The Summer of Bittersweet Lemonade

Picture it. June 1985. Gainesville, Florida.

One hot summer. Sticky. Oppressive. Too humid to even be sultry.

And I was doing time in summer school. Working to get ahead on my credits.

Listening to a lot of music. Watching a lot of MTV.

Nursing a shattered heart -- the by-product of the end of a messy, complicated relationship that spring.


Kissing a lot of boys to try and at least numb the pain of relationship finality.


Living in an apartment with two other pals -- we were all subletters, having lived elsewhere during the main school year. Trying to dodge the landlord because the fourth regular roommate, who didn’t find a subletter, was late with her share of the rent and we kept having these horrible EVICTION FORTHCOMING notices plastered to our front door. (That chick finally did pay what she owed, but damn, did it take too much time and energy to get her to pony up.)


Drinking a lot of cheap beer. A lot. Sometimes spending my laundry quarters to do it, as my regular drinking haunt was right next to my regular Laundromat.

Having lawn chairs and beach loungers for apartment furniture because the regular dwellers took all their furniture with them when they left for the summer and it just wasn’t worth it to schlep sofas and chairs up from home for six weeks. Reading Rolling Stone religiously while burning a candle and listening to my Broken Hearts Club mix tape. Over and over and over.


Riding the bus back and forth to campus because I STILL didn’t have a car at school. Sweating like a hooer in church, even just walking to the bus stop. Damn, was it hot.

Watching the NBA Championship Finals from the hide-a-bed in our living room (why I remember that, I have no idea) and igniting love for my beloved Boston Celtics. Yeah, they lost but they earned a place in my sports-loving heart forever.

In other words, I was kind of pathetic. Well meaning. But pathetic.

In the midst of all that, I was taking two classes.

A Journalism Law classzzzzzzzz.

And an Oral Performance class. Which I adored.

Madly. Truly. Deeply.

I’m one of those rare beasts -- ok, weird people -- who, to be blunt, totally gets off on speaking in front of people. Love. It. It’s fun. It’s energizing. And it’s about as close as I get to being on stage in my regular, mundane life.

This oral performance course was tailor-made for me -- a frustrated theater girl who often regretted the decision (her father made) not to be a theater major. For class, we had to select different pieces -- prose, fiction, drama -- and not only read them aloud in an interpretive fashion, but provide a written narrative of our analysis and choices for the pieces.

I was in heaven.

Writing and performing. Bliss.

Which is what I needed in my hiding-from the-landlord-man, post-relationship ending funk.

Throwing myself into doing something I loved to get over a man. As only a broken hearted college girl could do.

I lived and breathed this class. I chose pieces that were challenging and smart and interesting: scenes from Neil Simon’s “Barefoot in the Park.” A Shakespearean sonnet (CXVI, to be exact) And the piece that tested me in more delicious ways than I can count -- a dramatic monologue -- one from Martha, natch -- from Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”

There was one more piece that I remember. It was a poem, author unknown. I think I found it tucked within one of my dog-eared copies of Rolling Stone. I wish I’d written it. I could have. It perfectly described the very state of my being that long, hot summer.

Oh this roller coaster...

am I on forever?

It was screaming thrills

when I had the stomach

for it. And I told

everyone to try a

roller-coaster sort of

life. “The ups are

won-der-ful!” I yelled

from somewhere near the sky.

But now my guts

ache and my heart wobbles

dangerously at the downs

and I have to cling on

tightly, alone in my

seat. A couple on the

grass over there are

sitting quietly with

their arms around each

other, looking into each

other’s eyes and probably

thinking “the ups are

wonderful.” I’d hurl

myself off the roller

coaster if I had someone

to sit with on the calm

grass. But as there’s no one,

guess I’ll stay here and

try not to feel sick

sometimes. “Some people

envy me this ride” I tell

myself and with heaving

stomach I remind myself

the ups are wonderful.

I poured myself into the reading and interpretation of those words. My twenty-year-old self infused them with the sense of melodramatic weariness that seemed to envelop me. A release came with the sharing. Lemonade made from the bitter fruit I'd been toting around. And I got a GPA boost out of it as well -- Lord knows I needed it.

I’ve long since moved past my state of mind that summer -- the residue of that broken romance was washed away with the tears from other heartbreaks and the waves of new experiences. But the words of that poem are still part of me. They’ve been applicable more than once since the summer of ‘85. Each hurt a little different, yet the same.

Yeah, the ups are indeed wonderful. Not a bad idea to keep your hands in the car. But don't be afraid to let go, even if it's just for a little bit.

