Clarity

I've decided to set an alarm on Sunday evenings. Well, maybe Saturday mornings. No, hmmm. Well, I've decided to set a weekly alarm so that I blog weekly. I came back to this blog six months ago and promised myself to wiggle a little. I did, then stopped. So let's try this again. 

I write because if I don't, I'll explode. The words go around in my head and I have conversations with myself (which I found out today, via FaceBook, means I'm a genius) and with others who are not here. It makes me feel saner to write the words on a page. To see them crisp and dark (and a font size larger since the last time I wrote, sigh) on the computer page. It gives me clarity.

Clarity is something I desperately need right now. I feel the need surrounding me, I see it swirling throughout the internet, the news, the streets and shops and neighborhoods. Clarity is stability, it gives us a vision of what the future might bring. Even if the clarity brings a vision of awful, hateful, bitter battles and difficult journeys, at least I know what plans to make, to brace myself for what's coming, I know what to pack for the trip.

This week I thought I had clarity, and on Tuesday night that was wiped away and swirls of uncertainty replaced it. My beautiful, ever hopeful, immigrant husband tries to see the best outcome, but all I feel is fear and sadness for him and for my family and neighbors and friends. Not immediate-danger kind of fear, because fortunately I live in California, a state that saw the hate and said NO very clearly. I fear for friends in pockets of communities where hate was bubbling under the surface and only needed permission to be let loose. I fear for larger communities in red states that feel permission to let the hate flow. I fear the flow of hate and the battle that will result to stem the tide. 

In order to keep clarity, I have to say over and over, LOVE TRUMPS HATE. I hope that an alarm has gone off for you and you stay very diligent. I hope that clarity comes for our leaders. I hope that those who think this win gives them permission to be hateful are given a clear message that LOVE AND RESPECT IS THE ANSWER, and it's NOT OKAY to hate.  

I hope for Clarity. I hope. I hope. I hope.

Love,

Janice

I'm Still Here

A friend who was set in my path last year challenged me a few weeks ago to wiggle. Just a little bit. To wiggle meant to write. If I want something enough, but fear, weariness, or time were the sticky mud that slowed me down, I should just set my mind to moving at a wiggle pace. Just a little every day and eventually I would get there. She is a champion of my writing, she takes risks and pushes herself and puts herself out there. She jumps out of that airplane daily, weekly, risking and flying at the same time. I believe she was put in my path for a number of reasons, and one was to hold my hand and lead me onto that plane, buckle my parachute, and cheer as I jump out into the clear blue sky.

Because writing is like that for me. It's a rush. It's adrenaline and anxiety and joy and tears and everything all at once. It's cathartic and cleansing and I feel stronger and clearer once I see my words on the page.

Today I went back. I opened this blog and I read entries from the past and thought, "Who is this woman? How did she get so insightful and eloquent?" I truly didn't recognize myself, my writing, in the mirror. And I loved them, the entries, the fears, the thinking and language and I felt them all over again, and she started to look familiar, came into focus. Me. That's me. I can do that. I can write. How could I have forgotten her, this writer? Did she get lost in the grief of slowly losing her two parents over the past three and a half years? 

Time's up. My wiggle is done for today. I'm promising myself at least a few days a week of writing time by setting my alarm 30 minutes earlier than I actually need to get ready for the day. So now I will go and dress for Pilates, have breakfast on this cloudy Saturday, correct some papers, run errands.

Thank you, my friend. 

My Background Music is Books

Many people hear music as they remember a particular place and time in their own personal history. I realized today that although music often takes me back to a specific place in the timeline of my life, books are actually the true score to my life.  

The past couple of weekends we painted the upstairs hallway (well, my husband painted while I helped prep and then told him the spots he missed), which meant moving furniture, the most daunting piece being The Bookcase. It isn't that huge, but it contains books that range from a 1929 Alice Through the Looking Glass that belonged to my mother, to Number the Stars bought for my own children, plus various Nicholas Sparks (mine and my oldest daughter's) and My Body My Self (I won't embarrass the proud owner of that one). That bookcase contains the complete Tolkien series, one baby book (I have three kids, so I wonder why only one? And where are the others?), CS Lewis, The Brothers Grimm, many Beatrix Potter mini books, and dozens of other treasures. These treasures represent periods of my life that are particularly poignant.  I was changed forever by Fahrenheit 451 and the high school teacher who assigned it.  As a teacher and mother I read and cried through Bridge to Tarabithia.  Again as teacher and mother I marveled at my youngest daughter's fascination with dark tragedies, but remember how challenging it was to get her to read at all.  I remember being delighted in my son's development as a reader when hooked on Watership Down (finally hooked on reading!) and proudly watching him as an independent thinker choose  Michael Moore's various takes on the political world as we know it.  

