Last Friday was date night for Michael and me, since I had scored some deeply discounted Cirque du Soliel tickets through work. (Yay! Cobb County School District rocks!) I wanted to really do it up right, wear my fancy clothes and big up my hair and everything. Ya gotta keep things exciting, you know? So after teasing up my do, painting on some sparkly eye shadow, and pulling on the one pair of hose I own (fishnets--they don't run), I slipped into my "little black dress."
"When did THIS happen?!" I blurted out as Michael zipped me up. What used to be draping satin now looked like a sausage casing. I wanted to cry. This was the last thing I needed before going to watch incredibly fit, flexible, and firm bodies contort and propel themselves through the air under the big top. I had obviously, without realizing it, "let myself go."
But how could this be? I still weigh the same as I did the day I met Michael. In fact, I may be a couple pounds shy of that weight. Yet the little black dress doesn't lie. It's dry clean only, so I can't blame the dryer. I am fatter now than I was three years ago when I bought it for New Year's Eve 2009. Of course, my questions are merely rhetorical, because I know darn well what happened. See, muscle weighs more than fat, volume for volume. So, while I was gaining fat, I was losing that dense, scale-pushing muscle. While there was no net gain, my toned lats have been replaced with back fat. My lean biceps have retired, turning the business over to flab. I still look okay in my clothes, but a bikini will betray the truth. I'm "skinny fat." You use it or lose it. And my gym frequency has been about as spotty as Lindsey Lohan's attendance at community service. I go when I feel like it, when I have the time, when there's no work to be done, or nothing better to do. How's that for commitment?
If you know me or have read much of what I write here, then you can probably guess how I responded to this. I changed into another dress with a more forgiving fabric, I went to the show, enjoyed my evening with my husband, and then hit the gym on Sunday morning. I have a new eating plan, supplements, and a renewed sense of purpose with regard to my body. The little black dress in hanging in my bathroom as a reminder of where I'm headed. And I WILL get there...
But that's not really the point of this post. As Michael and I pedaled away on our elliptical machines, I scanned the gym and the classrooms at all the people with a purpose of their own. Dozens of men and women, all ages, were cycling, lifting, running, playing sports, and dancing. I saw so much effort, but it was all effort for one thing: to improve their bodies. Sure, that might mean different things to different people; some want to gain muscle, others just want to burn fat, and still others are trying to improve its ability to perform specific tasks. Still, it's all external, physical, and ephemeral. Let's face it. These bodies have a shelf life of about 80 some-odd years, then they just give out. No matter how much we work on them, they will eventually diminish and perish. That's not to say that we shouldn't keep them in the best shape possible. Oh, believe me, you come check on me in six weeks and see if I'm not cut up like the chicks on the cover of Oxygen magazine! (Okay, that's just trash-talking. I gotta keep myself motivated. But I will be better than I am now; trust me.) However, in the end, is it really our bodies that matter? Is keeping lean abs or sculpted arms the real key to happiness?
Most of us are focusing our efforts on the wrong things. How many gyms do you pass by on your way home from work or school each day? Now, ask yourself how many meditation centers you pass? How many yoga studios? We spend so much more time on our outsides than we do our insides. And it's really the internal workouts that improve our lives, isn't it? The ironic thing is, new research is showing that stress (which meditation and yoga can greatly reduce) is a primary cause of belly fat. So, perhaps thirty minutes of meditation would do a lot more for reducing that waistline than an hour on a treadmill.
We are all impressed when someone loses a large amount of weight or develops a lean, muscular body. We can't escape the countless ads on the TV, the radio, and in print. It's a billion dollar industry! But how many of us cultivate that same dedication to eliminating our flabby egos? Where are the products to help us suppress our anger, rather than our appetites? Where are the 90 day programs to help us trim the fat from our souls? How much extra weight is your spirit carrying around?
So, I am giving myself credit for the work I have been doing on my insides lately. I've got a much skinnier ego these days, my pain-body is light as a feather, and I've lost a ton of spiritual "weight." Sure, I still have work to do, and I'll probably never reach any sort of "goal" when it comes to my spirit, since I believe you grow till you die, but the progress I'm making is just fine. Today, I am conscious, present, and aware. And that beats having cut up abs any day.
But I'm still gonna get back in that little black dress. I'm just saying.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
An Attitude of Gratitude
While most Americans were watching football and gorging on turkey and pumpkin pie, Michael, my daughter (Wednesday), and I spent our Thanksgiving hiking up a volcano in Guatemala. Michael had been once before, but Wednesday and I had no idea what to expect from the city of Antigua or the volcano experience, but let me tell you, it was life-changing on several levels. We couldn't have picked a more perfect place to celebrate a holiday of gratitude.
Upon arrival, our first impression was that my son, Max, had made the right choice in chickening out of this experience. He wasn't afraid of the volcano erupting on him or the laborious hike up it. After all, he is a scout and a basketball player, so he can literally run circles around the three of us. He's a little sinewy beanpole of lean muscle with the energy of a Jack Russell puppy. No, what turned him off of the trip was the idea of being in a third world country. He wasn't crazy about Mexico either time we went there, and he even freaked out when he and his sister and I wandered around Los Angeles on a visit to my father's. (And I'm talking Hollywood and Vine. It's not like we went window shopping in Compton.) Max doesn't like big cities, or slums, or urban areas, or homeless people, or anything that doesn't look like a setting for a Nickelodeon sit-com. He likes his world sanitary, with the paper strip across it that says, "For your protection."
My daughter, on the other hand, loves it all. The grittier and dirtier, the better. She wants to roll up her sleeves and kick off her shoes and walk barefoot through the muck of the world, testing the resilience of her immune system. Recently, she has even started to look the part of the nomadic wanderer. She sports unconventional (self-inflicted) piercings and has started cultivating a few dread locks adorned with wraps and beads and stuff, all of which I blame for her "random selection" to be searched as we boarded the return flight. Despite her appearance, she believes in blending in when traveling, as much as that's possible with dreads and piercings. Whenever I accidentally said, "thank you" or (oops) "grazie" (I've had four years of Latin, two years of Italian and about ten minutes of Spanish), she would correct me.
"Mom, oh my God, it's 'gracias, senor.' Seriously..."
Once in Guatemala, as we rode in the van toward Antigua, the three of us marveled out the windows at the shot-out looking capital of Guatemala City. These poor, poor people, we thought. Now, I know better.
Antigua turned out to be more than met the eye, since it looks like an old village with depressed one-story buildings all jammed together with cobblestone streets and crumbling sidewalks. However, upon entering any of its public dwellings, you are surprised to find charming and well decorated interiors, often with meticulously tended garden courtyards. Hidden paradises lay through every doorway.
The volcano hike was scheduled for Thanksgiving morning, and we left the hotel at 6:00 am, in the dark, in a van with eight other people from around Antigua. As we rode on for the next hour, I noticed the driver singing along to the radio, unabashedly and enthusiastically, and it occurred to me, how many Americans would have this attitude about having to haul a load of foreign tourists up a mountain at this ungodly hour on a Thursday morning?
At the base camp, we were immediately bombarded by schoolboys with hand-scraped walking sticks, repeating urgently "Stick for you? Stick for you?" and advertising a special of "Three for five!" Michael gave the boys three American five dollar bills, and we each received a walking stick to aid in our hike. While Michael went to pay our admission (ten dollars each), I slipped off to the restroom before the climb. I noticed the young entrepreneurs on the side of the building, each holding the five dollar bill stretched out in both hands and marveling at his good fortune. We had given them each the equivalent of 35 quetzales. And they had asked for only five total.
After laboring up the volcano for over an hour, stopping to catch our breath along the way (man, were we glad for the sticks--worth every penny!), we finally reached the charred top. It was the closest thing to being on another planet I've ever experienced. When the volcano, Pacaya, erupted two years ago, the top blew off, pouring out lava and burning up all life on the summit. Today this area is still largely volcanic rock, but life is already reemerging, as ferns, flowers, and small shrubs. In fact, as a sign of nature's resilience, a 400 year-old oak tree, covered in dozens of species of epiphytic plants, still stands and grows on the side of Pacaya, about halfway up the trail to the top. Surviving years of eruptions and destruction, the tree reminds us that "This too shall pass."
After climbing back down, we were greeted enthusiastically by the little entrepreneurs, who reached out and repeated, "Stick for me? Stick for me?" Laughing, we relinquished our walking sticks, which had served their purpose and wouldn't fit into our luggage anyway, allowing the boys to replenish their source of income.
When we returned to Antigua, we walked to a little courtyard Indian restaurant that advertised a "Thanksgiving Dinner." Honestly, it may have been the best Thanksgiving dinner of my life. Not only did the food surpass all expectation (pumpkin ginger soup, salad with goat cheese, pear and candied walnuts, turkey with fresh cranberries, Brussels sprouts, mashed potato with leeks, and even pumpkin pie!), but the ambiance simply nourished our souls. Hummingbirds flitted and darted back and forth between fuchsias and bright orange tropical flowers. The temperature was so ideal that it was unnoticeable, and the wide open blue sky overhead was completely clear of clouds or pollution except for a swirl of steam escaping the mouth of a distant volcano.
