Engagement ceremonies

Because the topic is relevant to my femininity readers; and because the readers between my two blogs don’t necessarily overlap, I am reposting a blog from my recent trip to Albania (posted on mmews.wordpress.com) in which I contemplate the practice of dowries and bride prices to a surprising end.

Sometime in the night a storm blew in full of lightning and thunder and a ferocious wind.  The furniture on my balcony shifted about noisily as I lay terrified in my bed.  With the sheet wrapped tightly around me as some sort of security blanket, I debated about getting up and shutting the balcony doors as protection.  But the sheers guarding the doors looked like banshees in the wind, and the random flashes of lightning seemed to illuminate terrors that existed in my mind.  I decided to curl myself more tightly in the bed and try to go back to sleep.

For nearly half an hour, I lay frozen with fear, trying against all reason to calm down.  But the fear was truthfully delicious and the storm so magnificent in its rage that I couldn’t.  Eventually, the storm began to move on into the mountains.  The sheers settled back into place.  The balcony furniture quit moving.  And the sound of thunder became a soothing rumble off in the distance.  Even more gradually, I fell back asleep only to find myself ensconced in dreams of fire and rain, shepherds, and horses running wild.

I was thankful when the first rays of sunshine kissed my cheeks and briefly wondered if the storm had just been a bad dream.  But one look out onto my balcony assured me it hadn’t been.  The chairs were strewn about, the table toppled, and everything was glistening with water in the early morning sun; there was no denying it had been real.

Around late afternoon, we returned from the beach to shower and change before meeting the driver to take us into town for the Engagement Ceremony.  By now the groom’s parents and I were fast friends and we peppered the groom with all kinds of questions about what to expect.  We guessed at a lot of what might happen, laughing easily at our helplessness.

Truthfully, Gentle Penguin, I always thought of myself as an easy-going type of person—flexible enough to go with the flow.  But here, after days of not knowing what to expect at any given moment, I had to admit I was really not all that flexible.  I liked knowing what to expect, and not knowing, I felt continuously nervous and stressed.  What if I accidentally offended someone?  They’ve all been so gracious.  What if I inadvertently show disrespect?  What if… it’s a dangerous game to play.  And stressful in a foreign country where everything is unknown.

We arrived at the Bride’s house where family was already gathered.  In Albania, in the weeks preceding a wedding, the family will pay visits to the Bride and her parents.  They’re served treats and make toasts and ask the questions about the groom and his family, their jobs and status, and arrangements for the future.   Then they offer traditional congratulations (like “may your first child be a boy”) and leave a gift.

As they stand to go, there is much bustling about to make sure no one has forgotten any of their sweets.  It’s bad luck to accept anything at the Bride’s house and not take it with you on this occasion, so all sweets must be eaten or safely tucked into a purse or pocket.

When we arrived, some of the family stood to leave and we replaced them in the beautiful parlor saved for special occasions.  For some reason, early in our visit, I had labeled it the “gilt” room in my mind and it had stuck.  In the room, two full sofas upholstered in a deep yellow pattern reminded me of gold, and stood facing each other on the North-South walls.  An ornately carved wooden coffee table sat between them flanked at the head by a large cream-colored arm-chair.  The curtains—made of tapestry, also in a golden hue—moved slightly in the breeze to give the room enough movement to make it seem like it was breathing.

The bride sat in the arm-chair dressed in a white lace dress fanning herself with a white lace fan, while the groom—in white linen pants and a white dress shirt—took up position next to the bride.  Introductions were made and the groom’s parents offered gifts to the bride’s parents per tradition.  The bride, in turn, offered gifts to the groom’s parents.  And the couple-to-be exchanged rings.  Finally the groom presented the bride with her Mahr—a gift from the groom for the bride to use as she wishes.

Out came the sweets and wishes of congratulations were shared all around once again.

The ceremony was a symbolic remnant to what marriage used to be—a transfer from one family to another.  The gifts would have been a sort of bride price, and I couldn’t help thinking about these traditions from a practical stance because all of these traditions were rooted in practicality.

“…yes, but what does he offer you?” whispered a memory in my ear.

When I was much younger, I think the notion of “trade” in a relationship would likely have offended my romantic sensibilities.  But not any more.  I don’t want to be the only one compromising, the only one working—literally and figuratively, the only one bringing value.  I’ve been that girl—unfortunately, twice.  Never again.  Which is why, as crude as it might sound, I like this idea of dowry and bride price.  Then there’s no sacrificial virgin being offered for wonton destruction.

“It only stands to reason that where’s there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting the sacrificial offerings.  The man who speaks to you of sacrifice is speaking of slaves and masters, and intends to be the master.”

I know first-hand the truth of this because I once tried to sacrifice and in the end, I left that nightmare crucified and broken.  My recovery had been slow, but I was quick to swear an oath to ensure I never repeated that mistake:

I swear by my life and my love of it, that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine

I think for a while afterwards, I might have felt fiercely about that oath.  But as time softens colors of even the most vibrant works of art, I perhaps have also lost some of the sharp edges of that pledge.  However, the color has stained me and is part of my being.  It runs deep, that oath.  Truthfully, I’ve worried that it might be my curse and merely an excuse to never find myself so abused again.

But now, as I watch these ancient customs play out, I realize there is more truth in my oath than I ever gave credit.  Value should always beget value.  Every civilization everywhere has operated on this rule, whether through a currency system or bartering.  And in marriage, it has been thus as well.  Dowries and bride prices aren’t human trafficking or stock exchanges.  They’re a way for a society to ensure value begets value.   True, it sounds like a business transaction, but then again, life is serious business.

