What AM I Gonna Tell My Kids?

Another day waking up with coffee and cats and internets. . .

Another black man shot and killed by police.

On camera.

Y'all. . . . my soul is sick, and I don't know how much more it can take.

There was a time in my life when I would have willfully tried to ignore all the tragic loss of life in our country.  All the killing.  There was a time when I was so consumed with what was going on with ME (me me me me MEEEEEE) that I would've put the problems and injustice of the world on the backburner, while I instead focused on what was in my own head and my own back yard.

No more.

I no longer have the luxury of doing that.

Because I have children now.

And I'm supposed to be teaching them.

Not just their numbers and alphabet, and how we hang our towels up when we get out of the bath, but also about how this world works, and how to safely traverse it.

Only problem is just. . . how in the hell am I supposed to do THAT?  . . .

A couple of weeks ago, we were returning home from a much-needed family vacation at the beach.  About halfway through the drive home and we stopped at a gas station for a restroom break.  And while I was standing there, holding my young son's hand as we waited on a stall to open up (because I still refuse to let him go in a restroom alone), a lady that worked there began proclaiming her anti-transgender opinions loudly, and to the room at large.

Again. . . there was a time when I would've simply ignored her.  I can see it now. . .  I might've rolled my eyes, or felt quietly enraged, but ultimately would've shrugged it off.  My reasoning being that she clearly felt pretty strongly about her opinions, and odds were low that I was going to change her mind that day.

I will say again:  NO.  MORE.

So on THAT day. . . I contradicted her.  Me.

I LOUDLY and angrily disagreed.  (Which, as a lifelong introvert and all around "shy" person, was not an easy, or comfortable, thing for me to do.)  She had shared her opinion with me (though I didn't ask for it), and ended her rant with something like: "Can you believe that??"

And so I proceeded to share MY opinion with HER.  To summarize:
Yes.  Yes, I CAN believe that.  Trans people have been using the restroom beside you for your entire life, and you've never known it.  They're not pedophiles.  They're just trans.  And unfortunately for all of us, that little stick sign on the restroom door does not now, and has not ever, had the power to keep sickos and perverts OUT of that area.  Your children are not going to be in any more danger than they ever were, so please spare me the "WHAT OF THE CHILDREN???!??" tirade.  . . . And actually, if you want to get more to the POINT of the safety of your children. . . let's talk statistics:  Your children are statistically more likely to be harmed, abused, or molested by someone they know.  Someone in your family; someone in your church.

So I told her:  "Ma'am, I'd rather my son use the bathroom with a room full of trans women than use the restroom at your church."

And speaking of churches. . . and I only bring this up because DURING this incident at the gas station restroom, there was another woman standing in line who heard the entire exchange.  She could tell I was getting pissed, as I made absolutely no secret about it.  And THIS woman made a point of telling the first lady that SHEEEEE was a Christian.  And SHEEEEE agreed.  And SHEEEEE wishes they'd just make a separate bathroom altogether for all these "weirdos" to use.

You know. . . so all the "normal" people could feel safe.

And SHEEEEEE almost stunned me into silence.

. . . almost.

But not quite.  =)

To her, I had a few words as well.  Words like:  "Where the hell is your compassion?!?"  
 
Where is your empathy?!?

No, you're clearly not trans.  But you're a human, right?  I mean, not to make presumptions, you're not acting like one, but . . . you certainly LOOK like one.

Can you even imagine?!  How incredibly, unbelievably DIFFICULT IT MUST BE to feel as though you WERE BORN "WRONG"???!!  To have people TELLING YOU THAT??

Can your shriveled little heart imagine that??
How awful and heart-wrenching it must feel?  And then, once you've figured out what the problem is, how horrible it must feel AGAIN, because you know that, unless you completely hide who you ARE, and make your life a complete charade, to KNOW that you are not going to be accepted??

CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE HOW THAT MUST FEEL??

. . . Can you imagine if it was your CHILD that was going through that??

. . . And can you then imagine your child innocently walking into a restroom, only to hear this kind of intolerance being spewed at him by a complete stranger?

I can.

My child is not trans, and that makes absolutely NO difference whatsoever.  

Because now, whether it is because I am now a mother, or perhaps just because of the way my heart is set. . . I CAN imagine.  

I imagine every trans person nervously walking into a bathroom as my CHILD.

I imagine every LGBT kid that's been kicked out of their home for coming out as who they ARE as my child.

. . . I imagine every victim in Orlando as my child.

. . . 

And it HURTS.  

It continues to hurt, and hurt, and hurt some more.

And I hope it never STOPS hurting.  

I'll take the hurt.  I'll take the tears shed for people I've never known and will never know.  I'll take every bit of the confusion and anger and despair.

I'll take it all, if it means that my heart never hardens to the point that I've lost all shadow of empathy for my fellow man.

