Dance in the Stillness

I have the house to myself.

It’s been so long since it’s been this quiet. This still. So here I am, curled up under my comforter savoring the view of the small patch of grayish blue sky I can see while staring through the slightly parted curtains of my bedroom window. There is something so freeing about lying in bed in the middle of the day with the curtains open, letting in the sun and the sky and the light, not blocking it all out, not shutting it all away, even if I might want to nap a little or perhaps just close my eyes for a bit—just a few moments!—because I know it will still be there when I open my eyes again. The sun and the sky and the light. There. Quiet and still. In the middle of the day that is MINE. I can’t explain it! I can’t! It is just so.

The thin branches in the tree outside are softly swaying and waving as the bitter winter breeze batters and bends them, tearing from them any remnants of clinging leaves, setting them free. But these leaves, remainders of the fall, they don’t dance with the wind. They are crinkled and paper thin and they break apart, disintegrate before my eyes, and swirl and twirl away, painting the air with warm earthy hues of russets and browns until they are out of sight.

But I push these thoughts away, because it is my day, my light and sky and peace, and I am snug, burrowing deeply into the soft down duvet. I’m soothed, running my hands across the top of the blanket, savoring the feel of the smooth expanse of well-worn cotton against my palms while I again allow my thoughts to drift upwards and out. Unfortunately, my thoughts never will stay elevated for any great length of time, and while I want to close my eyes, to enjoy the peace, I quickly lose myself in thoughts of the mundane. Chores. Responsibilities. My developing MarioKart skills. How I really ought to be filming a TechnoGeekery episode or doing something productive, dammit, rather than burrowing away from everyone and everything, staring out the window. Frustrated, I close my eyes, which is particularly effective in shutting out unwanted, intruding thoughts. Ah, stillness. Quiet. Peace. Gradually, however, my thoughts slip into imagining that new pair of Uggs I am absolutely coveting because they may be the fugliest footwear imaginable, but DAAAY-UM they keep my tootsies toasty and make mighty fine slippers and my old pair have absolutely no traction and I don’t want to bust my ass again slipping down the icy steps…

I just opened my eyes and the digital clock on my bedside table caught my eye. It is staring at me in silent condemnation, all “Look at the time you wasted! Just LOOK!” With a rueful grin, I move to throw back the covers, and then another leaf catches my attention. It swirls and twirls and disappears from my view. Then another blows by… and another.

And I realize that I am holding on too tight, I’m not letting go, when I should be breaking free to dance with the wind, to swirl and whirl and paint the sky, lush forest green with hints of olive, goldenrod, and palest yellow, and perhaps even a thin streak of burgundy running throughout, with really only one possible destination, but it is okay, more than fine, because it is my time to fly, my journey to enjoy, not half-assed, but wholeheartedly.

I smile and sink back into my cocoon of blankets, stretch lazily, and welcome the sound of stillness as it washes over me, through me.

Let it blow, I think to myself. I’m ready to dance.

Oh, Think Twice

There’s a man… living in a cardboard box… down by the White House.

I want to joke. It’s what I do. You must understand: it is genetic. I had absolutely no say in the matter. Because, yes, you see, I have inherited the Loud Laugher/Loud Talker gene from my mother’s side of the family, which makes for good times in cubicle-land, let me tell you. Especially when I get phone calls. Or an especially funny email. I get shushed. I do! And when I break my butt walking down icy stairs , I laugh (after I pass out). When I pass out (again) while locked in the ER restroom, resulting in a twisted ankle and a bruised up face, I laugh. When my husband hits me in the head with a racquetball going mach 7, after I cry like a baby and cuss him to bits, I laugh. When I joke about someone hurting my feelings or breaking my heart, I laugh. I can’t help how I am.

But I can’t find the funny in this.

