One in a million

I covered a meeting last night, the topic was "Is Berkshire County sick?" Intriguing, right? From my neutral journalist's perspective my immediate reaction was "Of course it's sick, look around you." At which point, I sat in wait to hear statistics and ideas and health care jargon while attempting to snap some kind of action shot.

The attending crowd, a polite, fairly graying bunch mostly topping 50, nodded and tsked and shook their heads as one doctor after the other presented some pretty alarming statistics about our quaint little "resort" community. I think "last resort" might be the most appropriate term.

I attempted to remain calm and neutral while the numbers were presented, yet each percentage rattled in my head. Each percentage was an affront to my dignity. Inside, the journalist melted and spilled out of the mold. I was no longer neutral. I was a number, several numbers, at which people shook their heads, myself included.

15% of children under age 18 live in poverty here--my own children are among them.
10,000 require mental health services every year--I am one of them
11% of households are single parent--check

And on and on, for every topic--cancer, teen suicide, smoking, stress, access to nutrition, income inequality, there we were, my little family of three. I eventually stopped writing and just listened, every now and then hiding behind my camera for warmth.

"How the hell am I gonna crawl out of this hole," I thought.

The ride home was somber. I was thinking about a conversation I had earlier in the day. For once, someone was asking ME questions about MY life.

"This is weird," I'd said. "I'm always the one asking the questions." Nervous laughter.

He shook his head and put pulled at his beard a little.

"I'm really sorry that you're struggling this much," he said. "And you're so young."

I was grateful for the acknowledgment of the struggle, but could've done without the tailspin of thoughts that followed. I'm so busy making sure that our little heads stay above the water that I forget that I'm actually swimming, hard, for months at a time.

However, I find hope in the fact that eventually, most of us jump in the same boat. We reach for the ones who are struggling and the stronger ones row us to shore. Yes, my little family is a census-taker's wet dream and a social service agency's worst nightmare. But I don't see that, not really, when I look at myself and the kids.

I see the only person in her whole family who went to college and finished and then went to grad school. I see a little boy with the mind of a mad genius. I see a young woman, who, by her mere existence, breaks racial and social barriers every day with gusto and a great hat. I see a woman who makes the right choices every day and sticks by them. I see a fierce mother who will do anything to make sure her children are healthy and happy and warm. I still see a future for us.

Percentages have their place, just not at my kitchen table.

Where you are

In my mind, I've been doing a lot of nagging lately, half of which comes out of my mouth. It's petty stuff, mostly, about leaving socks on the table, Legos on the floor, exploded yogurts in the lunchbox. Yet, when you combine these endless little nuisances (not caused by me) with the increasing stress of a job that thinks it can squeeze blood from a stone, a lover who thinks sleeping is a hobby akin to being a concert pianist and getting buried in snow every 5 seconds, you've got a bomb.

And there is nothing on earth more frightening than a Mom Bomb.

This is completely unrelated to the bathroom by the way.

Mom Bomb takes a lot of B vitamins and Kava Kava and chamomile tea and has recently begun exploring the use of Malbec as a sleep aid. So far, nothing has worked. With each sock that Mom Bomb flicks off of the table, with each shower argument she has, with each slam of the door she is seconds closer to putting a handkerchief on the end of a stick and heading off into the frozen, 3 p.m. sunset.

So, it was in this mindset that I was conducting an interview with a man, a leader really, who works with African-American youth and adults in the community. He has twin boys, he was a stay at home dad, he is funny, he is real. And we were talking about how communities these days tend to hold up their hands like surgeons, like somehow no one, despite being neighbors and classmates and parents, really feels like they are part of something larger than the scope of their living room. That's when he laughed ironically.

"Don't act like you don't live here," he said.

Brilliant.

I explained this phrase to the kids and I've been using that one all week, especially with the preteen who thinks that Cinderella lives in the kitchen.

"Anna, can you please put those dishes in the sink?"
"WHAT?! But I put them in the sink this morning!"
"Lucian, can you please put your dirty skivs in the hamper?"
"Why? I don't want to, they're not dirty."

"Um, guys, what'd I tell you in the car."
"We know, we know, don't act like you don't live here."