I hesitated, cleaning out the shelf of the "fluff" my mom lent me to read, and making a pile of my own children's books to add to my classroom library. Which of these may have been instrumental in my oldest daughter's development of world view or a writer's eye and mind? Did some of these have remnants of my mother's life philosophy or enjoyment of historical fiction (a passion we share)? My father had the habit of ordering books and copying magazine articles that reflected his philosophy, one for each of his daughters, and sometimes his grandchildren. I have a copy of the last of those thoughtful purchases with a note clipped to it in his handwriting that says "Janice". It's a gift from him, probably his last. I haven't read it yet, but it went into the pile of "to read".

Yes, books are the score that plays in the background through the stages of my life. The children's party planning books are alongside the master's degree books, each equally important, telling the tales of my many lives.  I clean away some space on the shelves and wonder what books I will add. I'm looking forward to carving out time for the "to read" books that are on the shelf, easily within reach, and wonder what my children will think when they go through those shelves of my life.

Never Apparent, Always A Parent

It's not always clear to me at what moments I am parenting, and when I'm just a parent. Is every conversation, every interaction with my kids an act of parenting? Friendly conversation or banter, an outing for yogurt or a simple car ride always seem to turn into something more. If our kids have become adults, are we still parenting them? My children are adults, according to the law of the land, because their birth dates fall more than eighteen years ago. If you are a parent you know that this means nothing to clarify the definition of their being 'adult'.

Our oldest child is completely financially independent. Child Number 2 is well on her way - we provide food and shelter, but she is saving towards getting her own shelter soon. The third is still a tax write-off, a full-time student, and completely reliant on us for food and shelter. Aside from those cold assessments of our assets, our kids are still our kids. They need advice and, asked for or not, we provide it. They need reminders that family time is important, so we dribble on the guilt. They need to hear that they are on the right path, are making good choices, are loved and smart and wonderful, so we praise and hug and encourage. We bribe them with promises of food, we buy them gifts of new tennis shoes, golf clubs, and clothes. We help them set up their new apartments. We provide gas and cars and muscles when they move. And all of that is the easy stuff. 

When they come to us with a proposition, or a decision, or a philosophical/political position, we have to stop and take a few breaths, or even give them an "I'll have to get back to you after I think about it." Encouraging independence and helping them get on their feet or on their way to achieving a goal or taking a stand is a path strewn with obstacles and potholes. Every hesitation can be interpreted as disapproval, every compromise a failed promise or dashed hope. Even encouragement can be misread as consent. Recently one of my children asked for help paying a couple of months rent (as a loan) in order to move into an apartment with friends who would be ready sooner than my child was ready with enough savings. Hmmm. We were asked carefully and seriously, and our progeny knew the amount was not a monetary hardship on us. In spite of the careful and difficult request, we paused. We want to instill responsibility and the ethic of paying cash not credit. How to do that without sounding selfish and stingy? Impossible; and apparently we achieved the double coup of appearing to be unsupportive as well.

We have three kids, and in a good week only one of three is mad at us. Usually it's two, and on rare occasions all three. And sometimes it's not both of us; two are mad at me and their dad, the third is only mad at dad. Or one is mad at both and two are mad at me, etc.  I'm going to take the position that anger and frustration is a sign that we are doing something right. Or not. Who knows? All I know is that I am always a parent.

When My Smartphone Dove into the Pool

There I was, sitting by the pool, just picking up my towel. Suddenly, (but slowly) it was like everything went into slow motion mode - the dark rectangle splashhhhhhhed into the aqua water, then slowly sank, twirling through the sparkling water like a leaf falling from a tree in the gentle autumn breeze. HOLY SHIT, MY PHONE!!!! I jumped in and scooped it up and wrapped it in the towel quick as a blink (slow motion mode stopped at "HOLY..."). Fortunately I had my bathing suit on so nothing else got wet that shouldn't. A friend was quick to suggest the rice drying method (I'd used this one successfully for my daughter's phone) so I got out a baggie and scooped the rice in, dried my phone as best I could, and popped it into the bag and prayed.

Meanwhile, I had to get on about the day's events without the assistance of my smart phone. I felt a little lost at first, then I began to problem solve, because that's just who I am, a problem solver.

First, I picked up my daughter's phone and texted her father to let him know I was phoneless for the rest of the day. He never checks messages so had no idea until much later. When she called him to gloat to, I mean inform, him that his 'girlfriend' (his pet name for me, still, 30 years after the wedding) had dropped her phone in the pool (insert hysterical, throaty laughter a la Demi Moore - my girls inherited their father's raspy voice), he thought she was the one who did it and refused to believe it, bless him. 