I work in DC. A block away from the White House. (And that’s all the details you’ll ever get out of me. Because it’s none of your business where I work, THAT’S why. STALKER.) And when I remember to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air, I see him. During the bustle of the midday lunch crowd, there he is, right there on the sidewalk, fast asleep on a ratty old bed of blankets and newspapers, wearing several layers of clothing, his only possessions (as far as I can tell) an old metal shopping cart, a coffee cup filled with change and folded-up dollar bills, and a plastic drugstore bag filled with well-worn paperback books and assorted paraphernalia that is usually resting against the abandoned storefront window. The first time I saw him, I thought, Why doesn’t anyone steal his money? Or his bag? He’s SO out. Because I am a horrible person and that was the first thing that popped into my head. Theft. Yes, my parents are so proud. But in thinking that thought, I realized that no one stole his stuff… because they didn’t see it.

He wasn’t even there.

She calls out to the man on the street
“Sir, can you help me?
It’s cold and I’ve nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?”

And now it’s winter, and it’s bitter cold, and today I actually remembered to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air. And I discovered that where the ratty old bed of blankets and newspaper used to be is a cardboard hut, built in a sort of half-hexagon shape and propped pretty solidly up against the abandoned storefront window. It’s a pretty intricate structure, with a swinging door (blocked by the shopping cart when I walked by). The coffee cup was there, filled with the usual change and folded-up dollar bills. And this time I thought, How did he build that? Did people stop and watch? Did anyone help him? The authorities have to know he’s here. Are they going to make him tear it down? Good LORD, he is LITERALLY living in a cardboard box! People don’t live in cardboard boxes. You can’t LIVE in a cardboard box. And I thought all this as I pulled my coat more tightly around me and pulled on my mittens to help ward off the icy wind blowing by.

But y’all? There’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House.

I have a confession: If he were awake when the crowds bustle by, perhaps sitting on his blankets reading, or talking to himself, or simply staring into space, I probably wouldn’t be able to recall such vivid details of the living space he has staked out as his own. I couldn’t. Because I know in my heart that I would probably look away. Like I do when the strange, shouty man at the corner of the street by the Metro entrance waves his coffee cup full of change at me as I rush to get to the train on time. Because I never have cash, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Is it like a Ding Dong Ditch? Drop in a dollar, make no eye contact, and hurry by? What happens then? Will I be obligated to drop money into his cup every time I pass him? Will he expect it? I don’t know! I don’t!

Today, from across the street, I watched covertly as others hurried by him. Some dropped change and dollars into his cup, thus earning his strange, shouty thanks. Some smiled in his direction as they passed, flashing him a “Sorry, buddy, not today” type of gesture. But mostly? People walked on by, some even quickening their step or swerving as far from him as possible as they passed.

He walks on, doesn’t look back
He pretends he can’t hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there

Yes, the economy sucks. Yes, people are losing their jobs. Yes, we need a change. Yes, we need hope. So I can’t help but be bewildered by this sense of complacency regarding homelessness I perceive in our nation’s capital, this abandonment of the needy, people who have the time and the wherewithal to build cardboard huts on the streets, right in front of us, right outside buildings where thousands of people work, only a block away from the home of the most influential person in the entire country, and yet… there they are? Are we, as a whole, complacent? ARE we? I don’t know! I don’t! I’m not judging. I’m ASKING.

Because there’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House. And I can’t find the funny in that. I just… can’t.

Oh think twice, it’s another day for
You and me in paradise
Oh think twice, it’s just another day for you,
You and me in paradise

Just think about it.

Note to Self…

NOTE TO SELF: Never watch heart-wrenching episodes of “Gossip Girl” while riding the Metro to work. When you tear up, sniffle, and let slip muffled sobs because Chuck is BREAKING YOUR HEART, comments to fellow riders (who are openly staring) such as “…allergies…” or “…stupid dry contacts…” as you brush away the watery mascara-laced tears are not fooling ANYBODY. Also, buy bread and milk. We’re out.

DWM Rewind: A Snaking Tutorial and Other Horrifying Stuff

Okay, I just found the best, most embarrassing video EVER! It involves a “Snaking Dance Tutorial” (not to be confused with the The Axl Rose, as seen on Sweet Child Of Mine and other Guns & Roses late-eighties videos) recorded in a moment of insanity, which I now believe was brought on by sleep deprivation coupled with extraordinary amounts of caffeine in my system, and… well, no shame whatsoever. I cannot stress ENOUGH that I was triple-dog-dared by Charlotte in PA (FYI: I think this may be a private blog now…), so it is ALL HER FAULT.