The next morning, our ride to the airport arrived promptly at 5:00 am, when a cheerful Donny met us outside the hotel and loaded our bags with a smile. On the way to Guatemala City, he informed us that we would beat a one hour delay in traffic by leaving this early. Thirty more minutes, and we would have been stuck. We asked him if he had felt the recent earthquake that rocked Guatemala and much of Mexico.
"Yes," he said, nodding his head and laughing. "But we like it when we feel the earth shake, when the volcanoes erupt. It makes us happy."
"Really?" Michael asked.
"Yes. You know why? Because it means that they are getting their energy out. It's a good thing. If everything is quiet for a long time, then we worry." Again, he laughed.
Donny went on to tell us stories of his childhood experiences with such things, revealing his simple, yet wise take on life. At one point, regarding getting up at this hour to drive into the city, he pointed out that it paid the bills.
"I have car payment, house payment, credit card payment..." At this he chuckled. "So, it is motivation, you know? I get up and come to work saying, 'This is the glory.'" When he spoke, I could hear the smile on his face, even from the backseat.
Donny delivered us safely at the airport, inviting us back to his lovely country whenever we got the chance to return. We tipped him well and thanked him. I noticed we were all a little happier after the ride than when we left the hotel. Interesting the effect people have on one another, isn't it?
Guatemala has been on my mind a lot since I got home. It was a truly marvelous place to spend Thanksgiving, not simply because it provided a beautiful adventure, but because it taught me so much about gratitude. I'm currently reading Flow by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (yes, it's a mouthful), and he points out that today most of us in the "first world" have access to recipes and food beyond what the richest emperor several hundred years ago could have dined upon, and yet we aren't any happier for our relative wealth and opulence. Once our basic needs are met, we aren't happy, because we set our sights on something even higher, and no matter what material possessions we acquire, we are never satisfied. This may be why the "happiest" countries in the world, according to the happiness index, are not rich countries. The top three?
1. Costa Rica
2. Vietnam
3. Columbia
(Guatemala is #9. The U.S. is #105.)
Surprised? Don't be. They have the secret to living a happy life: being grateful for what one already has. I heard on the radio recently that the correlation between income and happiness is consistent, up to around $75,000 per year. As income goes up, so does happiness. After that, it starts to dip back downward. The conclusion? Once our basic needs are met, we can find happiness in not wanting more than that. Just accept the moment as it is. Recognize that our world is beautiful. Realize that we have all that we need to be happy right now, today.
That...is the glory. Thank you, Donny.
Oops, I mean, gracias.
Upon arrival, our first impression was that my son, Max, had made the right choice in chickening out of this experience. He wasn't afraid of the volcano erupting on him or the laborious hike up it. After all, he is a scout and a basketball player, so he can literally run circles around the three of us. He's a little sinewy beanpole of lean muscle with the energy of a Jack Russell puppy. No, what turned him off of the trip was the idea of being in a third world country. He wasn't crazy about Mexico either time we went there, and he even freaked out when he and his sister and I wandered around Los Angeles on a visit to my father's. (And I'm talking Hollywood and Vine. It's not like we went window shopping in Compton.) Max doesn't like big cities, or slums, or urban areas, or homeless people, or anything that doesn't look like a setting for a Nickelodeon sit-com. He likes his world sanitary, with the paper strip across it that says, "For your protection."
My daughter, on the other hand, loves it all. The grittier and dirtier, the better. She wants to roll up her sleeves and kick off her shoes and walk barefoot through the muck of the world, testing the resilience of her immune system. Recently, she has even started to look the part of the nomadic wanderer. She sports unconventional (self-inflicted) piercings and has started cultivating a few dread locks adorned with wraps and beads and stuff, all of which I blame for her "random selection" to be searched as we boarded the return flight. Despite her appearance, she believes in blending in when traveling, as much as that's possible with dreads and piercings. Whenever I accidentally said, "thank you" or (oops) "grazie" (I've had four years of Latin, two years of Italian and about ten minutes of Spanish), she would correct me.
"Mom, oh my God, it's 'gracias, senor.' Seriously..."
Once in Guatemala, as we rode in the van toward Antigua, the three of us marveled out the windows at the shot-out looking capital of Guatemala City. These poor, poor people, we thought. Now, I know better.
Antigua turned out to be more than met the eye, since it looks like an old village with depressed one-story buildings all jammed together with cobblestone streets and crumbling sidewalks. However, upon entering any of its public dwellings, you are surprised to find charming and well decorated interiors, often with meticulously tended garden courtyards. Hidden paradises lay through every doorway.
The volcano hike was scheduled for Thanksgiving morning, and we left the hotel at 6:00 am, in the dark, in a van with eight other people from around Antigua. As we rode on for the next hour, I noticed the driver singing along to the radio, unabashedly and enthusiastically, and it occurred to me, how many Americans would have this attitude about having to haul a load of foreign tourists up a mountain at this ungodly hour on a Thursday morning?
At the base camp, we were immediately bombarded by schoolboys with hand-scraped walking sticks, repeating urgently "Stick for you? Stick for you?" and advertising a special of "Three for five!" Michael gave the boys three American five dollar bills, and we each received a walking stick to aid in our hike. While Michael went to pay our admission (ten dollars each), I slipped off to the restroom before the climb. I noticed the young entrepreneurs on the side of the building, each holding the five dollar bill stretched out in both hands and marveling at his good fortune. We had given them each the equivalent of 35 quetzales. And they had asked for only five total.
After laboring up the volcano for over an hour, stopping to catch our breath along the way (man, were we glad for the sticks--worth every penny!), we finally reached the charred top. It was the closest thing to being on another planet I've ever experienced. When the volcano, Pacaya, erupted two years ago, the top blew off, pouring out lava and burning up all life on the summit. Today this area is still largely volcanic rock, but life is already reemerging, as ferns, flowers, and small shrubs. In fact, as a sign of nature's resilience, a 400 year-old oak tree, covered in dozens of species of epiphytic plants, still stands and grows on the side of Pacaya, about halfway up the trail to the top. Surviving years of eruptions and destruction, the tree reminds us that "This too shall pass."
After climbing back down, we were greeted enthusiastically by the little entrepreneurs, who reached out and repeated, "Stick for me? Stick for me?" Laughing, we relinquished our walking sticks, which had served their purpose and wouldn't fit into our luggage anyway, allowing the boys to replenish their source of income.
When we returned to Antigua, we walked to a little courtyard Indian restaurant that advertised a "Thanksgiving Dinner." Honestly, it may have been the best Thanksgiving dinner of my life. Not only did the food surpass all expectation (pumpkin ginger soup, salad with goat cheese, pear and candied walnuts, turkey with fresh cranberries, Brussels sprouts, mashed potato with leeks, and even pumpkin pie!), but the ambiance simply nourished our souls. Hummingbirds flitted and darted back and forth between fuchsias and bright orange tropical flowers. The temperature was so ideal that it was unnoticeable, and the wide open blue sky overhead was completely clear of clouds or pollution except for a swirl of steam escaping the mouth of a distant volcano.
The next morning, our ride to the airport arrived promptly at 5:00 am, when a cheerful Donny met us outside the hotel and loaded our bags with a smile. On the way to Guatemala City, he informed us that we would beat a one hour delay in traffic by leaving this early. Thirty more minutes, and we would have been stuck. We asked him if he had felt the recent earthquake that rocked Guatemala and much of Mexico.
"Yes," he said, nodding his head and laughing. "But we like it when we feel the earth shake, when the volcanoes erupt. It makes us happy."
"Really?" Michael asked.
"Yes. You know why? Because it means that they are getting their energy out. It's a good thing. If everything is quiet for a long time, then we worry." Again, he laughed.
Donny went on to tell us stories of his childhood experiences with such things, revealing his simple, yet wise take on life. At one point, regarding getting up at this hour to drive into the city, he pointed out that it paid the bills.
"I have car payment, house payment, credit card payment..." At this he chuckled. "So, it is motivation, you know? I get up and come to work saying, 'This is the glory.'" When he spoke, I could hear the smile on his face, even from the backseat.
Donny delivered us safely at the airport, inviting us back to his lovely country whenever we got the chance to return. We tipped him well and thanked him. I noticed we were all a little happier after the ride than when we left the hotel. Interesting the effect people have on one another, isn't it?
Guatemala has been on my mind a lot since I got home. It was a truly marvelous place to spend Thanksgiving, not simply because it provided a beautiful adventure, but because it taught me so much about gratitude. I'm currently reading Flow by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (yes, it's a mouthful), and he points out that today most of us in the "first world" have access to recipes and food beyond what the richest emperor several hundred years ago could have dined upon, and yet we aren't any happier for our relative wealth and opulence. Once our basic needs are met, we aren't happy, because we set our sights on something even higher, and no matter what material possessions we acquire, we are never satisfied. This may be why the "happiest" countries in the world, according to the happiness index, are not rich countries. The top three?
1. Costa Rica
2. Vietnam
3. Columbia
(Guatemala is #9. The U.S. is #105.)
Surprised? Don't be. They have the secret to living a happy life: being grateful for what one already has. I heard on the radio recently that the correlation between income and happiness is consistent, up to around $75,000 per year. As income goes up, so does happiness. After that, it starts to dip back downward. The conclusion? Once our basic needs are met, we can find happiness in not wanting more than that. Just accept the moment as it is. Recognize that our world is beautiful. Realize that we have all that we need to be happy right now, today.
