Star Chasers

Star Chasers

I have to admit to having some weird Christmas obsessions that I like to dress up and parade around each year as “beloved traditions.”  For instance, every year I put up this ratty artificial tree that sheds just like a real one. It's hideous but once I tried to get rid of it and my kids acted like I was killing Santa Claus, so there it stands in my living room like a 3 legged dog with the mange. But in the spirit of Linus van Pelt, it’s not such a bad little tree. It just needs some love.  And anyway, it really doesn't  matter because one of my favorite tradition/obsessions is to enjoy the beauty of looking at Christmas lights with severe myopia just as in the days of my childhood.  By removing my contact lenses and gazing at the colored lights all blurred together I can recreate the nearsighted fog in which I spent a good part of my youth. Oh, the warm, fuzzy, nostalgic feeling I get from remembering those days of running around half blind and not realizing it!    

 Another of my fabulous tradition/obsessions is that every year, while out Christmas shopping, I seek  Baby Jesus wrapping paper, and every year I become predictably appalled that there's none to be found. Oh sure, I could order it from some special religious supply house, but that's just not the point. The point is I want Baby Jesus paper available at my whim, stocked on all the shelves of whatever store I happen to be in. They have angel wrap or maybe a snowy church scene wrap but no Baby Jesus wrap. I was at a dollar store the other day and found shirt boxes embossed with a beautiful Nativity scene so I bought them. I didn't even need them, but somehow, I needed to BUY them and take them home and celebrate their very existence.

It was at this point that I realized that maybe I have a lit-tle problem. Am I now worshiping gift boxes? No. I rejected this crazy notion. I'm just trying to keep Christ in Christmas...um, via righteous indignation regarding tangible items bought and sold from a cold metal shelf in a cold metal department store in a cold metal world.  Hmmm. Maybe I should re-evaluate, huh?

It's funny how something so simple can bring things into focus. All this time, I've been trying to wrap Baby Jesus around a commercialized Christmas in an effort to somehow merge the two into my own little mutant holiday extravaganza. As Christians we often complain that others are trying to commercialize the spiritual, but I think I have been trying to spiritualize the commercial. And while it’s true that the Magi brought gifts to this Newborn King they heard about, these were meaningful gifts, given in thoughtfulness, not obligation.  I was not there and history does not confirm this, but I sincerely doubt that these Star Chasers stomped around the mall swearing under their collective breath about what to get the Christ Child. Nor do I believe that they haphazardly stopped at a 7-Eleven along the way or else they would have come bearing gifts of beef jerky, a quart of motor oil and a Druid tree air freshener.

Also, you may note that these Wise Men were a little tardy to the party. Historians speculate that Jesus was anywhere from 6 weeks to two years old before the Magi arrived. Being men, I suppose that they didn't want to stop and ask directions and when they finally did, they managed to ask the one person they shouldn't have. But I can relate. When I worked in sales, I would just sort of aim at my destination on the map and once in the city, I would ask directions to whatever store I was assigned to visit. Invariably, I would find the one person to get directions from who spoke broken English or who didn't have their teeth in that day. (FYI Walmart is always “on the bypass” in all small southern towns).  So no matter how big of a hurry I was in to reach my destination, I just got there when I got there. Anyway, I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I can't pick on the Magi when it's taken me almost forever to arrive.

Just so you understand me, I am not renouncing gift giving, or decking the halls, or cookie baking or even watching those really sappy Lifetime Christmas movies. I'm just no longer confusing the birth of Christ and what that means to me personally with the secular celebrations that coincide with that.      Christian celebrations have always run parallel to secular celebrations and other religious celebrations too, even going so far as to adopt some of the traditions and assigning new meaning to them.   There is no need to justify one with the other. So even if there's not a single roll of Baby Jesus wrap on the shelves; and even if  the political correctness police want to use generic holiday greetings; and even if someone took down all the public Nativity scenes-- it's all going to be okay. Christ is not bought from a shelf, he is not carved from wood and he is not dependent on any sort of traditional greeting to remain relevant. No one can steal Christ from Christmas and they cannot eject him from anything but their own lives.  As for me…I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,  neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.  No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8: 38-39). 

  And “That’s what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown.”