I was pleasantly surprised (read: horrified beyond belief, yet secretly pleased, but mostly just HORRIFIED) to find this gem of cinematographic goodness while looking back over some old posts. The following is the post that linked me to the video; it captures so well how I have been feeling lately about what of importance I have in me to pass down to my kiddos, that I decided to do a little DWM Rewind and post it in its entirety. Enjoy.

Or not. Whatev.

__________________________

Live Your Life With Arms Wide Open

Sometimes I look at my children, who are growing up so quickly right before my eyes, and I am at a loss as to what of importance I have in me to pass down to them. What? My love of books? My inner Drama Queen? My freckles? My Loud Talk/Loud Laugh gene? My charming wit and sparkling personality? My humilty? The list goes on and on… Then, this weekend, in the most roundabout way possible, I discovered one of the most powerful aspects of myself that I have to pass down to my progeny.

You see, nostalgia struck this weekend. One minute I’m downloading Sway by the Perishers, and the next thing I know I’m downloading music I remember listening to as I spent rainy afternoons in my parents’ bedroom thumbing through my parents’ old 45′s, jamming out to Purple People Eater, Charlie Brown, Shimmy Shimmy Ko-Ko Bop, Shoop Shoop Song, My Boyfriend’s Back, Rescue Me, oh, and this really catchy song about sitting in my a la-la waiting for my ya-ya (uh-huh… uh-huh…), amongst others.

So I went online to iTunes and legally downloaded Sixteen Tons by Tennessee Ernie Ford. I know, right? Me? Obtaining music on the up-and-up? All legal-like and shizz? Recognizing that creative works online are protected by copyright law? Not contributing to the illegal music trade which is destroying artistic creativity and innovation, eliminating jobs, and more than likely bankrolling organized crime?! I KNOW!

(Whatever. You’d think these people would be flattered that someone wants to listen to their stupid music, but noooooo. Money money money! That’s all any of these guys– singers, musicians, managers, producers– care about! I mean, honestly. It’s not as if I couldn’t do what I used to do when I was a teenager… which was to keep a cassette at the ready in my boombox and push RECORD whenever a song I liked came on the airwaves? Oh, the mixed tapes I used to make! At absolutely no cost to myself whatsoever! Well, except for the cassette, of course, but did you know that with a little tape and a tad of ingenuity, you can tape the new songs over old albums that you totally don’t want anymore anyway?… Anyhoos, no one was coming after me then, confiscating my Tainted Love Breakup Tunes or Hair Band Heaven Mix, no sir! Now it’s all about the money. Freaking selfish bastards.)

Um, okay. I had a point when I began…

Ah, yes! Sixteen Tons! Of course, of course… So I dragged my kiddos into my bedroom and forced them listen to the song. I watched delightedly as they fell in love with it, Ernie’s impromptu snaps setting a tempo like a coal-mining crew axing into a brick-solid wall, effectively sucking them into the hammer-like rhythm of the song. Alli snapped in time (fine, almost in time), Hannah bopped her head, TD attempted to look bored, but failed miserably– and as I was swept back to a time when I would giggle madly as my dad would bring this song on home: “I OWE my SOOOOOOUUUUUUU-OOUUUU-OOOUUULLL!… to the company store…” I realized that I was passing on a history. A legacy of music, if you will.

Which… scary thought.

This realization brought to mind my fourth grade end-of-the-year party, when my absolute favoritest teacher EVER gave us permission to bring in some of our own music to play for the class. Stoked, I rushed home and told my mother I simply HAD to bring her album– The New Christy Minstrels’ Sing and Play Cowboys and Indians – to school or I would absolutely DIE. So the next day, armed with my uber-cool album and a sure knowledge of my Cool Factor totally skyrocketing as soon as my classmates heard the opening strains of this kickass song called Navajo, I rushed to the front of the line, bypassing The Police, Air Supply, a few Blondies, Irene Cara (Fame, naturally), and– if I recall correctly– one Captain and Tenille album.

