One year ago, my life changed completely. For 25 years, I had self-identified first and foremost as a mom, and my life revolved around the needs and wants of someone else. My work schedule was set to accommodate the schedule of a busy teen. My evening hours were occupied by her activities, and my daytime hours were constantly on call, in case she found herself in need.
In addition, my other child, the college graduate, [several times over, read professional student,] moved away to another life as a doctoral candidate in a state far away. It is a world that is unfamiliar to me, and in which I have no part at all.
As my children know, I didn't start out intending to be Super Mom. I was going to be Mary Tyler Moore when I grew up, single and free, a career woman with a fabulous life in the city. Marriage and family were not a part of that plan. To a solitude loving adolescent on a farm in SE Minnesota, her life looked glamorous and exciting, and I dreamed of walking in her footsteps to have the same kind of experience.
It never occurred to me that Mary was often lonely. That is the adult observation, lost on a kid with big dreams and no coherent plan.
I never had much interest in little children as a kid. I was the youngest in my own immediate family and one of the youngest in both extended families, so I didn't have much exposure to them. I rarely babysat other people's children, and I was never the one to ooh and ah over the babies in church.
It wasn't that I disliked children. I even taught Sunday School and Bible school when I was in high school, and I had fun doing it. [I don't know if the kids had fun - you would have to ask them, and I'm not naming names.] I just wasn't really interested in going there myself.
However, life, as it has a way of doing, dropped a bomb on my plans, first, in the form of a spouse, and then an unexpected baby a year later. Becoming a mother was an event which changed everything I thought and expected from life. Suddenly, my world revolved around a tiny creature whose well being was the most important thing in my universe. After I recovered from the shock, I embraced the unexpected opportunity that came my way, and found the map that would guide my life journey to be much clearer.
I threw myself into the job with complete abandon, and I worked hard to be the best mother I could be. Note, I did not say perfect. That is not an achievable goal, and I, for one, am smart enough to know it. If we ended the day with more good memories than bad, it was a good day. [I also learned not all days can be good days, but that's another blog altogether.]
Fast forward to one year ago, when my life was in review, forced into change once again by the leave-taking of my youngest. Making myself obsolete had been the focus of the last 25 years of my life, and now that it was coming to fruition, it felt like I was cut adrift in the vast sea of the unknown. I have felt like that at other times in my life, of course, but mostly when I was the one initiating the change. It is a very different experience to be on the outside looking in, the one left behind, having to make the new normal comfortable for myself.
It has been an interesting year, and I think all three of us could agree that we wouldn't have imagined the year going quite the way it has for any of us. It is not bad to deviate from the course you thought you set; sometimes it is for the best to be flexible. But it can be surprising when you find yourself somewhere other than where you thought you would be when you are looking back on the journey.
I have had some reminders in the last few days of that magnificent change that was thrust upon me twelve short and long months ago, as I have watched friends send their first child, their last child, their middle child, off into the world of the unknown. A brief acquaintance that I made this week put words to the feeling that most mothers have - "When he is there, I hold my heart outside my body; when he comes home, I can put it away again."
She was not talking about college, she was talking about her son in the military, currently in Afghanistan, and it was an image that helped me understand the fear that she lived with every day that he was gone. But it was also an emotion with which I could relate. Sooner or later, every mother has to let go of her child's hand and allow them to cross the street of life unattended. It is scary for everyone the first time, but eventually, when you see them on the other side having so much fun, its worth the momentary discomfort, and it's better for both of you.
I have found, in this year, some new pursuits, along with a new freedom to enjoy life my way. I am engaging in activities I never imagined I would. I am feeling old passions anew. I am suddenly daring to dream about things that have long been shelved, and open to experiences that I haven't been interested in until now.
At 50, I am no longer young. I have less life ahead than behind me, and I'm okay with that. I no longer worry about changing the world - I'll leave that to someone else. I am at an age where I look back with fondness at things which once seemed constraining, unthinkable even just a few years ago. I am settled inside my own skin, and I no longer feel the urge to make something more of myself than who I am.
I have felt interesting emotions, watching friends send off their children as I did a year ago, and seeing how they handle it. Contrary to sitcom portrayals or funny commercials, most parents neither cling to nor forget about their children who are moving away into a new life of their own.
I doubt many mothers have dropped their child into their new situation without shedding a tear, but most of them don't camp out in the dorm or barracks, either. Most dads will help one more time with setting up the bunk or giving advice, but they are usually the first one out the door for the return trip home.
When a child leaves your home, whether first, last, or middle, your life relentlessly changes. The child whose life rhythm has become so familiar you don't even think about the myriad ways in which you accommodate them leaves a gaping hole in your equilibrium when they are suddenly missing. After 18 years of putting them first, it's difficult to put them away in the back of your mind, and accept that they can get along without you. But if you have done your job well and they were a good student of your teaching, they will do better than get along - they will ultimately excel.
