When did I become a hippie?

I grew up in the 70s and 80s. Came of age (in my mind anyway) in the mid-90s. My music repertoire had its roots in Styx (I blame my then-teenage neighbor), then later in Rush, the Fixx, the Alarm (I blame pals Rick and Joe) and other similar bands like the Clash, Joe Satriani, the Cult. Post-college brought me into contact (as I fell in love) with Pearl Jam and the Dave Matthews Band. And then there were the Frank years, and all things ladies of blues, Etta, Ella and Nina. But I never would've called myself a hippie or anything even slightly related. Slightly boho-gal, yes. All-out Jeep outdoorsy cool chick, probably. But hippie? I had one tie-dye shirt (that I made). Didn't go to festivals (didn't even know such a thing existed besides Woodstock). Never saw the Grateful Dead on tour (never even knew much of their music). Would not have known what a drum circle was. Nor a jam band. Phish grew to fame in the east while I was there, and I missed that too entirely. And then, somehow that all changed.

I remember the first song that my husband played for me -- the first one that he really wanted me to hear. It was by the Jerry Garcia Band, and it was a cover of Shining Star by Earth, Wind and Fire. And it was good. Really good. I instantly fell in love (your guess here whether I'm talking about the song or Jim). He had told a friend of his years before that he would play that song for the woman he was going to marry, so in a way, it was a mini-audition for the wife and lover and friend and companion that I was already well on my way to becoming. Come forward to our engagement, which began when he asked me to marry him at Bonnaroo, during the Dead show while they played Morning Dew (a sweet, soulful, classic folk melody)...and then keep on going to our wedding, which featured both significant songs, a reception introduction orchestrated by Phish's First Tube, and filled with Jerry Garcia wine, Jerry art on all the place cards, and a Dancing Bear pinata. Oh yes, I'm serious. It was a blast....

I credit my lovely (hippie) pilot of a hubby with all this music discovery. Music is amazing, I think. How one song can change your entire day, mood, life sometimes. How one song can take you back 20 years, and surprise you by the fact that you still know all the words. And the words -- ahhh, the writer in me is always so focused on, so moved by, so inspired with what the songs actually say and how they say it, most times more than the music itself (although also a critical part). That's one of our big differences -- for Jim, it's all about the music, and the words are secondary, sometimes unimportant. It's the absolute opposite for me. To this day, I still print out words to songs that strike me -- songs where the words could stand alone, but are brought to such an amazing life with their accompanying chords and notes and voices. Songs where the words alone bring a tear to my eye, make me smile, cry, wish, hope....

I'm now a huge fan of both the Grateful Dead and Phish, and find myself sorry that I missed some of the "golden years" when touring with the bands was an experience and not just another show. I've been to Bonnaroo twice. A number of smaller festivals like the Hangout and two and three-day shows galore from Red Rocks to Alpine Valley and back. In fact, much of our vacation schedule is crafted around festival season. I just got back from a two-day Phish run at Deer Creek. Funny, how music can change a life, no?

So in the spirit of the hippie I've become -- loved becoming, become through love -- I leave you with my latest favorite song. A good DJ "friend" played it to end his run on my favorite local radio station, and it seemed to me to be the perfect send-off, the perfect goodbye, the perfect so long for now. It's a sweet, slightly sad tune, but as always, it was the words that hooked me, with the music sealing the deal. So from one hippie to another, I hope you enjoy it....both the words and the music.....and think of the "many worlds I've come since I first left home"....and that you'll "listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock my soul."

The Kindness of...

I'm completely, almost overwhelmingly exhausted today. Beat. Dog tired. Drained. Weary. Bleary eyed. Painfully sleepy. Nap-deprived. Ready to drop. (And yes, for those of you keeping count, I did in fact check the MWC for "other words for....")

Before you get too sympathetic, let me express that this is (mostly) my own fault. Yes, I admit it. I was one of the many, many women who, late into last night, could be found sitting in a theater watching the New Moon premiere.