Needless to say, my classmates did not appreciate the music as much as I thought they would and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. I mean, this was GOOD STUFF, right? What the hell was wrong with these people?! But it strikes me now that they did not enjoy my music for many of the same reasons that my daughter’s 2nd grade classmates probably wouldn’t appreciate the phenomenal music from The Phantom of the Opera or Les Miserables. Perhaps my classmates’ mothers hadn’t yet instilled in them a love for the The New Christy Minstrels’ minstrely goodness by playing Lily Langtree or Betsy From Pike– or, oooooh! this super funny song called Three Wheels on My Wagon!– over and over again.

And perhaps their dads didn’t stand at the door “singing” (note my use of sarcastic quote marks) Nelson Eddy as he’d leave the house for work: “I’ll find you in the mornin’ sun and when the night is new… I’ll be looking at the moon… but I’ll be seeing… (*deep breath* *mom joins in*) YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!” And my mom would be all, “Oh , JIM,” and we’d laugh and shout, “Kiss her, Daddy!” and my mom would blush and be all, “Oh, you! Go to work!” and we were like, “Aww!”

Although, come to think of it, I don’t much like Nelson Eddy. Okay, I don’t even KNOW Nelson Eddy. But I love that memory! See how that works? It’s tricky. But that is beside the point.

The point is that as I sat there playing music for my children, I began to imagine my daughters or son sitting down with their own children, playing my music, perhaps songs from U2′s The Joshua Tree album or The Offspring’s hit single Pretty Fly for a White Guy, music that perhaps my grandchildren would take to THEIR fourth-grade end-of-the-year parties. And maybe my kids will teach their kids to Snake or Axl Rose, and maybe, just maybe!, they’ll even gather ’round the karaoke machine and belt out the oldies from their great-grandma’s and grandpa’s generation, perhaps Sixteen Tons or Rescue Me, and they will all laugh at how crazy life was back in the day, and maybe they will videotape it and send it to me, and TGIM and I will laugh and probably bust a tear or two due to the whole Empty Nest Syndrome, and, oh, how glorious that will be.

Yes! I thought. I shall pass down the music!

Of course, I began to panic. I mean, the pressure I suddenly felt to produce the quintessential 21st century mixed CD– representative of the most influential music from 2001 through today– was crushing, but I calmed myself with the knowledge that, hey, I’m totally up to the challenge. I watch American Idol. I pay attention to the music of Veronica Mars. I’m hip to the pop culture, fo’ rizzle, my shizzle.

Gosh. I tell you what… my kids are SO lucky to have me.

In truth, however, around the seventh time I played Sixteen Tons the nostalgia faded with the final strains of the flute and clarinet. I came to my senses and realized that my children, though influenced by my taste in music now, will grow into teenagers and will develop their own tastes, just as I eventually did, and they will call my music stupid and tell me I’m way out of touch and be all, “Ooooh, my music is so much cooler than yours, Momma! Ooooh!”

I must admit to a few moments of frustration and despair. Because if not my love of good music, what?

Then Natasha Bedingfield’s sassy song Unwritten came on my iPod and I was immediately struck– struck, I say!– by the words:

I am unwritten,
Can’t read my mind
I’m undefined
I’m just beginning
The pen’s in my hand
Ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins

The rest is still unwritten.

Good LORD! That was it! The part of myself I absolutely MUST pass down to my children! Because if nothing else, I want to them to learn from me how to take life as it comes– grab it by the balls, if they must– and freaking OWN it.

I can DO that. I just know it.

And the fact that I am instilling this lesson in their minds not only by example, but covertly, as we dance and laugh and sing this song together while cooking dinner, cleaning our rooms, even folding the laundry?

Well, that’s just gravy.