Merry Christmas, Star Chasers!

My Political Leanings Have Fallen and They Can't Get Up

I remember when I was a little kid hearing the expression, "politics makes strange bedfellows," and being troubled by what that meant.  In my mind I pictured George Wallace, Hubert Humphrey and Richard Nixon all in those long pointy striped nightcaps and ankle length nightshirts having a pajama party with pillow fights, popcorn and scary movies. I went through a spell of idealism as a politically informed young adult that made me laugh at the foolishness of this notion, but now I'm not so sure.

With age comes wisdom and I have begun to suspect that our whole political system might be just one choreographed event after another kind of like Live 'Rastlin. I realize that this comes as a shock to many of you, but yes, wrestling is rigged. It's staged. Preplanned. Due to a strange series of events, I found myself backstage before a match once and watched them go over their lines and moves to insure that no one really gets hurt. It's decided who the good guy is and who the bad guy is and which good guys go bad and why.  Trash talk is engineered to make you hate the people you are supposed to hate and side with the person that needs to be the winner to perpetuate the story line. Keeping the hate spewing keeps the story line going and keeps the money rolling in.  If you think about it there are a lot of similarities between politics and wrestling.  Wrestlers and politicians both need to be audacious and somewhat narcissistic and they both use The Finisher. For those of you who are unfamiliar, this is a term used for a wrestler's signature closing move signaling that the match is over. In politics this would be the part where the Democrats accuse the Republicans of robbing the middle class to give to the rich and the Republicans accuse the Democrats of robbing the middle class to give to the lazy. Anything to stir people up and make them want to punch each other. 

If I was going to pick a wrestler to be president, my vote would go to Tojo Yamamoto. He was always a bad guy on air but in reality he guided the careers of many who went on to be very successful in the business, so he would be good at getting the job market moving again. I double checked and he was in fact born in Hawaii, so that shouldn't be a problem. But then I noticed that he has been dead for several years so he would only be eligible to be the president of Florida.

            But anyway, at the risk of sounding like one of those wacko conspiracy theorist, I've begun to wonder if the sideshow of political process has become something to distract us from what's really going on behind the scenes. (Pay no mind to that man behind the curtain!)  I’m starting to think that all the stupid inflammatory remarks that get so much press are completely bogus and designed to divide us and make us argue amongst ourselves. If Solomon were around today he’d have to get out his saw because nobody cares enough about this baby to keep it in one piece anymore. I’m afraid that we have come to feel so entitled that we forget to consider that what’s good for the whole can sometimes run contrary to the desires of the individual. As Mick Jagger has been saying for years, “You can't always get what you want.”

But why the need for the distraction you ask? Because no platform, no policy, no mandate and no figurehead can fix what’s broken in this country in 4 years or eight or even twenty. The Democrats blame the Republicans and the Republicans point the finger of blame at the Democrats and while they are busy playing ping pong with our finances, our liberty and emotions, nothing ever really gets accomplished. No matter who gets in office, he will blame his predecessor for the mess he was left with when really it's just been snowballing for about 75 years.

It's a sad commentary that we are left to choose the lesser of 2 evils when voting. Gee, do I want to vote for Moe or Larry? And what about Curly? 

Why can we never have a serious 3 party race?  I'd be down for a Curly or even a Shemp for a change.  And why can't we just choose from the pack that starts the race?  You know, those guys who run out of money early on so they can't compete. With today's technology, there's no real reason to “hit the campaign trail” and waste a bunch of money. That whole business is completely obsolete.  And I for one love the part where both candidates like to claim that the other guy is rich and out of touch with the average guy on the street. Who are they kidding? I'm pretty sure that anyone running for the office of president is rich when compared to the largest segment of the population of this country.  And the out-of-touch part just seems to follow suit, because when you are rubbing elbows with people who pay $50,000 a plate for dinner to help get you elected you probably don't have much in common with people eating beans and cornbread and shopping at the Dollar General.  Don't get me wrong. I am not a reverse snob who hates people who have money. Quite the contrary, I hope to be one of them one day. I just want candidates to stop using that against each other. It just rings hollow.