If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On

This is a post-rewind from many moons ago. But as on this day, 29 years ago, MTV was born, I think it's still relevant. Kind of insightful. And stuff. So read on, Macduff -- and remember when Behind the Music still meant weird requests in concert riders, and groupies.

~~~~~

When I hear music, I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest.

-- Henry David Thoreau

Picture this: carpool-driving-road-warrior mom (call her Janey) is on her way to pick up her Kiddo-in-Residence from summer school. Radio playing. Loudly. Natch. A familar guitar riff pops out of the speakers, followed by a driving beat. Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”. Janey drives circles around the school, singing along lustily, as is her habit, until the very long-ass song is complete. She is late to collect her young charge as a result. But the disapproving stares were worth it.
__________________________________

I was discussing the impact of the music of one’s youth recently with some lovely bright folks somewhat younger than I. Discerning music fans all, they were rightfully bemoaning the fact that the hallmark songs and sounds of their generation are poppy, cotton candy-esque and ultimately disposable. I feel for them, as the music of my youth had a profound influence on me -- and honestly, on who I am today. So, in that spirit, I took a little walk down memory lane.

During that time in my life -- those young adult years -- it was the early 1980s.

At that time, I experienced...

...Prince wowing everyone with Purple Rain;

...Michael Jackson and Thriller (which is arguably one of the great albums of all time, despite the fact that he's descended into disturbing madness and deviant behavior, effectively destroying any relevance he might have had today);

...the Commodores being funkycoolsoulful;

...the Rolling Stones still being relevant -- Tattoo You is splendid, even the ubiquitous "Start Me Up" -- a song I must crank up to eleven, even to this day;

...Genesis and Abacab changing how I listen to music, hearing the nuances;

...my eternally beloved Police, also changing how I listen to music -- with my brain in addition to my ears;

...the emergence of my too-cool-for-school R.E.M and their fellow Athens musicians, the B-52s (who I saw on a bill with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and the Who. Strange combo, great concert);

...the intelligent timeless songwriting of Billy Joel;

...my re-introduction to the classics of the 1960s, thanks to The Big Chill. I went through a brief phase when I didn’t listen to anything released after 1970 -- not a conscious choice, but just the frame of mind I was in. The Kinks. The Mama and the Papas, The Beatles. The Stones. The Monkees;

...the igniting of my appreciation of classical music thanks to Amadeus;

...the birth of my passionate love of jazz overseen by Al Jarreau and his seminal Breaking Away album and cemented by Harry Connick and the soundtrack for When Harry Met Sally;

...a young woman named Madonna who made some damn catchy dance music while capturing the attention of a nation with her brash style and cheeky attitude (and oh! those big-ass hair bows, skirts paired with leggings and jellies with ankle socks -- man, did I think I looked cool as shit in that getup...)

...the unexpected treasures found on college radio, where cutting-edge, inventive, experimental music was played, current mainstream trends be damned. I don’t live in an area where such a station exists at the moment, so I have to work a little harder to seek out those bands and artists who aren’t overexposed on Top 40 radio but whose fresh approach to music I crave. Never would have discovered Squeeze if not for college radio. And my life would have been just a smidge less complete.;

... the birth of MTV. When it was a renegade channel playing nothing but music videos. And what I watched religiously. Even while studying. (Which explains a bit about my GPA.) Duran Duran. The Fixx. Michael Jackson. Culture Club. Men at Work. Hall & Oates. The Go-Gos. The Bangles. We could actually see the music, sometimes portrayed in a very no-nonsense fashion, sometimes presented cloaked in the abstract, obscure or just plain weird. Anyone remember the Wall of Voodoo “Mexican Radio” video, with the guy’s face emerging from the bowl of beans? Who thinks up this stuff? And why didn’t they share what they were smoking when they were in the “creative” process?

Video didn’t kill the radio star.

It just forced him to hire a stylist.

I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music.
-- Albert Einstein

Memories intertwined with music are everywhere, especially during those impressionable young adult years. I was thrown out of a high school dance for singing, along with my incorrigible buddies, all the words to Jimmy Buffett’s “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw?” very, very loudly. Acapella. A long-time boyfriend liked to listen to Kenny Rogers (sad but true confession -- can't hear "Lady" to this day without feeling a little twinge of first love) while we made out and steamed up the windows of his Honda Civic. I hear Joe Jackson’s “Breaking Us in Two” and instantly go right back to my freshman year dorm room.

Sheila E’s “The Glamourous Life” puts me in the backseat of my college roommate/best friend’s vintage diesel Mercedes sedan, motoring down the road for a weekend away in Jacksonville. The Psychedelic Furs’ “Love my Way” sends me straight to a late night alterna-dance club called The Vatican which reigned for a short time as the place-to-be-after-2-am in Gainesville in 1986.

"(Keep Feeling) Fascination" by the Human League reminds me of a Friday afternoon spent dancing on a wall in the front yard of a neighboring fraternity house located on one of Gaineville's main drags, beer in hand, the other hand waving to cars (many with people I knew in them) as they rolled by. Springsteen’s “Glory Days” has me sitting on a bar stool at my favorite watering hole, drinking a Killians Red out of my special numbered bar-regular mug, eating a chicken salad sandwich and waiting for Jeopardy to come on at 11:30 pm, after spending the evening at the Journalism School.

Sting singing “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free" reminds me of spending a Saturday afternoon during a Labor Day weekend in that same bar, spending my laundry change on beer, casually waiting for Hurricane Elena to hit the west coast of Florida. And Heart’s “Alone” reminds me of a deep, unspoken, unrequited love, about which I always suspected the object knew, but never did anything about.

Music is nothing separate from me. It is me... You'd have to remove the music surgically.
-- Ray Charles

For every connection I just made, I’ve got a least a dozen more. Music is so much a part of me. I’m not the greatest musican or music scholar. I just know what I like. And am passionate to a fault about it. And I keep music around me as much as possible. My iTunes is rolling right now as I write this. Love & Rockets “So Alive," to be precise. Hypnotic song with a very sexy underbeat. Oh yeah.

I now realize how much of my life is defined by music -- where I was when I heard a song; what was playing when thus and such happened; why a set of lyrics can instantly make me happy or melancholy or thoughtful or joyous. And my musical tastes were truly defined during that critical young adult period in my life. When I was figuring out who I was, what I wanted, where I would go, the songs around me became ingrained. And I still listen to them today. As well as innumerable other songs discovered since. My iPod is a bottomless well, ready to hold any aural pleasure I can find.

And as I review the songs of my youth, the melodies of my soul, the lyrics of my psyche, I also can see the Bright Young Thing I used to be, just briefly. But just long enough to recognize her. And like what I see. Long enough to remember who she is and to subsequently motivate me to reaquaint myself with her. She's still here, in me. Never left. Hate how long it took me to realize that. I just gotta find out where's she's been hiding and make her relevant again (and hip... always gotta be hip.)

The cliche of the soundtrack of one’s life is strikingly accurate. At least in my experience.

And just as characters in a musical spontaniously break into song, so do I.

Doesn’t everyone?

And if they don’t, they should.

They’re missing out on one of life’s greatest joys if they don't.

Na nanana na nanana na na
na na na na nana.