I'll take it, and I'll shoulder it without complaint, if it means that I don't have to literally walk in someone else's shoes before I have compassion for the difficulty of their journey.

And still I hear that Restroom Lady's refrain in my mind:
"What about the CHILDREN?  What are we gonna tell our CHILDREN??!"

Welp.  Gotta say, that one stops me in my tracks.

. . . What AM I gonna tell my children?

I'm gonna tell them everything I can.

And odds are, I'm gonna cry when I say it.

I've already told them about a certain rape case where the rapist basically got off scott-free.  Though I did NOT mention the word "rape."  And yeah.  I cried when I told them.

I said: "There was a girl on a college campus, and she was drunk.  That is not unusual on college campuses.  But there was a boy, about your older brother's age. . . and he was hurting her.  And two more boys drove by on their bicycles, and saw it.  And they STOPPED him.  They held him down until the police got there.  And if they HADN'T. . . he would've gotten away with it.  They were just normal boys.  And they saw something bad happening, and they STOPPED it.  They stopped it, boys.  . . . And that is who I want you to be.  I want you to be the boys that are brave enough to stand up and STOP IT."

Now. . . I'm sure, someone will have a problem with me saying this to my kids.

I would like to loudly state that I DO NOT CARE.

No, I don't share every horrible thing that happens in the news with them, and I am diligent in protecting them as best I can, for as long as I can.  But when they ASK me why I'm crying. . . as delicately as possible, I'm gonna TELL them.

I'm gonna tell them because they cannot FIGHT the darkness if they don't know it EXISTS.

I'm gonna tell them because I DO want them to be the boys who stop it.  I DO want them to be brave.  I want them to know that that is what is RIGHT, and it is not easy.

But it is EXPECTED.

But back to the idea of WHAT AM I GONNA TELL MY CHILDREN???

Honestly, in light of what is happening in this country, and most recently and tragically in Baton Rouge. . . I'm asking myself that very question.

What am I gonna tell my kids??

When they're old enough to be going out, and driving, and hanging out (like kids do) . . . What am I gonna tell them about the police?

. . . .

And this is where I start crying again.

I saw something posted on a friend's timeline this morning, and as soon as I saw it, I literally felt physically sick.  It was a picture of that white rapist (I refuse to even utter the name), alongside pictures of two black men that have been killed by police officers.  With the caption: "It's safer in this country to be a white rapist than to be a black man selling cigarettes or cd's."

So while all these people are worried about having a not-originally-a-woman peeing in the closed stall next to them, I'm wondering how in the hell I'm gonna explain how THIS statement came to be the truth in this country.

????  . . . Any ideas?  Anyone??

(And I'm gonna stop anyone before they start:  I have former police officers in my family.  They are GOOD people.  . . . That does not mean that there aren't BAD cops out there.)

How about this:

I have two small(ish) children.

One of them has blonde hair and blue eyes.

And honestly. . . I'm not as worried about him.  Because racism exists.  It is real.  And he lucked out in the genetic lottery and, fortunately for my heart, probably doesn't look like what a cop is going to think of as a "potential threat."  He looks like your basic pasty-skinned white kid.

And then there's my other child.

He has beautiful brown skin, and dark hair.

And I'm just gonna say it:  I worry about him.  I worry more about him than I do my other son.  I worry about his safety.  Because he looks a certain way.

And he's not even black.  Just mildly brown.  And it is enough that I worry for him.  

. . . And I weep for every mother whose child is a certain-shade-of-skin, or darker.

Because their children are in danger.

THEY ARE IN DANGER EVERY EFFING DAY.

. . . How am I supposed to HOLD that?!?!

. . . ???

. . . How am I supposed to explain THAT to my children??

. . . How am I supposed to explain this very real fear?

. . . .

But back to the woman in the restroom.
And to the family of the victim in Baton Rouge.
And to every mother OUT THERE that has REASON to worry for the safety of her children.

You can factor in my long history of shyness, and the deeply-ingrained Southern part of me that says: "Respect your elders.  Don't you contradict them.  Just let it go."

So. . . . why didn't I just let it go that day?

Why didn't I just let it slide?
BECAUSE MY SOUL HAS HAD ENOUGH.
IT CANNOT SLIDE.
----Our children are being taken from us.

This Restroom Lady was a stranger to me.  And my comments to her that day are almost certainly NOT going to change her mind, or her views.  About anything.

So. . . why did I do it?

. . . .

Because there is simply not ONE MORE THING that I can let slide.
I did it because we've all gotta start somewhere.

I did it because my son was watching.

I did it because I'm a mother.

I did it because I DO have a tender heart.

I did it because kids -- kids in OUR COUNTRY -- are feeling so unaccepted, and so scorned, that they are LITERALLY KILLING THEMSELVES.

I'll say again, just in case you think this is not that big a deal:
KIDS ARE KILLING THEMSELVES.

I did it because our citizens are being killed on the street by our law enforcement.  Men. . . women. . . kids.