That...is the glory. Thank you, Donny.
Oops, I mean, gracias.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
A Guy, a Girl, a Ring, and Monk Bones?
First, please accept my apologies for my lapse in posts. I have much to report. In March, Michael and I went to Rome, Italy for three days, where he popped the question, and I popped an answer. What follows is an account of that occasion, along with a lesson on the best laid plans...
We originally planned a trip to Cairo, Egypt, a place very high on both of our bucket lists.
"How many of your girlfriends can say they got engaged in front of the Pyramids at Giza ?" (By the way, Michael has an inability to keep anything secret when it comes to surprises. So, yes, I kinda knew this was coming.)
But, alas, after decades of oppression, the country decides to erupt into a fire of political rebellion weeks before our slated vacation. (Last summer we were planning to go to Greece, so this has become a trend with us. Plan a trip, and the country of destination will explode.)
So, Rome it was. After all, Michael is Italian, with one of those long last names that ends in an "o," so it's fitting we would do this in his homeland. Now, I may have known it was coming, but I didn't have any idea when or where he would do this thing, so I put it out of my mind and tried to forget the whole reason for the trip so I could kind of be surprised, a little. Well, I guess I did too good a job at this.
Day One, we arrived in the morning after an overnight flight. Serious travelers that we are, we hit the ground running. After a couple pizzas and Coke Lights, we saw the Vatican and climbed St. Peter's dome. I didn't figure he would do it on this day, since we were both jet-lagged, dirty, and unkempt (not to mention out of breath after the bajillion steps up and down the basilica). I was correct.
The next day, we had slated Trevi Fountain, Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (affectionately referred to as "monk bones," but more on that later), the Colosseum and Palatine Hill, The Roman Forum, and San Clemente Basilica (with an altar to Mithra). Like I said, we're serious. First stop was Trevi Fountain. We arrived pretty early in the day, and the sun was obliquely shining on half the statues, the rest in shadows. On this cool spring morning, we had the place virtually to ourselves, except for a small cluster of Korean nuns who took turns snapping each other's pictures in front of the fountain. As is customary, we each tossed a coin over our shoulder into the fountain, so we would return one day, and then we departed.
Okay, back to the "monk bones." At Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini, the remains of over 4000 Capuchin monks have been made into an homage to mortality. It's Thich Nhat Hahn meets Thomas Merton. Google it and see what images come up, because there is no way to describe it with any justice here. Suffice it to say, among the exhibit is a plaque with the following sentiment in five languages: "What you are now, we used to be; what we are now, you will be."
Chills.
Of course, when we arrived for this much-anticipated creep-fest, it was closed, for of all things, "our dear friend Enrico's funeral." But it politely requested, "Please return later today after 2:00." So, next stop, Colosseum. We would come back to see the monk bones later. We're serious, but flexible.
When we got to the Colosseum, Michael paid for a tour guide, which in addition to giving us all sorts of cool info about the building, would let us bypass the lines and get in quickly. Unfortunately, our tour guide droned on and on about boring stuff and led us into dull interior nooks. By the time she was done, we had only twenty minutes left to see the upper levels and get good pictures of the sunny, sweeping vistas of the ruinous structure, and the stairs were on the opposite side of the Colosseum. We were rushed, and Michael was not too happy.
On Palatine Hill, we had a better tour guide and got lots of good pictures. On our way down onto the Forum, we passed a hill covered in little, white, daisy-like flowers. Seated in the grass, a young girl posed while another girl took photos of her.
"Baby, do you wanna get your picture made in the flowers?" Michael asked, mocking me. After living in Alabama for seventeen years, I unfortunately picked up this colloquial way of referring to photography. "Get your pitchur made."
"No, honey. I'm good, thanks."
We then made our way through the Forum, seeing Caesar's grave, stopping to take pics, and reading our guide book along the way. Later, when we arrived at San Clemente, we discovered that we had one hour to kill before the basilica reopened at 2:00, what appeared to be the magical hour for churches in Rome. I guess everyone really does go home and take a nap in the middle of the day. Sitting on a curb in front of the building, Michael confessed to me.
"Baby, today has not gone as planned."
He went on to tell me that it was supposed to happen at the Colosseum, because I had said I was most looking forward to seeing that. There, he had planned to take me aside, kneel, and propose, extending the ring to me under the sparkling sunlight, where it would shine most glorious. I would say yes, and then we would kiss, and get our pitchur made.
Not so. After calling the tour guide a few choice words, he explained that he decided to find a spot on Palatine Hill, but every time he thought, "This is a nice place..." some family of six would come around the corner. So then he thought the Forum. Ancient, cool, lots of little green hills with flowers on them. But I had rebuffed his attempt to get me into the grass. So, as we sat on a stoop, scraping the last remnants of pistachio gelato from the bottoms of our cups, he threw out an idea. More like a threat.
"Baby," he started, setting aside his empty cup, "I think it's gonna be monk bones."
"What? No! You can't do it there."
"Yep. Monk bones."
"I'll say no," I warned.
"Think about it. You know me. How would you describe me to your friends? Am I Sparkling Sunlight at the Colosseum? Or am I Monk Bones? Be honest. Your boyfriend is Monk Bones, and you know it."
Michael does wear a lot of shirts with skulls on them, Halloween is his favorite holiday, and he does have a tattoo of Michael the Archangel stamping out a demon on his left arm... He had a point. Still, I balked at the notion of getting engaged in a crypt. It seemed a bit too Dylan Thomas to me.
"There are lots of beautiful places in this city," I told him. "I'm sure you will find the right opportunity. And not at monk bones."
After San Clemente (one of my favorites, by the way--all three layers of Rome in one building!), we went to see the much anticipated monk remains. All I can say is...wow. Never seen anything like it. Thankfully, Michael refrained from dropping to one knee amongst a bunch of robed skeletons with scythes. Although I suppose that might have its own romantic charm, if your names are Gomez and Morticia.
So then we meandered back through the city toward our hotel, stopping along the way at Trevi Fountain again. This time, it was teeming with tourists, tour groups, and peddlers, who forcefully shoved flowers in your hands unless you kept them buried in your pockets. Makeshift kiosks had been set up in front, where earlier that morning there had been only smiling nuns in white habits.
"Wow. Look at this place now," Michael said. "We had it to ourselves this morning."
"Yeah, what a difference," I noted, shaking my head and turning away from the obnoxious vendor trying to sell me a fake flower.
"Baby...I messed up, didn't I?" (Only he didn't say "messed." He's a New York Italian, remember.)
"Nah, it was cold, remember?" I said, trying to soothe him.
Truthfully, I really thought it was going to be at Trevi, as cliche as that might be. I felt badly for him now. What he planned had not worked out, and I could tell he felt pressured to come up with something on the fly, which is really not our style. See, Michael and I are both planners. We like to have things all mapped out ahead of time. He even drew out this whole scheme for us on a paper towel one night (after a couple martinis), back when the plan was still at Giza, with a pyramid, an airplane, a ring (which I had thought was a star), and an officiant holding a book. Its rendering may have been elementary, but the sentiment was genuine. I scribbled an "OK" on the paper towel, and I have it saved in our travel journal.
Now, in addition to the missing pyramids, yet another element of his plan had gone awry. Poor guy.
It was getting late in the afternoon, so we decided to wander toward Piazza Navona for some dinner. While Michael snapped some pictures of the three fountains in the setting sun, I ducked into a restaurant for a potty stop. When I came out, I saw him closing up his "man purse" we had purchased at TJ Maxx right before this trip. (Go ahead and laugh, but it is way better than a backpack, trust me.)
He saw me and smiled, then took my hand as we walked into the center of the Piazza toward the big fountain in the middle. He halted in front of a bench, then sat us down next to each other, facing the fountain.
"Well, baby," he started. "I've been trying to do this all day..."
I smiled. He was laughing now.
"And this is as good a place as any."
He slid off the bench onto his knee, extending his pinkie finger. Perched halfway on it was the ring he had insisted on showing me in the sunlight of his bedroom window the day before we left Atlanta.
"Will ya marry me, baby? Because, I love you."
It may not have been exactly as he had pictured, but he couldn't have planned it any better than this. Sunset at a beautiful fountain in a Roman piazza. After I accepted, we kissed, got our pitchur made, and had a lovely dinner on a patio overlooking the fountains.
Michael may not have realized it when he made the decision to whip that ring out of his man purse, but the one he chose to make our "special engagement fountain" just happens to be Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers, and in the center of it is an Egyptian obelisk, topped with a dove holding an olive branch.
The Four Rivers represented are the Ganges (symbolizing Asia), the Nile (Africa), the Danube (Europe), and the Plate (the Americas). With our wanderlust (and Michael's flight benefits), I'm pretty sure we will see them all. Both of us long to see the ruins at Macchu Picchu, ancient Buddhist temples in bamboo forests, castles in Europe, and the night sky over an African savannah. So how perfect is it that we sealed this life-partner deal in front of a fountain in his home country that just happens to symbolize the four corners of the world, with an Egyptian sculpture in its center, topped with the universal symbol of peace? It may not have been a pyramid, but well done, Michael...Well done.