As I look to the unknown future, I do not worry that my children will find their way in their own lives. Each of them has charted their course, and the journey they are taking is to a destination of their own choosing. It is fascinating to see them grow and mature and change, becoming the adult they were always meant to be.
I am nostalgic today, as I look back a year in time and see how far we have all come. My eldest child talks about credit ratings and triathlon training and is already worrying about getting a job in the working world despite several years to go on the final [I'll believe that when I see it] degree. My youngest is preparing for a semester abroad in a place she hadn't even dreamed about when she left home one short year ago.
They have met new people, and seen new places. They have tried new activities, and fought through life issues mostly on their own. They are both dealing with balancing the many demands on their time and learning how to prioritize to get everything done that needs to be accomplished. I am amazed and gratified to observe how well they have handled the transition.
I am also wistful as I gaze from a growing distance upon the journey of other children who have been an important part of my life. For one in particular, I feel the same combination of nostalgia and excitement I felt for my own children as he walks confidently forward out of childhood and into his new life in college. I am pulled back in my memory to toddler times even as he reaches out with both arms to embrace his adult future.
Chance is the unexpected actor on life's stage, and I am thankful for the serendipity that brought him into our world. Inevitably, knowing him changed each of us, as we have changed him, and it is with great pride that I look forward to seeing how his life unfolds from here on out.
I am realizing, as I watch from afar, that life never stands still. Change is not only inevitable, it is part of what makes life interesting. I would not want to be the person I was 25 years ago when I was my son's age, and he won't want to be that person 25 years from now, either. Each day on the path of life brings a new challenge or a new opportunity for growth, and if you rise up and embrace it, you will continue to evolve.
As I sit here today, seeing with new eyes our lives in constant transition, I wonder what life will look like 25 years from now. I am sort of glad I don't know, because for better or worse, I think life is best lived day to day. But one thing I am sure of - we all will have transformed in some way.
I am grateful for the unexpected deviations in my life journey. My path has been long and winding, and I am thankful for the companions that have shared the traveling with me. I am a better person for their companionship, and I hope they are better for having traveled with me.
I think the words of a favorite song, For Good from the musical, Wicked, sum it up for me.
Just look at you,
You can do all I couldn't do...
so now it's up to you,
For both of us.
I've heard it said
That people come into our lives
For a reason
Bringing something we must learn.
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow,
If we let them,
And we help them in return.
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today,
Because I knew you....
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you,
I have been changed for good.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Common denominators....
I have read that 75% of the population are extroverts. I don't recall the source, but based on my own personal experience, I would have to say I think that number is a little low.
In the interests of full disclosure, it would probably not be all that shocking to a regular peruser of this blog if I reveal that I am not an extrovert. In anyone's opinion. My very own son, Mr. Technology himself, once despaired over my enthusiasm for texting and instant messaging. He said it's an introvert's paradise, and will enable me to never see anyone in person again.
That is an obvious exaggeration.
Although, in the interests of fair and accurate reporting, I will acknowledge that hiding in my house on the weekend is an activity with which I am familiar.
[Mr. Tech Dude has had a few more things to say, too, but I'll keep them to myself. For now. You never know when you might have a need to use his own words against him, and I don't want to waste.]
I have digressed. Back to my point. And I do have one, I promise.
It appears to me that it's become the great American past time to be in everyone else's face all the time. There is just no privacy any more, and I'm pretty uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Americans have always venerated individuality. The great melting pot is a myth - we cling to our own way of doing things with a dedication that is singularly perplexing to me. Everyone is unique, everyone is, oh dreaded word, Special. It's a particularly insular and irritating American birthright, to be our own person, and we cling to it like an addict with a needle.
Put those two characteristics together, and one would imagine the whole 300 million of us are out there arguing and fighting to have things our own way, incapable of compromise or cooperative living. Sounds like Congress, or presidential politicking, but not the world I live in.
I have been singularly struck this week by the commonality of our human experiences. I, like virtually everyone in touch with the cyberworld, am on facebook. It's a tricky relationship, fraught with all sorts of complications for a person who isn't entirely comfortable with putting their whole life online. But to be left out is to live in a parallel universe, one where you are out of touch with what is happening in the real world, and that isn't really an option either.
Over the last few days, the very best thing about facebook became clear to me, and reaffirmed for me the importance of staying connected. I joined a new group, created as a celebration of the same small town from which we all emerged as adults. Some of us made our exit many years ago, some of us more recently fled the confines of the little burg in which we formed our world view. Some of us still live there, continuing the work of generations past to maintain the traditions and history of which we are all a part.
But the striking thing, at least to me, is the commonality of life events that has spanned the generations. The names have changed, the locations may be slightly altered, but the experiences, the ties that bind us together as people from this same tiny slice of the planet, are nearly identical.