And because I realized that I can't listen to any more bullshit.  As in:  this white girl LITERALLY CAN'T EVEN with one more ounce.


I did it because silence can easily be confused with agreement.


I did it because I want her, and anyone like her, to KNOW just HOW MANY PEOPLE DISAGREE WITH HER.  I want her to KNOW that her opinions ARE NOT MINE.

I didn't do it because I thought I was going to change that one woman.
I did it because I am out for nothing less than to change the entire freaking world.

The Balloon Incident, Or: Why I'm A Bad Mom (and possibly a bad neighbor, too)

About four years ago, my husband and I were expecting our first child together.  We had made the decision to leave our lovely (and tiny) little loft in Birmingham, and move out to McCalla.

We found a nice little house, not-too-big, not-too-small, in a nice neighborhood, and were settling into a sweet little suburban life. We loved the area, we loved our new home, and we loved our new neighbors.

Fast-forward to my son's first birthday party.

As a new mom, I felt like I had been inundated by others (what I considered "Overachiever Moms") to have THE PERFECT BIRTHDAY PARTY for my son.  You know. . . little signs and place cards for every single finger-food on display, perfect centerpieces, fancy straws, a free puppy for every attendee. . . it was making me crazy.

So very early on, I decided:  Screw it.

We're NOT perfect.  We're not a perfect family, we don't have a perfect life, and we certainly don't have perfect THINGS.

**I feel that it is only fair to note that I do NOT hate those moms.  At all.  You do you, baby.  It's just that I was a crazy new mom.  And I was sick of it.  ALL of it.  And I was entering what I think of as a Minimalist Period in my life.  I was in the process of trying to strip away everything in my life that wasn't necessary.  To get to the meat of actually living, if you will.  Anyway. . .

So I decided that my son would NOT have a pinterest-perfect first birthday party.  No.

We were just going to have a party in our back yard.  With friends and family, streamers and balloons, and food from the grill.

We set up his high chair, with a cute little Winnie the Pooh banner behind it, put up our EZ-Up for shade, set up the kiddie pools for the littles, and I spent half the morning blowing up balloons for the kids to play with.

Party time comes.  All our friends and family show up, along with a handful of neighbors that had younger kids.

It was great.  =)

My brand new one year-old got to smish around with his smash cake, we took TONS of photos, and the grown-ups enjoyed cold beer and hot dogs.

And I was JUST in the process of mentally patting myself on the back for all this wizard-level adulting when I walked inside the house to get something.

. . . And that's when I see one of our neighbor's kids (maybe 6 or 7 years old) jumping on our white couch WITH his dirty shoes on.

Yikes.

To my credit here, I did NOT freak out.

My first thought was:  Oh shit.  He's gonna ruin our couch.

My second thought was:  I need to get him back into the back yard, because if his parents see this, he's gonna get in trouble.

So I walked up to the kid, and politely told him that he needed to get off the couch, and back into the back yard.

He stared at me.  Said:  "No."  And continued to bounce.

0.o

Right about that time was when I noticed that he had one of the balloons inside.

Which I simply could not have.

Not for any reasons regarding propriety, but simply because we had two cats in the house.  And they LOVED chewing on the remains of popped balloons.  That was a vet bill that I did not want.

So I reclaimed my calm, and told the child that he was going to have to take the balloon into the back yard.

"See buddy, our kitty cats like chewing on balloon pieces, and that's not good for them.  So I'm gonna need you to be a pal and take that outside."

Again, the response was:  "No."

*Bounce, bounce, bounce.*

Ohhhhhhh hell no.

I had had enough.

I grabbed the balloon and popped it.  Right in his little 6 year-old face.

"There are more balloons outside, and that is where you're going.  NOW."

And that was the end of it.  . . . or so I thought.

=/

A couple of days later, I shared a retelling of the incident on facebook, as a mildly amusing anecdote. I didn't name any names, I didn't cast any shade, and honestly, I thought the whole incident was pretty funny.

Ohhhh, to be that young and naive again.

A few minutes after sharing the story, I had several messages from moms that were at the party.  "Was that my kid?  I'm so sorry!"

. . . from pretty much every mom EXCEPT the mom of the child in question.

From her. . . I got a STRONGLY WORDED MESSAGE.

She was infuriated.  She had asked her angel if I had popped his balloon, and he told her that I had.

"MAYBE I'M GONNA COME OVER THERE AND POP *YOUR* BALLOON!!!", she said to me.

"HE'S JUST A CHILD!!!"

Ummmm. . . yes?  He is just a child.  Just like OUR kids are just children.  And yet, inexplicably, they are STILL expected to behave when they go over to someone's home.

???

"WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST COME GET ME???"

Well, for one: because I am an adult.  I am perfectly capable of handling a misbehaving child.  Secondly, I assumed that if I came and got you, then the kid would be in trouble.  (This was, of course, before I learned that you do not actually discipline your child, and that whatever he wants to do at any given time is fine with you.)