Awesome Light

I’m just going to go ahead and say it. Just blurt it out. Unleash it into the blogosphere. Let it explode out of me the way occasional bouts of introspective verbal diarrhea have a way of doing at the most embarrasing times.

And, wow… There just is not enough “ew!” in the world for the mental picture THAT just conjured, I tell you what, but that is neither here nor there so I will persevere.

See, sometimes? I believe I am awesome. Chock full of the awesomeness. So awesome I can barely stand it! Chuck Bass awesome! I think, “Hey! How is it that I am THIS awesome?!” I write! I sing! I play my guitar! I make vidcasts! I enter contests! I jump out of planes! I swing on the trapeze! I teach my kids awesome things to do and say! And I post videos such as this in which I totally bestow my awesomeness on an unsuspecting, yet obviously pleasantly surprised, public! Because I am AWESOME! I mean, have you SEEN all my friends on Facebook?! I’m only saying.

And then it all falls apart.

I wake up one morning, fire up the iMac, click to my YouTube page to watch my awesome Dr. Horrible Evil League of Evil application one more time, confident in the knowledge that I WILL be chosen for the once-in-lifetime opportunity to be included in the special features section of the super awesome Dr. Horrible DVD. The video starts up, the intro music sends shivers of– what? excitement?– up my spine, but when my face pops up on the screen, my heart drops, freaking plummets, I tell you, and I think, “Oh. My. GOSH. What have I DONE?” I panic. I wish I could take it back. Take it all BACK. I’m not awesome! I’m a fraud! A loser! I made a music video while wearing pink goggles on my forehead! PINK GOGGLES! On my FOREHEAD! And I can’t SING! Or write MUSIC! What the HELL was I THINKING?! OH! EM! GEE! What if Joss Whedon actually SEES this?! I suck I suck I SUCK! (I totally suck.) Not to mention that OTHER people have, like, tens of hundreds of friends on Facebook! Which is a LOT!

And then I think of that quote from “When Harry Met Sally” when Sally tells Harry, “…AND I’m going to be forty!” and when he asks, “When?” she sobs, “Someday!” and I totally get it. Oh, I SO get it. Because it’s there. It’s just sitting there, like some big dead end. And time is passing and what am I doing? Really? Twittering? Jumping out of perfectly good airplanes? Playing around with my guitar? Filming myself acting the fool, not to even mention sporting pink goggles that totally clash with a blue-accented black rash guard? When I’m not even at the POOL?! Right?! There is no WATER for the pink goggles, people! How is that awesome? Do I really think I’m funny? Do I truly believe I have anything to offer? That I will ever write the great American novel or even have any kind of future as an observational humorist? Well?! DO I?!

At this point, no amount of affirmation, self or otherwise, can penetrate the gloom. My heart hurts and I wish I could crawl away and hide. I stop writing. I stop creating. I lose myself in (quality!) television and (totally awesome!) DS video games. I avoid novels because they make me believe that– perhaps!– I could write something even better and why set myself up like that? Do I really want to be That Person? The one who deludes herself? Like those super horrible American Idol contestants who no one ever had the cajones to grab by the shoulders, give ‘em a shake, and sternly say, “Seriously? I love you, but you SUCK at the singing. For real! Even Paula thinks you suck, which HELLO?! Now cut that shit out!”

On one level, the rational one, I understand this is a phase. A mood. A momentary lapse of confidence in my utter awesomeness. But on another level, I just feel sad. Weary. Depressed. So totally lacking in the awesomeness. Awesomeless. Awesome light.

It’s moments such as this that I need to drag myself up off the floor of my I’m SO Not Awesome At ALL pity party, give myself a figurative “Pull it together, fool!” slap across the face, and look around. Take an interest in those who weren’t on the invite list to my party of one. TGIM. My kiddos. My family. My friends. Because even in the depths of self-pity, yes, even then! I understand that they don’t need any kind of proof of my awesomeness. They see it in me, the awesomeness, or see the lack thereof, yet they love me. Unconditionally. Yup. Pink goggles and all.

And that? Is totally awesome.

« Previous Page — Next Page »