We have discussed common memories and common places. We share sights and sounds and smells which take us back to a childhood in which the world was less complicated. We have discussed the unique smell of the public library and the smoking that occurred in the bathroom of the high school. Turns out we were all afraid of the same little dog, and the same locations have hosted generations of fun loving students throwing parties out of sight of their parents.
Despite age differences that span dozens of years, we have the same familiar teachers and the same cafeteria food to look back on. No matter that we are from different generations, the Boulevard remains embedded in our memories and we all know exactly what it means to the town without another word of explanation needed.
It is rather startling just how much commonality there is amongst us. I have never before realized how much my memories, which I thought were unique and different from everyone else's, mirrored not only my age cohort, but people of all ages who grew up in the same place.
I think we, as humans, are frequently guilty of fixating on the things that divide us. Family background, political persuasion, profession, location, ethnic background, religious upbringing - all are used to drive a wedge between otherwise decent and interesting people. And yet, when groups form and start to share their story, it seems we are all characters in the same chronicle, common memories staying with each of us over the years.
I have seen the comments made by a couple of friends who are in similar groups for their home towns, and it is even more apparent just how much we all have in common. We think a small town girl from Minnesota has little in common with a city girl from the East Coast, and yet, the basic memories are much the same. We all have our comfort food, we all listened to the same music, we all had our mascots and our broken hearts and our goofy teachers and people who reached out to us and truly made a difference in our lives.
It has dawned on me that what stays with us as we move through our lives is not the exact place, but how it made us feel. It is that comfort, that knowledge that we were young and safe and cared for, which brings us into groups such as these, and allows us to reminisce with others who share those feelings.
Nostalgia has suddenly taken on a new meaning for me. I have left the small town behind, in some ways, but the siren call of my childhood will never leave me. And the times we shared, the feelings we had, the sights and smells and laughter and memories, are something we keep for all time.
It has been a sentimental journey, and it has left me with a song in my heart. "Oh Day, Full of Grace" is the name of that song. It's sort of nice to know that there are a few thousand other people out there who understand exactly what I'm talking about.
In the interests of full disclosure, it would probably not be all that shocking to a regular peruser of this blog if I reveal that I am not an extrovert. In anyone's opinion. My very own son, Mr. Technology himself, once despaired over my enthusiasm for texting and instant messaging. He said it's an introvert's paradise, and will enable me to never see anyone in person again.
That is an obvious exaggeration.
Although, in the interests of fair and accurate reporting, I will acknowledge that hiding in my house on the weekend is an activity with which I am familiar.
[Mr. Tech Dude has had a few more things to say, too, but I'll keep them to myself. For now. You never know when you might have a need to use his own words against him, and I don't want to waste.]
I have digressed. Back to my point. And I do have one, I promise.
It appears to me that it's become the great American past time to be in everyone else's face all the time. There is just no privacy any more, and I'm pretty uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Americans have always venerated individuality. The great melting pot is a myth - we cling to our own way of doing things with a dedication that is singularly perplexing to me. Everyone is unique, everyone is, oh dreaded word, Special. It's a particularly insular and irritating American birthright, to be our own person, and we cling to it like an addict with a needle.
Put those two characteristics together, and one would imagine the whole 300 million of us are out there arguing and fighting to have things our own way, incapable of compromise or cooperative living. Sounds like Congress, or presidential politicking, but not the world I live in.
I have been singularly struck this week by the commonality of our human experiences. I, like virtually everyone in touch with the cyberworld, am on facebook. It's a tricky relationship, fraught with all sorts of complications for a person who isn't entirely comfortable with putting their whole life online. But to be left out is to live in a parallel universe, one where you are out of touch with what is happening in the real world, and that isn't really an option either.
Over the last few days, the very best thing about facebook became clear to me, and reaffirmed for me the importance of staying connected. I joined a new group, created as a celebration of the same small town from which we all emerged as adults. Some of us made our exit many years ago, some of us more recently fled the confines of the little burg in which we formed our world view. Some of us still live there, continuing the work of generations past to maintain the traditions and history of which we are all a part.
But the striking thing, at least to me, is the commonality of life events that has spanned the generations. The names have changed, the locations may be slightly altered, but the experiences, the ties that bind us together as people from this same tiny slice of the planet, are nearly identical.
We have discussed common memories and common places. We share sights and sounds and smells which take us back to a childhood in which the world was less complicated. We have discussed the unique smell of the public library and the smoking that occurred in the bathroom of the high school. Turns out we were all afraid of the same little dog, and the same locations have hosted generations of fun loving students throwing parties out of sight of their parents.
Despite age differences that span dozens of years, we have the same familiar teachers and the same cafeteria food to look back on. No matter that we are from different generations, the Boulevard remains embedded in our memories and we all know exactly what it means to the town without another word of explanation needed.