Long story short, the woman called for a public apology from me on facebook.  (Which I declined.)

And then there was some debate (and I am completely serious here) about whether or not she and her friends were ever going to feel comfortable having balloons at a birthday party again, because apparently this had been a scarring incident.

This was my gentle introduction into the different types of moms that are out there.  =>

P.S.  It was also moms of this ilk that shamed me for sharing a story of when my son was little, and liked to pull my hair.  And eventually I got sick of it, and pulled his hair, too.  I called it a lesson in cause and effect, but I'm pretty sure they think I'm a psychopath.

=/

On Writing: Battles, Bill Murray, and BOC

Some people prefer lives of peace and solitude, and I am content to be counted as one of those.  I am, for lack of a better word, a home-body.  I like my peace and quiet (treasure it!!!!), and I don't get out and socialize with brand-spanking-new people that often, due to personal preference and some legit nerves.

Occasionally, however, I do venture out for social events and happenings, and do stumble across Brand New People (henceforth to be known as BNP).  And there invariably comes the part of the conversation where they say:  "So. . . what do you do?"

**The question of what I DO always seems to make me feel antsy for some reason. . .   I'm a mom, and a wife.  I'm a cat-herder, and a homework-helper, and even, (on rare occasions) a gym-person.  I take care of kids, and the house, and I think I do it fairly well.  . . . I'm not going to win any "Cleanest and/or Most Presentable" awards for either one. . .  but I think I might just almost be okay with that.  =)

(Learning to own your imperfections is a brand of nirvana I find myself reaching for constantly.)

After that. . . what DO I do??

I paint. . . and I bake. . . and sometimes I write.  And nobody is currently paying me to do any of these things, which has, unfortunately, made it veeeeery easy for me to question the validity of the things I do.

WHY do I do it?!?

I've been thinking about it a lot.  And the answer I've come up with is:  I do it for the same reason that anybody writes.

*And I have compiled a brief list, as follows:

WHY PEOPLE WRITE

(Sidenote:  Go on and prepare to be SUPER impressed, because these are all just stupidly noble reasons.)

#1.  To make their voices heard.

I'm going to die one day.

We all are.

(I promised you 'noble', not uplifting.)

Some people deal with this knowledge in a very stoic manner, while in others it inspires a sense of quiet desperation.  A sense of:

I was here.  I mattered, dammit!!  I NEED TO BE HEARD.

I had these experiences, and though they might not seem like much, they were important to me at the time.

And so writing is, in a way, a means of scrawling: 

I WUZ HERE!!!

in dark Sharpie, on the bathroom wall of Life.

And people get to see it, and acknowledge it:

Hey.  Look at that.  Somebody else was here.

. . .every time they go pee.

Hmmm. . .  I'm now looking back at this last section, and rethinking the whole thing. . .

But I'm in a mood where I refuse to second-guess myself. ONWARD AND UPWARD!!

*I* think it's noble, and I'm sticking with that.

Deal.  With.  It.

#2:  To keep a log of events.

You know.  As in, "for FUTURE PEOPLES!!!"

People have done this for as long as writing has been around.  As a way of communicating with those that come later.  As in:

"So hey, we've noticed that the banks of the Nile overflow at pretty much the same time every year.  You might wanna watch out for that."

Or:

"My neighbor figured out that if you chew the bark from this tree, it makes your fever go away.  I know--sounds crazy, right?  But all 10 of my kids are alive because of it.  Just FYI."

Or even:

"Notice:  If you're nice to dogs, and feed them and give them a place to live?  They will HELP YOU herd your sheep and stuff.  NO LIE."

(. . .I'm fairly certain that there are far better examples out there. . . but I'm working on my second Big Gulp of coffee right now, the caffeine is kicking IN, the toddler is squealing, and I find that I'm a tad scattered upstairs at the moment.  All apologies.

Besides, I feel that these examples adequately illustrate my point, so I'm just going to move on now.)

While I am NOT writing to warn future generations of flood-times, natural remedies, etc., I am still essentially doing the same thing.

I write this blog for me.  And for my son.  And for my family and friends.

Just as a way of saying:  This is what happened.

This is what we did, and how we did it.

This is what your childhood was like, Took!  This is how we spent our days.  =)

And, on rare occasions:  This is what I learned.

(I DO actually learn lessons occasionally.  Not ALL the time. . . but sometimes.  But I prefer not thinking on the "lesson" part of my life too hard.  Puts too much pressure on me.  I'd much rather just go through my days, experiencing my life, and then every once in a while I'm all:  

"OOOH!!!  Look!  There, on the ground!  A lesson!!  . . .I'm growing as a person!!!"

And then I pick the lesson up, and put it in my pocket.

. . .And then I usually have a snack.)