Perhaps it wasn’t the most romantic mindset in which to find myself on this day celebrating the love between two friends.  But it was how I found my mind spinning this Day Six in Albania.  I wondered what the wedding celebration would bring tomorrow…

Accent-uated

“Wooowee!” my right-hand man at work whispered loudly after making sure we were on mute.  ”I LOVE her accent.  Putty in her hands…keep her talkin’.”

I rolled my eyes as dramatically as I could while shaking my head.  ”She’s making my life a little difficult right now, you know.”

It’s true, Gentle Penguin, the lovely accent-uated voice of our regulatory colleague in Ireland was lilting and daytripping through the phone using words that didn’t exactly jive with my plans for world domination.

Okay, I’m not looking for world domination really, just world alignment.  And Ireland had just thrown me a tiny, little monkey wrench.

“Hey, it’s nothing compared to the way you swoon when talking to the men down under,” he retorted pointing first his index finger and then with a “V” shape, his index and middle fingers at his eyes and then mine and back again.

Well, that’s true too.  Everytime Adam is on the phone, I melt.  He could be saying the most vile words, talking about the most disagreeable news, but I wouldn’t hear anything but his accent.  And good gods did it sound like nectar!

I interrupted Jay’s (my right hand man) antics and posed a counter argument back to the Irishwoman’s point.  We exchanged a friendly, but rapid and electric volley during which Jay kept telling me to hush.

I raised an eyebrow at him and made another point into the speaker phone while pointing at him.

I had a point. And, I admit, it was pretty to hear her say so in her Irish accent.

What is it about an accent that melts a person into a soft and giddy, sweet and fun version of themselves?  I notice it frequently when I travel  Mostly because my domination of other languages is a little light.  I study to know enough.  But I just don’t have nearly the vocabulary in any other language as I do in English.

So, others generously muddle through their English while I muddle through my (insert language here…Spanish, Russian, German, Albanian, Italian, French).  Then I always hear two things “you look Italian,” and “I LOVE your accent.”

What accent?  I’m not worthy of an accent.

During my recent trip to Albania, I was trying so hard to speak in the native tongue as much as possible when one of the English-speaking bridesmaids gently touched my arm and said “I just love the way you say ‘Falenmindarit.’”

“Why, am I saying it wrong?” I said immediately embarrassed that I messed up.

“No, not at all!  You said it very well.  I just like the way you said it.”

At the time, I was a little perplexed.  But as I drove home from work tonight with my German language tapes playing, I realized it wasn’t perplexing at all.

Somehow I just couldn’t create the same sound as the instructor…a very deep ‘au’ sound that resembled something like my grandfather’s laugh and the sound you’d make to appreciate a mouth full of fresh-made honey.

I was thinking about this as my phone rang…

“Haloo dahlin!”  The warm-whiskey voice of Shrek reached through the phone and instantly altered my physiology.  My gaze softened, my skin tingled, my breath caught, and my heart leapt in my chest with those simple four syllables.

I don’t know what it is about accents.  But I’m all for more of them.

Odd One

“We need you, Monica.”

The statement aroused my curiosity and my anxiety as I sat sipping sparkling water under my beach umbrella on the Adriatic.  What possible situation would require the few skills I had amidst this foreign culture, language and people?

“To fulfill tradition,” was the resounding response.

According to tradition, an Albanian bride must be picked up by the groom and his family at her father’s house the day after the wedding to symbolize the transfer of family responsibility.  And the bride, in joining the groom’s family, must round his family out—complete them, as the symbolism goes.  That means the group picking up the bride must be an odd number.  With only couples, the groom and the driver as the groom’s part of the party, they were an even number.  So as the only single person on the trip, I was designated the odd one.

We joked about it, and I laughed delightedly.  I could simply be an odd number.  Truth be told, I prefer odd numbers.  I assured them, as I assure you, Gentle Penguin, it didn’t bother me in the slightest.  In some respects if felt like the perfect role for me at this wedding—a divorcé from America who wasn’t part of either family.  The Odd One.

It wasn’t until later as the bride snuggled into her new husband’s shoulder, the groom’s and the bride’s parents held hands happily that I began to wonder about my odd oneness.

Normally confronted with happy couples, I could feel the warmth of similar feelings—empathic echoes of love and companionship.  But recently I began to notice these empathic sensations no longer come easily.  Sometimes not at all.

Is the capacity for empathy—for love—a skill one can lose, like the ability to speak a foreign language or play piano without practice.  Is such a thing possible?  Truthfully, I worry.

“Why don’t you date?” friends ask me at times when my singleness stands out.  “Because I don’t know anyone that interests me,” I always answer.  It’s true.  I haven’t met anyone in a long time.  Not since Shrek.  Is it possible that rather than the nightmare I had once being the block, the dream-come-true Shrek seemed is?  Am I in mourning?

I’ve tried.  I sucked it up and agreed to meet a couple people since—friends of friends, or friends of colleagues.  But I’ve long since tired of masochistic games or child’s play; I have no patience for disrespect or shallow encounters.

Perhaps this longing for someone with whom to share, to round out my oddness, has ceased to a driving force for a reason.  And yet, I find moments of oddness growing and lengthening, as if my oddness is both natural and unnatural, as a wave is both a trough and a peak.

I relax into the ebb and flow of this Odd Oneness.  I trust the Fates, and they in turn stir feelings of gratitude for the role my Odd Oneness plays in the love, the traditions and the lives of those around me.

Will the sun ever shine again?

I’m not sure why departing the beach seemed so sad.  But it did.

Perhaps it was the early hour in which we left.  Perhaps it was the fact that with every minute the ocean was farther away.  Perhaps it was the gray sky, the constant threat of rain.  We had left all that back in Ohio.  And I admit it, I don’t know that I can stomach much more gray sky.  It seems like it’s all we’ve had this year.  Months and months and months of gray.