It is rather startling just how much commonality there is amongst us. I have never before realized how much my memories, which I thought were unique and different from everyone else's, mirrored not only my age cohort, but people of all ages who grew up in the same place.
I think we, as humans, are frequently guilty of fixating on the things that divide us. Family background, political persuasion, profession, location, ethnic background, religious upbringing - all are used to drive a wedge between otherwise decent and interesting people. And yet, when groups form and start to share their story, it seems we are all characters in the same chronicle, common memories staying with each of us over the years.
I have seen the comments made by a couple of friends who are in similar groups for their home towns, and it is even more apparent just how much we all have in common. We think a small town girl from Minnesota has little in common with a city girl from the East Coast, and yet, the basic memories are much the same. We all have our comfort food, we all listened to the same music, we all had our mascots and our broken hearts and our goofy teachers and people who reached out to us and truly made a difference in our lives.
It has dawned on me that what stays with us as we move through our lives is not the exact place, but how it made us feel. It is that comfort, that knowledge that we were young and safe and cared for, which brings us into groups such as these, and allows us to reminisce with others who share those feelings.
Nostalgia has suddenly taken on a new meaning for me. I have left the small town behind, in some ways, but the siren call of my childhood will never leave me. And the times we shared, the feelings we had, the sights and smells and laughter and memories, are something we keep for all time.
It has been a sentimental journey, and it has left me with a song in my heart. "Oh Day, Full of Grace" is the name of that song. It's sort of nice to know that there are a few thousand other people out there who understand exactly what I'm talking about.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Flexible Fahrenheit...
The last couple of weeks have brought home to me once again the infinite flexibility of the human mind. It is an acrobat of amazing versatility, going in all directions as the whim takes it's owner. The mind can be forced to conform to almost any position, as long as we believe what we are telling ourselves.
You may think I'm referring to the self-induced debt crisis which has been so much in the news recently, created by our Congress in it's infinite ability to behave like a naughty juvenile. You would be wrong. I am tired of Congress, I am tired of politics, and I am especially tired of politicians, who seem to exist in some alternate universe where they are not held accountable for their misbehavior.
No. I am referring to the weather. The very hot, very dry weather that we have been experiencing here in flyover country. This great mid-section of America, where the Dust Bowl got its name, has had record breaking heat the last couple of weeks. The drought which has plagued parts of Texas and Oklahoma for several years has now gotten a foothold in more than a handful of states, and the situation is becoming dire as crop yields and animals are dropping like flies in a zapper.
But I would forgive you for not knowing, because the international news isn't exactly shouting about it. If it happened on the east coast, you can bet your nude stilettos that the whole world would know about it. But we are only Main Street USA, so we are not worth troubling about.
I mean, there are Royal Weddings and Almost Royal Weddings and Jennifer Aniston in Hawaii sightings and Casey Anthony sightings, and of course, the entire FAA fiasco, which, if I understand the news bites correctly, is everyone else's fault. Not to mention the whole S&P downgrade, which either matters a whole lot or not at all, depending on which faction finds a home in your head. That's a lot to keep us intellectually exercised, so it's easy to understand how a thing like 109 degrees in Kansas City could slip by a person. Unless you are actually here.
A friend kindly pointed out that a mere six months ago, it was 12 degrees below zero (Fahrenheit, for the internationally minded who might be confused,) and we had a blizzard. Even if I had been toying with a complaint about the heat, that reminder would surely have brought me up short. It is not possible to complain about heat when reminded that a foot of snow takes hours of shoveling in the cold.
I never complain about the heat, anyway, because I hate cold. Detest it. Despise it, even. I would move to the equator before I would willingly subject myself to another flake of snow, if only there were work down there.
But if I were the complaining type, 109 degrees would do it. Because 109 degrees is HOT. Really hot. So hot you can fry an egg on the dashboard, should you care to try. [Yes, someone actually did it, just to see, and it worked.]
Compared to a blizzard, I consider my burned up grass to be a minor inconvenience. I can live with barren patches of scorched earth darkly glowering at me. I can live with the stumps of dead trees and bushes dotting the landscape like an eerie scene from On the Beach. I don't mind the flowers dying on their vines, and I can even tolerate the wilting population, sweat and all.
It confounds me how the same people who complained endlessly about the snow just six short months ago can now complain about the heat at the other end of the spectrum. The same people who swore that summer would a blessed relief are now anxiously awaiting the breaking out of the fall wardrobe, looking forward to sweaters and even, dare I say, boots.
Not me. I will cling to my shorts and camisole tops. [Yes, I realize 50 is too old for cami tops, but if it's 109 degrees outside, I'll wear what I want.] I will not abandon my flip flops and sunscreen one moment before I am forced. Life is too short to be cold, and I'm going to embrace the heat while I have it.