If I am starting to sound like the ghost of Andy Rooney, I apologize. And if my eyebrows look like his then someone please help me. You may think that I have become jaded but I like to think of the layers of age that cover my brain and color my thinking as patina because I am not a misanthrope. I do believe that there are people who genuinely want the world to be a better place; people who would use political influence for good. But the layers of patina have been added through years of consistent exposure to the harsh reality that all too frequently those type people never make it to the top. The absolute best candidate for president would be a true middle class house wife and mother (not a Sarah or a Hillary, the real deal)-- someone who can set up a workable budget and understands that when there is no money, you don't buy things.  A seriously pared down version of IRS would collect 10% from each of us—no cheating—and then leave us alone.  Our White House Mother would encourage working from home and building small business instead of punishing people for trying to crawl out of the hole. Bartering would be encouraged. Her foreign policy would be: We won't bother you if you don't bother us, but if you can't play nice, expect a time out. She would advise the healthcare industry and insurance companies to kiss and make up because they don't want to make her stop what she is doing and come in there to break up the fight. Come to think of it, if you haven't voted yet, just write in my sister Darlene's name. She's really kind of bossy but she always seems to be right and you totally want her on your side in a pillow fight.

Anyway, the next 4 years will go by and I predict that if your life is any better it will be directly related to something you did to make it better. Maybe you will change jobs or go back to school or relocate or come back home. Maybe you will re-prioritize your life or move into a cottage that has a garden attached instead of a mortgage. Maybe you will start a family. Maybe you will just change your mindset and decide to be happy no matter what your circumstances. But no one is ever going to “policy” you into a better life and when they say they can, I just want to call “shenanigans” and kick them in the shins. But for now, I will pop some popcorn and put on my pajamas and watch this scary movie play out.    

Welcome To My Front Porch

    The closer I get to 50, the more I find myself reminiscing about the way things used to be and this freaks me out a little because I think that’s what old people do.  Nonetheless, I find my mind wandering back to those summer vacations that were 3 glorious months long.  Three months of climbing trees and riding bikes; of cartwheels and swing sets; of granny beads and black feet; of braided hair and brown skin.  I remember, playing outside on summer evenings, running barefoot and chasing lightening bugs while the grown-ups sat on the front porch fanning themselves, sipping sweet tea or something stronger.  Sometimes my dad would play guitar and we’d sing.  Sometimes it was about arguing politics and religion. Friends and neighbors used to like getting my grandfather riled up about something that they didn't even necessarily believe just because they loved the show.  I must have inherited my passion from him, because like that wiry little Irishman, I believe what I believe from the nuclear reactor-like core of my being. “Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."  In spite of this, I also inherited my father's skills of diplomacy and ability to diffuse someone’s explosive words with a sense of humor.  So I'm pretty docile most of the time.         

I also find myself digging through old pictures and thinking about how much those photos mean to me and how little anyone outside of my bubble would really care…kind of like back in the day when people forced you to look at their vacation pictures or worse yet, their slide shows. At least in slide shows and home movies it was dark and you could nod off for minutes at a time before anyone noticed.  “…and here’s Marjory in front of the world’s biggest ball of ear wax!” Even as a kid I sensed that the intention was to capture a piece of whatever emotion the photographer felt for the subject of the photo and to superimpose that feeling onto the viewer.  It never worked.  Those are moments that you capture for yourself and are not really transferable.  In our family, our stunning school portraits hung in a very prominent spot in the house so unfortunately, you couldn’t miss those seven smirking faces if you tried.  They were hung in one big grouping--a Home Interior term, but minus the amber sconces-- and looked a bit like someone had mounted the heads of the Seven Dwarfs on our living room wall.  And then there are the old Polaroids of prom and babies with the chicken pox and every Christmas tree we ever had even though they all looked the same.  I’m sure those photos were passed around on the front porch to anyone who couldn’t get away fast enough and that only the copies sent to my grandma in Indiana were appreciated  because that provided her with a glimpse of her grandkids growing up so far away.  My Grandma Zion was a very cool lady and she had quite a sense of humor. She and my parents would mail crazy stuff back and forth to each other. Once when my grandma complained that none of us had written, a family portrait was made with everyone’s arms in slings and mailed to her as proof that we were all completely incapacitated and therefore couldn’t write.  We found this hilarious and quite clever, but were probably the only ones who did.