It made me wish I could bring myself to contribute to the humidity around me.

But I’ve worked too hard and perfected the mask, the armor.

And then things started to go wrong.  One little thing.  Another.  Another.  Another.  Then a big thing went wrong.  And another small one.  Another.  …

Rain is pouring down like the heavens are hurting,
Seems like it’s been dark since the devil knows when,
How can you go on, never knowing for certain
Will the sun ever shine again?

Feels like it’s been years since it started to thunder,
Clouds are camping out in the valley and glen,
How do you go on when you can’t help but wonder,
Will the sun ever shine again?

What if the rain keeps falling?
What if the sky stays gray?
What if the winds keep squalling,
Never go away.

Maybe soon the storm will be tired of blowing,
Maybe soon it all will be over, amen.
How do you go on, if there’s no way of knowing,
Will the sun ever shine? Wish I could say,
Send me a sign, one little ray!
Lord if you’re listening, how long until then?
Will the sun ever shine again?

The song hung over me like the heavy rain clouds above.

And then my dad reached over and gave me a hug of support and my tears finally broke free.  I struggled with all my might to swallow the sobbing that threatened to escape, but as his grip tightened, I remembered suddenly the beauty of having a shoulder to cry on.  It’s been awhile since I’ve had that luxury.  His comforting words wrapped my mind and soul in the warmth.  And my mom’s.

It was as if my carefully strong exterior had softened with the soft touch of people who care about me.

The tears stayed just below my surface the rest of the ride, the evening, and into my dreams.  I awoke with the taste of them on my lips and their trail across my pillow.  I lay there and let them flow before facing the day.  It was raining…still.

Still, I managed to paint the mask back on.  But it was fragile and several times I felt the wetness of it all threatening to wipe the mask away again.  I struggled to find a sign, a breath, a breeze to help me.

I do wonder…will the sun ever shine again?

The Sounds of Silence

It’s been a rough couple of weeks for me for some reason, and around Wednesday, I began feeling like I just might start falling apart.  Since that’s not an option, I instead sifted through my various travel deals until I found a spa package that just might help set me right again.

I arrived Friday evening already feeling a bit more relaxed for being able to put myself in someone else’s hands for a little bit.  And my host immediately proved to be hands worth putting myself into.  He greeted me pleasantly and calmly, ushering me into a small room where he sat with a clipboard asking me questions about my life, my stress and my expected outcome for the weekend.  Questions like, “what are the underlying themes of your stress?” and “how often do these stresses recur throughout your life?” and “what things seem to help you deal with stress?”

I started to stress a little as I gave him my best guess, because privately I was dumbfounded.  Could all my stress be tied to an underlying theme?  And is stress like a cycle? I’d always thought of it more like a weight you carry around until you pitched it overboard.  Only the last question was easy “music and outdoor exercise—hiking, kayaking or biking.”

Needless to say, I was absolutely shocked, then, when my host informed me that among other things, I would observe natural silence this weekend.  No radio, no music, not talking unless spoken to.  I could participate in conversation if it was naturally occurring, and only if someone else started it.  I was to avoid making phone calls, but could answer calls since that was natural conversation.  And I was to observe restricted access to my crackberry, my laptop, and my journal.

I admit, it sounded wonderful.

So it was off to my room with a sachet of epsom salts and instructions on how to draw my bath for the evening, how much water to drink, and how the morning would work (apparently natural silence also meant no alarm clocks or wake-up calls).

I dreamt that I slept until 3:10pm, but actually I awoke around 9:15, refreshed and ready to see what was on my agenda.  Breakfast was a delicious mix of fresh berries and vanilla yogurt.  Perhaps being in a spa naturally predisposed me to taste things better or perhaps it was because there was no noise to distract my tastebuds.

As I was finishing my second cup of tea, my host asked if I was ready.  First up, a hike.  He gave me a map of the trails, pointing out the two spots where the heavy rains had washed the trail away.  ”But if you don’t mind getting a little dirty or wet, you’ll find a way around,” he said with a wink.

Since I hike alone all the time at home, I wasn’t concerned about going alone, but found it endearing as my host made a fuss about my safety, even pointing out the spot at which I should text the spa to let him know I was finishing…”but,” he stressed looking like a scolding teacher, “do NOT feel obligated to rush.”  Since I had opted for the 7-mile hike, he also gave me a small ham and swiss sandwich, a bunch of bite sized vegetables and two water bottles.  He also gave me a hug, and I suddenly felt a little sentimental.

I put on my rain jacket and my hiking pack and set off.

The trail was moderately challenging, even in the beginning, and there were plenty of other people out and about as I started down the path. But it wasn’t long before the sounds of silence were noticeably soothing me.  The rushing stream, the rain on the tree canopy overhead, the birds calling out to each other.  I felt my muscles warm along with my heart and soon outstripped the crowd of people at the trailhead.

It also wasn’t long before the effects of the ceaseless rain showed themselves on the trail.  Mud everywhere, cuts in the path from rivulets coming down the side of the gorge, and parts of the stream even lapped at the path.  I enjoyed the need to be more aware of my surroundings and walked purposefully.

I reached the first spot where the trail had been washed away and considered my options carefully.  There was plenty of leverage on the steep hillside to avoid walking in the stream, so I picked my way up.  I was about halfway around the spot when I heard a little girl on a ledge about 9 feet above me.  She was talking to someone over her shoulder, moving quickly.  As I looked up, I saw her right foot slide on decaying leaves and shoot straight over the ledge.  She screamed and grabbed for the tree nearby as I somehow found myself directly below her…what, to catch her?  I was barely stable on my own perch!  Fortunately, a man with a dog on a leash sprung to her side and helped her up.