Compare that to the sparking sunlight at the Colosseum.
Or Monk Bones.
We originally planned a trip to Cairo, Egypt, a place very high on both of our bucket lists.
"How many of your girlfriends can say they got engaged in front of the Pyramids at Giza ?" (By the way, Michael has an inability to keep anything secret when it comes to surprises. So, yes, I kinda knew this was coming.)
But, alas, after decades of oppression, the country decides to erupt into a fire of political rebellion weeks before our slated vacation. (Last summer we were planning to go to Greece, so this has become a trend with us. Plan a trip, and the country of destination will explode.)
So, Rome it was. After all, Michael is Italian, with one of those long last names that ends in an "o," so it's fitting we would do this in his homeland. Now, I may have known it was coming, but I didn't have any idea when or where he would do this thing, so I put it out of my mind and tried to forget the whole reason for the trip so I could kind of be surprised, a little. Well, I guess I did too good a job at this.
Day One, we arrived in the morning after an overnight flight. Serious travelers that we are, we hit the ground running. After a couple pizzas and Coke Lights, we saw the Vatican and climbed St. Peter's dome. I didn't figure he would do it on this day, since we were both jet-lagged, dirty, and unkempt (not to mention out of breath after the bajillion steps up and down the basilica). I was correct.
The next day, we had slated Trevi Fountain, Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (affectionately referred to as "monk bones," but more on that later), the Colosseum and Palatine Hill, The Roman Forum, and San Clemente Basilica (with an altar to Mithra). Like I said, we're serious. First stop was Trevi Fountain. We arrived pretty early in the day, and the sun was obliquely shining on half the statues, the rest in shadows. On this cool spring morning, we had the place virtually to ourselves, except for a small cluster of Korean nuns who took turns snapping each other's pictures in front of the fountain. As is customary, we each tossed a coin over our shoulder into the fountain, so we would return one day, and then we departed.
Okay, back to the "monk bones." At Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini, the remains of over 4000 Capuchin monks have been made into an homage to mortality. It's Thich Nhat Hahn meets Thomas Merton. Google it and see what images come up, because there is no way to describe it with any justice here. Suffice it to say, among the exhibit is a plaque with the following sentiment in five languages: "What you are now, we used to be; what we are now, you will be."
Chills.
Of course, when we arrived for this much-anticipated creep-fest, it was closed, for of all things, "our dear friend Enrico's funeral." But it politely requested, "Please return later today after 2:00." So, next stop, Colosseum. We would come back to see the monk bones later. We're serious, but flexible.
When we got to the Colosseum, Michael paid for a tour guide, which in addition to giving us all sorts of cool info about the building, would let us bypass the lines and get in quickly. Unfortunately, our tour guide droned on and on about boring stuff and led us into dull interior nooks. By the time she was done, we had only twenty minutes left to see the upper levels and get good pictures of the sunny, sweeping vistas of the ruinous structure, and the stairs were on the opposite side of the Colosseum. We were rushed, and Michael was not too happy.
On Palatine Hill, we had a better tour guide and got lots of good pictures. On our way down onto the Forum, we passed a hill covered in little, white, daisy-like flowers. Seated in the grass, a young girl posed while another girl took photos of her.
"Baby, do you wanna get your picture made in the flowers?" Michael asked, mocking me. After living in Alabama for seventeen years, I unfortunately picked up this colloquial way of referring to photography. "Get your pitchur made."
"No, honey. I'm good, thanks."
We then made our way through the Forum, seeing Caesar's grave, stopping to take pics, and reading our guide book along the way. Later, when we arrived at San Clemente, we discovered that we had one hour to kill before the basilica reopened at 2:00, what appeared to be the magical hour for churches in Rome. I guess everyone really does go home and take a nap in the middle of the day. Sitting on a curb in front of the building, Michael confessed to me.
"Baby, today has not gone as planned."
He went on to tell me that it was supposed to happen at the Colosseum, because I had said I was most looking forward to seeing that. There, he had planned to take me aside, kneel, and propose, extending the ring to me under the sparkling sunlight, where it would shine most glorious. I would say yes, and then we would kiss, and get our pitchur made.
Not so. After calling the tour guide a few choice words, he explained that he decided to find a spot on Palatine Hill, but every time he thought, "This is a nice place..." some family of six would come around the corner. So then he thought the Forum. Ancient, cool, lots of little green hills with flowers on them. But I had rebuffed his attempt to get me into the grass. So, as we sat on a stoop, scraping the last remnants of pistachio gelato from the bottoms of our cups, he threw out an idea. More like a threat.
"Baby," he started, setting aside his empty cup, "I think it's gonna be monk bones."
"What? No! You can't do it there."
"Yep. Monk bones."
"I'll say no," I warned.
"Think about it. You know me. How would you describe me to your friends? Am I Sparkling Sunlight at the Colosseum? Or am I Monk Bones? Be honest. Your boyfriend is Monk Bones, and you know it."
Michael does wear a lot of shirts with skulls on them, Halloween is his favorite holiday, and he does have a tattoo of Michael the Archangel stamping out a demon on his left arm... He had a point. Still, I balked at the notion of getting engaged in a crypt. It seemed a bit too Dylan Thomas to me.
"There are lots of beautiful places in this city," I told him. "I'm sure you will find the right opportunity. And not at monk bones."
After San Clemente (one of my favorites, by the way--all three layers of Rome in one building!), we went to see the much anticipated monk remains. All I can say is...wow. Never seen anything like it. Thankfully, Michael refrained from dropping to one knee amongst a bunch of robed skeletons with scythes. Although I suppose that might have its own romantic charm, if your names are Gomez and Morticia.
So then we meandered back through the city toward our hotel, stopping along the way at Trevi Fountain again. This time, it was teeming with tourists, tour groups, and peddlers, who forcefully shoved flowers in your hands unless you kept them buried in your pockets. Makeshift kiosks had been set up in front, where earlier that morning there had been only smiling nuns in white habits.
"Wow. Look at this place now," Michael said. "We had it to ourselves this morning."
"Yeah, what a difference," I noted, shaking my head and turning away from the obnoxious vendor trying to sell me a fake flower.
"Baby...I messed up, didn't I?" (Only he didn't say "messed." He's a New York Italian, remember.)
"Nah, it was cold, remember?" I said, trying to soothe him.
Truthfully, I really thought it was going to be at Trevi, as cliche as that might be. I felt badly for him now. What he planned had not worked out, and I could tell he felt pressured to come up with something on the fly, which is really not our style. See, Michael and I are both planners. We like to have things all mapped out ahead of time. He even drew out this whole scheme for us on a paper towel one night (after a couple martinis), back when the plan was still at Giza, with a pyramid, an airplane, a ring (which I had thought was a star), and an officiant holding a book. Its rendering may have been elementary, but the sentiment was genuine. I scribbled an "OK" on the paper towel, and I have it saved in our travel journal.
Now, in addition to the missing pyramids, yet another element of his plan had gone awry. Poor guy.
It was getting late in the afternoon, so we decided to wander toward Piazza Navona for some dinner. While Michael snapped some pictures of the three fountains in the setting sun, I ducked into a restaurant for a potty stop. When I came out, I saw him closing up his "man purse" we had purchased at TJ Maxx right before this trip. (Go ahead and laugh, but it is way better than a backpack, trust me.)
He saw me and smiled, then took my hand as we walked into the center of the Piazza toward the big fountain in the middle. He halted in front of a bench, then sat us down next to each other, facing the fountain.
"Well, baby," he started. "I've been trying to do this all day..."
I smiled. He was laughing now.
"And this is as good a place as any."
He slid off the bench onto his knee, extending his pinkie finger. Perched halfway on it was the ring he had insisted on showing me in the sunlight of his bedroom window the day before we left Atlanta.
"Will ya marry me, baby? Because, I love you."
It may not have been exactly as he had pictured, but he couldn't have planned it any better than this. Sunset at a beautiful fountain in a Roman piazza. After I accepted, we kissed, got our pitchur made, and had a lovely dinner on a patio overlooking the fountains.
Michael may not have realized it when he made the decision to whip that ring out of his man purse, but the one he chose to make our "special engagement fountain" just happens to be Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers, and in the center of it is an Egyptian obelisk, topped with a dove holding an olive branch.
The Four Rivers represented are the Ganges (symbolizing Asia), the Nile (Africa), the Danube (Europe), and the Plate (the Americas). With our wanderlust (and Michael's flight benefits), I'm pretty sure we will see them all. Both of us long to see the ruins at Macchu Picchu, ancient Buddhist temples in bamboo forests, castles in Europe, and the night sky over an African savannah. So how perfect is it that we sealed this life-partner deal in front of a fountain in his home country that just happens to symbolize the four corners of the world, with an Egyptian sculpture in its center, topped with the universal symbol of peace? It may not have been a pyramid, but well done, Michael...Well done.
Compare that to the sparking sunlight at the Colosseum.
Or Monk Bones.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, and Misunderstanding?
Not too long ago, Michael and I were watching television on the couch one evening, like most couples do when it's a weeknight and you're in your forties. He, being the one with the larger thumb, the Y chromosome, and the "hunter/gatherer instinct," had the remote. Nestled next to him, I read the titles of each channel's offering as it flashed by on the guide while in a small box in the upper right corner of the screen, Emeril Lagasse informed us on how to make Moroccan lamb. It would do while we searched for something better.