Because 'growing as a person' is freaking exhausting.**  

**Pretty sure it was Ghandi that said that.  But you don't have to look it up.  . . . I'm pretty sure.

#3:  As an attempt to be understood.

This is my effort

To be heard through the howling.

Adored, though imperfect.

Understood, though unclear.

As a way of relating to people, nothing beats writing.

. . . I still remember, quite clearly, the day when I was in 4th grade, and our teacher introduced us to Shel Silverstein.

We followed along in our books, as we sat there as a class and listened to Where The Sidewalk Ends on cassette.

And I still remember hearing the first poem, Invitation,

---and thinking:  

OH MY GOD THIS MIGHT BE WHAT MAGIC IS.

THIS guy.

THIS GUY GETS IT.

Wait . . . this was written by a grown man??!

. . . I'm pretty sure this guy is a sorcerer.

0.0

Nothing had ever spoken to me like those poems did that day.

And I spent the next several years searching for Shel Silverstein books in every bookstore and library I was lucky enough to visit.

. . . those same books are stacked on my son's dresser at this very moment, patiently waiting for the day when he is old enough to discover them.

Which brings me to:

#4:  To inspire.  To lift up.

I make very few, if any, promises to the readers of this blog.

But I do strive to maintain it with a couple of rules in mind:

First off---don't bitch.

I might've broken this one occasionally, but I really do try not to complain.  I don't like complainers.

Of all the lessons of my childhood, one of the ones that has stuck with me the most is something that both my mother and my grandmother taught me from the time I was just a wee-one:

No matter how bad you have it, there's always someone out there that has it worse.  There's always someone out there that would get down on their knees and be grateful to only have to deal with your problems.  So suck it up, and try to help.  (I'm paraphrasing.)

So that lesson has stayed with me to this day, and I try to keep it in mind when I'm writing.  I feel that writing, just to complain, is kind of. . . pointless.  Everybody has problems.  Why waste the time and effort just to complain about yours?

But!!

That brings me to the second rule I try to uphold with this blog:

Be sincere.  Be honest.  Be genuine.

And honestly?  Yeah, I've got problems, just like everybody else.

And I do write about them.  In a way that (I hope), comes across as genuine and sincere.

And I also pretty much refuse to write about troubling things in my day-to-day, UNTIL I have found a positive way to look at them, or a productive way to deal with them.

And while I will readily admit that it is probably not exactly prudent to be so open with my own shortcomings and demon-dances. . . I do it anyway.

Because I know that if I'M going through something. . . chances are pretty good that someone else might be, too.  And maybe they'll read what I write.  And maybe they'll relate.

And maybe. . . maybe they won't feel so alone any more.

So if I learn something. . . I'm gonna share it.  Even if it makes me look like a dumb ass in the process.

It's Shake N' Bake, and I helped.

=)

                         

#5:  For shits and giggles.  (aka: Humor)

I think a lot about humor.

Comedy.

Giggles.

I mean, seriously.  I really think about it a lot.

You know the line "My heroes have always been cowboys"?

Well, my heroes have always been comedians.

As in. . . ALWAYS.

People that make me laugh just kind of instantly own my heart.

It takes. . . it takes a special awareness of the world around you to be funny, I think.  I don't believe it's possible to be funny if you're walking around wearing your rose-colored glasses, willfully blind to painful truths.

I think it takes a recognition of the darkness, of the insanity, and of the helplessness that is synonymous with the human condition. . . to be funny.

Let me rephrase that:

I think it requires a recognition of the darkness, and then a shrug of the shoulders, and then a cosmic thumbing-of-the-nose.

=)

To me, comedy is seeing all that can be bad in the world, seeing it as it REALLY is, and then choosing to say:

"You know what?  SCREW YOU, Darkness!!  SCREW YOU RIGHT IN YOUR BIG STUPID EAR!!!"

This is the only life I've got.  

It's the only one you've got, too.

Why not laugh?

. . . And if I could pass on words of wisdom, to my children perhaps, about the nature of comedy?

You have to look for it.

You have to always be looking for it.

But this life is inherently absurd.

Just keep your eyes open.  You'll find it.

=)

To my way of thinking, humor is a weapon, and a shield, and a freaking LIFE PRESERVER.

It is laughing in the face of our own mortality.

It is fighting back the Reapers.

It is nothing short of bravery, defined.

======================================

So I write.

I don't get paid for it, and it is possible (even likely) that I never will.

Doesn't.

Matter.

I'll still do it.

Because I'm an earthworm out of dirt, squirming around, trying to find meaning.

And in order to DO that, I have to walk my own path.  Kick the stones, smell the rain, get my feet dirty.

And what do I want in return?

Hmmmm. . . 

Just to grow.

Maybe leave something shiny behind when I'm gone.

Create a smile, or a laugh, or a sense of belonging. . . that maybe wasn't there before.

To connect with other weirdos.

To say:  "Hey.  Check it out.  I learned something."

To leave love.


. . . So that's it.