“Are you okay,”  I asked the girl who was now safely in the man’s arms crying.  She looked down at me with interested curiosity and immediately stopped crying.  ”I think I cut my arm,” she said flipping her arm over to expose a red spot on her elbow.

“Do you need a bandaid?  I have one in my pack,” I responded, ready to help.

The man with her laughed.  ”That?!  That’s not a cut, it’s an old scab.  You don’t need a bandaid.”

“Yes, daddy, I do.  I want a bandaid from this lady.”  She looked at me expectantly.

“Sorry sweetie, if your dad says no, I can’t give you one.”

“Sure you can,” she rationalized.  ”I have to listen to what my daddy says, but you don’t.  You’re a grownup.”  We were making our way across this gash as we spoke.

“No, that’s not how it works,” I explained.  ”Even grownups have to listen to what your daddy says about taking care of you.”  We were on the trail again, the little girl falling into step with me.  I gave her father a shy look feeling awkward.  He smiled warmly back and nodded his approval.

“That’s very interesting,” she said after some thought.  ”I didn’t know that.”  I guessed the girl to be about seven as she talked easily about her “adventure on the hill.”  She had straight brown hair that was gathering in strands as the humidity in the gorge grew.  She was dressed for play in a pink t-shirt and red shorts with bright white gym shoes.  How had her gym shoes managed to stay so white in all this mud?  I looked at my own shoes already covered in mud.

She talked about her dog, her sister, her other siblings naming who was a half-sibling and who was a step-sibling.  She talked about her scab and how much she wanted to swim in the stream and how she hates poison ivy.  She asked me questions about “those funny things on the trees,” and we made up a song about likin’ lichen.  We even debated whether it was better to be hot wearing jeans and a long-sleeve jacket but protected against mosquitoes and poison ivy, or cool in shorts and t-shirt and run the risk.  (I always opt for the former.)  And all the while her dad followed us quietly with his dog.

I found myself wishing my own daughters would hike with me more often.  How fun it would be to make up songs about “fun-guys” with them, or show them how to use the tree roots as a way to keep from sliding, or tell them about fairy woods and encourage them to look deeply about for signs of the magical beings.  Unfortunately, hiking with my daughters is more like an exhausting exercise in fake enthusiasm and emotional support against their unending complaints about the mud, and exertion and bugs and…

We were nearing the next spot where the path had been washed away, and I talked to the girl about our options: walk through the stream and end up with wet feet, or try the hillside again.  She opted for the hillside, and after noting that my own feet were still mostly dry, so did I.  I told the girl to stay put as I went ahead to scout a path.  About 20 feet into the climb, I realized that while the other spot was mostly mud and tree roots, this was mud lightly coating rock.  No trees to grab, no tree roots to act as footholds, and extremely slippery surfaces.  I turned to return only to find the girl right behind me.

“We need to go back, honey,” I said to her gently.  ”We’re going to have to go through the stream.”  She took a step and immediately started to slide.  I grabbed her around her chest and pulled her back up.  I scanned trying to determine the next step.  ”I’m scared,” she said and latched on to my waist.

Her dad stood below on the trail holding back the straining dog on his leash.  We discussed the predicament agreeing he’d best stay below for fear the dog would make things more precarious. But the dog had other things in mind.

It happened so fast that everything seemed to move in slow motion.  The dog broke his leash and jettisoned up the hillside, sliding but also managing to get to a spot above us.  The girl lunged after the dog either in excitement or concern, but without anything to grab onto, started sliding back down right toward me.  The dog, moving excitedly or nervously about was also starting to slide toward me.  I resigned myself to the  inevitable plunge into the streambed for which I was now destined, but in being destined, I looked about for any way to help the others from falling too.  As the dog reached me, I shoved his chest to my upper right where he managed to scramble to a spot sheltered by a tree, and barely holding my balance, waited to repeat the maneuver with the girl who was still sliding.  The father, who now stood beside me, helped me redirect her momentum with one hand, while steadying me with his other around my waist.

It all happened in less than a few seconds, but as I stood there a little surprised by my not having landed in the stream, I felt like an eternity had passed.  My heartbeat was drumming loudly in my ears and I suddenly felt a little shaky.  We were still stuck though.  Even worse, with the girl and the dog above us, there was likely no returning to forage the stream.  The father and I discussed our options as I slowly took note that his arm was still around my waist.  Was he too just shaken and still only dimly aware of the details of our close physical contact, or was he still being protective?  I wasn’t sure.

I noticed a slight angle in the rock that might give me enough leverage if I was quick to push up and grab the tree on the ledge where the dog and girl were.  It was risky, but doable, I decided, and told him my plan.

“No.”  He said it firmly the way my father would have.  ”I’ll do it.”

I paused and again time seemed to progress in slow motion as my brain evaluated the situation. I’m an experienced hiker.  He had admitted in conversation awhile back, that he rarely went hiking.  My shoes were more suitable for this terrain, while his were spiked—great for mud, but terrible for rock.  We were both about the same fitness level I gauged based on the speed with which he mounted the hillside and the strength in his arm still holding my waist.  I stared him in the eye and relented as feelings and thoughts of being protected won out.

Pushing me against the muddy rock face, he sidled by me and switched me spots.  Then as I held my breath, he launched himself a few feet up and caught the tree.  When he was safely on the ledge, he leaned down and offered me his hand, pulling me up to stand nose-to-nose with him again.  I admit, I thought he was going to kiss me and even found myself hoping he would…but the thought of the little girl watching pulled me back to my senses, and I looked away. My heart was again beating madly in my ears and my knees felt a little wobbly.  But from which part of this adventure?