I saw What Not To Wear pop up as he hit on TLC's lineup, and I gasped out loud. (I happen to love that show.) Quickly, Michael darted a look in my direction, then settled on Emeril.
Well...I guess that means WNTW is out. Sheesh.
But who can blame him? I mean, it is a chick show, for sure. Of course he doesn't want to watch Clinton and Stacy lead some insecure waif out of her closet full of over-sized neutral sweaters and into the mall for a pair of dark trouser jeans and some "completer pieces." Why would a straight man want to watch some girl get five inches of hair cut off and a makeover, rendering her to tears of self-actualized beauty acceptance? I soothed my bruised disappointment by reminding myself that he would probably love to watch American Chopper or some show on muscle cars. Emeril was a fair enough compromise.
But did he ask me if I was okay with Emeril? No. After a couple minutes, I decided to read a book while he watched. No law says I can't be reading a good novel while he learns how to spice up his lamb. I am a vegetarian, after all.
"Where are you going?" he asked when I extricated myself from his cuddle.
"I'm gonna get my kindle," I said. "You go ahead and watch this, though. I'll sit next to you and read."
"But, I put this on for you. I thought you wanted this."
"Huh?"
"He said something about 'chickpeas' and you went nuts. I figured, she wants to watch the chickpeas."
"I went nuts for What Not To Wear. I saw it go by as you were flipping."
He immediately grabbed the remote, fishing for TLC. "Oh, honey. I didn't know. All this time, I'm sitting here thinking I picked what you wanted, and you're sitting there thinking, 'What an ass.'"
We laughed together at how far off we had been at reading each other in this situation, and it offered us a wonderful code word for all our subsequent and future misunderstandings.
"Chickpeas."
Since that episode, when one of us says something the other one misinterprets, the other one will say, "What we have here is a case of chickpeas." Funny. But how funny would that evening have been if I had never gotten up to get my book? If I had suffered through Emeril's lamb and apparently chickpea recipes for the whole show? I would have continued to think that my boyfriend is the kind of guy who will veto my choices without discussion, and who will make unilateral decisions about what we are going to watch on TV. All the while, he would be thinking he was a prince for letting his girlfriend watch a show about damn chickpeas when better stuff was on. It's a good thing I got up for that book.
It just goes to show you, we often think we know what others feel, think, or know, without ever asking for clarification. But we are often so wrong in our assumptions. How many of these are you guilty of?
She knows I love her.
Surely he remembers that my birthday is next week.
I don't need to tell her she's beautiful. She already knows it.
He'll figure out I'm mad and come apologize on his own.
What she said really bothered me, but I don't wanna have a fight, so I'll just keep my mouth shut.
Some of us might be more intuitive than others, but none of us can actually read minds (which is probably a good thing). In any relationship, communication is vital for building strong intimacy, for coming to mutual understanding, and obviously for selecting a good show to watch on TV.
Michael and I have since agreed to do what therapists tell their clients to do all the time. It's basic Communication 101. In your own words, reflect back to the other person what you heard them say. For example:
"So, if I'm hearing you correctly, you'd prefer it if I didn't leave my toothbrush on your counter because it leaves a wet mess on your granite."
"No, I prefer you not leave it there because I'm afraid I'm going to knock it in the toilet. Please put it in this glass instead."
"Oh. Gotcha. Alrighty then. Thanks."
Are you expecting someone else to read your mind? Are you assuming you know what another person is thinking? Ask for clarification, reflect back what you think you heard (you may be wrong), and speak up if something doesn't sit right with you. Misunderstandings can be funny, but only if they are shared and cleared up. So go talk it out, and then laugh together.
You might have a case of chickpeas and not even know it.
I saw What Not To Wear pop up as he hit on TLC's lineup, and I gasped out loud. (I happen to love that show.) Quickly, Michael darted a look in my direction, then settled on Emeril.
Well...I guess that means WNTW is out. Sheesh.
But who can blame him? I mean, it is a chick show, for sure. Of course he doesn't want to watch Clinton and Stacy lead some insecure waif out of her closet full of over-sized neutral sweaters and into the mall for a pair of dark trouser jeans and some "completer pieces." Why would a straight man want to watch some girl get five inches of hair cut off and a makeover, rendering her to tears of self-actualized beauty acceptance? I soothed my bruised disappointment by reminding myself that he would probably love to watch American Chopper or some show on muscle cars. Emeril was a fair enough compromise.
But did he ask me if I was okay with Emeril? No. After a couple minutes, I decided to read a book while he watched. No law says I can't be reading a good novel while he learns how to spice up his lamb. I am a vegetarian, after all.
"Where are you going?" he asked when I extricated myself from his cuddle.
"I'm gonna get my kindle," I said. "You go ahead and watch this, though. I'll sit next to you and read."
"But, I put this on for you. I thought you wanted this."
"Huh?"
"He said something about 'chickpeas' and you went nuts. I figured, she wants to watch the chickpeas."
"I went nuts for What Not To Wear. I saw it go by as you were flipping."
He immediately grabbed the remote, fishing for TLC. "Oh, honey. I didn't know. All this time, I'm sitting here thinking I picked what you wanted, and you're sitting there thinking, 'What an ass.'"
We laughed together at how far off we had been at reading each other in this situation, and it offered us a wonderful code word for all our subsequent and future misunderstandings.
"Chickpeas."
Since that episode, when one of us says something the other one misinterprets, the other one will say, "What we have here is a case of chickpeas." Funny. But how funny would that evening have been if I had never gotten up to get my book? If I had suffered through Emeril's lamb and apparently chickpea recipes for the whole show? I would have continued to think that my boyfriend is the kind of guy who will veto my choices without discussion, and who will make unilateral decisions about what we are going to watch on TV. All the while, he would be thinking he was a prince for letting his girlfriend watch a show about damn chickpeas when better stuff was on. It's a good thing I got up for that book.
It just goes to show you, we often think we know what others feel, think, or know, without ever asking for clarification. But we are often so wrong in our assumptions. How many of these are you guilty of?
She knows I love her.
Surely he remembers that my birthday is next week.
I don't need to tell her she's beautiful. She already knows it.
He'll figure out I'm mad and come apologize on his own.
What she said really bothered me, but I don't wanna have a fight, so I'll just keep my mouth shut.
Some of us might be more intuitive than others, but none of us can actually read minds (which is probably a good thing). In any relationship, communication is vital for building strong intimacy, for coming to mutual understanding, and obviously for selecting a good show to watch on TV.
Michael and I have since agreed to do what therapists tell their clients to do all the time. It's basic Communication 101. In your own words, reflect back to the other person what you heard them say. For example:
"So, if I'm hearing you correctly, you'd prefer it if I didn't leave my toothbrush on your counter because it leaves a wet mess on your granite."
"No, I prefer you not leave it there because I'm afraid I'm going to knock it in the toilet. Please put it in this glass instead."
"Oh. Gotcha. Alrighty then. Thanks."
Are you expecting someone else to read your mind? Are you assuming you know what another person is thinking? Ask for clarification, reflect back what you think you heard (you may be wrong), and speak up if something doesn't sit right with you. Misunderstandings can be funny, but only if they are shared and cleared up. So go talk it out, and then laugh together.
You might have a case of chickpeas and not even know it.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
One on Forgiveness
"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." ~Mark Twain
I love me some Twain quotes. This one in particular I first read, of all places, on my former mother-in-law's refrigerator. One of the most difficult people I have ever met, she nonetheless saw the wisdom in this expression. Which goes to show you, even though we all have our flaws, most of us are struggling to better ourselves and to do the right thing.
Of course, she could have posted that quote not to remind her to be forgiving, but to remind others to put up with her crap.
Always on the outs with one family member or another, she thrives on drama and conflict, always placing herself as the victim of someone else's lack of consideration or outright cruelty. During our marriage, there were times when she would go months in a row without speaking to my ex-husband, or his brother, because of some imagined slight or because someone else didn't do things her way. It was exhausting for everyone involved.
Perhaps you know someone like this, someone who vexes your spirit, who tests your patience. How do we handle it? Approaching things from a spiritual (and back then, religious) perspective, I tried to see her presence in my life as a lesson in forgiveness. I believe that every thing and everyone in our lives is there to teach us something. So, how interesting that her refrigerator introduced me to the Twain quote about forgiveness...
Now that her son and I are divorced, I can hardly blame her for not loving me to pieces, since I was the leaver in this dissolution. I wish my ex every happiness, but it was not to be with me. Since he and I parted ways, I have only seen his mother on one brief occasion, at my son's lacrosse game about a year ago. I spoke to her and my former father-in-law politely, hugged them both, and then went to my seat. She was cool, but not cruel, giving me a limp hug and avoiding eye contact. Her husband was friendly and kind.
Well, guess what. Today I get to see them again, at my son's basketball game. I will be there with Michael, and I have to decide whether to go and greet them or not, and with or without Michael. My gut tells me to go right up and introduce him to them, say hello, then go sit on the other end of the court for the game. I'm inclusive and believe in reaching out. Plus, if I don't, then she will tell everyone I "completely ignored her at the game and didn't even say hello." But I also don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. Especially not my son. If she is ugly to me, he will notice it. And that will hurt him.
