It's a miracle!

When you think about, being alive is astonishing, astounding, even mind-boggling.

First of all, of course, is the fact that one particular sperm had to reach that particular egg that particular time for you to be you and me to be me.  That's one sperm out of an average of 250 million.  

But even more than that, I consider how many hundreds of thousands of our ancestors had to survive plagues and famines and deadly creatures and lethal infections and accidents and wars in order for you and me to be here.  We are the descendants of survivors, beings who were strong enough, and smart enough, and adaptable enough, and lucky enough to have survived this harsh, dangerous world of kill or be killed.

We're not so different from those survivors in some ways, except that for a lot of us, our survival is pretty well assured.  This allows us to be  proud, to be lazy, to be wasteful, to be depressed or ornery or mean, to take for granted this miraculous gift of being alive.  But it also allows us to be reflective, as we have the leisure and security to be able to ask what it all means.  So it's only natural that we make up gods and goddesses, as every primitive culture has done since the beginning of humanity.  We need a sense of order to it all, a sense that someone is in charge, because without that, then what the heck does it mean?

I envy cheetahs and moths and squids and lichen.  They don't have these great big brains asking these great big questions.  Life doesn't have to mean anything at all to them.  To all other beings but us, life is just what it is.

I know that it's not possible for me to live in that fully present way.  Like all humans, I'm a storyteller, a meaning maker, a question asker.  But I can see the beauty of living without meaning, or at least without meaning appointed from outside of me.  That frees me up to create my own meaning, my own purpose, my own direction.  I don't know if I have free will, but I figure I may as well live as though I do, as  though I am able to make choices that are not necessarily determined by Fate or biology or upbringing.  

That leads, of course, to the question of what have I decided my life means?  You would think I would have answered that one by now, but I'm still thinking...  

A Boise love-fest

I'm home again after spending a week in Boise, ID.  This rather disrupted my holiday socializing plans, but it was for the happiest of reasons.  I was cast in a series of commercials for Idaho Central Credit Union.  This was far and away the happiest, jolliest, most rewarding on-camera shoot of my acting career.

I played the grandmother to a grown son, his wife, and their two teens.  And this family just loooves their credit union.  It's all we want to talk about, and we talked about it in a variety of fun situations.  What was best about this experience was that we five actors (as well as the chaperone to the youngest) bonded quickly and deeply.  The night I arrived, I met up with the men playing my son and grandson.  The three of us went to dinner and talked for probably three hours about everything under the sun.  Once everyone had arrived in Boise, we would all get together for breakfast (except for whomever had an early, early call time), and we always had dinners together.

The crew members were also absolute peaches, not a pickle in the bunch; upbeat, friendly, professional, and warm.  The fact that the actors shared such a familial chemistry added to the energy and chemistry of each day's shoot.  For example, on the last day, which took place in a studio rather than on a set, there was music playing all day and, me being me, I couldn't help but dance between shots.  And so other people also started dancing, and the director spontaneously decided to have the onscreen family dance for some of our shots.  I suggested to the client, who was the Big Daddy of this commercial, that the caption under us dancing should be "If you want to be this happy with your bank, join Idaho Central Credit Union".  In another section that day, the five of us were asked to sit on or stand behind a couch in different grouping, and the director used our affection and goofiness by having the family act silly with one another, then freeze for the camera.  It was so easy for us to play together; we felt free and unrestrained with one another, which made this whole week such a joy, such a pleasure.  

My "grandson" and I had one day off at the same time, so we took a Lyft to see a matinee of the new Spiderman movie.  I get such a kick out of the fact that a 70 year old woman and a 22 year old boy/man (and a dreamy one at that - he's going to turn into an amazing adult) can be friends without any self-consciousness.

I felt so comfortable with them all that I had to remind myself that they saw me/see me as a grandmother.  A colorful one, to be sure, and one with a lot of pizzazz, but definitely of a much older generation.  So it would surprise and delight them when I talked about sex or weed or farting, or any of the other subjects that one doesn't necessarily expect from a grandmother.  They forget, as I did when I was younger, that this old lady remembers being a teenager, a 20 year old, 40 year old, 60 year old.  All of those stages of life are still in me, so I am not one age but all those ages.  I know I am not of this era; all that dancing left me stiff the next day, and I am not on my phone every free moment.  (In fact, I read "Of Human Bondage" in its entirety during the week in Boise.)  But still, there is a much younger self living inside this wrinkledy face and weaker body.  It was so nice bringing her out to play with such lovely new friends.  I will remember this week with such joy for the rest of my life.

Today I am a crone

Today is my 70th birthday.  I happily accept, even embrace, the fact that I am now a crone.  We crones, after all, are the tellers of stories.  Having learned to keep our own flames lit, we are able to help others light theirs.  We know what it's like to be a child, a teenager, a young adult, middle-aged.  We know how to hold the torch for the promise and possibility of the future.  We are the receptacles of many, many life lessons, some of them learned the hard way.

The past is mine.  The present is mine.  I know that the future belongs to others, but I still have so many contributions to make.  I am proud to have reached this stage of life.  However much I might be invisible to the young, I also know that I am part of the clearing of the path they are walking now.

So give a cheer and a respectful nod to yourself if you are a crone.  We are rich in wisdom.  Let's be sure to stay interested and interesting.  There is much more still to come. 

Sourcery

 

In the seed is the daisy or the mighty green saguaro.

In the rain is the river that will feed the sea tomorrow.

In the match is the fire that becomes a conflagration.

In the step is the journey that becomes the destination.

