Liberation from Perfection
If you sit on the couch, you’ll be asked for something.
If you sit in your room, you’ll be asked for something.
If you sit at the table, you’ll be asked for something.
But if you sit on the floor of your kitchen, you can find temporary peace.
There’s a frightening amount of Cheerios and popcorn down here, but that doesn’t bother me.
Follow me for more ways to live the dream 😹😹
There are a thousand and one tributes going on, at this moment, for Stephen Sondheim. This is one more. To him, and to the students at San Luis Obispo High School in 1992/93, who introduced him to me with their production of Into the Woods.
I was in elementary school and my sister played the Baker’s Wife. She had her rehearsal cassette tape which I often borrowed/stole to listen to over and over and over again (especially after she left for college, but I digress).
The performing bug had already bitten me years before but this took it to the next level. The words were so fast and the music fit in differently than anything else I’d heard. It danced with my brain like nothing I’d experienced before or since, save a couple top notch Shakespeare performances, but that’s different.
So to the production team of SLOHS’ Into The Woods circa 1992/1993– Mr. Huttle, and (the woman whose name I don’t remember but she had glorious cheekbones), thank you. To Beth Curry and Erik Austin and Bryan Barnhardt and Amy Sinsheimer and Christa Nichols and everyone whose name I don’t remember but whose performances have stayed with me for decades, thank you. To the musicians, HOW? and thank you. To my sister, thank you thank you thank you, and don’t ever get crushed by a giant for real please. To Beth’s dad who filmed it, which gave me something beautiful to watch over and over once she was away, thank you kindly.
To the teachers and the creators and the performers and the enjoyers… thank you.
And to Stephen Sondheim, you are dead, so you you will not hear me, but you are not gone, not as long as there’s music. Thank you for the glimmer.
I hold onto things for a ridiculously long time. I’m rather sentimental.
I have my Poppa’s old tax suitcase (It’s a little old suitcase with a labelmaker label on it that says “Taxes”). It’s where I keep my Keep Forever things.
I keep my Keep Forever things in the tax suitcase because there are two things in life you can count on, death, and that I’m-going-to-keep-that-forever.
I kept, not every, but many of the many cards my grandparents sent me. Encouragement cards during days of visible struggle, birthday cards, Christmas letters, Just Because cards. Notes pontificating on religion, family, politics, and the world, saying they’re proud of me and in my corner. The handwriting gets a bit shakier over time, his more than hers, but every card is stuffed full of love. Gone for almost a decade but still with me.
Last night I smiled more than I cried while I read them. My gratitude is now bigger than the grief. I ate up every card and kept diving in for more treasures.
Birthday cards and notes from my parents, cards from friends, and drawings from their children. I have an envelope my now high-school niece scribbled “I Love You” on when she was probably 6. Cards from our engagement and wedding– words of advice and celebration. Cards of sympathy and notes of understanding– generous and compassionate.
I held them to my heart and smiled. I felt so loved. It felt SO GOOD.
The opposite of a Dementor– my own little Patronus.
So for those of us who live with depression (and standard folks too, why not), I highly recommend gathering up a box of collected memories—words from people who know and love you, who can remind you who you are when you forget. Because we forget. And the disease can get loud.
Chocolate helps but only so much. You gotta cast that patronus. Fortify yourself with the armor of love.
Because you are loved. By me and by others.
My mother would never describe herself as an activist,
But I do.
She never allowed Nestle in the house,
She vetoed Carl’s Jr on every road trip,
And never participated in Black Friday.
My mother was an activist, in her way.
With three kids to raise, a husband, and a job to juggle,
She protested with her purse,
Refusing to support those who didn’t support others.
Not for all the “But Mom”s in the universe.
“But Mom, strawberry milk!”
But honey, those babies.
“But Mom, criss cut fries!”
But honey, women’s rights.
“But Mom, I want to see a movie!”
But honey, those workers.
That was how she showed her values.
Pocketbook protest, economic Evangelism.
She claims to not know where I get it from.
But I know I get it from her.
I know where we get it from too,
I’ve been studying the branches.
Our Family Tree tells me
of a woman named Belle who stood up for others.
She fought for benefits she would not reap.
She planted seeds and we get to bloom.
Strength gets a lot of glory,
More than, I think, deserved.
Vulnerability is truly generous,
It says, “I trust you to see me.”
I have been stingy in my strength,
Thinking Strong was the peak.
Tenderness is true bravery,
May I find the courage to be Soft.
I’m combing through boxes and came across a lot of old writing- some scribbled onto napkins and paper towels, some cursive on lined paper/backs of receipts, some typed and printed,
This gem stood out. Call me Cassandra.
“I wonder what will be born from a society that’s obsessed with commentary (ironic pause). It used to be some what of a goal to escape judgment or commentary, to breeze by without anybody noticing or commenting on our existence. We now thrive on comments. I can’t log onto MySpace (2021 addition: LOLOLOLOLOLOL) without finding at least one friend fishing for comment s (new pics! Please comment!) and I have to admit, my heart sings a little when I see someone has stopped by to comment on me.”