By the way, if you are thinking "No sane woman would cause a scene and be rude to her own grandson's mother at his game," then you clearly have never met my former mother-in-law. She would totally dig this. The story would be rewritten and retold to all her friends and family, a drama that would fuel her for weeks, months maybe.
But that is really out of my control. What I can control is how I behave, and my response to her behavior. I will be sweet, say hello, then go sit down. My grandfather, rest his soul, used to advise me about my strained relationship with my husband's mother. He said, "All the water in the ocean can't sink a rowboat if you don't let it in." I tried for years to not let the water in. It was easier said than done, let me tell you. I am a sensitive soul, and for some reason, I need the whole world to like me. I seek approval like a golden retriever. This was a hard one for me, not letting her get to me. I'm not really sure I ever mastered that lesson, which may be why it's presenting itself to me again today.
So, here is the plan: I will take a deep breath, walk up to them, introduce Michael, thank them for coming to Max's game, tell them I hope they enjoy their weekend with the kids, and then go sit down. And if I get the stink eye, I will remember the fragrance of the violet I'm leaving on her heel.
I love me some Twain quotes. This one in particular I first read, of all places, on my former mother-in-law's refrigerator. One of the most difficult people I have ever met, she nonetheless saw the wisdom in this expression. Which goes to show you, even though we all have our flaws, most of us are struggling to better ourselves and to do the right thing.
Of course, she could have posted that quote not to remind her to be forgiving, but to remind others to put up with her crap.
Always on the outs with one family member or another, she thrives on drama and conflict, always placing herself as the victim of someone else's lack of consideration or outright cruelty. During our marriage, there were times when she would go months in a row without speaking to my ex-husband, or his brother, because of some imagined slight or because someone else didn't do things her way. It was exhausting for everyone involved.
Perhaps you know someone like this, someone who vexes your spirit, who tests your patience. How do we handle it? Approaching things from a spiritual (and back then, religious) perspective, I tried to see her presence in my life as a lesson in forgiveness. I believe that every thing and everyone in our lives is there to teach us something. So, how interesting that her refrigerator introduced me to the Twain quote about forgiveness...
Now that her son and I are divorced, I can hardly blame her for not loving me to pieces, since I was the leaver in this dissolution. I wish my ex every happiness, but it was not to be with me. Since he and I parted ways, I have only seen his mother on one brief occasion, at my son's lacrosse game about a year ago. I spoke to her and my former father-in-law politely, hugged them both, and then went to my seat. She was cool, but not cruel, giving me a limp hug and avoiding eye contact. Her husband was friendly and kind.
Well, guess what. Today I get to see them again, at my son's basketball game. I will be there with Michael, and I have to decide whether to go and greet them or not, and with or without Michael. My gut tells me to go right up and introduce him to them, say hello, then go sit on the other end of the court for the game. I'm inclusive and believe in reaching out. Plus, if I don't, then she will tell everyone I "completely ignored her at the game and didn't even say hello." But I also don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. Especially not my son. If she is ugly to me, he will notice it. And that will hurt him.
By the way, if you are thinking "No sane woman would cause a scene and be rude to her own grandson's mother at his game," then you clearly have never met my former mother-in-law. She would totally dig this. The story would be rewritten and retold to all her friends and family, a drama that would fuel her for weeks, months maybe.
But that is really out of my control. What I can control is how I behave, and my response to her behavior. I will be sweet, say hello, then go sit down. My grandfather, rest his soul, used to advise me about my strained relationship with my husband's mother. He said, "All the water in the ocean can't sink a rowboat if you don't let it in." I tried for years to not let the water in. It was easier said than done, let me tell you. I am a sensitive soul, and for some reason, I need the whole world to like me. I seek approval like a golden retriever. This was a hard one for me, not letting her get to me. I'm not really sure I ever mastered that lesson, which may be why it's presenting itself to me again today.
So, here is the plan: I will take a deep breath, walk up to them, introduce Michael, thank them for coming to Max's game, tell them I hope they enjoy their weekend with the kids, and then go sit down. And if I get the stink eye, I will remember the fragrance of the violet I'm leaving on her heel.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Reason for the Season
Merry Christmas, everyone! And Happy Hanukkah. I hope you had a restful Bodhi Day (Rohatsu), and that Shab-e Yaldaa finds you well. "Blessed Be" to all of you this happy Yule.
Do you see where I'm going with this yet? We hear a lot of talk about "the reason for the season" these days, as if there is only one. My Christian friends are all excited about the coming of the Lord, Emmanuel, "Christ Among Us." For them, Advent is a month of preparation, getting your act together before the big J.C. is born in a lowly manger. It's a sweet story, one I grew up with and always assumed to be the instigator of this whole "season."
But I have done a little research, and guess what. The "season" predates "Christ's Mass" by centuries. Holly, mistletoe, deer, decorated evergreen trees, feasts, giving presents...all of it is Pagan in origin.
This may not be news to you. I have always heard that Christians usurped the whole Saturnalia/Winter Solstice thing to propagandize this new religion that needed a foothold in Europe to ever get off the ground. It worked. No one was sure when Jesus was really born anyway (although sufficient scriptural and historical evidence points to sometime in autumn), so why not pick a ready-made holiday? In fact, do you know why Christmas is on December 25th exactly?
Because it was already a holiday celebrating the birthday of another virgin-born savior, Mithra. Dating back to at least 1500 BC, Mithraism was actually the official religion of The Roman Empire, before Constantine legalized Christianity and then Flavius Theodosius made it official in AD 380. With its roots in Hinduism, this religion reveres Mithra, known as "The Way, The Truth, The Light," who would save humanity from evil and sacrifice himself for world peace. And he was born on December 25th. Talk about a ready-made holiday.
Aurelian, the Roman emperor who made this the official religion, was a pretty savvy ruler in his brief reign, for when he wasn't out conquering barbarians in distant lands, he managed to combine the celebrations of a number of important birthdays into one holiday, Dies Natalis Solis Invicti or "Birthday of the Unconquered Sun." In addition to Mithra, everyone from the Greek hero Apollo to the Egyptian sun-god Osiris to the Old Testament's Baal got the glory on what is now "Christmas."
Long story short (if it's not too late for that), there have been many "reasons for the season." Despite my tongue-in-cheek tone, I don't point this out to discredit any of them. On the contrary, I believe in inclusion, not exclusion. Everyone needs to believe in something, be it Christianity, Judaism, New Thought, or simply the laws of science.
You may have heard that the organization American Atheists has paid for a huge billboard that shows the wise men on camels coming to see the holy family in a stable under a star in silhouette. The caption reads, "You KNOW it's a Myth. This season, celebrate REASON!" Now, I can understand their frustration, since atheists have long been a pretty silent minority. They quietly tolerate the religiosity that permeates American life, and we often forget that for some, "freedom of religion" means "freedom from religion." And they have a point. Do a little research on Mithra and it will make you wonder if the whole Christian religion isn't one big case of plagiarism. Born of the virgin Anahita, wrapped in swaddling clothes, laid in a manger, watched by shepherds, followed by twelve disciples, praised for his miracles, ascended into heaven...and he predates Christ by over a thousand years. Hmmm.
But I think this billboard goes too far. It's one thing for atheists to assert that they want a reprieve from Christianity, especially in the month of December. Who can blame them? It's another thing for them to insult or attempt to nullify people's faith entirely. That's disrespectful. They have every right to tout what they believe, so the second line is appropriate. We should celebrate reason. But to say "You KNOW it's a Myth" is tantamount to saying "Your religion is false."
This is why I like agnostics. (Bless them.) They humbly believe that we just don't know anything for sure. And they're right. The billboard-sanctioning atheists are simply the other end of the continuum from the bible-thumping fundamentalists. Each end of the spectrum is certain they know the Truth, when in actuality, neither have any proof at all that they are correct in their assertions.
The bible? We all know how easily documents can be changed, omitted, embellished, and falsified. And with a number of other, older sacred texts out there, calling one gospel and another heresy is simply a choice of faith, not evidence of proof.
As for the atheists who say they simply don't believe in anything until they see proof of its existence for themselves, ask them, do they believe in protons, electrons, and neutrons? Do they believe in black holes? The Big Bang? Love? We all believe in things we can't experience with the senses. If they make sense to us, if they ring true.
The story of an infant king, born in a lowly stable and laid in a manger, visited by wise men from the east, watched over by simple shepherds, a king who would grow up the son of a carpenter, who would perform miracles and teach the world about love, about forgiveness, about turning the other cheek, about not casting the first stone, about loving our neighbors, and our enemies...for many people, this story rings true.
Is it really important which "reason" has the most proof? The most evidence? The longest history? The first claim on December 25th? It would seem to me that the real "reason for the season" is that people throughout history and across cultures have had something in common: the desire to feast on the harvest, to celebrate heroes and miracles, and to give generously to one another.