Ah ah ah...
(“Dyslexic Heart” by Paul Westerburg)


Music is the vernacular of the human soul.
-- Geoffrey Latham

The Poem's the Thing

Prompt:

What is your favorite poem? Why?

Long before I was an English major or had tried to analyze Thomas Pynchon or even wrote my high school senior honors’ paper about James Baldwin, I was a more than slightly precocious little girl who discovered her love of literature and pop culture at a very early age. So when I received a very adorable dachshund for my fifth birthday, no one blinked an eye when I named him Hamlet.

Now, lest you think I was reading a pop up version of the sad tale of the Prince of Denmark and his comrades, let me mention that one of my favorite shows on the telly was Gilligan’s Island. And my favorite episode (aside from the radioactive vegetables one) is the one featuring that rapscallion Harold Hecuba and the all-singing, all-dancing musical version of Hamlet. From epic pop culture nodding to classic literature a doggie was named.

Thus began my relationship with Shakespeare – one that’s only gotten stronger with time. Given that, it’s no surprise that my favorite poem is a Shakespearean sonnet. One that I have loved since I was about 15 years old. I was a slightly-awkward, drama-loving, secretly-shy girl who, unbeknownst to family, friends and even herself, felt most at home on stage. And was asked to participate, with mostly upperclassmen, in a school-wide Shakespeare festival. Even now, a thousand years later, I still get a little farklempt when I think about it. To me, it was a Big Deal. I played a small supporting role in a scene from Henry IV, Part 1 (Mistress Quickly – sharing a scene with the characters of Falstaff and Prince Hall was no small feat – scenery chewers both) and recited a dramatic interpretation of a sonnet. Sonnet 116 to be exact.

And in that moment in the program when it came for me to do my thing, presenting words older than I could ever imagine at my tender age, standing alone on a stage in front of peers and parents, I, for perhaps the first time during my emersion as a young woman, felt like my true authentic self. I owned that moment. Those words, their sentiment, though much more mature than my limited life experience could grasp, their rhythm – they became part of my essence that day. They have never left me.

So I give you my favorite poem. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. Typed from memory.

A bit of my soul on paper.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken.

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Kool-Aid Wishes and Oreo Dreams

Prompt of the Day:

When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up...

Adults are always asking little kids what they want to be when they grow up because they're looking for ideas.
~ Paula Poundstone

As a wee lass, there were two things I wanted to be when I grew up. One was a weather girl. Yes, in those days, there was such a “job” as being a weather girl. I figured I could stand, point, wear fabulous clothes and tell people to either head to the beach or take an umbrella with them. I did give some thought to the science of the weather – I could tell a cumulous from a nimbus. And always was able to see the bunny rabbits and Santa Claus in the cloud formations when I was sunbathing in the back yard.

And then Janey went off to college and in her very first spring, met Intro to Meteorology. Not a match made in heaven. More like in the horridly hot exosphere.

One semester, several blown-off classes and many pre-test all-nighters later, the dream of being a weather girl was dead. That’s D for dead, if you catch my drift.

The other childhood dream job – and one I still fancy periodically – is to be a talk show host. In the mold of Merv Griffin or Mike Douglas. Along with game shows (God bless the Game Show Network for giving me my fix of Match Game, Tic Tac Dough and the various financial incarnations of Dick Clark’s Pyramid), talk shows were part of my regular telly viewing, especially in the summer time. Both urbane and unpretentious, the classic talk show was a venue for witty repartee, knowing banter, some unguarded goofiness and glamour glamour glamour. And I wanted to be a part of it. To ask the questions. Laugh. Be a little provocative. Host one hell of a lively – and live – on cameral cocktail party.

Times changed, though – and so did the talk show. Things are slicker now, more scripted and less free-wheeling. But I still hope that somehow fate will see fit to point me in a direction where I can be a raconteur with Regis (does he even need a last name?), share a chuckle with Richard Simmons and perhaps sing a little with Nathan Lane.

Check your local listings for dates and times.

When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing.
~ Tom Robbins

See Janey Run. Run Janey Run.

I have just done something I hadn’t done in nearly 30 years.

No, I didn’t sneak a bunch of people into the drive-in by stuffing them into the trunk of my car.

No, I didn’t funnel beer straight from the keg (although truth be told, it’s been way less than 30 years since I did this)

No, I didn’t tie a huge bow in my hair after spraying it with a half can of Final Net, put on about 47 black rubber bracelets and pull up my ankle socks so they could be seen nicely above my black pumps.

I ran a mile. Without stopping.

A feat last accomplished in PE class my senior year in high school. Why I took PE my senior year is a foggy memory – I think it had to do with me having more than one elective on my schedule my junior year and needing to make it up before graduation.

Anyhoo.

I did it. I ran. A mile. Without stopping. . And then, a couple of days later, I did two. Sans break.

Wasn’t fast.

But I did it.

And I think I may have found a little piece of myself that’s lain fallow for nearly eight years.

At the very moment Will was born so abruptly and without warning, a large part of me – who I was, how I defined myself – ceased to exist. Which was necessary. Very necessary. Everything everything everything had to be channeled into ensuring that Will had whatever he needed in order to not only maximize his potential, but literally survive.

For several years, I focused solely on my child. Had to. No choice. And I did it gladly.

But while I was focused on him, I forgot about myself. In every sense of the word.

Partly out of necessity.

And partly out of guilt, for I felt paralyzingly responsible for his circumstance. My body had failed my child – failed to keep him safe. But that’s another story for another therapist’s couch.

As Will grew and stabilized and began to demand less and less of my intense attention, I became aware, first gradually and then acutely, of the floundering within my own self and psyche. I had let myself go, in myriad ways. At first I wallowed in it. Tears and self-flagellation a go-go. And then, finally, last fall, I did something about it.

I started to write a novel, taking care of the mental, creative me. And I began to work with a personal trainer, to assist the physical me.

All the parts of me are still works in progress – and always will be, as I firmly believe that growth is an integral and ongoing part of life. ‘Tis good for you, staves off stagnation.

So that mile I ran – it was much more than just 5280 feet. It was an individual victory. Sweeter than honey. My own gold medal, earned when I defeated my closest nemeses – my own personal demons.

Have a long way to go – my tuchus and core and thighs are testament to that, as is the holding pattern my book is in. But I think I’ve finally broken through the barriers I set for myself nearly eight years ago. And irony of ironies – who knew that taking care of oneself would make me a better mother. Which was my objective all along.

One small step on a treadmill. One giant step for me.

World Watching

A distant nation my community
And a street person my responsibility
If I have a care in the world
I have a gift to bring

Now I know a refuge never grows
From a chin in a hand
And a thoughtful pose
Gotta tend the earth
If you want a rose

~ "Hammer and a Nail," Indigo Girls

Amidst the vacation prep and the Will-tending (Guess who ate sweet potato casserole the other day? Here’s a hint… it wasn’t me!) and the domestic-goddess activities and half-marathon training (I’m engaging my core in my sleep and might just turn into a protein shake) I’ve become captivated and transfixed with my Twitter feed, which is giving me first hand updates from people living out the post-election unrest in Iran right now.