It is fascinating to me that in winter, people pine away endlessly for the summer heat. They dream about fun under a constantly glowing orb, and take vacations to warmer climes, desperate for the feel of the heat on their face. Then, when the heat arrives, they are dissatisfied with the experience, longing instead for the biting cold of winter snapping at their nose.
I try to exercise my mind as much as I can, within the confines of my own rather humdrum existence. I read, I walk, I think. I will never be flexible enough to eschew the summer heat for the bitterness of winter. I will leave those kinds of acrobatics for the more whimsical among us.
I sweat, therefore I am. It's not Shakespeare, but it's good enough for me.
You may think I'm referring to the self-induced debt crisis which has been so much in the news recently, created by our Congress in it's infinite ability to behave like a naughty juvenile. You would be wrong. I am tired of Congress, I am tired of politics, and I am especially tired of politicians, who seem to exist in some alternate universe where they are not held accountable for their misbehavior.
No. I am referring to the weather. The very hot, very dry weather that we have been experiencing here in flyover country. This great mid-section of America, where the Dust Bowl got its name, has had record breaking heat the last couple of weeks. The drought which has plagued parts of Texas and Oklahoma for several years has now gotten a foothold in more than a handful of states, and the situation is becoming dire as crop yields and animals are dropping like flies in a zapper.
But I would forgive you for not knowing, because the international news isn't exactly shouting about it. If it happened on the east coast, you can bet your nude stilettos that the whole world would know about it. But we are only Main Street USA, so we are not worth troubling about.
I mean, there are Royal Weddings and Almost Royal Weddings and Jennifer Aniston in Hawaii sightings and Casey Anthony sightings, and of course, the entire FAA fiasco, which, if I understand the news bites correctly, is everyone else's fault. Not to mention the whole S&P downgrade, which either matters a whole lot or not at all, depending on which faction finds a home in your head. That's a lot to keep us intellectually exercised, so it's easy to understand how a thing like 109 degrees in Kansas City could slip by a person. Unless you are actually here.
A friend kindly pointed out that a mere six months ago, it was 12 degrees below zero (Fahrenheit, for the internationally minded who might be confused,) and we had a blizzard. Even if I had been toying with a complaint about the heat, that reminder would surely have brought me up short. It is not possible to complain about heat when reminded that a foot of snow takes hours of shoveling in the cold.
I never complain about the heat, anyway, because I hate cold. Detest it. Despise it, even. I would move to the equator before I would willingly subject myself to another flake of snow, if only there were work down there.
But if I were the complaining type, 109 degrees would do it. Because 109 degrees is HOT. Really hot. So hot you can fry an egg on the dashboard, should you care to try. [Yes, someone actually did it, just to see, and it worked.]
Compared to a blizzard, I consider my burned up grass to be a minor inconvenience. I can live with barren patches of scorched earth darkly glowering at me. I can live with the stumps of dead trees and bushes dotting the landscape like an eerie scene from On the Beach. I don't mind the flowers dying on their vines, and I can even tolerate the wilting population, sweat and all.
It confounds me how the same people who complained endlessly about the snow just six short months ago can now complain about the heat at the other end of the spectrum. The same people who swore that summer would a blessed relief are now anxiously awaiting the breaking out of the fall wardrobe, looking forward to sweaters and even, dare I say, boots.
Not me. I will cling to my shorts and camisole tops. [Yes, I realize 50 is too old for cami tops, but if it's 109 degrees outside, I'll wear what I want.] I will not abandon my flip flops and sunscreen one moment before I am forced. Life is too short to be cold, and I'm going to embrace the heat while I have it.
It is fascinating to me that in winter, people pine away endlessly for the summer heat. They dream about fun under a constantly glowing orb, and take vacations to warmer climes, desperate for the feel of the heat on their face. Then, when the heat arrives, they are dissatisfied with the experience, longing instead for the biting cold of winter snapping at their nose.
I try to exercise my mind as much as I can, within the confines of my own rather humdrum existence. I read, I walk, I think. I will never be flexible enough to eschew the summer heat for the bitterness of winter. I will leave those kinds of acrobatics for the more whimsical among us.
I sweat, therefore I am. It's not Shakespeare, but it's good enough for me.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Suicide by addiction...
Amy Winehouse, a singer who is internationally infamous for both her music and her battles with addiction, is dead at age 27, probably by her own hand as surely as if she had put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. [On October 26, 2011, the coroner released a report that Amy Winehouse died as a result of alcohol poisoning from excessive drinking that night.] In this case, the smoking gun will likely turn out to be a drug of choice for the young and famous who have no limits placed upon them, and the trigger will have been her inability to deny herself what she surely had to know would ultimately end her life. The consequences of her decision making failures will haunt her family and her true friends for the remainder of their lives, as they struggle with the guilt from their inability to force her to get clean and sober.