So whether you're lighting a menorah, a Yule log, a Christmas tree, or nothing at all this month, I hope you will keep in mind that there are many reasons for the season, but perhaps one we can all agree on is Love. We are all searching for what rings true for us, so let's respect each other's choices. After all, our souls aren't "one size fits all." Here are some gift ideas: tolerance for traditions that aren't our own, respect for beliefs that differ from ours, and acceptance of the diversity December brings each year. It's a month of feasting heartily, celebrating festively, giving generously, and loving unconditionally.
Whatever inspires you to eat, celebrate, give, and love this month, I honor that. So Blessed Be, Happy Hanukkah, and Merry Christmas. Be good to one another. Remember, you never know who could be watching. Santa, Jesus, God, the Universe, or at the very least your fellow human beings.
Maybe even Mithra.
Do you see where I'm going with this yet? We hear a lot of talk about "the reason for the season" these days, as if there is only one. My Christian friends are all excited about the coming of the Lord, Emmanuel, "Christ Among Us." For them, Advent is a month of preparation, getting your act together before the big J.C. is born in a lowly manger. It's a sweet story, one I grew up with and always assumed to be the instigator of this whole "season."
But I have done a little research, and guess what. The "season" predates "Christ's Mass" by centuries. Holly, mistletoe, deer, decorated evergreen trees, feasts, giving presents...all of it is Pagan in origin.
This may not be news to you. I have always heard that Christians usurped the whole Saturnalia/Winter Solstice thing to propagandize this new religion that needed a foothold in Europe to ever get off the ground. It worked. No one was sure when Jesus was really born anyway (although sufficient scriptural and historical evidence points to sometime in autumn), so why not pick a ready-made holiday? In fact, do you know why Christmas is on December 25th exactly?
Because it was already a holiday celebrating the birthday of another virgin-born savior, Mithra. Dating back to at least 1500 BC, Mithraism was actually the official religion of The Roman Empire, before Constantine legalized Christianity and then Flavius Theodosius made it official in AD 380. With its roots in Hinduism, this religion reveres Mithra, known as "The Way, The Truth, The Light," who would save humanity from evil and sacrifice himself for world peace. And he was born on December 25th. Talk about a ready-made holiday.
Aurelian, the Roman emperor who made this the official religion, was a pretty savvy ruler in his brief reign, for when he wasn't out conquering barbarians in distant lands, he managed to combine the celebrations of a number of important birthdays into one holiday, Dies Natalis Solis Invicti or "Birthday of the Unconquered Sun." In addition to Mithra, everyone from the Greek hero Apollo to the Egyptian sun-god Osiris to the Old Testament's Baal got the glory on what is now "Christmas."
Long story short (if it's not too late for that), there have been many "reasons for the season." Despite my tongue-in-cheek tone, I don't point this out to discredit any of them. On the contrary, I believe in inclusion, not exclusion. Everyone needs to believe in something, be it Christianity, Judaism, New Thought, or simply the laws of science.
You may have heard that the organization American Atheists has paid for a huge billboard that shows the wise men on camels coming to see the holy family in a stable under a star in silhouette. The caption reads, "You KNOW it's a Myth. This season, celebrate REASON!" Now, I can understand their frustration, since atheists have long been a pretty silent minority. They quietly tolerate the religiosity that permeates American life, and we often forget that for some, "freedom of religion" means "freedom from religion." And they have a point. Do a little research on Mithra and it will make you wonder if the whole Christian religion isn't one big case of plagiarism. Born of the virgin Anahita, wrapped in swaddling clothes, laid in a manger, watched by shepherds, followed by twelve disciples, praised for his miracles, ascended into heaven...and he predates Christ by over a thousand years. Hmmm.
But I think this billboard goes too far. It's one thing for atheists to assert that they want a reprieve from Christianity, especially in the month of December. Who can blame them? It's another thing for them to insult or attempt to nullify people's faith entirely. That's disrespectful. They have every right to tout what they believe, so the second line is appropriate. We should celebrate reason. But to say "You KNOW it's a Myth" is tantamount to saying "Your religion is false."
This is why I like agnostics. (Bless them.) They humbly believe that we just don't know anything for sure. And they're right. The billboard-sanctioning atheists are simply the other end of the continuum from the bible-thumping fundamentalists. Each end of the spectrum is certain they know the Truth, when in actuality, neither have any proof at all that they are correct in their assertions.
The bible? We all know how easily documents can be changed, omitted, embellished, and falsified. And with a number of other, older sacred texts out there, calling one gospel and another heresy is simply a choice of faith, not evidence of proof.
As for the atheists who say they simply don't believe in anything until they see proof of its existence for themselves, ask them, do they believe in protons, electrons, and neutrons? Do they believe in black holes? The Big Bang? Love? We all believe in things we can't experience with the senses. If they make sense to us, if they ring true.
The story of an infant king, born in a lowly stable and laid in a manger, visited by wise men from the east, watched over by simple shepherds, a king who would grow up the son of a carpenter, who would perform miracles and teach the world about love, about forgiveness, about turning the other cheek, about not casting the first stone, about loving our neighbors, and our enemies...for many people, this story rings true.
Is it really important which "reason" has the most proof? The most evidence? The longest history? The first claim on December 25th? It would seem to me that the real "reason for the season" is that people throughout history and across cultures have had something in common: the desire to feast on the harvest, to celebrate heroes and miracles, and to give generously to one another.
So whether you're lighting a menorah, a Yule log, a Christmas tree, or nothing at all this month, I hope you will keep in mind that there are many reasons for the season, but perhaps one we can all agree on is Love. We are all searching for what rings true for us, so let's respect each other's choices. After all, our souls aren't "one size fits all." Here are some gift ideas: tolerance for traditions that aren't our own, respect for beliefs that differ from ours, and acceptance of the diversity December brings each year. It's a month of feasting heartily, celebrating festively, giving generously, and loving unconditionally.
Whatever inspires you to eat, celebrate, give, and love this month, I honor that. So Blessed Be, Happy Hanukkah, and Merry Christmas. Be good to one another. Remember, you never know who could be watching. Santa, Jesus, God, the Universe, or at the very least your fellow human beings.
Maybe even Mithra.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Off the Grid
I did something subversive. Something totally against the grain of contemporary American society. Not only do I feel completely unashamed by my actions, I feel really, really good. This must be what the feminists in the 70's felt like when they burned their bras, or when bearded, bandanna-wearing hippies took a bic to their draft cards. Liberated. "Take THAT, establishment! Ha!"
I left facebook.
That's right. I deactivated my account indefinitely, and I am this close to going back in and deleting all of its contents altogether. Perhaps you are wondering why I would do such a thing. (Several of my facebook buddies asked me this when I announced my imminent departure in my status update a few days before I "left the building.") 500 million users can't be wrong, can they? Well, certainly facebook has its benefits. It does bring people together and keep families and friends in contact over long distances. I have rekindled some very special friendships with long-lost pals thanks to good old facebook, people I would probably never have crossed paths with again. So for that, I am grateful to Mark Zuckerberg's little Harvard project.
However, like everything, facebook has its dark side. Lately the news is full of stories about facebook-fueled firings, privacy breaches, child predator "groups," and even bully-induced suicides. These are the extremes, but even regular users might find some familiarity in my list of reasons for logging out for good.
1. It is a tremendous time waster. As of January this year, the average user spent fifty-five minutes a day on facebook, and that number continues to climb. All of the other top ten websites have seen a decline in use, while facebook has seen a steady rise. Bottom line, we are checking in more and more, doing other things less and less. Judging by the number of friends I had who were facebooking at all hours of the day, I would guess many of us are becoming less and less productive.
2. "The age of privacy is over." According to Mark Zuckerberg, at least. He said this prophetic statement January 8th in front of a live audience. Marshall Kirkpatrick quotes him in an article published on Read Write Web:
"When I got started in my dorm room at Harvard, the question a lot of people asked was 'why would I want to put any information on the Internet at all? Why would I want to have a website?'
"And then in the last 5 or 6 years, blogging has taken off in a huge way and all these different services that have people sharing all this information. People have really gotten comfortable not only sharing more information and different kinds, but more openly and with more people. That social norm is just something that has evolved over time.
"We view it as our role in the system to constantly be innovating and be updating what our system is to reflect what the current social norms are."
He said this in response to questions about changing the privacy settings to default to "public" starting in December of 2009. See, facebook wants your information "out there." The more our info is circulating, the more profitable the network is. To make matters worse, recent reports say facebook apps have been selling user profile info to companies. I find this unsettling. I'm not ready to live in a privacy-free world. I know I share a fair amount of details about my life through my writing, so this may seem disingenuous, but I prefer to be in charge of what gets disseminated to the world at large. Which leads to the third reason...
3. It's ruining people's jobs and relationships. Teachers get fired for posting pics of themselves at a party with a drink in their hand. Employees get fired for posting as their status update what they are doing on a day they called in sick. According to an article by Larry Hartstein in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, sixty-six percent of divorce lawyers consider facebook the "unrivaled leader for online divorce evidence." Eighty-one percent have seen an increase in its use for divorce cases. Often, it is the key for getting child custody or proving a spouse has lied. I personally know of more than one marriage that is in jeopardy due to facebook-rekindled romances from high school. We have way too much access to our exes--their faces, their activities, their social lives--more so than ever before in human history. Almost eighty percent of people remain friends with their exes on facebook. Remember when you moved on and didn't know what was going on with your ex except through the occasional bump-in at the mall or word of mouth from a mutual friend? Many admit to keeping the connection on facebook just to "see what they are up to." Used to be, a person had to drive by their house to do that, back when we called that "stalking."