 

In the hearts of the children

In the words of the leaders

In the deeds of the people

            Is the future

            Is the future

 

In the asking “How can I?” there begins a new invention.

In one voice is the founding of a movement of dissension.

In the kiss of the lovers is another generation.

In a song are ideas that could rouse a sleeping nation.

 

In the hearts of the children

In the words of the leaders

In the deeds of the people

            Is the future

            Is the future

Chauvin, Part II

I wonder what prison is like for Derek Chauvin.  He's in maximum security in Minnesota, and since Minnesota is where he was a cop, it's possible some of his fellow inmates were sent there because of his arrests.  I wonder how the black prisoners, especially, regard him.  Do the guards think of him as having been on their team because he also wore a uniform?  Or do they enjoy being in a position of power over a cop?

Does he feel any regret for killing George Floyd?  Does he feel he was justified and so unjustifiably found guilty?  Is he bitter and angry that he was sent to prison?  If so, angry at whom?  The bystanders who took the videos which were part of the evidence against him?  At Floyd for dying?  At the whole world?  Something turned him into a person capable of the ghastly, torturous killing of Floyd.  Did being a cop and dealing with lawbreakers and troublemakers all day turn him bitter, or did he bring that bitterness to the job?  According to Wikipedia, Chauvin's wife had filed for divorce the day before the murder of  Floyd, and after only a year of marriage.  I have to think that that must have contributed to whatever force of emotion Chauvin brought to the moment of Floyd's arrest.

I am intensely curious about this, and about people's behavior in general.  I suppose that's why I'm a writer.  I want to know people's stories, and since in most cases that's not possible, I make up stories for them, try to imagine what their lives are like, how they became who they are.  I just can't help myself.  Derek Chauvin is a person, after all.  Nazis were people.  Trump is a person.  Jeffrey Dahmer was a person.  Were they all born clean and whole and the circumstances of their lives turned them into the beasts they became, or were their souls twisted at birth and before?  What I'm most curious about is: What do (did) they think of themselves?

Love to Mom

The mother of a friend of mine died recently.  I asked my friend if there was anything she wished she could say to her mother now, and she said "I wish I'd told her I love her more often."  I immediately teared up because I have the same wish.  I don't have many regrets in my life, but one of them is that for too long, I took Mom for granted, and when I was a teenager, I was downright awful to her, neglectful, cranky, utterly unhelpful with chores even though she was working full time as a nurse.  She lived  long enough that I had the chance to mature enough to try to make up for those early years of self-absorption, but still, I have always wished that I'd been as loving toward her as she was toward me and everyone else who came within her orbit.  Now she's dead and every unspoken "I love you" clogs my throat.

After our parents died, my sister inherited the job of going through all the many boxes of memorabilia and photos which had rested, unopened, in their garage.  When I visited last weekend, sister gave me a packet of early writings, cards and letters she had discovered in that box, things I had sent to Mom and Dad which Mom had saved.  I was so indescribably happy to find more than a dozen Mother's Day and birthday cards I had sent to Mom over the years in which I wrote of my love, admiration, and appreciation of her and my deep gratitude for her kindness and wisdom.  These cards showed me that I had not been as neglectful as I'd feared, that I had told Mom many times how much I loved and cherished her.  It soothed my soul and untied a little knot of regret I'd been carrying in my heart.

I rediscovered this poem I had written to Mom, probably in the mid-90's, titled "Silver Memories": 

My lullabying Mama, rocking little Babs to sleep.

Yes, that's a silver memory I know I'll always keep.

My kitchen witchin' Mama making magic into dinner,

Making every crumb delicious.  Any wonder I'm not thinner?

My uniformed Nurse Mama, Florence Lindsay-Nightingale.

Still even now those healing hands can soothe me when I ail.

Teaching us good manners just in case we meet the Queen,

And singing silly songs while making dirty dishes clean.

Putting love and band-aids on our ouchies and our bruises.

No one yet has patented that special touch she uses.

My Mommy being joyous while dispensing hugs and kisses.

No, there's never been another like my lucky Daddy's missus.

A different kind of person (or How I am like my mother)

Dad's job as a geologist kept the family moving frequently during my childhood, about every year and a half or so.  Because of this, Mom (and all of us) had the chance to start freshly in introducing ourselves to new neighbors, playmates, etc.  I remember Mom saying, more than once, "I wish people would see me as an exotic, mysterious woman."  I, and probably my siblings, would laugh outright at this, because Mom was the most open, warm, welcoming, friendly, least exotic person who has ever lived.  I thought, and perhaps said, "If you want people to think you're mysterious, you have to act mysterious.  Hahahahaha, Mom, you're so silly."

So naturally I find I have exactly those same thoughts about myself.  I tend to be very animated when I converse, very lively, always trying to come up with bon mots and witticisms, taking spotlight, making faces, waving my hands about.  And what I wish I could be is serene, calm, relaxed, appear wise and mature and, yes, ever so slightly mysterious.  Hahahahahah, Granny Owl, you're so silly.

I wonder if everyone has the same fantasy of a different self, a better self.  And maybe the different sort of life which that self might live.  Maybe calm, serene people wish they could be more animated when they talk.  Maybe mysterious people wish they could be more open.  I guess this is sort of like the hair phenomenon: people with curly hair wishing it were straight, people with straight hair wishing it were curly.

I suppose I could take my own snarky advice and try acting more serene and wise and quiet.  I have my moments.  But that's not me.  I'm an emotional, expressive, funny, forceful person.  Ah me.  One lifetime is not enough.