Disclaimer: I've always been a Wolf Girl (those of you who knew me when will find it no surprise that I could blame it on David Eddings, waaay back in 1982), so the fact that Jake and his pack of very cool (huge) wolves are prominently featured in this movie (with more than a liberal dose of eye-candy) made this a Must-See-at-Midnight-with-3,000-Other-Crazy-Females Event. Plus, I missed last year's midnight Twilight movie fest (blame Grif), so I had to go to this one. Plus, did I mention that I'm a Wolf Girl? And these wolves were....wow. Seriously.

Second Disclaimer: I could not have known that the theater would have ridiculous technical difficulties and that our midnight movie would, in fact, not start until after 1 a.m. Putting me home near 4 a.m.

So, I'm tired. More than a little cranky, but really just bone tired. And as always when I'm wrapped up in my own little (feeling-sorry-for-myself-cuz-I'm-sleepy) world, the universe sends me a little nudge. A wee message. Gentle reminder. Genuine kindness. From a stranger.

He wasn't homeless. Or crazy. Or creepy. Looked like he was on his way to work. Casual. Nice. I didn't even pass him -- we were more on a perpendicular path with each other as I crossed in front of him. So there was absolutely no reason why I should turn and look at him over my shoulder at the point when I was very nearly out of range for both eye contact and a verbal exchange. But I did. Looked back, that is. For some reason (ah, here comes the coincidence excuse...we know better). And he very clearly looked right at me and said happily, "Good Morning!" Exclamation included.

I replied with a short toss of quick-grinned "hi!" over my shoulder, but kept walking. At this point we were on the same compass point, me walking north, he directly behind me, 10 feet away and heading east. But he kept talking...

"You know, I wanna tell you," he said, stopping in his tracks. "You have a very blessed day." Same smile. Same genuine happiness. Deliberate. Directed entirely at me. Just me.

I couldn't help but stop as well, turned nearly all the way around to look him in the eye, and with absolute honesty and now a huge smile said, "You do the same."

And that was it. He went his way, I mine. But with one unexpected remark, one effort toward a stranger he will probably never again see, let alone talk to, he changed my entire morning. And perhaps my whole exhaustively long day. I still felt the too-much-buttered-movie-popcorn-plus-vat-of-coke stomach sourness. But I felt oddly light, and refreshed. And happy. Why did he bother? Why did I? But truly, what an amazing way to start my oh-so-tired day.

Am I reading too much into this brief, innocent exchange? Probably. Not. Maybe. Doesn't really matter though, does it? It is what I make it. It is what I choose to hear. It is what I take away from it. And pass on to someone else. Like you.

So hey. Hi. Smile. And have a very blessed day. Really. Feels good, no?

For Kris -or- A post within a post

I'm a writer. I've always been a writer. It was that statement exactly, on the night I met my husband and after a bit of small talk about what we "did," he actually said to me: "But you've always been a writer, right?" I truly think it was that innocent (but oh so very insightful) statement that made me turn and look -- really look -- at him. And think, "hmmm...now that's interesting, how did he know that?" It could even have been what made me start to fall in love with him...

I digress. Blogging. And Kris. That is what this one was about. And the fact that for so very long, even though I knew about blogs and blogging (which have been around since '95!), I had ignored them -- and their function, their power for one such as a writer. Perhaps even deliberately (earlier this year, a friend of mine had asked me with a touch of scorn in his voice, "you're not going to start one of those mommy blogs now, are you?" I scoffed, and answered with complementary, condescending scorn, "Pfffbbb, no, of course not!").

My friend Kris changed that. Completely, suddenly, after one innocent (and yet again oh so very insightful) statement. I had written her a quick note about a picture of her lovely grandmother, who had recently passed away. Her one-line (dare I say life-changing?) response was, "Girl, if you're not writing for someone besides [your employer] -- at least a blog! -- you should be." And I sat back in my chair after reading it -- totally struck still -- and knew she was right. So this one's for her. And here's what sparked it all....