The path back to the trail was easier going with the dog fending for himself and the girl tucked safely between her father and me.  And for awhile we all walked in silence, my hand still tucked in the father’s.   The little girl slipped her own hand in my other.  What a strange feeling to feel so comfortable as part of this little pack.  It had been so long since I’d felt part of a pack.  I decided not to think about it and just keep walking.

Then the moment passed.  The dog and the girl saw a waterfall, and begged to be allowed to play in it.  The father reluctantly relented, and I took my leave of them.  As I walked away, I could hear the girl’s squeals of delight and couldn’t help turning to watch, smiling.  I wasn’t even to the half-way point and needed to press on.

About five minutes later I came across another waterfall.  I pulled off my pack and stood for a full two minutes letting the cool water fall around me feeling like a delighted little girl myself.  Then I was off again, the rest of the hike again solitary with the sounds of silence all around me.

I reached the appointed spot and safely texted the spa, wondering what they would think of my completely filthy appearance.  My host was waiting for me at the front door and clapped his hands together when he saw me.  ”My, we did get dirty and wet didn’t we!”

I felt awkward about my filth and tried to step gingerly about the lobby as my host told me the evening’s agenda.  ”First the steam room, then a mud wrap followed by another soak in the hot tub.”  It sounded like the afternoon I’d just had.  It also sounded divine!

By about 8:30, I noticed that the never-ending music that plays inside my head had ceased.  Unfortunately, my thoughts seemed eager to fill the gap racing in all directions and exhausting me with their unending chatter.  I longed for a TV, a radio, my iPod.  Shoot, even my journal or crackberry or laptop would have helped.  But they were all still banned items.

I headed to the hot tub with my glass of perfectly aged Merlot and sat in the candlelit steam as my thoughts slowly subsided into a dull hum of peacefulness, pondering the sounds of silence.

Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

“Fools”, said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls”
And whispered in the sounds of silence

Philadelphia

I realize it was kind of rash to just up and go on a whim.  But, quite frankly, that kind of behavior is a big part of my charm.

About an hour into the drive, though, I started to think of all the possibilities of what could go wrong.  What if I got a flat tire in the dark, miles from home and I was in the mountains so my cell phone didn’t have reception and the battery to my car died while I waited for help so the semis speeding through the mountain passes couldn’t see me, and bears and vampires and ghost hitchhikers…

But then I thought of Dr. Yoo, and Dr. Beeman, and Dr. Brinkley (who just wrote the most wonderful biography of Henry Luce), and author Sam Chaltain, and Lynn Novick (whom I adore for her documentary Baseball), and Dr. Schudson, and Drs. Thompson and Gutmann whose book Democracy and Disagreement I still hold as a must read for anyone interested in voicing strongly held beliefs.

These are my peeps.  The people I spend my kids-free weekends with vicarious through their works.  Mostly I thought of Ken Burns who would be at the event to premiere his new documentary, Prohibition.  Of the top 10 people I most want to meet before I die, he’s in the top 3.

They were gathering in Philadelphia to discuss my topic—civil discourse in America.  So when I found out around 9 a.m. Friday morning, it took me only 10 minutes to convince myself I should be there too (it was open to the public).  I had called immediately and got a ticket.

So really, how could I NOT go?

To distract myself from my overactive imagination, I popped in an audiobook and told myself that if I was still freaking out at the Ohio state line, I could always turn around and no one would know any differently.

It was probably only 15 minutes later I found myself completely engrossed in the story of a writer spending his time  between the Sonoma and Napa valleys to unlock the mystique of the wine-country allure.

Really, it was the chickens that did it for me.  I mean how can you not become utterly absorbed with a small community’s heated dilemma to ban a band of feral and sexually frustrated roosters who were attacking small children that terrorized them in the town square.  It was funny, it was disturbing, it was so relatable (oddly enough).

I drove for the next 9 hours absorbed in the drama of wine country community riffs and their inability to make everyone happy as they all strived to balance their ideals of individual fulfillment with a need to belong to a community.  I loved it.

I fell into bed around 5 a.m., blocks away from where our nation was born.  And despite my best attempts, I was wide awake by 8 a.m.  I tried unsuccessfully to coax myself asleep a little longer, but by 8:30 I was up, and lacing up my gym shoes to hit the streets for several hours before the forum began.

I love Philadelphia.

From the first moment I stepped foot in this town more than a decade ago, I loved it.  So I wandered freely.  Not worried about directions—I knew my way around.  Not worried about time—I didn’t have to be at the event until noon. Not worried about my personal safety—Philadelphia is the city of brotherly love.

By the time I reached the green that houses Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, the sun seemed to be shining brighter and my energy seemed limitless.  I don’t know why it is, but every time I see Independence Hall, I feel like my heart skips with the joy of a young child on the first day of summer vacation.

Skirting the tourists who were out in full force on this blustery, bright day, I maneuvered around the famous sites.  I visited Christ’s Church and sat in President Washington’s pew.  I went to the river front and watched the boats pass by.  I walked up to Race Street and down through the tunnel, past the Mint.  I tossed a penny on Ben Franklin’s grave.  I fed pigeons at the tomb of the unknown soldier in Washington’s Square.  I walked through Chinatown and finally, checking my watch, ended up at Reading Street Market where I found a gold-medal bottle of wine, some gnocchi in roasted-red pepper sauce and zucchini lightly grilled over sautéed spinach.

Then, with a quick shower and change, I headed to the Constitution Center for the Keynote address by Dr. Amy Gutmann.