But anyway, back on the front porch, it didn’t matter what kind of political razzing you had to endure or how many hideous school photos you had to look at, or even what kind of gossip was being spun, everybody was always a pretty good sport.   

Okay, so you see where this is going, right?  Facebook is the new front porch. We kick back and "talk" about things that matter most to us and by doing so we reveal chinks in our armor, expose our Achilles heels or just plain ole paint big targets on our chests.  We are passionate about our politics and religion—the religion of politics and the politics of religion.  We get enraged when others are too blind to believe what we perceive to be the undeniable truth.  We each know beyond certainty that our children are the cutest and smartest on the face of the earth, and we offer up the photographic evidence to prove it!  We spread gossip in the form of prayer requests and little snippets of info that are just enough to whet someone’s curiosity.  We post music videos or quote lyrics, sometimes as a cryptic message to that certain someone, but more often just as a cyber sing-along.

 Front porch or no front porch, we are wired to crave the togetherness of community.  Maybe it started with cave drawings and oral history told around the fire at night, where some guy named Ug ticked everybody off by lying about the size of his wooly mammoth like anyone wanted to hear about that!  But as bad as it can get, people always have and always will keep coming back for more.  We need each other in a way none of us fully understands or we wouldn’t be on here. 

Our cyber-selves have personalities that can be mirrors, but frequently bolder versions of our flesh and blood selves are displayed amplified in this bully pulpit to ensure that we are heard.  At times we get a little snarky about the way others are abusing this free canvas we splatter our lives on.  And then those people get a little snarky about our snarkiness.

So in spite of the complaints that no one wants to see your baby’s new pic of the first time they “went potty” or your 6 year old’s first missing tooth, you’re going to post this because grandma and Aunt Totsy are all about seeing this stuff in as close to real time as possible and the rest of us can just scroll past it.  All the goofy little quotes; all the political and religious notions; all the inside jokes; all the memes and personal photos expose a little about who we are.  And we should all be mindful of this and respect each other if for no other reason than you shouldn’t stab someone where they have just intentionally made themselves vulnerable to you in an effort to let you know them better.         

So fight for what you believe in with the intensity of 1,000 suns, but respect those who prefer the humble quiet of the singular moon’s glow.  I’m sure there’s someone out there, but I have never heard anyone admit to hating Gandhi or Mother Teresa, both of whom in my opinion, understood how to fight their fights without losing compassion or degrading the value of another human being.  This is a big porch with a swing at one end and a glider and a rocker at the other…maybe even an old recliner if you like J…and there’s always the steps if you don’t like being in the thick of things and need access to a quick escape.  But no matter what, you are welcome here on my front porch anytime.   Now let’s chase lightning bugs!   

Secretly Listening for Hoof Beats

The writer of Ecclesiastes, who was obviously the first hipster, claimed that there is "nothing new under the sun."  He knew everything about everything waaay before you, so just don't even try to say that you have had an original thought.  Now I'm not dissing Solomon or whoever wrote the book because I actually really like it.  "All is vanity and a striving after wind." The angst-ridden teenage version of me found great solace in knowing that I was totally right about the futility of life.  Ecclesiastes makes Wuthering Heights look like Pollyanna, and Wuthering Heights is my all-time favorite book of bleakness even if it does require its own dictionary in the back to decipher odd words and phrases.

Just as I do now, I did a lot of reading in those teenage years and when I wasn't reading the classics, I liked to allow my brain to wallow in the smut known as Harlequin Romances.  If Solomon was around he would tell you that "Fifty Shades of Grey" is just recycled Harlequins except that like Wuthering Heights, you kind of needed a dictionary to figure out what was going on in a Harlequin. The 1970s may have been the age of "sexual enlightenment" but the blue-haired women cranking out Harlequin Romances were still speaking in such convoluted code that the sex scenes could have easily been mistaken for a passage from the Farmer's Almanac.            