I saw a picture of my husband's grandparents a few years ago. It has lived in my memory ever since -- it's so provocative, almost the very essence of the word. And it was this picture that I thought of when I saw a very similar shot of Kris' grandmother....and here's what I told her:

There’s something to be said for seeing pics of our parents and grans with they were young -- especially folks of a certain age who grew up with those black and white/sepia-toned shots, and a certain style of clothes, a certain mindset about life -- shots like these blow me away.  I think it's because we are so accustomed to only seeing our rents/grans as “old,” and it always floors me to really see how truly beautiful or handsome they were when they were young -- ESPECIALLY during those times between the 40s & 50s…they all look like James Dean or Rita Hayworth -- and they make it look real, convincing, and somehow totally unattainable for you and me. It makes me love them even more somehow….

When I first saw this photo of Jim's grands, I honestly could not stop looking at it. Look at them -- she's got the model walk, her hat, holding her hand just so...he's got that star-struck look on his face as he gazes at her, hand fashionably in his pocket, like he just stepped out of a spread in GQ. The beauty, the undeniable glamor of this photo, the unconscious grace -- these are things that the people of our generation can never duplicate. Not totally. That art has been lost somewhere as the world grew up. And this shot wasn't posed -- they were just caught on the street. On film. What luck for us...

So, Kris. Thank you. Thank you for making me think of this photo. For making me remember that I was a writer. For helping me expel my prejudice against blogs in general. Thank you for giving me the (needed) literal kick in the bum to start being a writer again. Thanks for reminding me to write. This one's for you.

For my mother, and her fallen soldier

This one is easy. It's Veteran's Day, and first and foremost, I always think of Pete, my mother's first husband. Her first love. Her first heartbreak. He was a Marine who died in the Vietnam war.

I wrote this poem years ago (for a poetry class my last semester in college -- yes, that many years ago), and even then, I knew it was some of the most original, most amazing work that I had ever put to paper (and the only poem of mine my teacher liked)...in the library, with a spiral notebook, assignment in mind (to write a poem about a memory). I remember looking down to begin writing...and then nothing else until I looked up. And it was complete. And good. I remember nothing of composing each line. It had just appeared. Like it had been there all along...

I haven't changed a word since. This one is for my mother, and the soldier she lost all those years ago. I celebrate them both.

A Sketch for Mother

I'd come without an umbrella. I think
there was a moment when I realized why I'd come at all --
not for me --
for Mother. She'd never been -- never really even told Dad she'd wanted to.
That was something they didn't discuss.
And the rain that day was so cold.
The wool of my blue pea coat chafed my damp goose-pimpled skin
and I'd felt like my grandmother as I used my scarf to cover my hair and ears.
It was the rain, I knew, but it seemed as though something else
had forced me -- and all the other gray people -- to 
walk with bowed heads and downcast eyes.
White stone statues, cement blocks -- even the grass -- turned gray and dirty under the cloud light.
And yet I remember the marble still shined. Cold and hard, almost vindictive.
Water ran down the face in rivulets. Like some great stone creature at weep -- I remember thinking.
Deep deep black that could somehow still reflect people against the 
hazy sky -- people that stood in front of it
as if only looking at their own faces.
I don't remember the walk -- or how I even found it -- but suddenly
I was right in front of it -- looking at his name.
And I'd felt out of place and clumsy because I'd come empty-handed.
PEDRO LEON, JR.
Carved neatly in a line of a section of a wall on a lawn.
Lined up neatly amongst a thousand other names -- all faceless, all gone.
Military to the last. 
And I remember running my fingers in the groove -- in the groove carved by the letters of his name.
       Who were you? What did you look like? 
       Why did you leave?
       How did you die?
       (And most clearly, most troubling)
       I would not be here if you were alive. 
      You died. I was born.
A soggy piece of paper in the depths of my pocket -- found it and placed it
over his name -- covering it -- burying it -- pencil shaded over it.
PEDRO LEON, JR.
was now on the paper.
I'd had to look up to see his name -- and the rain had soaked my upturned face.
I'd never known him. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
My God, My Country, My Family -- his Code of Life remained only as an etch in a wall that marked
his death.
And suddenly the enormity of what he'd done -- what he'd given -- penetrated the chill and left me
even colder
and the water on my face was no longer just rain.

I gave my mother that paper with the smeared scribbled stencil on it.
I often wonder where she put it away.
And if she ever takes it out to run her fingers over the letters like I did.
And if she ever bows her head unconsciously like I did.
And if she ever cries tears for a lost man friend lover husband soldier. 
Like I did.