Okay, (2021 voice), this is too much. Fifteen years later comment culture has eaten us alive. We developed an entire vocabulary around thirsty behavior. Then 2020 moved our entire lives online and y’all don’t need my thoughts on that because you lived it too. But wow, early-2000-self, you saw it coming.
“But what will come from this self-obsessed falsely inflated sense of importance? We’ve seen cell phones separate and alienate people (2021 addition: and connect and amplify historically silenced and excluded voices), and with iPods and DVD players in the car, a family can go on a long trip without having to acknowledge each other’s presence at all.
“It frightens me, to say the least.
“We inhabit a world where you have a million friends but nobody to talk to. Where if nobody saw it, it didn’t happen. And if nobody snapped a picture of it, it doesn’t matter.
“And religion, which used to be a place for sanctuary and acceptance (and also torture, war, and the like) has turned into another petty political machine.”
So, yeah, I guess I’ve always been like this. I just used to express it privately and now we live in a broadcast culture. So… here you have it.
Be gentle with yourself and each other today. Humaning is hard. Xox
I’m combing through boxes and came across a lot of old writing- some scribbled onto napkins and paper towels, some cursive on lined paper/backs of receipts, some typed and printed,
This gem stood out. Call me Cassandra.
“I wonder what will be born from a society that’s obsessed with commentary (ironic pause). It used to be some what of a goal to escape judgment or commentary, to breeze by without anybody noticing or commenting on our existence. We now thrive on comments. I can’t log onto MySpace (2021 addition: LOLOLOLOLOLOL) without finding at least one friend fishing for comment s (new pics! Please comment!) and I have to admit, my heart sings a little when I see someone has stopped by to comment on me.”
Okay, (2021 voice), this is too much. Fifteen years later comment culture has eaten us alive. We developed an entire vocabulary around thirsty behavior. Then 2020 moved our entire lives online and y’all don’t need my thoughts on that because you lived it too. But wow, early-2000-self, you saw it coming.
“But what will come from this self-obsessed falsely inflated sense of importance? We’ve seen cell phones separate and alienate people (2021 addition: and connect and amplify historically silenced and excluded voices), and with iPods and DVD players in the car, a family can go on a long trip without having to acknowledge each other’s presence at all.
“It frightens me, to say the least.
“We inhabit a world where you have a million friends but nobody to talk to. Where if nobody saw it, it didn’t happen. And if nobody snapped a picture of it, it doesn’t matter.
“And religion, which used to be a place for sanctuary and acceptance (and also torture, war, and the like) has turned into another petty political machine.”
So, yeah, I guess I’ve always been like this. I just used to express it privately and now we live in a broadcast culture. So… here you have it.
Be gentle with yourself and each other today. Humaning is hard. Xox
Sometimes, when I get overwhelmed, I like to picture the planet. It’s been 20 years since I took Earth Science so cut me some slack on my visualization.
But I picture the core, all molten and intense, and the mantle, and crust. And there we are, all life, just sitting on the skin of the earth, like the forest we see after tanking off a pore strip, all life, just on the outermost layer, covered with the protection of atmosphere, spinning and hurdling through an expanding universe.
And suddenly things are the right size again.
When you have a child who Notices, it takes longer to do everything because there are flowers to smell and shadows to chase and rainbows in puddles.
When you have a child who Notices, you learn to leave a little earlier and that arriving late isn’t an emergency.
Or you live in a constant state of frenzied chaos. (Or both…)
When you have a Child who Notices, your neighbors all learn her name.
The Child who Notices every dog, cat, and squirrel on the block.
The Child who Notices every puddle, drain, and piece of litter.
The Child who Notices your haircut and the dog’s new collar.
The Child who Notices the Things we’re Trained to Ignore.
Who asks if the people sleeping under the overpass are camping. Who demands to know what happened to their homes.
The Child who Notices points out the big empty houses downtown, “They could live there! With us!”
Some may call the child Distracted because she Notices Everything.
Today I tried to do Too Many Things.
I remembered to Mail the Card but smeared tikka Masala on the envelope.
The other card could not be addressed, though written and sealed, will likely sit on my counter being buried by Important Mail until I clean again, am horrified to discover the Unsent Card, and put it on top of the Important Mail to remind me to Get the Address.
I saw the people and got the kid, but did not have a snack so came back to the house in time to Not Know Where the Other Thing is, before “finally” going to the park.
Where things were great until they weren’t. Like it is with kids. All was well until it wasn’t, and then it WASN’T so we are Home Now.
And I think if I’d tried to do less today, I would have done better.
One card mailed and the child delivered and retrieved from school? I should throw myself a parade.
Pretty Good Ugly