What he said
It must have been the unfortunate choice of Pandora station – U2’s Running to Stand Still, that prompted my run to be filled with thoughts of love. Many of the songs were familiar, but I forged a new understanding of them as the lyrics relentlessly pounded me for 5 miles.
As my mind sought an escape from the music, which was a combination of cloying and consolatory, some thoughts I recently had, began to knit themselves together. There must be water. If there’s a lack of oxygen, one can’t breathe. Light encourages development. A little dirt and fire are required. Love is earth.
Love is organic. It makes me believe in science in a way that my high school biology class failed to do. In fact, nothing has convinced me that human beings consist of atoms and electricity so much as love. From the moment those individual particles attach themselves to those of another, there’s no denying the force. There is an almost pungent scent from pheromones, palpable and intensely intimate. I’ve smelled it.
I’ve come to believe that we each possess an internal well which needs to be continually replenished. What fills the well for each of us is marvelously unique and ever evolving. Sometimes it’s a shower of loving words or shared thoughts which soothe our soul. At other times salty tears. There also needs to be a balance of air and light to enable growth. Without oxygen, there is suffocation. In the dark, love withers and fails to reach its true potential. Fresh air and sunshine truly are the antidote to sorrow. I know this to be true.
Dirt and fire can bring excitement and exhilaration to a union. Getting a little messy together, in whatever fashion you mutually appreciate, can be joyful. The heat of passion can meld two into one. I’ve felt this.
If these individual elements are absent, or present yet unbalanced, instead of desirable rich and earthy soil, mud or dust may result. We become bogged down or inclined to be blown away. Equilibrium, damn it, it’s about creating a positive balance between these individual essential fundamentals. It’s true about the earth, it’s true about love.
In January 2002 I hosted a dinner party to celebrate a friend’s birthday. It was a Monday night and we had a wonderful evening of laughter, food and wine. As the night progressed, I began to anticipate how tired and cranky I would be the next morning when my alarm roused me for work. I hate being off my game because of lack of sleep.
As I moved between the dining room and my guests, and the kitchen with its dish filled sink, glancing at the ever later time on the clock, a thought occurred to me: September 11, 2001 had been a Tuesday. Something inside me clicked with such force that it seemed impossible for the internal noise to have gone unheard by those sharing my evening.
We never know when our last night on this earth will be.
I knew, without a shred of doubt, that if the next day was when I met my end, I would rather die with a bellyful of celebratory food and the echo of an evening’s laughter in my ears than 8 hours of sleep. No regrets.
I’ve noticed some reporting recently about cat calls, social media buzz word stuff. I haven’t yet had a moment to click through and read any of what has been written, but intend to momentarily. Before I read what the discussion is, I wanted to express my own experiences and opinion without influence.I don’t remember when I personally received my first catcall, but I do know that each time I hear one these days, I laugh and wonder if it will be my last. Catcalls don’t bother me. They don’t make me feel objectified or threatened. Usually, they make me laugh, once when I was about 8.5 months pregnant hard enough to almost pee myself.
Maybe I should define “catcalls.” I’m talking about a couple of complimentary words spoken in an appreciative tone of voice, not a barrage of filthy language. That I most definitely find offensive. I don’t know, maybe it was growing up around NYC or something, but a construction worker giving me a “Hey, pretty lady,” doesn’t feel like harassment to me.
Ok, now I’ll go read some of what’s going on. I’m back.
This seemed to be the article which helped to ignite the current conversation about catcalling. The author must have been writing an ironic piece because I can’t imagine that a woman would truly encourage attention on the street in the way she did. It had to have been intentionally hyperbolic, right?
This was written in response to a segment of some television program which I’ve been fortunate enough to have never had inflicted upon me. The writer makes some excellent points and I can understand her perspective.
The focus here was primarily on Kirsten Gillibrand’s assertions regarding inappropriate comments made to her by other members of Congress. The examples she provided were outrageous and demonstrated a complete lack of propriety and common decency, but I didn’t perceive them to be “catcalls.” They were personal criticism and commentary about her physical self and as such were deplorable.