I don't think anyone can deny the valiant battle fought by those close to her, especially her family, as she continued to make the decisions that would ultimately lead them down this deadly path. They loved her and supported her efforts as she made rehab a revolving door. She made a fortune off an insufficiently critical public while belting out her true intention to resist the efforts made on her behalf by those who knew better than she where this journey would end if she didn't make a change. Although she walked through the door, vowing aloud that this time it would be for real, she was still singing, "No, no, no," in her heart and mind, and the end result was a waste of time and effort for everyone involved, especially her.
And waste it is, because a young woman's life is over much too soon, and whatever she may have accomplished is going to go undone. Whether you loved her or hated her or didn't know anything about her, I hope we can all agree that a 27 year old woman should not be in a morgue, and it's a tragedy that she is, whoever is to blame.
As the parent of a child about the same age, I am saddened and sickened at the thought of what her parents have been through, and what is still to come. Their lovely daughter, the little girl they sang to, and read to, and watched grow from a baby to a teen to an international celebrity, is gone like the puff of smoke that probably started her down the path to her own destruction.
I am not much of a celebrity watcher, but at the same time, I feel dismay when I watch anyone flame out so publicly and spectacularly. They are, underneath the goofy make-up and the expensive clothing and the outrageous lifestyle and the crazy behavior, still a human being. I hurt with them as they flutter against the caged confines of their own situation, self inflicted though it may be. It is not comfortable to watch a human being fall apart so publicly, and I don't want to see anyone die at 27 from a preventable condition.
There are no easy answers, as Amy's parents could no doubt testify. We have seen too many young and vulnerable celebrities making the same bad decisions and ending up the same tragic way, all fully documented in the fan magazines and the news headlines around the world.
It can be done - Britney Spears seems to have turned her life around. But I don't think anyone can have any illusions that it took nothing less than her parents taking control of her entire life to achieve it. And in the end, even that may not be enough - we won't really know until she is once again in control of her own life whether or not someone else can take enough control to save someone from themselves if that isn't what they really want.
But it is not only the rich and famous that face the fallout from deadly addiction. We have our jails full of people who could not just say no. We have graves dotting cemetery plots of people who died too soon because of the easy availability of something that was not good for them, but which they found irresistible. We have poor families rent asunder by the aftermath of lives gone wrong. We have middle class families struggling to go on after dealing with deadly addiction in a child or parent. Wealthy parents, with all their resources, have no more power to stop the addictions of their children than anyone else.
When someone makes a mockery of rehab, there is little that can be done to force them to do better for themselves. We have observed Martin Sheen suffer for the sins of son Charlie, and felt his pain as he helplessly watched the self-destruction along with the rest of us. We gaze in wonder as someone like Amy, who "Has It All," throws it away for the lure of a silent master that ultimately takes no prisoners. We wonder if the genius is part of the addictive personality, and tacitly encourage the behavior by supporting the insanity with our time and money, attending concerts and buying records and merchandise with little regard for the outcome.
Ultimately, the loss of one 27 year old woman doesn't matter much in the larger scope of the world, however much it hurts her family and friends. But the needless death of yet another young celebrity should, at the very least, cause us to examine what we can do to save the lives of the other 27 year olds who are battling the same problems. If the very public failure of a celebrity can help someone else to do better, perhaps it will not be entirely in vain.
It's not the outcome she planned for, I'm sure. But perhaps, if through her death she encourages someone else to choose a different path, Amy Winehouse can make her life and death less of a waste. At this point, it is the only thing her celebrity will have gained her. It is surely not enough, but it's all she has left.
Rest in peace, Amy.
I don't think anyone can deny the valiant battle fought by those close to her, especially her family, as she continued to make the decisions that would ultimately lead them down this deadly path. They loved her and supported her efforts as she made rehab a revolving door. She made a fortune off an insufficiently critical public while belting out her true intention to resist the efforts made on her behalf by those who knew better than she where this journey would end if she didn't make a change. Although she walked through the door, vowing aloud that this time it would be for real, she was still singing, "No, no, no," in her heart and mind, and the end result was a waste of time and effort for everyone involved, especially her.
And waste it is, because a young woman's life is over much too soon, and whatever she may have accomplished is going to go undone. Whether you loved her or hated her or didn't know anything about her, I hope we can all agree that a 27 year old woman should not be in a morgue, and it's a tragedy that she is, whoever is to blame.
As the parent of a child about the same age, I am saddened and sickened at the thought of what her parents have been through, and what is still to come. Their lovely daughter, the little girl they sang to, and read to, and watched grow from a baby to a teen to an international celebrity, is gone like the puff of smoke that probably started her down the path to her own destruction.