Rolf remained seated, the dawning of a twinkle in his eyes. "Our marriage is a mockery only because you have made it so, cherie. Yet I am not despondent. I see before me a woman slowly emerging from a cocoon of ice."
Then swiftly he moved to stand beside her, holding her chin and tilting her head to study her furious profile.
"There is hope for us yet," he breathed. "You are angry, you are disheveled, you smell ever so slightly of goat--yet never have I seen you looking more beautiful, more desirable, more warmly human!" (MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE, Margaret Rome)

I am giving credit here, because #1 plagiarism is a bad thing and #2, I wouldn't want you to think I made this up.

If you will notice, the couple in the above excerpt was man and wife.  It didn't take long for my BFF, Susan and I to figure out which books to steal from her mom. The books about single girls were only about the chase and if we wanted to read about any real action the couple would need to be married—but not just any kind of married.  These naïve young women would either accidentally get married because they didn't speak the language or would be forced to marry some ruthless dude to save the family farm/fortune/name.  Frequently our heroine would "step under a bus" (British phrase) and require extensive plastic surgery that would transform her into a beautiful fragile flower with retrograde amnesia.  I mean, who wouldn't want to marry Memory Loss Barbie?

Usually the male in the story would portray himself as a penniless cowboy/gypsy/pirate/oil-rig worker when in reality he owned a ranch/island/fleet/oil company.  He was always lifting a quizzical brow and flashing a sardonic look at the head-tossing woman whose absolute fury at him only made her more desirable.  

In THE BARTERED BRIDE, Marielle accidentally marries the tall, dark, brooding Rom Boro, king of the gypsies, completely clueless that he actually owns half the western hemisphere. I won't go into great detail because I don't want to spoil it for you, but a chicken had to die to protect her virtue and ultimately save her from certain death at the hand of the other gypsies who had nothing better to do than to kill people and/or plan big fat weddings.

If I have screwed up ideas about relationships—and mine generally have the shelf life of a gallon of milk—it’s because I was warped at an early age.  I want you to know that my father tried to undo the spell that Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights and all those Harlequin guys had me under.
Somewhere in my pre-driver's license teens my dad made me go pick beans in the garden with him so that we could have this little awkward heart to heart conversation:

(Dad)  "You know he's not coming for you, right?"
(Me) "Who?"  Jesus? Men in white coats?  Aliens?  Someone to rescue me from picking beans?
(Dad) "The guy on the white horse...in those books I've seen you reading.  Life isn't really  like that.  Love isn't really like that.  You understand that?"
(Me) "Pfffssshish, of course Daddy." (Lots of eye-rolling here)  Maybe a hot guy in a muscle car though...love schmuv…
(Dad) “Okay.  Just checking…and remember that there is no ‘happily ever after.’  Happiness is found along the way…a choice you make daily.  And no one else can make you happy. That’s up to you.”
(Me) “I know,” I said nodding my head.  But secretly I was listening for hoof beats…
   
Everybody wants someone to hold their hand when they are happy; their heart when they are sad; and their hair when they are throwing up.  It’s been that way since the beginning of time…since Adam first looked at Eve and said. “Wow! God, hook a brother up!”  So, I guess the writer of Ecclesiastes was right when he said that there was nothing new. But maybe—just maybe he was wrong in saying that it’s all in vain.  Maybe my dad was right about making a day to day decision to be happy and about not confusing romance with love.  And maybe it’s just the romantic in me, but it seems like if you can string enough of those day-to-day happys together that eventually it would all add up to ever after…  

If I Should Die Before I Wake

Tomorrow I am having minor surgery on my big toe.  But I am here to remind you that surgery is never really minor unless it's being performed on someone else.  And even in the same breath your surgeon pronounces it minor he will warn you of that slim chance that since we live in an imperfect world, your minor surgery could turn into a major disaster resulting in your untimely demise.  Maybe your surgeon was barely a "C" student and slept through the class on big toe surgery.  Or maybe it's the anesthesiologist's first surgery and he hits the wrong button and suddenly you are hovering over the operating table inflated like a Macy's parade balloon with only a vague anesthetized awareness that you are having some sort of out-of-body experience.  Later when you suffer a blood clot or develop MRSA, your surgeon, who secretly wanted to major in theatre, will insist that there was nothing "remarkable" about your procedure, keeping mum about how you had to be deflated through your belly button using some pvc pipe, duct tape and basketball needle.

