forced to cope with the real loss of much that we know.  Our home is in foreclosure; one day soon we will leave our version of Sunnydale behind for good.  Yet, even as we read the nearly incomprehensible legalese on the letter taped to our door (yes, they really do that), plans began to form.  The checklist started: find rental house, get boxes, donate large/unused toys, sell trailer, sell Nordic Track, move horse.  As we box up our lives, we are reconstructing them.  The towers of cardboard forming along the walls of the dining room, entryway and living room are the pillars that will support our new lives.  As I am not defined by the contents of my iPhone, my family is not defined by our address.  The boxes hold more than books, china, and DVDs; they contain our past and the proof of our resilience as we move into the future.

I Hate Temporal Mechanics

“All you ever do is write!”  My computer denies this accusation from my son.  I’m having trouble remembering my last short story submission; doesn’t matter, I’m expecting another round of rejections soon.  I’m afraid to look at the “last modified” date on my novel – poor thing, can novels die of neglect?  My poor blog has been suffering from pathetic re-posts of articles first published elsewhere.  Watch out, I’m about to do it again.  And my dining room table is currently covered in a canvas desert island – backdrop for the school auction. 

I’m not sure what I’m spending my time doing, but it doesn’t seem to be writing.  Is an hour a day, an hour carved from the pre-dawn remainder of the night, an hour in which everyone else is sleeping really inordinate?  Or, is he objecting to the moments on weekends or after school when I attempt to polish a paragraph, send off and e-mail, or do a quick internet search between loads of laundry, glasses of milk, finding paper towels for spilled milk, and refereeing generalized living room warfare?

On the other hand, he may have a point.  It’s not as though my writing is neglected because I’m such a wonderful housekeeper – how long has that load been in the wash?  I’m pretty sure I haven’t sent a follow-up e-mail on the status of the second grade auction project.  The children seem to be well fed, but this week is flying by without a menu plan or shopping list.  I’d like to claim a lack of productivity in my personal life due to the overwhelming demands of work, but I’m not sure that yesterday’s 4 goats and a horse were really all that burdensome.  Where does the time go?

I’m going with the Star Trek theory – obviously, I am the victim of an insidious wormhole-parallel universe-evil alien mastermind-supreme intelligence-matter/antimatter convergence-plot.  It’s really the only explanation.

So, since I don’t seem to be getting anything done, enjoy this  interview with Sascha Rothchild, previously posted on Blogcritics.org.  See, I warned you.  Blame the Romulans!

Transition

I have a confession to make.  I don’t like summer.  Certain summer things are good:  the smell of grilling steak, vacations (though I’d rather take those in the spring or fall), swimming.  Even beaches, to me, are not a summer thing; I’m a Northern Californian.  Beaches are for gasping at the threatening majesty of the ocean, for poking around tidepools and slipping on rocks, for freezing one’s feet and ankles.

Summer breaks the rhythm of the year.  It lumbers like a semi-truck laden with heat, mosquitoes and boredom into the circle of the calendar.  Days sprawl in stifling monotony with only the dim promise of a post-bedtime dusk. 

Those bloated days are slimming down now; sunrise lingers at the table for a second cup of coffee, sunset is edging toward dinner time.  Michaelmas will be here soon.

As that last sentence entered my head, the last few years of my children’s education crystallized.  Waldorf education emphasizes rhythm:  the rhythm of the year as it cycles through the seasons, the daily rhythm of simple routines, the alternating cycles of expressive and quiet time throughout the school day.  Rhythm follows the children throughout their days and years.  In the kindergarten, the children begin their morning in a circle, singing a greeting to nature.  In the grades, teachers move to the next grade with their classes, establishing a pattern of predictability, a constant rhythm.  Rhythm infuses the curriculum.  Children in the lower grades use copper rods and clapping to beat the rhythms of counting and addition patterns.  Music begins early and is treated as an essential part of learning, rather than as an “extra.”

Seasons and festivals are celebrated at predictable points throughout the year in ways that emphasize tradition, simplicity, beauty, and family.  Michaelmas, the feast of St. Michael marks the shortening of the days, the need for light and courage during dark times.  Halloween follows, with the beautiful traditions of the Protected Path – a fairytale journey for younger children, and the Perilous Path – a more challenging and fearsome quest for the older students.  The candles of the Advent Spiral brighten the dark of winter, as do classroom visits by Santa Lucia and St. Nicholas.  As spring approaches, excitement builds.  The third grade garden begins to peak, field trips and activities blossom with the campus flowers, and May Faire approaches.  And, then, we slide into summer, our daily rhythm disrupted once more.

For me, the challenge lies in bringing that sense of rhythm home for the summer.  With day camps and summer camps, visits to grandparents, vacations and work schedules, summer feels fragmented and uncertain.  In June we heave a sigh of relief, casting off the obligations and structure of the school year.  For a week or two we frolic in freedom; bedtimes are extended, TV rules are relaxed.  Then, like children after a birthday party or day at the fair, we begin to feel queasy and insecure.  Sleep deprived and heat exhausted, we lurch from one week to the next.

We are a couple week back into school now, and a sense of peace is settling about the house.  Clamoring demands to “watch a movie” have given way to the construction of living room forts.  Legos and handwork have reappeared from the cupboards.  Homework and bedtime have returned a sense of order to the week.  Soon we will face the dragons of meetings and over-commitment, but for now, our rhythm is steady.