Friday, November 7, 2014

FEAR OF BEING WITHOUT BOOKS

I have to look up the Latin for this so I can sound more learned than I really am.  Since I have the marvelous app "Translate" on my Iphone (Don't those Roman dudes wish they'd had Iphones back in the day? Just think how they could have plotted during Senate meetings or while using the 6-holder marble latrine.), I found the words for my new disorder--fear of being without books.  Timor exsisto sine liber!

How did this come up?  I was recently asked to be part of our local paper's Hampshire Life ID where once a week they feature a person, interviewing him or her about likes and dislikes, the favorite go-to restaurant, who lives with you, and much more.

But here's the thing:  One of the questions was, "Tell which five items you cannot live without."  Most folks answer, "My Iphone, MacBook Air, hiking boots, ergonomic chair, etc." I started to answer in the same vein but then realized I could completely live without any of those devices.  They simply are not essential to my life.

My revised list included, and this will not surprise those of you who know me: "My family, God, nature, my faith community, and books."  Perhaps you wonder how "God" can be on the same continuum as "books."  Let's think about this.

As a writer and a person of faith, I spend what some might call a ridiculous amount of time reading: Stacking books by my chair, downloading samples of Kindle books then buying them with a happy cry, studying theology, reading English mysteries, and also sampling racy Regency romances.

Here's a family story which substantiates my belief that books are essential for life.  Over a decade ago I got a frantic call from our local Meals on Wheels that my step-mother, who lived five minutes away, was not responding to their knocks on the door.  The woman said Athena always called if she planned on being out when the meal would be delivered.  Would I please check on her?

With my husband and twelve year-old daughter in tow, I sped down to my step-mother's house, prepared for something dire.  We knocked on the door--no response.  We called her number--no answer.  Decidedly nervous, we went up to the living room window, and my husband announced, "I'll just vise it open from the outside, and we can climb in to see if Grandma is ok." *

"Ok" to me meant not dead on the floor or in the midst of some ghastly end-of-life attack.  My daughter gave us a horrified look and said, "Wait, wait, don't open the window yet!  I have to go back to the car to get a book.  What if Grandma's dead?  We'll be here for ages waiting for an ambulance and I need something to read."

I need something to read.  Or, Timor exsisto sine liber.  That's my girl, I thought.  I have the same craving for a book at all times and sometimes even experience mild panic if there is no book in sight.  When I picture the end of my life, preparing to go through that dark tunnel to the light beyond, I will probably turn back to tell my husband, "Wait, wait, give me a book!  I don't have anything to read."

* (Grandma was at a doctor's appointment and was perfectly fine.)

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

I CAN WATCH THE SUN RISE ON MY SMARTPHONE

So really, I have to ask myself, why go outside at all? Everything I need is in my hand--well, almost everything, except for human affection, food, wine, friends, and my dog.  But those are small necessities and easy to fix with my smartphone apps.



I remember when my kids were small reading the "Berenstein Bears" books to them.  One was about the week Mama Bear decided they should do without TV.  Papa Bear, in those ridiculous pants which stretched tight across his bottom, querulously asked his wife, "But how will I know what the weather is?"  She pointed to the window and told him to stick his hand outside.  "Ass-hat," she probably thought, but this being a children's book, did not say.

So I don't need to go outside anymore.  Think how much better it is for my aging skin to not expose it to all those dangerous UV rays.  And ticks.  Also biting creatures and psychotic, diseased bats.  Now, as I lounge on my couch sipping coffee in the morning, I press "Yahoo Weather" and with bated breath, wait for it to appear on my screen.  "There it is!" I murmur, looking at the image to make sure it is accurate and not showing a snowstorm in mid-June or hail when it is perfectly sunny out.  You have to watch Yahoo.

Then I scroll down to catch the forecast for the week, so I'll know if I dare go outside or not.  Also included in the forecast are the festive plump raindrops predicting rain for four separate times of the day.  Do I need to know all that?  At the bottom, below some weird map which screws with my brain, I see the sun digitally bursting out of the left-hand horizon and sailing merrily up the arc which represents the sun's progress through the day.  Why doesn't Yahoo show the Sun God, blonde hair streaming, racing through the sky in a chariot?  If you are going to do this sort of thing, let's get some Greek mythology in there.