On to the list of How We Got To the New Dentist in the Other Valley Without My Smart Phone. Step 1, etc: Try to remember the name of the dentist that is typed into my calendar. Then realize that thanks to the magical Cloud, my calendar information from my phone (sometimes) transfers to my laptop. Fire up the Laptop. Look up the address online, then Mapquest (haven't used that in a while) it. Memorize the directions (and email them to Demi-laughter daughter just in case). Repeat this address to yourself over and over so your daughter doesn't think you've totally gone over the hill and are now sliding down it into dementia. Get in the car and pray the traffic isn't bad, because you certainly can't check it on your smart phone. Find the New Dentist on your own and feel totally, well, SMART. All on your own. Sit in the waiting room reading the TV Guide because you have no games to play, status to update, or online reading to do. BECAUSE YOUR SMARTPHONE is at home, sitting in a bag of rice. Find your way home (after a three hour visit - I almost said tour), with only one wrong turn. Try your best not to turn on the cell phone that still needs to sit in rice. Fold clothes. Wait.

I tried the rice, then the blow dryer, thinking two solutions are better than one. Over six hours after the swimming incident, I was tired of reading (actually turning pages. Of paper.) my book and trying to figure out what to put in the pasta salad (oh, yah, check the laptop edition of recipe finder) and I just couldn't wait any longer. It worked! My phone was working! How did I lever live without you?! I mean, ahem, no problem, could have gone a whole day no  problem....

Pin, Surf, Search, Post, Repin, Like

This is what I spend my time doing in my "free" time. Sitting in front of the computer, laughing, smiling, pecking away at the keys. I read jokes that make me laugh, watch TED videos that make me cry. I catch up on most of my friends and relatives and their families. I read reviews of books and movies and I pin photos of beautiful ideas onto my Pinterest (a baby obsession that I fear will continue to grow and develop into a demanding teenager). I do all this alone. In my room, or family room, or at the kitchen table. Yes, I interact with friends, posting comments to comments, or chatting in boxes. But I'm still alone. 

I find it surreal to think that when I was 15 it was a privilege (that a rich aunt afforded us) to have my own Princess phone in my room so I could call and talk, in real time, with my friends. But only after homework and dinner, and definitely before eight. Now I can be in almost immediate contact with anyone, literally anyone, I know around the world. I can even see their face while I speak to them. My kids can get a hold of me any time, any place via the magic mini-tablet I carry in my pocket. Oh, and it plays music, too. No more planning a meeting place or agenda for the day so that I know where they are or how to reach them. No longer do I ask for the phone number of the house they are visiting. That is a memory, a shadow, from a former life, a former generation.

So I wonder how this age of technology and instant communication has shaped us, or really the generations behind me, and how it continues to shape us. How are relationships different, and is the way our kids communicate and form relationships effected by this shift in the universe? I know, I'll goto the library, look through the card catalog under "Are you kidding me?!" and find magazine articles on such studies. Or I could wait for that annual Encyclopedia Britannica edition that highlights the year (no, it's not an ocean liner). But wait, I have this large, magic keyboard with a flat TV screen to help me...

Thank You, Title IX

Today is the fortieth birthday of the landmark legislation that has affected the lives of many people I love. It's been a long time since I have blogged, and I thought that this day was worthy of my time and effort, and for special recognition of this day.

Title IX, a portion of the Education Amendments of 1972, states that "No person in the United States shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any education program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance,...." (with some exceptions including religious and military), see http://www.dol.gov/oasam/regs/statutes/titleix.htm.  Title IX is most well-known for its impact on women's sports in public education. I was ten when this passed, so felt very little of it affect my own life or those of my peers.

As I drive by the many schools and parks of my town, I see girls playing soccer and softball as much as I do boys. I wonder what these girls would think if I told them that a few short years ago they wouldn't even be considered for a college soccer team or a national softball team? I look at my daughters' friends who went to college on scholarships and came out with a degree and the self discipline required to compete in a sport at the college level plus carry a full load of classes. I especially think about those girls who would not have had the opportunity to go to college without the financial help that they earned by excelling in their field of sport, particularly those who are the first college graduates of their family. What a different world we live in compared to when I went to college.

Thank you, Title IX for making the dreams of our little girl athletes as big (or almost as big - professional sports has some catching up to do) as their brothers'. I have my eye on some of my former students and expect to be invited to their college games in the not-so-distant future!