4. Perhaps we keep these connections because of reason number four: narcissism. Somewhere along the way, the word "friend" has been demoted. It's all about quantity, not quality. One of my students admitted to the class that he didn't have a facebook account (he was one of two who were off the grid). When asked why not, he replied, "I have six friends and I like three of them. Who needs a facebook account for that?" I know of people with friend counts over a thousand. Every time they meet a person at a bar or a party, they "friend" them. Then of course they look at each other's pictures, comments, and status updates. Look at me, look at me, look at me. Here's me with my flattering photos, my clever comments, my snarky status updates. Love me. Adore me. I'm checking in here. I'm hanging out there. And you should all care, people. We are all just a little bit famous on facebook, aren't we? Not me. Not anymore.
So how has life been since I left?
In a word: sublime. My productivity went up immediately. When I sit down to the computer to pay bills, plan lessons, answer emails, or print documents, I no longer have that pull to "check in" with my peeps. Minutes later, I'm done, free to go do other things, like clean my home, plant things in my yard, go Christmas shopping early (almost done!), read a book, play Wii with my son, organize my garage, have a cup of coffee on the porch with Michael... You know, just live.
My relationships are more meaningful. Less scattered and divided, I can now focus more on the people and events that are really important. It's very easy to click on faces in a friends list when hosting an event. But if people really want you to come, they will remember to let you know. That is exactly what has happened since my profile disappeared. I still get invited to the party. In addition, I now have a sense of privacy, and I am no longer privy to other people's drama that used to annoy or irritate me. Life is more serene, like that feeling you get when you turn off a noisy television that no one was watching anyway.
Lastly, I enjoy the sense of humility that comes with less focus on one's self. I no longer see a slew of pictures of myself every day, deciding when to change my profile pic and to which other "flattering photo." No more ego-stroking, back-and-forth comments on my wall. With more "doing" in my life and less of facebook's inherent narcissism, I feel a sense of simple gratitude. I have lost nothing; its absence is good for my soul.
Life is easier, quieter, simpler, and yet more fulfilling, sort of like life before the social network took it online. As one of my students declared after she wrote a research paper about facebook, "I deactivated last week, and it feels awesome." Another student piped in, "I deleted my account, too. I don't miss it at all."
So, here is a suggestion for those of you who aren't ready to jump ship just yet. Jimmy Kimmel has declared November 17th as "National Unfriend Day." He is urging people to cut the "friend fat" and reduce their ridiculous friends lists to just, well, actual friends. Consider it. Do you really need that connection to your 10th grade biology lab partner? Or the guy who gave you your tattoo? Or your old boss? Dare I say it...your ex?
I'm not saying that I will never return (I've learned to never say never), and leaving altogether isn't for everyone, especially those separated from loved ones and those who use it judiciously. But I really don't miss it. For now, I like being off the grid. It's like someone took a big item off my to do list. It's liberating. Take THAT, Zuckerberg. Here's a new social norm for you: facebook is an option. And I'm opting out.
I left facebook.
That's right. I deactivated my account indefinitely, and I am this close to going back in and deleting all of its contents altogether. Perhaps you are wondering why I would do such a thing. (Several of my facebook buddies asked me this when I announced my imminent departure in my status update a few days before I "left the building.") 500 million users can't be wrong, can they? Well, certainly facebook has its benefits. It does bring people together and keep families and friends in contact over long distances. I have rekindled some very special friendships with long-lost pals thanks to good old facebook, people I would probably never have crossed paths with again. So for that, I am grateful to Mark Zuckerberg's little Harvard project.
However, like everything, facebook has its dark side. Lately the news is full of stories about facebook-fueled firings, privacy breaches, child predator "groups," and even bully-induced suicides. These are the extremes, but even regular users might find some familiarity in my list of reasons for logging out for good.
1. It is a tremendous time waster. As of January this year, the average user spent fifty-five minutes a day on facebook, and that number continues to climb. All of the other top ten websites have seen a decline in use, while facebook has seen a steady rise. Bottom line, we are checking in more and more, doing other things less and less. Judging by the number of friends I had who were facebooking at all hours of the day, I would guess many of us are becoming less and less productive.
2. "The age of privacy is over." According to Mark Zuckerberg, at least. He said this prophetic statement January 8th in front of a live audience. Marshall Kirkpatrick quotes him in an article published on Read Write Web:
"When I got started in my dorm room at Harvard, the question a lot of people asked was 'why would I want to put any information on the Internet at all? Why would I want to have a website?'
"And then in the last 5 or 6 years, blogging has taken off in a huge way and all these different services that have people sharing all this information. People have really gotten comfortable not only sharing more information and different kinds, but more openly and with more people. That social norm is just something that has evolved over time.
"We view it as our role in the system to constantly be innovating and be updating what our system is to reflect what the current social norms are."
He said this in response to questions about changing the privacy settings to default to "public" starting in December of 2009. See, facebook wants your information "out there." The more our info is circulating, the more profitable the network is. To make matters worse, recent reports say facebook apps have been selling user profile info to companies. I find this unsettling. I'm not ready to live in a privacy-free world. I know I share a fair amount of details about my life through my writing, so this may seem disingenuous, but I prefer to be in charge of what gets disseminated to the world at large. Which leads to the third reason...
3. It's ruining people's jobs and relationships. Teachers get fired for posting pics of themselves at a party with a drink in their hand. Employees get fired for posting as their status update what they are doing on a day they called in sick. According to an article by Larry Hartstein in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, sixty-six percent of divorce lawyers consider facebook the "unrivaled leader for online divorce evidence." Eighty-one percent have seen an increase in its use for divorce cases. Often, it is the key for getting child custody or proving a spouse has lied. I personally know of more than one marriage that is in jeopardy due to facebook-rekindled romances from high school. We have way too much access to our exes--their faces, their activities, their social lives--more so than ever before in human history. Almost eighty percent of people remain friends with their exes on facebook. Remember when you moved on and didn't know what was going on with your ex except through the occasional bump-in at the mall or word of mouth from a mutual friend? Many admit to keeping the connection on facebook just to "see what they are up to." Used to be, a person had to drive by their house to do that, back when we called that "stalking."
4. Perhaps we keep these connections because of reason number four: narcissism. Somewhere along the way, the word "friend" has been demoted. It's all about quantity, not quality. One of my students admitted to the class that he didn't have a facebook account (he was one of two who were off the grid). When asked why not, he replied, "I have six friends and I like three of them. Who needs a facebook account for that?" I know of people with friend counts over a thousand. Every time they meet a person at a bar or a party, they "friend" them. Then of course they look at each other's pictures, comments, and status updates. Look at me, look at me, look at me. Here's me with my flattering photos, my clever comments, my snarky status updates. Love me. Adore me. I'm checking in here. I'm hanging out there. And you should all care, people. We are all just a little bit famous on facebook, aren't we? Not me. Not anymore.
So how has life been since I left?
In a word: sublime. My productivity went up immediately. When I sit down to the computer to pay bills, plan lessons, answer emails, or print documents, I no longer have that pull to "check in" with my peeps. Minutes later, I'm done, free to go do other things, like clean my home, plant things in my yard, go Christmas shopping early (almost done!), read a book, play Wii with my son, organize my garage, have a cup of coffee on the porch with Michael... You know, just live.
My relationships are more meaningful. Less scattered and divided, I can now focus more on the people and events that are really important. It's very easy to click on faces in a friends list when hosting an event. But if people really want you to come, they will remember to let you know. That is exactly what has happened since my profile disappeared. I still get invited to the party. In addition, I now have a sense of privacy, and I am no longer privy to other people's drama that used to annoy or irritate me. Life is more serene, like that feeling you get when you turn off a noisy television that no one was watching anyway.
Lastly, I enjoy the sense of humility that comes with less focus on one's self. I no longer see a slew of pictures of myself every day, deciding when to change my profile pic and to which other "flattering photo." No more ego-stroking, back-and-forth comments on my wall. With more "doing" in my life and less of facebook's inherent narcissism, I feel a sense of simple gratitude. I have lost nothing; its absence is good for my soul.
Life is easier, quieter, simpler, and yet more fulfilling, sort of like life before the social network took it online. As one of my students declared after she wrote a research paper about facebook, "I deactivated last week, and it feels awesome." Another student piped in, "I deleted my account, too. I don't miss it at all."
So, here is a suggestion for those of you who aren't ready to jump ship just yet. Jimmy Kimmel has declared November 17th as "National Unfriend Day." He is urging people to cut the "friend fat" and reduce their ridiculous friends lists to just, well, actual friends. Consider it. Do you really need that connection to your 10th grade biology lab partner? Or the guy who gave you your tattoo? Or your old boss? Dare I say it...your ex?
I'm not saying that I will never return (I've learned to never say never), and leaving altogether isn't for everyone, especially those separated from loved ones and those who use it judiciously. But I really don't miss it. For now, I like being off the grid. It's like someone took a big item off my to do list. It's liberating. Take THAT, Zuckerberg. Here's a new social norm for you: facebook is an option. And I'm opting out.
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