My conclusion after this minimal amount of “research?” Well, we all have differing thresholds for what we are willing to tolerate. In my mind there’s a vast difference between a light “Looking good” and detailed descriptions about “what I’d like to do to you, baby.” Does this sort of reasoning strip me of my feminist crown? Is it somehow demeaning to all women that one of my favorite moments as a young woman was when I received a standing ovation from a roomful of cadets at West Point, something I was given in response to how I looked and not related to my intellectual capacity? Does the pleasure I felt at that moment somehow diminish me as a woman? Only if I let it.
Filed under aging, musings, News
You remember that Billy Preston song, don’t you? I don’t think I’ve heard it or even thought of it in at least 20 years. Until about two weeks ago, that is. The context that day was a theme park, a carousel, and a boy. The song popped into my head and caused me to smile.
The most recent mowing of my neighbor’s yard also featured circles. I know I’ve shared before the artistic mowing for which, among his other artistic endeavors, my neighbor is known. As soon as I saw the pattern from my deck, I once again heard that tune bouncing around in my brain.
During my run last night, the song came for the third time. These things usually happen in threes, right? I was reflecting on a personal situation and thought about the uncountable conversations which seem to consistently travel in a circular fashion. Although I like to travel in a circle, preferring to take a different route home than the one I took during departure, when it comes to relationship interactions, circular is definitely not satisfying.
Will it go round in circles? Will it fly high like a bird up in the sky?
I just don’t know.
I’ve been doing this DelSo thing for close to 5 years and have been called a couple of things. I think interesting is my favorite. Over at Tablehopping I, along with my neighbors, I suppose, recently earned the title “pretentious.” Here – read it for yourself.
What do you think? Was dubbing my little neighborhood DelSo really an act worthy of that moniker? Why are Steve’s readers so damn negative? I don’t suppose there’s a single answer to those questions, but let’s focus on the positive, shall* we? We in the DelSo are getting a terrific “new” spot to eat in our neighborhood!
*Is “shall” pretentious?
Have you heard this catchy little tune by Echosmith? When it comes on the radio Quinn always ask me to turn it up “like a party” and he sings along to the lyrics:
“I wish that I could be like the cool kids,
‘Cause all the cool kids, they seem to fit in…
I wish that I could be like the cool kids,
‘Cause all the cool kids they seem to get it.”
It breaks my heart a little bit each time.
Don’t you remember those kids? The ones who seemed to always have the right clothes and the right hair and could always say and do the right thing? Their shiny perfection made everything a regular kid did seem dull in comparison.
I wasn’t one of the cool kids. Although I had plenty of friends, I certainly wasn’t in the upper social stratosphere. Somehow I survived school, and even eventually went back to revisit those days for a couple of reunions – the 10th, the 21st (don’t ask), the 25th. What I’ve learned over the years, though, is we all have more in common than we ever would have allowed ourselves to imagine when we were fellow students. We each have strengths and weaknesses, parts which are attractive and some which are less appealing and successes and failures. We’re human.
Every September is a reunion for school kids. I want my children to understand that being one of the cool kids in school isn’t a guarantee of a lifetime of happiness. Summer experiences and growth have the potential to impact every child. Attitudes and preferences change and each new academic year is a clean slate of opportunity for everyone. Getting that is ultimately far more important than fitting in.
Every year when it is time to drive west from wherever we happen to be on Cape Cod, I don’t want to leave. It doesn’t matter how much I miss my own home or that I already have a place booked for the following summer – I don’t want my beach time to be finished. As I approach the Sagamore Bridge I reliably feel my eyes fill with tears, which I don’t release, of course. I don’t need to further convince my kids that I’m getting soft in my middle years.
Each and every time I run through my neighborhood I witness cars running red lights. I’m not even talking about lights that are stale yellow, I mean lights that changed to red while the approaching car was at least a half block away. Red light cameras? Yes, please! People need to learn how to stop.
I am at the point in parenting when I very soon will have a household of boys who no longer indulge me by believing in any of the wonders of childhood. No tooth fairy, no Easter rabbit, no Santa Claus. All done. I’m taking a final shot later this month when my youngest and I head to a most magical place – Disney World. I’m hopeful that Quinn will be impressed by something there – the rides, the fireworks, the characters, and decide that believing is sometimes worth the suspension of reality. Dreams can still come true, right?