Welcome to the way the world does conflict, 21st century style.

Ban Western journalists? OK.

Shut down newspapers and web sites? Fine.

The information and message gets out another way.

I’ve set up a group on my TweetDeck for just the Tweets coming out of Iran. What a picture it paints. Each 140-character blip might be personal messages, talking to perhaps friends and/or family (these are more often than not in Arabic); information passed on from other sources; first hand accounts of action, activity, atrocity.

RT @alirezasha I love my country with all harsh critics that I have, with everything! thats all and I hate violence//ppl now need trust, just trust!

RT @smileofcrash Our demand: Give back our internet/SMS/phones and we'll stop DDoS your sites #iranelection

RT @persiankiwi do NOT follow any instructions on twitter except from the trusted sources - cont...... #Iranelection

This is not a scripted action adventure for the big screen. This is not a semi-scripted reality piece of television entertainment tripe.

This is real. Happening now. And unfolding literally before my eyes.

My bleeding heart hippy-dippy liberalism is spread in full peacock-feather array. I’m virtually waving my Amnesty International membership card and listening to stuff like the Indigo Girls (“Hammer and a Nail” anyone?) and Tracy Chapman. Turned my Twitter avatar green in solidarity. And passing along information, both critical and merely interesting, whenever I can.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

Nearly 20 years ago, I sat transfixed, watching the green glow of bombs pop neon against the dark Baghdad sky as the Gulf War progressed in real time. (And by the way – Arthur Kent. Totally deserving of his Scud Stud moniker. Dude was hot. Shut up.) Just as Dan Rather and the dinnertime reports from Vietnam had done a generation before, CNN changed the way world events were portrayed with nonstop live coverage of a war hours and miles away.

And now things have evolved yet again – we’re at the advent of interactive world events. I’m all set to send my Iranian Twitter follows short messages of support and thanks – not much, but it’s something. (Twitter’s down right at the moment for scheduled maintenance, rescheduled to happen in the wee small hours Tehran time so as to provide as little interruption as possible for those using it to communicate.)

It really is a small world after all.

Even in 140 character bites.

I would rather be exposed to the inconveniences attending too much liberty than to those attending too small a degree of it.

~ T. Jefferson

Yeah. I'm Mad.

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight, 
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no, I've said too much
I haven't said enough
I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try...

I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately. Internally. My psyche is askew. I'm bruised and battered inside. My reactions visceral.

I’m off plumb. Emotionally tired from my internal struggle.

I’m wrestling with being mad at God.

Because of Will. And his situation.

While parenting a special needs kiddo is the only sort of parenting I know, it ain’t always the easiest thing in the book. It’s tough sometimes to conform my natural standard issue maternal instinct to fit the template of my non-standard issue son.

He’s developmentally delayed. We’re still working on expanding our palette  and potty training and using our words appropriately and focusing when necessary. Our life is one big educational minute. 

And he’s really made tremendous progress. I have to keep reminding myself of that -- for a little boy who’s stood on the precipice of life in the first fortnight of his life, he’s one fantastic miracle. And my greatest blessing.

I just wish something -- anything -- would be easy for him. Wouldn’t be such a struggle or process. That something would come to him quickly and naturally and standardly. He works so hard to achieve every single one of his accomplishments. Is it too much to ask that the kid be given a break? That something just come to him without the lengthy one-step-forward, two-steps-back? 

This just makes my heart ache with heaviness. It's not fair. Not to me. I know I'm beyond biased here. But still.

I’m back to a place I’ve been occasionally in my faith walk -- this being pissed at God -- and it scares me a bit. My God is a big God and me being angry with Him is something He can certainly handle. But that doesn't mean I'm comfortable with it. Makes me a little nervous, but it is, as I like to say, what it is.

I'm not running away from church or my faith. Not at all. And I’m not in that place one finds oneself when one is mad at someone and doesn't want to be around that person. I still want to be around Him. Him being God. I just may be a bit of a snot when we're together.

My breaking point came, in, of all places, church. During the sermon last Sunday, which was focusing on the very cool topic of "Hanging with the Almighty," we were camped in Mark 9, talking about how in order to really gain relationship with Christ, you need to come off the mountain and get into the action. Christ encountered a man with a son who was plagued with seizure and convulsions -- in those days, they  viewed that as being possessed by a spirit. Nowadays, it's akin to epilepsy or a seizure disorder.

Which is what Will has.

Christ says, in Mark 9:23, in response to the boy's father, "Everything is possible for him who believes." Fine. I believe. So why are things so hard and scary for my boy?

Despite my questions and anger and pain, my love for and belief in God hasn’t changed -- that’s rock solid. I suppose I'm simply in a bit of a spiritual crisis. And on the good news front -- this emotional mess I'm currently in is only slightly compounded by the residue of my still-lingering guilt over my body having failed Will in the womb. I went through a long period when I carried the burden of guilt about not doing *something* or knowing that *something* was amiss when I was in premature labor. Not there now. Not a lot, anyway. So that's good.

I’m frustrated. And tired. And even a bit melancholy. I just want my baby to have the easiest and smoothest path in life possible. The definition of easy and smooth, however, is not only constantly changing, but seems further and further out of reach. And because of that, I’m pissed. I'm also tired of questions and pseudo-sympathic nods and clucks and being avoided because of Will. Because people just don't know what to say or don't want to say anything at all. We're the family that people only ask after. It hurts. Badly. It's an ugly truth. One that I need to get over as well. This wallowing is not constructive. I know that. But still.

As I hear my boy in the garage right now, helping with the laundry (if you can call lifting the lid to watch things spin around helping) and singing  that “happiness is anyone and anything at all that's loved by you,” I gain some hope and a bit of perspective. I’m still angry, mind you -- this snit I’m in might take some time to work out. I just have to keep focused on the important matters at hand, checking my emotions and yes, my ego, at the door.

Here’s hoping that this too shall pass. Here's to it being sooner rather than later.

Nothing's gonna harm you
Not while I'm around
Nothing's gonna harm you
No sir, not while I'm around...
~ Mr. Sondheim

Breathing from the diaphragm

As your faith is strengthened you will find that there is no longer the need to have a sense of control, that things will flow as they will, and that you will flow with them, to your great delight and benefit.
~ Emmanuel Teney

The password for today is... visceral.

The English Major has a definition of 'visceral' for y'all, in case you were wondering:

*characterized by or proceeding from instinct rather than intellect 

*characterized by or dealing with coarse or base emotions

*earthy; crude.

The word "visceral" has its roots, so to speak,  with the word "viscera" which refers literally, in a non-scientific way,  to the intestines and/or bowels.

It's where I've been living these days -- that visceral zone.

Running on gut instinct. Having unvarnished reactions that pop out of nowhere and startle me. 

For a girl who has serious real estate and time logged living in her head, this modus operandi's a little unusual. And it's thrown me for a bit of a loop.

Talk about meta: having visceral reactions to having visceral reactions. Don't stop too long to ponder that one -- it's headache-giving.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm a chica with pretty strong emotions who's not afraid to show them. But they are usually tempered and balanced with whatever's going on in my head.  Not so much right now.