That's my list.

And honestly?  . . .I think I feel better just having written this.

=)

No matter how bad, how good, how grammatically satisfying, or how much money I'm not making for doing it --- I will write.

Because I no longer have any fear of being anything other than my flawed, but seeking, self.

And because this is MY blog, my record, my work.

The value is whatever *I* say it is.

These are my demons I'm beating back; my own battles, my own lessons.

My wins, and my losses.

The worth, and the value . . . they're found in the fight.

<3

I've Got A Little Bit Longer. I've Got A Ways To Go.

I am feeling sentimental today.

It is the end of the year.  Past Christmas, not quite to New Year's yet. . . and it has proven to be a time for rumination.

So, in no particular order or form, here are some thoughts.

-----------------------------------

I've been bouncing around in my kitchen this morning, guzzling coffee and dancing to Michael Franti, and loving the way my bathrobe fans out behind me when I dance.  

=)

Yesterday was a busy Christmas Day, full of storms (literal, not figurative), and by the end of the day I was drenched with rain, my pink Chuck's were muddy (and not really pink any more), and I was just super-duper-happy to climb into bed with my husband and talk and giggle.

. . . and somehow we got around to talking about Michael Franti, and Mister was telling me about a performance he had seen that they had filmed in Folsom Prison.  He said the show was amazing, and the crowd really enjoyed it, and Franti (true to form) was preaching peace.  And that the warden had said a few words to thank Franti, and said that he was certain that those cells were going to feel a lot bigger that night.

. . .

And so I've been turning that over in my mind, and thinking about the healing and restorative powers of music. . .

It really is an amazing thing, that we make music.  Particularly when you think about how we do it to express joy, pain, sorrow. . . the whole range of human emotions, really.

We pick up tools that make different noises, and create sympathetic sounds, so that other members of our species may experience our lives for a moment.

We really are remarkable creatures.

=)

(And I know what you're going to say:

"Oh!  Danielle!!  What about BIRDS???  BIRDS sing songs.  They sing songs, too.  You forgot about BIRDS."

But you have clearly overlooked the fact that birds also get to fly.

They both sing. . . and get to friggin' FLY.

Birds are ASSHOLES.)

Anyhoo.

Franti.

I was discussing with Mister how Franti, in my humble opinion, has it figured out.

As in. . . seriously.

To those that are familiar with him, and if you follow him on any social media, you are probably aware of what I'm talking about.

He is one of those very rare people that seems to be completely and utterly genuine.  Void of all pretense.  Full of love.  Not only talks the talk. . . but walks the walk, as well.

And given the state of our world today (or ever), I think that is something that is really deserving of mention.

If you ever watch interviews of Franti, you quickly discover that he talks a lot about peace and love.

. . . And honestly, I'm getting a little bit weary of people who roll their eyes every time the phrase "peace and love" comes up.

The only people that are ever going to achieve peace are the people that believe they CAN.

The people that are committed to it.

The people that LIVE it, all day long.  Every day.

Not peace on a global scale, naturally.  Not yet.

But people like Franti try to remind all the rest of us that it IS within our reach.  It can be.

And it starts in every home.  By a lot of people committed to it, one moment at a time.

So I get behind his message.

However. . . one note about the video clip above:

I think it is in poor taste.

=<

I mean. . . the video itself is pretty fantastic, and after viewing it I've decided that once Took starts school, and my weekdays are pretty free, I am SO going to start roller skating around our neighborhood in a cape.

But speaking as someone who has never actually learned how to whistle. . . I felt the people in the video are just being overly braggy.

=(

There's no need to shove my lack of whistling ability in my face like that.

Poor taste, Franti.  Poor taste.  =<

Other than that, the video's golden.  Good for many happy feels.

7 out of 8 bananas.

So yeah. . . I've been listening to musics all morning.

My husband sent me a link to the one above, and I sent him this one:

"Woah-oh,
I'm not afraid to be alone.
But being alone is
better with you.
Life is better with you."

Oh, silly Michael Franti, with your horse heads and sweet heart.

You make me smile.  =)

And remember how grateful I am.

Because I've read enough to be acquainted with a few different schools of thought, and have a just-decent-enough memory to recall pieces and snips and bits of some of the greats.

"Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul."

--Emily Dickinson

"Tis long since we've had any hope."

--Tolkien, LOTR

"Fear shrinks the brain."

--The Walking Dead

"Be excellent to each other."

--Ted "Theodore" Logan

"What I am looking for is not out there.  It is in me."

--Helen Keller

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
And I
I took the one less traveled by.
And that has made all the difference."

--Robert Frost

"Life is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about."

--Oscar Wilde

"These days, all I ask of Fate is that the people she hurls into my life, whether they be evil or good or morally bipolar, be amusing to one degree or another."

--Dean Koontz

"I'll keep it short and sweet: Family.  Religion.  Friendship.  These are the three demons you must slay if you wish to succeed in business."