I am not much of a celebrity watcher, but at the same time, I feel dismay when I watch anyone flame out so publicly and spectacularly. They are, underneath the goofy make-up and the expensive clothing and the outrageous lifestyle and the crazy behavior, still a human being. I hurt with them as they flutter against the caged confines of their own situation, self inflicted though it may be. It is not comfortable to watch a human being fall apart so publicly, and I don't want to see anyone die at 27 from a preventable condition.
There are no easy answers, as Amy's parents could no doubt testify. We have seen too many young and vulnerable celebrities making the same bad decisions and ending up the same tragic way, all fully documented in the fan magazines and the news headlines around the world.
It can be done - Britney Spears seems to have turned her life around. But I don't think anyone can have any illusions that it took nothing less than her parents taking control of her entire life to achieve it. And in the end, even that may not be enough - we won't really know until she is once again in control of her own life whether or not someone else can take enough control to save someone from themselves if that isn't what they really want.
But it is not only the rich and famous that face the fallout from deadly addiction. We have our jails full of people who could not just say no. We have graves dotting cemetery plots of people who died too soon because of the easy availability of something that was not good for them, but which they found irresistible. We have poor families rent asunder by the aftermath of lives gone wrong. We have middle class families struggling to go on after dealing with deadly addiction in a child or parent. Wealthy parents, with all their resources, have no more power to stop the addictions of their children than anyone else.
When someone makes a mockery of rehab, there is little that can be done to force them to do better for themselves. We have observed Martin Sheen suffer for the sins of son Charlie, and felt his pain as he helplessly watched the self-destruction along with the rest of us. We gaze in wonder as someone like Amy, who "Has It All," throws it away for the lure of a silent master that ultimately takes no prisoners. We wonder if the genius is part of the addictive personality, and tacitly encourage the behavior by supporting the insanity with our time and money, attending concerts and buying records and merchandise with little regard for the outcome.
Ultimately, the loss of one 27 year old woman doesn't matter much in the larger scope of the world, however much it hurts her family and friends. But the needless death of yet another young celebrity should, at the very least, cause us to examine what we can do to save the lives of the other 27 year olds who are battling the same problems. If the very public failure of a celebrity can help someone else to do better, perhaps it will not be entirely in vain.
It's not the outcome she planned for, I'm sure. But perhaps, if through her death she encourages someone else to choose a different path, Amy Winehouse can make her life and death less of a waste. At this point, it is the only thing her celebrity will have gained her. It is surely not enough, but it's all she has left.
Rest in peace, Amy.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
No Mary here, no one is contrary, either, but wow, does Mom's garden grow....
Tonight, I feasted on the fruits of my mother's hard earned labors. It's not the first time I have benefited from her largess, of course, but never has it been more welcome than when stuffing fresh produce from her garden into my facial orifice designed for just that purpose. On the menu tonight was fresh coleslaw, pea pods, new potatoes unhilled just minutes before they were popped into the boiling water, and a homemade apple pie. It was a delicious end to an exciting day of gastronomic ecstasy, and I enjoyed every culinary highlight.
The women of yesteryear were, undeniably, overworked and underpaid. Probably under-appreciated, too. But there must have been an enormous amount of satisfaction in putting a table laden with food they grew with their own hard effort in front of their families day after day after day.
My mother grew up on a farm in the midst of the depression, and they certainly didn't enjoy a lot spare morsels. But they didn't starve, either, and she certainly learned how to make food stretch. It was a handy skill, since my parents were none too well off, and she watched the budget with an eagle eye.
My parents took the self-sustaining lifestyle a little further than most people, and grew their own meat, as well. They would butcher a steer and fill the freezer with the delicious cuts of meat with nary a hormone in sight. Grass fed cattle was the only kind there was on our farm, and it wasn't a trendy lifestyle decision so much as a statement of making the most of the little we had.
I think my dad would find it pretty peculiar that you get to pay extra these days for something that was grown the old fashioned way. But the steaks and ground beef that came at the end of the hard work were flavorful and delicious, no matter how simply they were prepared, which is more than I can say for most of the expensive cuts of meat I purchase at the local supermarket today.
My dad would occasionally hunt, too, and pheasant from the freezer was an occasional treat. My mother would get out her big pressure cooker and tenderize that meat until it just melted off the bone. I had no idea it was a delicacy. I just thought it was delicious, and the more so because my dad had brought it to our table himself.
I think that the elemental nature of food back then must have given a deep feeling of satisfaction and well being to those who produced the bounty - seeing your hard work translated into the tasty dishes born to the table with pride and thanksgiving had to be very gratifying. They didn't go crazy with spices and condiments, but perhaps that was because they weren't needed. The food itself was so flavorful and succulent that all the extras simply weren't required.
I often look at the fruits and vegetables in the modern supermarket, and it's hard to get too excited about any of it. They are pretty, of course. Tomatoes are so red they almost glow. Apples are unblemished, and perfectly formed. Beans don't have brown spots and pea pods are beautifully packaged, ready to steam still in the freezer bag in which they were packaged.