Seems to be working so far. I haven't stepped on a Lego all week, and the laundry basket is overflowing.

Resolving joy

I warned you that there were some resolutions brewing. But these are not for the weak of heart (or stomach or brain or, um, lowers). These resolutions are for those out there who are so goddamn sick of denying themselves the things that bring them the most joy so that they can "be happier" or "be healthier."

The irony of resolutions is wax dripping from a messy candle. Oh, and it does eventually harden for easy removal.

My inspiration for my resolutions, or, I should say, for my attitude towards resolutions, has been building over the last several weeks as I have fretted over virtually everything I could; money, food, family, the holidays, mothering, work, gaining weight, losing weight, losing hope, trust, health, bills, college funds...you name it, I've been nearly paralyzed worrying about it.

Until one magic yoga class on Christmas Eve. I was sitting there in a suspended lunge, my back leg shaking shamelessly, my mind unable to focus, when our instructor broke through my thoughts with, "Think about your practice. Why are you here today? You are doing a good thing for yourself."

And here I thought I was being selfish by spending $15 for a drop in and some sanity. Guess what, not selfish. I am now calling it self care. If it's going to make me saner and able to breathe easier, then, man, I'm gonna do it. Without guilt.

Of course, the yoga was just the beginning. I did read my poetry on New Year's Eve. Yes, there were other writers there, yes I was nervous, but then, there were naked women dancing and languishing in their ample frames, and that's when resolution #2 hit me. My body is not a nuisance shroud that I will eventually shed, god willing. It's awesome. It's strong. It is DIRECTLY CONNECTED to my priceless little brain, therefore, it is of use to me.

Sound like a bad essay in Cosmo? Maybe, but the truth rings clear. I've been nit-picking my poor self to death about this flaw or that. What for?! What friggin' for? So what, I've had two kids, so what I don't work out every day, so what, I LOVE cheese and bread and food and wine and dancing and nakedness and rare European perfumes and expensive cigarettes. If I sit around and wait until I'm perfect to really be able to enjoy these things, I'm gonna turn to dust. Literally. This is the shape I got, and I better start liking it now and giving it some non-Puritan attention.

You see where I'm going with all this. Resolutions should be about pleasure, not denial. Why wouldn't you try and enjoy life? Especially now, since things are so sparse and difficult. Why not people watch, eat bread, work a little, take a nap on Sunday, go for a walk at night, drink a little too much wine, fall in love with strangers or friends?

I'm going for it. I'm sure you'll read about it in the news.

Ushering out 365

I just saw my postings for December...a grand total of three. It's shameful. All that I can say is that Christmas ate me. Whole.

Glad that's over with, aren't you? I wish I were kidding, but I do look forward to the weeeee hours of December 26. That thought is usually the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind the week prior (I will not even mention last Christmas). Just sitting back mowing on leftovers, picking up stray bits of wrapping paper, smiling that you don't have to endure this sh*t show again until next year.

The lights are pretty, though. I always appreciate the lights.

So, everything is tucked neatly under the belt; Thanksgiving, Christmas, the first blizzard. But, I'm not out of the woods yet. New Year's Eve, which is usually the drunken denouement of the holidays, a night I look forward to because of its calming, celebratory role, has recently become something to fret over. And, of course, it is my own fault. I don't know how to say "no."

While you all are going skating, enjoying cheese plates, maybe even in your pajamas, I will be at a "private" party of god knows how many guests, dressed in a goddamn bustier and who knows what kind of make-up, reading poetry that I wrote in the darkest hours of my obsession and depression, while OTHER POETS WHOM I DEEPLY RESPECT wait their turn to read. Published, well-known Manhattanite people who, I am guessing, have never wiped baby puke off of their turtlenecks or scrounged in their car looking for enough change to buy a roll of toilet paper.

I can only take comfort in the knowledge that most people are afraid of street dogs. And even more afraid of funny women who carry pocket knives and giant cameras.

God help me.

Did I mention that Oprah's network will be filming the event?

I really feel a New Year's resolution coming on...

Lose or muse?