Exhibit A: While on the phone with a friend, a comment was made on the other end of the line that zoom-hit me like a lightning bolt, unleashing tears that flowed not from anger or sadness but from a blast of unexpected power and a rush of overwhelming joy. Caught me totally by surprise. 

Didn't quite know I felt that way. Shook me up a bit to have my subconscious feelings come barge in, steal the scene and pull focus from my emotional status quo. They chewed up a whole lot of scenery in the process to boot. Go big or go home, even subconsciously. 

Visceral.

Exhibit B: Was out on one of my independent walk/run interval sessions and was walking by a park in my neighborhood. A moms' play group was there, with kids running everywhere, being alternately chased by women holding on to Starbucks cups and left to their own devises as one mama eye was on them and their antics.

And I started to cry. Unexpectedly. Again. Not at the beauty or wonderfulness of the scene. But because I was pissed. Jealous. Angry.

Will never had a play-group experience when he was in that age bracket. Not once. Ever.

My baby didn't walk in earnest until he was nearly five years old. Didn't run. Didn't climb. His mobility was a long time coming. Hours spent with therapists and exercises and you name it. Every step he takes now and forever is hard-earned and precious.

And while we know people who are forging through life in a similar fashion with special needs and weird health issues and the like, there's not a collective group forging forward together. More like flotsam and jetsam bobbing along and occasionally bumping in to one another.

To be frank, most people -- at least the ones I know in real life -- don't know what to do with something like that. With us. The special needs family to whom it's hard, other than in the context of prayer during times of crisis, to relate. Our normal is drastically and painfully different than that of most folks. I get that.

But damn if it isn't hard to live our lives sometimes in the face of regular, stereotypical moments that we, for whatever reason, haven't had. To experience something as seemingly mundane as a morning with friends and at a park. To be something other than a family whom people simply ask after.

Yeah -- I'm taking a moment to mourn for just a minute Will not having had the opportunity to have regular, standard-issue kid experiences. Don't do this often -- so cut me some slack and save your judgment for another time, dammit. It's not easy to reach out when you're the oddball in the bunch. Believe me, I've tried.

And  I think I'm entitled to live here for a moment and get pissed, albeit briefly, on behalf of my beautiful boy.

Visceral.

Not sure where this hot bed of base emotion is getting its energy. I suspect my success in my "taking care of me" program is a big part of it. I'm making great progress with my health and wellness efforts and am feeling really good and confident about myself. And ready to discover and handle some of my more base instinct. Just like Shrek and onions, I've got layers.  I'm thinking I'm just in a position at the moment where they're peeling themselves away. 

And while I'm still processing my new-found and sorta startling reactions, I'm also curious to see what's under the next layer. 

I think. 

And that's about as visceral as I get.

Never ignore a gut feeling, but never believe that it's enough.

~ Robert Heller

Perspective

It's been a weird day. A really weird day.

Make that a weird week. Car troubles and a hospital visit thanks to a Will seizure and some career uncertainty for the Mister.

But some news I received today about a long-ago friend has thrown me for the biggest loop of all.

I can now say I know someone who's in prison. For third-degree sex offense and child abuse.

Knock me over with a feather.

This fellow was someone with whom I worked closely doing volunteer work. Family man. Christian. Talented. Creative. When Will was born, he was the first person to arrive at the hospital, aside from family. Met me in the recovery room, having come straight from the golf course. We were friends.

The last person one would ever imagine could or would end up in a situation like this.

The incident in question took place nearly 15 years ago. Things like this have a way of catching up with a person, I suppose.

I really am not sure what to do with this and if you asked me what I was feeling, I'm not sure I could describe it.

Shock.
Sadness.
Numbness.

I'm not angry or outraged. More sad than anything. For a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is that I'm now in a little bit of mourning the loss of a friend I thought I knew.

The Good Book says that he who is without sin can cast the first stone. I certainly don't qualify. And that's not how I operate anyway.

Went to the beach tonight to spend some family time and to try and gain some perspective and a little bit of peace about this whole thing. There was a very very low tide this evening -- so much so that a sand bar about 50 feet from shore was easily visible and accessible. Can't remember when -- if ever -- I'd seen such a low tide. A new experience. And as I waded out through clear, clear water, I could easily see the sandy bottom underneath my feet, shifting with every step I took. It wasn't until I reached the rough, shell and rock-laden sand bar. Solid. Reminded me of a hymn sung during my childhood (these days, I most frequently attend a contemporary service, where hymns, if they're sung at all, are reworked and jazzed up)

On Christ the solid Rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

Perspective.

And while I may never figure out exactly what to do with my myriad emotions regarding my friend, it's OK.

I've got perspective.

That's all I can ask for.

To every season turn, turn, turn...

(Credit goes to my girlie Perpstu at Popping Bubbles for spurring this little post idea)

Summer breeze makes me feel fine

Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

The thermometer read 72 degrees as I got into the car to take Will to school. At just after 8 am.

And while the calendar still reads springtime, let's face it. Summer's here.

For me, the best part of summer =  the scents of the outdoors that are so indicative of the season...

Blooming jasmine and gardenias, sweetly permeating the air with delicate fragrance

Charcoal grills preparing an evening’s feast

Fresh cut grass, soft and sharp signifying a job well done

Sunscreen with its immediate evoking of the tropical sun 

Chlorine, signifying cool respite from the day’s heat

Fresh peaches, dripping with lush juice and sultry deliciousness

Cold beer, quenching thirst with a kick

Citronella candles, filling the atmosphere with protection and light

Sweat earned from an endorphin-laced workout, earthy and salty and 

victorious

It’s summertime (almost)... and the living is indeed easy. Or it soon will be. 

Blessings

Easter is the demonstration of God 

that life is essentially spiritual and timeless. 

~ Charles M. Crowe

Easter spells out beauty, the rare beauty of new life. 

~ S.D. Gordon

For I remember it is Easter morn,

And life and love and peace are all new born. 

~ Alice Freeman Palmer

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! 

In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope 

through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead...

~ 1 Peter 1:3

Remembrance of Things Past

I remember when I found out about chemistry
It was a long, long way from here
I was old enough to want it but
younger than I wanted to be
Suddenly my mission was clear

So for a while I conducted experiments
And I was amazed by the things I learned
From a fine fine girl with nothing but good intentions and
A bad tendency to get burned

Ever feel like you've just seen a ghost? Turned a little pale, grown a pit in your stomach, honed your nerves to a sharp edge?

Yeah. Me too. Like right now.

That ghost I just saw... is me.

I was poking through a box of old memories -- epherma. Stuff. From my past. And I picked up an envelope amidst the photos and clippings. A familiar envelope.

The minute I saw it, I knew what it was. And my blood instantly ran cold.

It was a letter from an old lover. A long, long, long time ago lover.

The one who got under my skin. The one with whom I parted amidst tears and torment. The one I've never quite forgotten. Ever.

I'm totally thrown. Completely.