“Politics is not for the thin-skinned,” she started off.  “We chose this responsibility (referencing free speech), and with it comes a balance of rights and responsibilities.”  Then she acknowledged the bad taste of a religious faction that has taken to protesting at the funerals of dead soldier with signs reading Thank God for another dead soldier.

“The right to free speech—even in the most impugnent forms—is legally enforced.  And it should be.  How we respond to it is often not legally enforced—violence, terrorism—and shouldn’t be.  But we chose this responsibility when we chose freedom of speech.”

Yes, these are my peeps.

Gutmann spent the next hour and 30 minutes proposing we overcome two main challenges:

1. Reduce the polarizing rhetoric in politics today. “It’s become the junk food that clogs the arteries that nourish Democracy.”  (Who is her speech writer?  I want to kiss them!)
2. Revive a mindset conducive to compromise.  “If politics is the art of the possible, then compromise is the soul of democracy.” (Seriously, I would kiss her speech writer.)

“We must get back to a discourse of mutual respect and shared humanity.  To appreciate each other as members of our great American family.  And to honor our rights and responsibilities.”

As we stood to clap and gather our things for exit, I turned around and there, directly behind me, was Ken Burns with his entourage.  I quickly racked my brain for something charming to say, but all my brain could think was “I LOVE YOU!!!”  So I ran out of the room and floated down the street toward the hotel where I’d be joining one of the breakout sessions via the web due to space constraints.

The participants of my outbreak session seemed intent on problem solving rather than discussing.  Still, when the moderator asked, “don’t we have an etiquette expert (me) here?” my mouth went dry, and I literally squeaked with delight.  For the next two hours, I was an active participant with some of the most influential people in the civility and political rhetoric field.

I was one of them!

At first, I worried I was saying too much and sounded silly, what with all their expertise and my knowledge only being a collection of their reflections.  But I’ve read ALL of them, and others, and ideas on the outskirts of the topic.  So I found I did have something worthwhile to say.  I practically couldn’t shut up.  I mean, I kept telling myself to shut up, but I’m not sure how well I followed my own instructions.  I hoped I wasn’t being one of those overbearing know-it-alls I detest.

Session over, and back to the Center for the panel session.  I hunted down the moderator from the last session and apologized in person for talking too much.

“What ARE you talking about?!” he said shaking my hand violently.  “You brought so much perspective and cohesion to the conversation.  You, my dear, have competent passion.  And it shows.  Delightful!”

Relieved and pleased, I allowed myself to settle into the closest seat I could get to the center of the auditorium.  I scanned the room.  There sat Ken Burns directly across from me.  I smiled.  He smiled.  I pulled out my notebook and amused myself like I was busy so I didn’t stand up and shout “I LOVE YOU!!!”

As the auditorium began to fill up, I gave myself permission to look around the room again.  There were my peeps.  I felt completely in awe sitting amongst them, and I relished the elusive feeling of belonging that washed over me at that moment.  That’s when I dropped my pencil.  On Dr. Yoo.

He turned around to hand it to me before I recognized him.  As normally happens when I’m surprised, nervous and embarrassed, I blushed a bright red.  ”Thank you,” I barely whispered…then snapping back to my normal in-control self, I touched his shoulder and said my peace.

“Dr. Yoo, I’ve read several of your books, including Crisis and Command, and I’m a big fan.  I appreciate your intelligent and careful analysis on the topic of war and peace.  It’s refreshing.”

He smiled and for the next 12 minutes held an indepth conversation with me about a tenet from his book War by other Means while awkwardly craning in his seat.  The feeling of belonging grew exponentially.

The panel discussion was well run and insightful.  The same themes from this morning and this afternoon resonated here again:

• We need to teach ourselves and our children how to have discussions about difficult topics, rather than avoid them.
• We need to reward civility, rather than incivility—especially in politics and in the media portrayal of politics.
• We need to develop a better literacy in our consumption of the media (integrating all kinds of media and all opinions—not just the ones we agree with).
• We ALL need to be responsible for civil discourse and behavior.
• And finally, we need to understand better how to balance our right for individual fulfillment with the responsibility of belonging to a society.

Throughout the course of these 24 hours, this dichotomy Individual vs Society has supplanted my long-held and much-hated Perception vs Reality dichotomy as the most important balance in my life.

Perhaps that’s why I suddenly felt so powerful.  I can do something with and about this dichotomy.  I belong here.  With these people.  In this conversation.  And I know what to do next to spread the word and implement the ideals.  I told you I was going to start a revolution.

I descended the long curving staircase thinking of sushi, trying to remember where I had that amazing Crunchy Tuna Roll last time I was in Philly.  But, there, at the bottom of the stairs, stood Ken Burns putting on his coat, looking up at me.  Smiling.

“Mr. Burns,” I said with my normal confidence and charm flowing fluently as I extended my hand and smiled brightly, “I’m such a fan of yours.”

“Thank you.  How sweet of you to say.  And I enjoyed your idea of community forums on civility.  Congratulate your League of Women Voters team on beating us to the stage with this issue.”  He smiled genuinely still holding my hand.  I didn’t mind.

“Thank you, I will.  And please let your documentary team know that I loved your National Parks piece.  I own the DVDs, the audio book, the unabridged book, and gave a copy of these various media to the members of my family for Christmas.”

He laughed and pumped his arm, “Yes!”

For the next three minutes we discussed which national parks were our favorites and why.  Then—so as not to appear as an adoring fan (which I really am)—I nodded my head and gave our joined hands one last pump.

“Thank you, Monica,” (ahhhhhh!!! He knew my name!!!  And yes, I had on a name tag, but let me extend my sense of belonging just a little more!)