For several weeks now, I've been contemplating this movie that I picked up at the library. It's called "Venus" and I'm sure that whatever you're imagining is probably pretty close to accurate. The premise of the film is that Morris, an old (so old that his dentures barely fit in his sunken head anymore) actor becomes infatuated with his friend's grandniece who's about 19 years old, if a day. Of course, Morris calls her Venus.

It's trouble from the start. She is naturally repulsed by him, especially his rather forward advances...hell, I was repulsed at some of his little stunts and his graphic (albeit honest) language. It was difficult to reconcile the poetry that was coming out of his mouth when you were pretty sure he smelled like piss and death.

And she's 19 for Chrissake's.

Now that I've got my obligatory indignation out of the way; i.e. the predictable response, I feel that I need to defend Morris, or at least nod my head in acknowledgment of his motives.

The dude was near death. He found something that inspired him, and like any human beings who has seen the chronic underbelly of life, who wouldn't cling to the drugged effect of a muse?! Who cares if she's a 19-year-old country girl or a vintage Aston Martin?

Inspiration, sadly, can be a rare phenomenon. In fact, the older I get the further the distance between my "muses." I take them as they come, I don't question it, and I let go when it is time.

By the way, he never slept with her.

Hierarchy

Ever feel like it's a true miracle to even get out of bed in the morning? I'm not trying to romanticize it, don't get me wrong. I wake up most mornings with an expletive on my lips and very, very big black circles under my eyes.

And no, the supposed magic eye creme from Lancome doesn't even touch that nightmare. It just makes the black circles softer I guess. I take comfort in the fact that despite the clear markings of fatigue (although, aren't writers supposed to have those) I do have relatively few wrinkles...for now.

Yes, it is a miracle to find the audacity to emerge from the cocoon. It is painful, especially at this time of year when the cold has settled in your bones and the economy continues to spiral in a dangerous nose dive, taking all of us with it.

And yet...I have been to several countries and several regions, and the misery I see here is infused with a hopelessness that I have yet to see anywhere. Perhaps I haven't been to the right places, or to the ravaged places, I'm not sure.

I do know this, or, at least, I've figured it out: Where money is king you will find his queen, misery, close behind.

The pursuit of the dollar has almost ruined me, many times. I can feel it most powerfully around this time of year, a time when the little that I have is competing with the seeming abundance that the rest of the country is rolling in. I begin to want more, more stuff mostly, for my kids. More electronics, more game cartridges, a bigger T.V., a life that requires more batteries than imagination.

But more, I should know by now, has never really made me into more. It hasn't perfected my musical skills, it hasn't made my smile bigger, it hasn't found god for me, it hasn't helped me laugh my ass off at dinner parties with miscreant friends, it definitely hasn't made me a better lover or mother...

So, no more for me, thanks. Gotta keep reminding myself of the things that matter most, or at least a lot, to me; a good cup of coffee, raising kids with wit and common sense, a good proper lay, other people's struggles and the palette called earth.

What ever happened to patience? Really slow, mindful, good old-fashioned patience? Everybody's in such a goddamn hurry to get somewhere or buy something or meet some goal that the very art of languishing has been lost to instant gratification.

This, by the way, is not a lecture. It can't be, I myself am one of the most impatient, sentient beings I know.

Where was I (sorry, little distracted, the kids are watching Harry Potter and Lucian REALLY wants to know the owl's name)? Ah yes, languishing and patience. A long time ago, patience was, in fact, a virtue. Patient people commanded respect. They sat, they listened, they considered the words spoken, they were sure of themselves but not cocky...

Patience was sexy.

Now, it is a burden, a nuisance brought on by the slow-minded. A man who thinks things through is no longer coveted, he is left behind to face the cold alone. He is exiled from the pack for not electing to scurry around and prey on squirrels all day.

Yet, when the pack is running and panting after the insubstantial flesh of instant gratification the patient man, now the lonely man, waits, watches, considers and finally sets his sights on his prey and goes for the throat.

And feasts well at night.

I am learning the value of patience. It is rare to see a patient man, especially at my age when men (of the "me" generation) have little patience for even themselves. And you should see them with children. Asking questions is out of the question.

As I said, patience is sexy stuff. It has clear eyes and a steady voice and exquisite endurance.

I need more of that.