As perfect as they look, however, where is the flavor to tickle your taste buds? Where is the aroma that draws you in like flies to birthday cake on a summer day? The beautiful outsides hide the emptiness within, which is a good metaphor for a lot of things besides our food these days, if you ask me.
There is something enticing about a garden full of growing vegetables, green and lush and begging to be pulled or picked or cut. There are no carrots in a hermetically sealed bag that come close to the succulent sweetness of a carrot pulled up fresh from the soil. Fresh picked cabbage has a mild flavor unknown to those who have only experienced what comes from the shelves of a supermarket far from the field in which it was grown. Pea pods are tender and delicate and filled with a delicious flavor unattainable from something pulled from the freezer.
There are many things I love about coming home, of course. Running away from my "real" life is prime among them. But I also love coming home to enjoy the bounty my mother provides from her garden, and reliving, for a brief few days, the joys of my childhood when we lived on fresh produce for dinner and supper for weeks on end.
You may not be able to go home again, but you can certainly revisit the past in your mind. And there is nothing like the smell and taste of fresh garden produce to take 40 years off my memory.
Grow a garden - save the planet. Or at least enjoy a fresh picked meal grown with your own hard effort. It's a satisfaction that passes all understanding, and if you are Lutheran, you will understand this is most certainly true!
Happy eating, and enjoy the summer bounty. And don't forget the pie!
The women of yesteryear were, undeniably, overworked and underpaid. Probably under-appreciated, too. But there must have been an enormous amount of satisfaction in putting a table laden with food they grew with their own hard effort in front of their families day after day after day.
My mother grew up on a farm in the midst of the depression, and they certainly didn't enjoy a lot spare morsels. But they didn't starve, either, and she certainly learned how to make food stretch. It was a handy skill, since my parents were none too well off, and she watched the budget with an eagle eye.
My parents took the self-sustaining lifestyle a little further than most people, and grew their own meat, as well. They would butcher a steer and fill the freezer with the delicious cuts of meat with nary a hormone in sight. Grass fed cattle was the only kind there was on our farm, and it wasn't a trendy lifestyle decision so much as a statement of making the most of the little we had.
I think my dad would find it pretty peculiar that you get to pay extra these days for something that was grown the old fashioned way. But the steaks and ground beef that came at the end of the hard work were flavorful and delicious, no matter how simply they were prepared, which is more than I can say for most of the expensive cuts of meat I purchase at the local supermarket today.
My dad would occasionally hunt, too, and pheasant from the freezer was an occasional treat. My mother would get out her big pressure cooker and tenderize that meat until it just melted off the bone. I had no idea it was a delicacy. I just thought it was delicious, and the more so because my dad had brought it to our table himself.
I think that the elemental nature of food back then must have given a deep feeling of satisfaction and well being to those who produced the bounty - seeing your hard work translated into the tasty dishes born to the table with pride and thanksgiving had to be very gratifying. They didn't go crazy with spices and condiments, but perhaps that was because they weren't needed. The food itself was so flavorful and succulent that all the extras simply weren't required.
I often look at the fruits and vegetables in the modern supermarket, and it's hard to get too excited about any of it. They are pretty, of course. Tomatoes are so red they almost glow. Apples are unblemished, and perfectly formed. Beans don't have brown spots and pea pods are beautifully packaged, ready to steam still in the freezer bag in which they were packaged.
As perfect as they look, however, where is the flavor to tickle your taste buds? Where is the aroma that draws you in like flies to birthday cake on a summer day? The beautiful outsides hide the emptiness within, which is a good metaphor for a lot of things besides our food these days, if you ask me.
There is something enticing about a garden full of growing vegetables, green and lush and begging to be pulled or picked or cut. There are no carrots in a hermetically sealed bag that come close to the succulent sweetness of a carrot pulled up fresh from the soil. Fresh picked cabbage has a mild flavor unknown to those who have only experienced what comes from the shelves of a supermarket far from the field in which it was grown. Pea pods are tender and delicate and filled with a delicious flavor unattainable from something pulled from the freezer.
There are many things I love about coming home, of course. Running away from my "real" life is prime among them. But I also love coming home to enjoy the bounty my mother provides from her garden, and reliving, for a brief few days, the joys of my childhood when we lived on fresh produce for dinner and supper for weeks on end.
You may not be able to go home again, but you can certainly revisit the past in your mind. And there is nothing like the smell and taste of fresh garden produce to take 40 years off my memory.
Grow a garden - save the planet. Or at least enjoy a fresh picked meal grown with your own hard effort. It's a satisfaction that passes all understanding, and if you are Lutheran, you will understand this is most certainly true!
Happy eating, and enjoy the summer bounty. And don't forget the pie!
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