In a happy, satisfied voice I declare to my husband, "Look, honey!  The sun doesn't set until 8:27!"  He nods and murmurs something about how great it is to have such a stretch of daylight.

But there is a part of me that is not satisfied.  In fact it is deeply, whiningly dissatisfied.  We should be out on blankets in the field (watch out for ticks!) watching the day go by. We should lie on our backs, seeing the clouds sail overhead, telling each other which shapes remind us of whales, unicorns, dragons, and one misshapen one which resembles Dick Cheney.  We should be sitting on the deck as the sun sets. sipping good IPA or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc, waiting for the bats to inscribe arcs around the house, looking for the first firefly who insists on appearing before total darkness, eager to get a jump--literally--on any nearby female.

Where did we go wrong?  I want to be held by the rhythms of the earth, the sky, sun and moon, birds and insects, and anything firmly tied to the natural world.  I want to stick my hand out the window to see if it is raining and share the news with whoever is nearby.  I want to be human in an old way--the way of delight, worship, and sanity.  And if that means no TV and wearing odd blue overalls covering a big ass, then so be it.  It's a decent trade.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

FEMININE BODY PARTS


Have you ever noticed the feminine capacity to carve off bits of our bodies, as if we were--say-a joint at a Sunday dinner and pass judgment on them?  Do men do that?  Do they look in the mirror and say, "Crap! My nose is horrific."  I do understand there's a certain amount of nervous fussing about receding hairlines.  I get that. But this need to take inventory and cast aside body parts which don't meet our expectations?  I think this is more a woman thing.

And the stakes are higher, the cost is higher.  One day my college-aged daughter and I sat on the floor, backs against the couch, and had one of those conversations I think only women can have together.

"What parts of your body do you like?" I asked, knowing that she also carved bits off her corpus, putting some into the "okay bin," some into the "almost okay bin," and others into the "hideously unsuitable bin."  Notice there is rarely a "Fabulous bin."

"Umm, I like my feet."  She wiggled her toes.  "Nice and narrow, like yours.  Only prob. is finding shoes that fit."  "Yeah, I have that problem too.  Skinny feet."  They barely make the "okay bin."

"What about your nose?" I asked.  "Oh, crap, way, way too big," came back immediately. "Yeah, your grandpa Dick had a big nose, and I got it too," I said.  She gave me a look that told me she was definitely unhappy with this genetic inheritance.

"Legs?" I murmured.  "Yeah, I actually like them.  They have a good shape.  You have great legs, Mom."  Wow, I felt I should open a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate.  We both had found something we could toss into the "Okay and almost fabulous bin."

"Arms?"  "Not bad, as long as I work out."  She held them in front of her, turning them in the afternoon sunlight.  We both have fairly slim arms and wrists, hands and legs.  I gather the arms could go into the "okay bin."

By comment consent we did not mention the word "stomach," as just about no woman I know is happy with hers.  Although my daughter did mention the word "six-pack," as in--"I have been working out and I've got some muscles there."  So this can go into the "mostly okay bin."

"Hair?" I ventured.  "Ack!  Nothing more to be said.  Way too curly, way too thick, impossible to figure out what to do with it."

"Yeah."  I nodded.  I had spent all of my considerable adult life toying with, fighting, hating, sometimes accepting, but mostly disliking my hair.  It is only now, in my 60s, that I have almost, almost come to term with my very, very curly hair.  I now let it go natural(after a good cut, of course!), using fabulous hair products for curly hair provided by jessicurl.  My husband loves this look, as does my daughter.

Alors.  Body parts are scattered over the floor.  We need to put them together somehow.  I search through my tatty brain, looking for the right words, healing words, words of acceptance.

"I think," I said slowly, "that we come to love our bodies more as we age."  She gave me an unbelieving look. "Really.  As you get into my decade you are grateful for just being upright, on this earth, having teeth, eyes that work, hands that can grasp, legs that dance, and feet that still work.  The key is gratitude.  I remember something my mother told me three days before she died."

"She patted her own leg as I sat beside her and said, 'I don't say, Annie, I wish this leg worked better.  I say, blessings that my leg still works.  Thank you.'"

And that's what we need to do.  Maybe instead of little rubber bracelets that say, WWJD, we need bracelets for women which simply say, "Thank you." My daughter took this in, and I hope that someday when she is looking at herself in the mirror and disliking what she sees, she will remember this conversation and whisper, "Thank you," to the mirror.