Poof. There's my past. My youth. My foibles. My heart. Slit and spread wide open.

I just made the same mistake I've made countless times before -- I opened the damn thing up. And the memories came flooding back, washing over my spirit like a summer storm full of thunder and lightning and kinetic energy. The torrents were painful in their piercing intensity as the drops rat-a-tat hit my tender skin. Yet refreshing in their coolness as they made their way to nourish the dry patches in my soul. As they always do.

So much has changed. So little has changed.

Fuck. How I hate that.

All about chemistry
Won't you show me everything you know
Ah wonder what you do to me
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, oh

We met cute. And the chemistry, as they say, was instantaneous and palpable. I was pursued, wooed, and yes, screwed. Fantastically. Intimately. Thoroughly.

He was brilliant -- talented with a quick wit and an even quicker tongue. I was the Bright Young Thing with a flirty nature and curious mind. He called me precocious. I reveled in that.

I've always been attracted to creative types -- I love their passion, their quirkiness and their intelligence. It energizes me somehow. It's not unusual for such characteristics to come packaged with other more challenging traits -- things like melancholy, mercurialness, tempestuousness. And those particulars were, more often than not, the Achilles heel of a relationship for me.

Some time later I met a young graduate
When I had nobody to call my own
I told her I was looking for somebody to appreciate
And I just couldn't do it alone

So for a while we conducted experiments
In an apartment by the River Road
And we found out that the two things we put together
had a bad tendency to explode

I've been in love -- really in love -- four times in my life. This was one of those times.

No one has ever loved me quite like he did. No one has ever hurt me as badly as he did.

All part of the experience. Came with the territory.

He knew me. Not just the superficial side of me that I chose to show to the world, to acquaintances and friends alike. The deepest part of me. What made me tick. What made me laugh. What fueled me.

With a glance, a touch, a whisper -- we were connected. I'm flushed now, just at the very thought of him.

When it was good, it was completely transcendent.

When it was bad, it was utterly debilitating.

All about chemistry
Won't you show me everything you've learned
I'll memorize everything you do to me so I can
Teach it when it comes my turn

It didn't last long, this bolus dose of overwhelming emotion nestled in the core of a relationship. It was too intense to do anything but to burn hot and flame out. It dissipated in a blaze of glory... fiery shards, angry words, misunderstandings and the inevitable collateral damage. Time and distance and temperament were the weapons of mass destruction. Not surprisingly, we made discord as passionately as we made love.

I was left wounded and weeping and weary. But wiser.

As we parted, finally, he sent me a letter. Pointed yet tender. Moody. With sentiments no one had ever shared with me before. Things never shared since, either. It's both a treasure and a curse. And yet I still keep it, buried away, with no X marking the spot. But I know it's there.

This man was different than anyone else I've ever been involved with. Maybe that's why there's residue from our time together still on my soul. His voice still deep inside my head. His fingerprints still on my heart.

I'd be lying if I said that even after all this time, I didn't miss him. Because I do. Sometimes I have flashes of memories that overwhelm me -- so much that I have to stop and sob them out.

But it was a long time ago. And I was young. Impetuous. I've changed so much since then -- but honestly I wouldn't be the person I am today without having had this man in my life. And while I am at peace and at home with my fate the way it played out, I wonder what might have been... if...


Even now when I have come so far
I wonder where you are
I wonder why it's still so hard without you
Even now when I come shining through
I swear I think of you
And how I wish you knew
Even now


This one's for you...

Learning to Exhale

Relax and let your mind roll on
Over all your problems
Relax and let your mind roll on
Over all your problems...
~ The Who

It's not as easy as you'd think. This relaxation thing. Letting go and exhaling without inhaling any angst. Breathing out with content.

Tried it over this past weekend. Succeeded moderately. Albeit temporarily.

Kinda groovy. Being relaxed.

Not turning on the telly (save for a middle-of-the-night awake moment in which I watched "Meet the Paynes" on TBS -- I was hoping to catch Madea, as it was a Tyler Perry weekend, but no such luck) helped. As did not having internet access. Amazing how things in my mental area started to unwind without any of my usual addictive stimuli.

There's an art to relaxing properly. Not sure if I've mastered it. Rumor has it that turning one's mind off, so to speak, is an important component. I swear I was born both talking and thinking and haven't stopped since -- so the concept of turning the mind off is not only foreign to me, but nearly impossible. But I tried. No mooning or fretting or stewing about anything. And it worked for a little while. As did some serious time swaying in a hammock. That will totally cure what ails you.

Not sure I'm going to be able to accomplish this relaxation thing now that I'm back in the swing of everyday stress and responsibilities. But the perspective gained and the residue remaining will hopefully serve as gateways to a calmer, less frantic me.

At least for the rest of the week.

Maybe.

Keep your sneeze to yourself, pleeze

Like everybody else, when I don't know what else to do, I seem to go in for catching colds.
~ George Jean Nathan

What I mistakenly thought was a bit of a hangover (shhhh...) this morning... has turned out to be a cold (uggggggh). With a cough, stuffy nose, sinus pressure and that most fun of all symptoms -- a fever.

If you consider my new clean-clean-clean eating habits and couple them with an evening of drinking Agave Honey Margaritas made with top shelf tequila, a bit of a hangover would be the logical explanation for my headache and sluggishness. However, the germ's the thing. Not even the hair of the dog can help this situation.

A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold.
~ Ogden Nash

Silly me -- here I thought I had done my cold penance for the year, having had a yucky one right after the first of the year.

Guess not. Although I cannot figure out where this blasted thing came from. However, given the amount of time I spend with kiddos both at school and church, I have a pretty good idea (especially since one of the Choir Urchins sported a faucet-running nose on Wednesday...)

I'll never be able to finger the real culpret -- but I'm cursing those transient germs as I write this.

Ah-Ah-Ah CHOO!

Sorry. Off to find a tissue.

Be well, y'all. And I mean that literally.

Keep your sneeze to yourself
Don't share your germs with anyone else
Grab a tissue off the shelf
And keep your sneeze to yourself.
~ Barney the Big Ass Purple Dinosaur

My Heart

Love is hugging. Love is kissing. 

Love is saying no sometimes.

Love is what makes you smile when you're tired.

My mommy loves me more than anybody. 

You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.

There are two kinds of love - our love and God's love. 

But God makes both kinds of them. 

Love is important to God.

You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. 

But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. 

People forget, and it's good for them to get reminded.

*Quotes taken from Funny Love Quotes by Kids

More relative than this—the play's the thing…

It’s no secret that I love Shakespeare – to read, to watch, to ponder. You can take the girl out of college, but you can’t take the English major out of the girl.

But once upon a time (exactly 29 years ago, now that I think about it), in a land not so far away (actually about a mile from where I am at the moment), I had opportunity to give the words of the Bard some life on stage. Might not be a big deal to some, but as a wide-eyed high school sophomore who was a drama queen in every sense of the phrase, this was huge.