--C. Montgomery Burns

--------------------------------------------

So those are just a handful of the ones that circle around my head every day.  Voices and snippets from here and there.

And I think I'm managing to piece them into a lovely little quilt.

Managing quite nicely.

=)

We all have troubles.

We own our troubles.

They do not own us.

They do not define us.

If you're like me. . . you fall down.

I'm pretty well-acquainted with the ground by now, and have the knots and bruises to prove it.

=)

I'll say it simply:

It has made me better.

=============================

So final thoughts for the year:

I'm grateful.

I love my family.

And my friends, too, who form a collective extended family of misfits and weirdos.

I love you all so much.

=>

A goldfish will only grow as big as it's bowl.

=)

And WE are the bowl, for everyone around us.

Because of my family and friends, my husband, my kids. . . everyone who forms the fabric of my life. . . I feel comfortable.

Comfortable enough to be my real Me.

Comfortable enough to share my weirdest thoughts.

Comfortable enough to sing and dance, to slip and fall, and to laugh  at my own stupidity, and get back up and try again.

Because of all the lovely and wonderful people I know, I'm comfortable enough to be my real, genuine self.

(Even if that self is kind of embarrassing at times.)

And most of all, it makes me comfortable enough to look at those around me.  And wonder what I can do for THEM.  To wonder how I could help them.  To try and dream up ways to make their passing through this life a little easier.

We are the light for each other.

That is a powerful thing.  And a great, and noble, responsibility.

Thank you, friends.

I'm a world-class screw-up sometimes.

I'm super-impatient at others.

. . . And, at times, my tongue is sharper than I intended.

Flawed and imperfect.

But I feel like I'm on the right path.

I feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be.

Learning.

Eager to learn more.

Figuring out how to love.  The right way.

Finding and forging new paths to peace, just in my personal old ordinary life.

=)

If you're reading this. . . my wish to you is as follows:

I hope you forge your own paths.

I hope you do it differently.

I hope you hold your head high.

I hope you talk -- LOUDLY -- about what is right.  And then you transform your talk into action.

I hope you discuss peace and love.  Earnestly.

I hope you find someone that you can be your most You with.

I hope you feel comfortable enough to sing.

I hope you feel comfortable enough to dance.

I hope you get out your capes, and your roller skates, and I hope you zoom around like you don't know you have bones.

=)

I hope you give love, and I hope you live peacefully.

There are millions of people out there to love.

Go find one of them.

Get bouncy, bitch.

=)

"Oh I've got
A little bit longer.
I've got a ways to go-o."

=D

And also. . . 

=D

"Everybody wants me to be who they want me to be except you.
And all I wanna do
Is be with you."

=)

Music and Dreams. . .

For as long as I can remember, I have had a long, strange, and at times baffling relationship with music and dreams.

And I am quite serious.  And also:  I know.

They're two completely, different (!), separate things.
For most people. . .

Except for me. . . they. . .  Well, they just AREN'T.

I've always had exceptionally vivid dreams (and, if I am being fair, a rather vivid imagination, as well), starting from when I was a wee one and was just starting to dream, all the way up to the current day.

There are still several different events that occurred in my childhood that, to this DAY, I am still not 100%-completely-number-1-absolutely SURE that they were something that actually happened. . . or something I just dreamed.

Example?  When I was about 4 or 5 years old, I was hanging with my Mawmaw*

**(FABULOUS LADY -- pictured on the right)
=)

. . . I can actually HEAR her right now, saying:  "LORD, DANIELLE!!  WHY did you put up such an AWFUL picture of ME?!" *  (*As she grinned her secret grin, seeing that it was, in fact, a perfectly lovely picture, and we both knew it.)  Ahh.  Miss them both.  =)

Anyhoo, I was hanging out with my Mawmaw (as I was wont to do), running errands with her, "going to town," and just generally having a delightful time.  =)
And it was during one of these errands that we stopped by the place where she did her ceramics.  (She made and painted simply beautiful ceramics.  I have some she made, and they are most dear and prized possessions.)
She only had to run in for a second, drop something off or pick up something that was ready, and so she left me in the car, with the car running.
I remember this like it was yesterday.  I remember sitting in her car, and munching on some strawberry candies that she had given me (God bless her), and thinking to myself that she was taking a REALLY long time.
And so I decided I'd take the car for a spin.  
Just around the block.  No big deal.  My Mawmaw trusted me, otherwise she wouldn't have left the keys in the car.

Easy peasy.  
So I took her car for a spin around the block, driver's side window down, waving at all the people on the sidewalks or in their yards that were smiling and waving and just generally expressing thumbs up and great pride at my young mastery of driving.
Then I drove the car back to the house where Mawmaw was getting her ceramics, parked it, got another strawberry candy (just for good measure), and lazed in the seat in the sunshine until she finally came back.
. . . .