He spread his other arm and pulled me in for a brief hug before I headed back out into the night.  This time, I really did float out of the Center and down the street.  In search of sushi.  With the warmth of Ken Burns handshake still lingering on my hand.

I love Philadelphia.

New Perspective

When you start to see things differently, it’s often a good idea to do things differently. Fortunately, the Fates and Muses had me well in hand and a trip was already planned.

New York City.

I am, have always been and always will be a big city girl.  From the moment we passed through the Lincoln Tunnel, it was as if my blood filled with an energy so natural and thrilling that I became more than who I already am.

I couldn’t wait to hit the streets and begin introducing my daughters to my favorite places while telling stories about the significance.  And just as I had hoped, seeing these places through their eyes was just as magical as seeing them for the first time.  The tall buildings, the grand architecture, the carefully constructed parks and oases in the city.  We saw them through our camera lenses, our imaginations and through expectations set from pop cultural references.

“How many movies can you name that included scenes from Central Park?”  “Look, mom, it’s the clock the giraffe got stuck on his head in Madagascar!” “Wow, that museum looks just like the one in Night at the Museum!”

The Photo Scavenger Hunt brought us out of the big pictures and back to a focus on people.  A woman with an orange hat.  A dog wearing clothes.  A man with green shoes.  A dog wearing clothes.  A man wearing a beret.  A dog wearing clothes.  A man with a handlebar mustache.  There were interesting people—and dogs—everywhere.  And in this mindset of looking closely, the more we looked the more we saw. Suddenly everyone seemed interesting.

So many stories waiting to be told… But we must press on.  The girls have so much to see and learn.

We talked about how the streets were laid out in the city and their general numbering system—partly so they would be able to always find their way back to the hotel if they got lost, and partly because I think urban organization is fascinating and wanted them to see it at its best.  We talked about crowd behavior and how our behavior in a crowd adds to its general motion and flow.  We talked about Teddy Roosevelt, because he is my ideal man.  We talked about types of friendships from long-term penpals to just met best friends.  We talked about clothes and fashion and hairstyles and shopping.  We talked about the city and how it was the same and different from other cities we’ve visited.

And while I was so excited to have my girls there, I felt somehow even more alone and less like myself.  Don’t get me wrong, I felt completely confident in my ability to navigate the city, protect my girls, share the history and excitement and have fun.  In some ways I felt even more like the woman I aspire to be.  But the insight, the perspective I was seeking for myself was forcibly buried in the busy need to first be a mother.

Why is it so difficult to reconcile these parts of my life together?

“I am the same person in any situation at any time,” someone had recently told me.

Really?  How does that work? I wondered.  Sure, you’ll find my take-charge, logical leadership pretty much everywhere, along with my confident sense of direction and charming people-dealing nature.  And it’s not that I’m completely different, but you’d be hard pressed to find my goofy sense of humor while I’m dealing with my clients, my philosophical mental meanderings while spending time with my family, my romantic mooney-eyed daydreaming anywhere outside of dance class…does anyone see all of these parts of me I wonder as we walk to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?

“Mom, can we get some Starbucks while we wait for the parade?”  “Sounds perfect,” I say trying hard not to lose my train of thought.  “I think there was a Starbucks on the corner up two blocks,” says Kate.  “Just check your crackberry,” says Meg.  The train of thought is leaving and I’m missing it.  “Mom, can’t you just take charge of this crowd and lead us there?  I’m sure there’s one up ahead. I just can’t see.”

I give up the internal insight and refocus on my surroundings.  That’s when I see.  My daughters know every bit of me.  I turn around and embrace them, holding them tight to me while the crowd moves around me.

“MOM!!!!!!!!!!” Kate whispers harshly, “People are looking!”

I hoped they were so they could see how much I love my girls.  Perhaps the fact that they keep me outside my mind and in the here and now is the true gift of insight I need.

Lone Star

I like it here in Texas. It smells inviting. It smells calm. And of course, I judge places by the way they smell. So Texas might need to be explored in more depth.

Perhaps too because where I am is the epitome of dichotomy.

I’m in a small big city in the state where size matters. A place where everyone has on boots, if they’re not sporting flip-flops. Where doctors and secretaries share educational sessions and architects sit with me at lunch deconstructing their food order while showing me plans for their latest building.

I spent the day in a session learning about change management for doctors looking to take their business to the next levle, but spent half of it dreaming about being a college professor and writing a book, taking my place among academia.

And on breaks, I was accused of being the “eye candy” sent by a large client to “entice them to the ‘other’ side.” I do so well in situations like that, irritated by the accusation, but so charming in my response that the strength of it is welcomed and embraced. These men love me instantly like a little sister and bring me into the fold, which—remarkably—makes me want to run, to feel the burn in my lungs and my legs. To be alone.

So I put up my guard and head out into the busy autonomy of the city where I know I’m safest.

A nice meal, a new friend, great conversation. A new plot for world domination and an unexpected ice cream fill us as we walk about town laughing as the cold treat melts quickly in the dry heat.

Suddenly the accordion music seems authentic, inviting, wonderful. We are drawn to it, mesmerized, but get lost in the maze of stairs and bridges, snatches of conversation with people he knows or that I’ve met, and perhaps another glass of wine as we can still hear the music but haven’t found it yet.

I’m so excited about the conversation that I’m suddenly exhausted. We have another busy day ahead of us tomorrow—when the powerful are separated from the pack. It will be an easy arduous process to be sure. Which is why, even more, I admire what a great evening it’s been, one I will treasure. I return to my room high above the river’s bend and hear the accordion music drift my way as does a bat in chase of its prey. I have already been found by my hunter—loneliness joins me on the balcony and we stand watching the pairs and packs of people moving by below. Listening to the wild applause of the crowd at the accordion festival.