But this isn't my first rodeo.  Since the age of 7, doctors have been knocking me out and slicing me open to take out mutant body parts and what have you, so I wasn't really all that worried until a few nights ago.  I mean, it's just a big toe, right?  But that was before I had this really creepy nightmare.  I dreamed (because nobody ever says, "I nightmared") that I was at work but I couldn't find any of my kids for therapy that day and then in the next moment I was transported to my old bedroom circa 1984 where the comforter was this really ugly blue thing with mauve flowers on it.  Evidently, part of the nightmare was to remind me that I have always had really bad taste in comforters.  But anyway, I am getting dressed and have only made it to the black underwear section of this routine, when I turned suddenly to find what I assume to be the Angel Of Death.  Now this was not that blonde sympathetic looking A.O.D. from Touched by an Angel, who ironically enough is now dead.  Nor was it the dead sexy Angel from Buffy who wasn't really even an angel at all, but is just too good looking not to mention.  If I have to die, it would really soften the blow to have a date with David Boreanaz on my way out.  But no, this A.O.D. was straight out of the dark madness of Charles Dickens' Christmas Carol or the Little Orphant Annie poem my sister used to read to us when we were kids.  Cloaked all in black, he had chin-length black hair--that is if he even had a chin.  He appeared to have no facial features.  Just a spooky black figure with no sense of humor at all.  For some reason upon seeing this terrifying creature the only thing I could think of to say is, "I'm not dressed appropriately for this occasion" and then giggled like an idiot which is what I always do when I am nervous.  A.O.D. was not amused.  Instantly I am bombarded with a big ole bucket list of regrets.  The knowledge that I was losing the chance to ever become a Solid Gold Dancer, write the great American novel, or grow a decent set of boobs swept over me and then pulled me under.  The next thing I know, I am screaming "NO!" yet at the same time stepping forward into scary dude and from there was just assimilated into him.  I was no more.

I awakened from that dream completely freaked out and sure that it was a sign.  I tried to convince myself that one of the perks of being a "good Christian girl" is that God doesn't send creepers to pick you up for the ride home, but maybe David Boreanaz had another gig. The funny thing was that as scared as I was of Death, it was the unfinished business that I found unbearable.  This is the point where I am supposed to say something poignant about how we should all accomplish all of our life's dreams and goals and crap like that, but I'm not because: 1) I hate platitudes  2) we are all pretty much doing the best we can with that already and 3) some dreams just shouldn't come true.  For example, not everyone who dreams of becoming president should actually become president for the well being of the rest of us.

Instead, as my boyfriend suggested, maybe I should just get my affairs in order so I feel more secure.  Even that is asking a lot of me since I have the organizational skills of a chimpanzee, so I will just hit it in the high places: 1) I want a Viking funeral--I can't stress this enough.  Don't waste money on cremation when you can just light the pyre at the party and roast marshmallows over my body. Spend the money on the party. 2) I leave all my worldly possessions to my daughters, including the bulb syringes from when you were born; the dream catcher over my bed that obviously doesn't work; and the rights to my greatest hits album, "Songs I make up in the Shower" 3) to the rest of you I bequeath the only wisdom I have gained in this life and that is this: wherever you are right now, whether good or bad, it's temporary. So savor the good and hang on through the bad because tomorrow will be something else altogether different. Oh, crap!  That was a platitude.  On the upside of all of this, if I do die, I might get to meet Davy Jones up close instead of like our last less intimate meeting when he was on the stage at Hamilton Place Mall and I was yelling down at him from the second floor.  "You're still the groooooviest!"

At any rate, my little sister, Darlene has agreed to take me to the hospital and play my next of kin.  If anything should go awry, she will have the power to decide whether or not they should put me on life support or just suffocate me with a pillow and scoop out my working organs with a melon baller.  Hopefully she has forgotten about all the bad stuff from when we were kids like the time I hit her so hard with a hair brush that it broke. Or that I insisted that we found her in a basket on the front porch when she was a baby.  Surely she has forgiven me for all that, but I did notice that she already has the pillow in her car.  I just keep telling myself that everything’s going to be alright.  After all it was just a dream.  And it’s just a big toe…