Only thing is, and it's just a trifle of a thing, really. . . is that that never happened.  There's no WAY that ever happened.
And yet I remember it.  Quite clearly.

Thankfully (for me), the episodes of not knowing whether events were real or dreamed departed with my childhood.  Whew!  =)
(I was a fairly logical child, and I was ever so pleased to discover that, by the age of 5 1/2 or 6, these perplexing events had ceased entirely.)

I think . . . I think perhaps I might've been a strange child. . .

=)

Speaking of. . . and just because it happened to merge well with the subject at hand. . . here are a few of my artistic works in progress, on dealing with the matter of dreams, and embracing your personal strangeness.  (Something I strongly suggest.)

(This one I did as a kind of homage to the strange other-ness found in the landscape of dreams.  And because Aerosmith.)

(This one is hard to read, because I'm waiting for it to dry before I finish the lettering.  It WILL read:  "Go be your own strange".)

(And this one just because it's true and I love it.  =) )

But back to the dreams and music.

My husband is doubtful (to say the VERY least), about my dreams, because. . . because he doesn't really dream.  Only every once in a while, and, from what I've heard about them. . . they tend to be pretty standard fare.

NOT.  SO.  WITH.  MINE.

Example:

I was in my 20's.  And I was in one of the worst places emotionally that I have ever been in my life.  I was struggling with some major-major life problems, and I didn't feel like I could tell anybody, and I didn't want to burden them anyway, and so I was trying to handle it all on my own.

And I was doing a pretty shitty job of it.

And then one night, I had this dream:

I was standing in a desert, with a tiny, almost dried-up stream flowing by my feet.  When I looked up, I found I was not alone.

Gandalf was standing there with me.

(Not the Gandalf from the movies.  Those hadn't been made yet.  This was the Gandalf in my residual memory, formed from reading the books.)

So we stood there in companionable silence for a while. Just Gandalf and I.  =)

And then he looked at me, straight in the eyes.  And from under his large grey hat, I saw the kindest, most compassionate and caring look that I ever seen from any eyes ever.  . . . And almost sad.

Then he suddenly grabbed me by the throat, and lifted me up off the ground.

Still that kind look in his eye, as I was panicking and struggling and trying desperately to breathe.

I thought:  "I'm gonna die.  There's no one around to help me, and I'm going to die by Gandalf's hand.  I can't get FREE!!"

And though, in the dream, I just THOUGHT those words, he spoke and answered me.

"You never asked for help."

(Really, Gandalf?  Dial down the sass.)

As soon as he said that, I instantly woke up.

To the sound of my own voice saying: 

"Help."

. . . .

Now, OBVIOUSLY, I would be a great fool to ignore a message such as that.

And, as I am NOT a great fool. . . I took Dream Gandalf's advice.

I asked for help.

I made changes.

Things got a lot worse.

. . . And then they got a LOT better.  =)

. . . . In another dream, at another difficult time in my life. . . I was visited by The Beatles.  (Again, I am not making this up.)

They were very polite, some seeming only mildly interested in being there, and John did most of the talking.

(Which I find that I rather prefer, anyway.)

We talked at length, though I can't tell you anything of the conversation, because it has been lost to the sands of memory.  But what I DO know is the last thing John Lennon said to me before I woke up was:

"So where's your music been lately?"

And he walked away, whistling 'We Can Work It Out.'

. . . I sang that song for at least a month.  It saw me through some tough times.

It centered me, focused me, and reminded me that I am, in fact, nothing short of a freaking warrior.

So I trust my dreams.

Not all of them, naturally. . . my teeth falling out just means anxiety, my husband cheating means that he's been an asshole, my children being chased by zombies just means that I am as prepared as it is humanly possible to be for the Zombie Apocalypse.

=D

But some of them. . . yes, I do take seriously.

I listen to them.

Most of the time. . . I really do learn from them.

=======================================

---So I woke up at 4:30 this morning with a line from Blue's Traveler's 'Hook' planted firmly in the forefront of my consciousness, and I have no idea why.

???

So muffins for boys have been baked, and consumed.  

Coffee and Cartoon Time is nearing its end.

I've got a lot of painting, and boy-herding, and lots of fun projects planned for today.

(Gonna really kick ass on being productive.  Back permitting, and if coffee supplies hold.)

Or. . . .

I might not get anything done.

Because seriously. . . 

WHAT MADE THE PAN REFUSE TO GROW?

". . . What made The Pan refuse to groo-ooow
        Was that the heart brings you baaack."

#ISthatWhatMadeThePanRefuseToGrow ??
#ThatsJustOneMansOpinion
#HardToBeProductiveWhenYaStrugglingWithTheBIGQuestions

Also woke up with THIS song in my head,

. . . and haven't figured out if there's any meaning in it at all.

Aside from being an arrangement of really killer sounds that make me feel happy.

happy Sunday peeps.

And 'ah thank ya kindly fah ya time.
=D