How fitting that then is when I finally spot the Alamo, lit brightly in the dark.

A last stand indeed.

Sailing Lesson. Day 2.

I dreamt of spiders while sleeping on the sailboat that night.  Probably because I had seen a few when I was opening up the boat to allow airflow through the cabin.

Normally, I’m a “kill ‘em” kind of bug person.  But these spiders looked so insignificant and out-of-the-way, so I asked them to please promise to leave me alone while I slept.  In return, I would leave them alone.

I admit, I wasn’t surprised when I saw them in my dream.  Just surprised that I still seem unconcerned about them.

Perhaps it was a reward or sign of some kind, because the next morning when I stepped above deck, I was greeted by the most spectacular works of art I’ve ever seen.  At least two dozen golden spiders hung in webs that surrounded the upper deck, had captured dew and sunlight and turned everything into a veil of milky pearls, silk and crystals.

I mean the cockpit was completely surrounded.

It was breathtakingly beautiful.

I grabbed my tea and sat in the middle of it watching the sun rise, watching the wind caress the strands as a harp player might, and watching the spiders dance in the breeze.  I could have stayed in that moment for eternity and so marked it in my mind as part of my heaven.

But the sun soon rose and my instructor arrived.

The first thing he did was wipe off all the spider webs.  Then he set about testing my knowledge of leaving dock.  I fired up the onboard diesel engine and carefully pointed us out to open water.  Once there, I pointed the bow into the wind, now blowing from a completely different angle than yesterday, and raised the sails.  All by myself.

I felt completely comfortable and confident in this role and wondered how much of those “c” words I would lose if I was on the water alone.

My instructor gave me no time to dwell on it.  He immediately threw the dummy overboard and started shouting “man overboard, man overboard, man overboard.”  I had practiced this maneuver in my head all night long.  The diligence paid off.  I immediately rescued my “victim” without so much as breaking a sweat.  I only lost points for not having on a life vest when I reached over the boat to pull “him” in.

“I don’t know what else to teach you,” my instructor said smiling, “let’s just sail.”

So I turned the bow to close reach and trimmed my jib.  The boat began to heel a little as it picked up speed.  I watched the speed climb to 8 knots as my instructor talked to me about topics from advanced classes, sailing adventures he’d taken and the finer points of sailboat racing.

I relaxed behind the wheel, pointing it toward Canada on the horizon.

For several hours, I sailed.  I practiced sailing to point dead into the wind while staying “out of irons,” I practiced controlled jibes, I practiced giving orders to crew, I even practiced fine maneuverability around obstacles and in shallow water.

We listened for crew conversations coming from freighters passing almost a mile away.  I learned how to stop the boat on a dime, and how to get it moving in virtually no wind.   And my instructor peppered it all with stories about the local legends, the golden days past, the superstitions and the lore of sailing.

That’s about when the afternoon doldrums kicked in.

No wind, gusting up to a measly 3 knots.  We began to look about at the other sailboats to see if anyone would hoist their spinnaker.  We talked about hoisting the one on our ship.  But we were running out of time and were very far from shore.

Instead he challenged me to “milk the wind for all she’s got.”

It felt weird to hear the wind referred to in such a utilitarian way.  And it felt weirder to hear the wind referred to as a “she.”

My wind is a “he.”  And he’s become a love of mine.

“Work with me…”

I could almost feel the wind urging me to accept the challenge.  How fast could I go on almost no wind.

“A really good sailor can usually get a boat moving a little faster than half the average speed of the wind,” my instructor pointed out.

So I pulled even with the almost non-existent waves and began an almost out-of-body focus on feeling the wind on my shoulder, watching the water around me to anticipate gusts, listening to the sails for luffing, and all the while keeping an eye on the boats all around me as I headed back toward the now-busy U.S. shoreline.

The boat crept along at around 2.3 knots, much to my instructors delight.  But as time crept faster than our boat, we discussed and decided to lower the sails and continue in on horsepower.  I pulled in all the sails, securing them appropriately, feeling strong and sure of myself as I developed a rhythm with the ropes and accomplished these manual tasks gracefully.

At shore, I tied nearly a dozen different knots, answered more than 350 questions on two written tests, and soon shook the hand of my instructor.

“It was a complete pleasure,” I told him feeling the wind pick up behind me.

“I promise I’ll be back soon…” I told the wind feeling like I was walking away too soon from something I needed more of.  ”This is the start of a beautiful relationship.”

Obsessed

Since my recent vacation, I’ve been having a recurring dream, in which I’m instructed to go to a specific place and “wait.”

Wait for what?  For whom?  Why?  I’m filled with questions and I try to ask them of the messengers.  But I only get the kind of look I’ve been known to give my own daughters when they ask a stupid question.

If I’d have had the dream only once, I would be ammewsed and likely plan a trip there just for the charm of it.  Two dreams whets my appetite for adventure and stirs a bit more curiosity.  Three dreams has me searching maps and travel books and travel booking companies.  But with nearly seven of the same dream under my belt with the same message, the same questioning, and the same look of skepticism–and I’m obsessed.

For such a logical, deductive reasoning, scientific believer, I admit I also believe strongly in the whimsy and magic of it.  And I intend to follow through.  But I worry about travelling with expectations, for my heart seems to know what the secret is all about, though it refuses to share it with my lucid and logical mind.  Afterall, expectations are the key ingredient in disappointment, and I have no need for any more of that.

So, until the lunar calendar is just right (because I seem to know when I should go too) I am stuck planing the logistics, and prepping my foreign language skills, and researching the cultural and history…and dreaming.