We were having a mini-Shakespeare festival, co-produced by the English and Drama Department (note that I use the term Drama “Department” loosely, since it basically consisted of one staff member who directed the spring musical and any one-off dramatic activities – no classes or anything formal… one of my great regrets about my high school). Each English class was studying a Shakespearean play at the time and the Festival was a tie-in event, featuring scenes from each of the plays being read.

Being low-woman on the greasepaint totem pole (after all, I was a mere sophomore), I didn’t have a huge part… played the delightfully named Mistress Quickly in a scene from Henry IV, Pt. One involving Prince Hal and that rascal Falstaff. The cast all wore t-shirts with a picture of Will S. on the front and our character name on the back. Yeah, I got a lot of wear out of my Mistress Quickly shirt after the performance. rolls eyes

However, the real highlight for me was getting to recite and interpret a sonnet… Number CXVI. Still remember every word to this day. As I studied the words and rehearsed their delivery, something inside me germinated – and my love and affection for the nuances of literature was born. Kinda cool to think about this now, as I sit in a room overflowing with books and books about books.

Sonnet CXVI is a perfect work to celebrate and share on this Valentine’s Eve… and I’ll have you know that save for the accent mark on “fixed” and a check to see where the verse are supposed to break (I may be passionate, but I am admittedly lazy. Counting out iambic pentameter this afternoon didn’t thrill me…) this bad boy was typed from memory.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments; love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.


If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

And don’t worry – this is just here for sheer enjoyment. No essay on your interpretation is required… 

Strong. Invincible. Woman.

Each time we face our fear, we gain strength, courage, and confidence in the doing.
~ Anonymous

Hello! My name is Janey (Hi Janey!)

I am Woman. Hear me roar.

Pardon my effusiveness – it’s just the endorphins talking.

I have hit a stride – an amazing one – with my workouts with The Trainer. And I feel fan-frickin-tastic.

I’m doing things I either never imagined I’d do… or, more importantly, wasn’t ready, physically and mentally, to do even a couple of weeks ago.

It’s the mental part that’s got me in a dither. Although the physical stuff’s not far behind.

My body is getting more and more capable of doing things that it’s never done before (or in a very, very, very long while.)

And my mind believes it. Fear and doubt are fading away.

Wow.

This whole healthy living process is fascinating to me – someone who spends an extraordinary (and often detrimental) amount of time in her own head.

It requires a package deal – body, mind and spirit – in order to achieve any level of success.

I feel like doing a Rogers and Hammerstein-scored spin around the block, singing “I have confidence” at the top of my lungs in glorious Theatre Diva style. However, my voice is still down in the depths and I suspect the gist and intent would be lost in the huskiness of my dulcet tones. Plus my neighbors just wouldn’t appreciate it. Y’all would – right?


In the past week, I’ve tried walking lunges (OUCH – feeling those today) and plyometrics and Pilates moves and my favorites – carrying my trainer piggy-back style for a bit. That’s right. Boo-yah.

I carried a person on my back and it didn’t phase me. How damn crazy is that?

Wow.

I’m stronger. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Energy level is up. Sharpness is up.

It’s all good.

I know the ebb and flow is part of this process – I’m on the ebb (or is it the flow – whichever is at the peak. Apex. Crest. You’d think I’d learn to research my colorful language references better… maybe it’s time for an assistant...) at the moment. And there are going to be days when I will be discouraged or upset. It’s days like today that I’m going to conjure up to remind me that regardless of the speed bump, I’m moving forward.

In a manner too big to ignore.

Rowr.

Come on and roar along with me... trust me. You'll like it.

Snow Day. Grow Day. Glow Day.

Thirty –two years ago today was a cold one here in Florida. That capricious weather element known as snow flurries danced in the air. My dad, the chief public information officer for the local power company, was everywhere, fielding calls about brown—outs and doing media interviews in the front yard. School was cancelled, because the classrooms couldn’t get warm enough. A day off. For cold weather. In Florida. Monumental.

So – what’s a slightly nerdy, precocious and inquisitive seventh grade girlie to do on such a day?

Watch history being made. Which is what I did.

The Presidential campaign of 1976 was the first one to which I really paid attention. Ironically, my fascination with Watergate was the gateway impetus to my deep and passionate investment in political current affairs. And so I watched party conventions and read about election events and tried to understand editorial comments. I knew the names of Jimmy Carter’s crazy family members and could identify his pals from Georgia. Coming from a family of yellow-dog Democrats, I appreciated, even at my tender age, the significance of this political shift.


So when the school called to let us know that classes were cancelled for the day, I was more excited than the average bear. For I would be able to watch history being made. I could see the Inauguration of President Carter unfold in real time. Which was basically all we had in those days before YouTube and Plurk and Facebook.

From the oath taking to the unprecedented jump out of the car of the family to walk, hand in hand, down the parade route, with Mrs. Carter in her baby blue coat to the glamour of the Inaugural Balls. Thirty-two years later, I still remember those details. My first Inauguration.

Today, I’m reminded of that piece of my history as I sit, electronically plugged in every which possible, watching each moment, each move of this day. With the same wonder and amazement and pride I had thirty-two years ago.

The world is a different place now, thanks to technology and trial and experience.. Yes, our challenges are different and dare I say, more dire – but still the same, somehow, as they were all those years ago.

But on a day like today, when hundreds of thousands of people have made the effort to simply be in the same airspace as the President, and the words hope and change and can and do are earnest and cliché-free, anything seems possible.

Just goes to show that idealism is timeless. The twelve-year-old girl in me tells me so.

Yes We Can. Yes We Did. Yes We Will.

It's been a too long, too long-time a-coming,

But I know a change is gonna come,

Oh, yes, it is.

Four and a half years ago, during a sticky contention-laden election summer, I was introduced, along with the rest of the world, to a man about my age who shared his story, speaking earnestly and passionately about his ideals and ethics and passions. I listened, rapt with attention, to his address, processing every word and absorbing every nuance.

This man, a self-proclaimed “skinny kid with a funny name,” made an impact on me with his intelligence, his fervor, his rhetoric, his youth.

A passage from his remarks resonated deeply, even days later.

Still does, as a matter of fact.

“Hope in the face of difficulty, hope in the face of uncertainty, the audacity of hope: In the end, that is God's greatest gift to us, the bedrock of this nation, a belief in things not seen, a belief that there are better days ahead.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier

Ooh-oo child, things'll be brighter

Some day, yeah

We'll put it together and we'll get it all done

Some day

When your head is much lighter

Some day, yeah

We'll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun

Some day

When the world is much brighter

Two years ago, I picked up a book, with a familiar title, by an author with a familiar name. I read it in bits and pieces, taking time to appreciate the words on the page and to absorb their nuance.

I was re-introduced to a man who, I was heartened to discover, thought like I did, believed in the same things I did, approached his faith in God and his Christianity like I did – and who chose public service as his career and passion.

My idealism, bruised by the actions and inactions of current politics, began to mend just a bit.

And when he announced the formation of his Presidential exploratory committee, I happily blogged about it and bookmarked myobama.com for future and constant reference.

The rest, as they say, is history.