1989, W.E. Henley, Morgan Freeman and Me

As is my new habit when I use our lovely new Mac laptop, I am wont to pull up the Internet and (compelled beyond my control to) watch whatever cool new movie trailer comes up on the Apple/Safari site. I love doing this. Grif and I often do this together (although the Jake-turns-wolf thing from New Moon made him cry). But this is about the trailer I watched recently -- the one that almost blew me out of my chair...all the way back to 1989.

I used to keep a book of quotes. Rather, I keep it still, but I haven't entered an unforgettable, un-losable, all-consuming quote for quite some time (the last was February 2004). For the entire decade of my 20s, I was never without this book -- traveled with it, wrote in it constantly, kept it at my bedside table or in my backpack of the moment. It's a simple cloth-covered blank journal. Blue. Given to me by a friend I no longer keep in touch with (although the miracle of Facebook lets me sneak peeks at her profile picture). I don't recall what made me instantly bestow the "quote book" label on the blank book, but I distinctly remember wanting to mark the date when it was full -- feeling at the time that it would be only a matter of months before it was covered front to back, page after page with thoughts, quotes and poems (yes, some of my own, tragically) that moved me, inspired me, resonated with me, and ultimately shaped me into so much of the woman I am today. The first entries are dated November 25, 1989. Almost exactly 20 years ago. Strange coincidence? I don't believe in those...

I flip through it quickly now and am almost struck to tears at some of the entries -- great words from movies, poets, songs, artists. I have a feeling that many of these will surely show up in later blogs now that the quote book has been rescued from its dusty position on my neglected desk....

The book is nearly full, surprisingly. Not all the way -- no ending date yet recorded. Not surprisingly, some of the earliest entries are still my favorites, the ones given the careful attention to penmanship that supports their importance. Of these (still strikingly) there are two that live alone on one single page, embodying a unique position of particular importance duplicated no where else within. The two best. The ones most important to remember. To feel. Believe in. Live by. Recorded sometime in November of '89.

The first is part of Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (and the quote I nearly always leave within wedding or congratulations cards...a blog for another day)....the second is the finishing lines from Henley's Invictus:

It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

The same poem's opening lines live on the page's exact opposite (among quotes from Dead Poet's Society of course), and if you don't know them, or the whole poem itself, it's worth a look.

Which (finally) brings me back to the movie trailer. The one that I watched, tears in my eyes, jaw dropped, completely moved by the story of the movie and the story of my own life that came charging so forcefully back with the trailer's opening recitation of one simple poem...this poem. My Henley poem. The Henley poem I could picture with perfectly clarity written in my old quote book. The one that was so very important/striking/moving/perfect to me all those years ago. All from a trailer of a movie that also carries its title...Invictus. I couldn't embed the video, but if you want, take a minute to watch it. I want to see this movie -- I think, now, I must.

This is a hard time in my life. I want so much, to do so much (as a wife, a mother, a woman) and I think I'm at the stage where it's easy to forget the girl I was in 1989 (and the years following) who was confident, invincible, unstoppable, passionate, romantic and ready to take on anything -- change the world (my world) armed only with a poem or that one perfectly inspiring quote. I played rugby too -- for four years. I was the captain of our team (another movie coincidence? You know what I'll say).

I'm always astonished when the universe listens to my prayers, my pleas. I think, now more than ever, I needed a reminder of that girl I was then. Of the writer I was, and wanted to be. A reminder of the way I thought nothing could stop me, or interfere in fulfilling any of my dreams. Of the way I looked at the world, of the things I was moved by, engaged in, driven by. A reminder of that little blue cloth-covered quote book where I poured so much of myself into and had utterly, completely forgotten about. A reminder so that I could bring part of that back to my life now and remember (know) that I have the strength and will to not only achieve happiness, but do so with grace and thanks and above all, hope.

I mean, come on -- a movie introduced (and surrounded) by THAT Henley poem? A movie about hope -- and accomplishment -- and change? With rugby? At this time in my life? Not coincidence at all. I'm listening, universe. Wide awake and listening -- and full of thanks for the reminder.