~~~~~~~~~~

This is my generation

This is my generation, baby

Barack Obama is my President.

Barack Obama is my peer, in a manner of speaking. We are roughly the same age, give or take a couple of years.

Barack Obama is my contemporary, in the purest sense of the word.

And that speaks volumes and means more to me than I ever realized.

My president is going to be a man who has the same pop culture references as I do, the same framework of world events as I do, the same generational attitude as I do. We could have been classmates in high school or college. We speak a similar language.

He represents me – my history, my present, my future.

And that makes my heart swell with pride and giddy anticipation.

It’s our generation’s turn at bat. To make a difference. To create and execute change. To define America.

With an exceptional man leading the way. Through incumbent challenges and endless possibilities.

And while the significance of his ethnicity and its relationship to this office and our country is not lost on me in the least, when I look at President Obama, I simply see a man whom I trust, respect, believe in and yes, genuinely like. A man for whom I am proud to have voted and excited to call my President.

So, what does this inauguration mean to me? It means…

… that pragmatic idealism is not a futile endeavor and is worth pursuing.

… that positive, pro-active thinking has been given a welcomed place in our society.

… that basic human values and decency are still important.

… that We the People still has merit and legitimate meaning.

… that citizens want to be part of the solution – not simply finger-pointing by-standers.

… that the senses of community, of participation, of investment are infectious and contagious and ubiquitous from sea to shining sea.


As January 20th approaches , I am overflowing with anticipation and faith, and yes, those oft cliché-laden terms of “hope” and “change.”

But somehow it all works – it’s fresh and crisp and sharp.

We will be poised on a genesis of potential on this day.

That change is not just gonna come – it’s here.

God Bless America. God bless our President.

We the People...

I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God.

Powerful words. Passionate words. Resonant words.

These are the words spoken by the newest official citizens of the United States. It's their pledge of allegiance, in a modified sort of way.

And these words were spoken by a friend of mine just this morning, in a ceremony held on a cold and blustery day in New York.

I couldn't be more proud or excited if I tried.

~While the storm clouds gather far across the sea,
Let us swear allegiance to a land that's free,
Let us all be grateful for a land so fair,
As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer...~

My friend, like countless others born elsewhere, has chosen to be part of the fabric of our country. To assume the rights and responsibilities that come with being a US citizen. To be an American.

She has consciously elected to become a citizen. She has worked towards becoming something that many of us take for granted. 

This citizenship something. 

~God bless America... land that I love

Stand beside her and guide her

Through the night with a light from above~

My friend has become a citizen on the cusp of change in America. Big change. In action, demeanor, perspective.

Exciting? Without question.

Hopeful? Even more so.

Yeah, I went there. Cliche and all. 

~From the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam...~

Lots of hubbub afoot in the country right now --  coverage of the Inauguration is everywhere, with no detail too small, no fact too insignificant to share. This media-national fervor, juxtaposed against my friend and her Big Event, has given me pause and made me think. About what it means to be an American. Right now. This moment. In this place.

It's exceptional. It's passionate. It's provocative. Exhilarating. 

But most of all, it's spirited -- either proudly or contentiously, depending on your subjective proclivities. 

It's quite simply, quintessentially American-esque.

Hooray. Hallelujah. Amen.

~God bless America, my home sweet home...

God bless American, my home sweet home.~