Becoming a Jedi

I just got back from Galaxy's Edge at Disneyland. I now have a light saber. I know I fell into Disney's trap, I don't care. I feel like a Jedi.

For the cynics among you, rest assured, I am not naive. I know Disney is specifically targeting me, and I offer them a hearty congratulations. I do not fall prey to all of their schemes, but they had me at Millennium Falcon. I feel like a scoundrel

Upon entry to Black Spire Outpost on Batuu, I became 10 again. The attention to detail is magnificent. The coke bottles have been re-designed with the Star Wars Aurebesh alphabet, which also adorns the trash cans. The doors to the droid workshop opened automatically like on the Death Star with the same control panel design that Luke blasts to keep the stormtroopers at bay as he and Leia try to escape (and yes, I took a picture of just this control panel). Even the plants and bushes look like they belong on a different planet. The buildings, the fake rocky outcroppings, the Cantina, and folks...the Millennium Falcon are designed in jaw-dropping detail. I felt wonder again.

It was the same wonder I felt when I first saw A New Hope, what will forever be known simply as Star Wars to me. I know the market has been saturated to the point of skepticism; so much so that even the most devout fans hope for wonder and, on even the smallest level, expect disappointment. Walking around Galaxy's Edge, however reminded me why I will always be indebted to Star Wars: It gave me the gift of story.

It's a familiar story, filled with heroes and rogues, wise old mentors, villains with complexity, humor, gravity, surprises, betrayal, redemption, and a good old fashioned curtain call in the form of a tableau. It's a story with missteps and compromises, that occasionally mistrusts its audience and gets seduced into making choices favoring a dollar over narrative truth. Sometimes it tries too hard to make everyone happy and forgets its heart only to rediscover it on the periphery often in the hands of a child. It's a story of courage, honor, loyalty and sacrifice. It's epic and personal all at once. It is human.

It is my story, and, I would venture to say, yours too.

I have known heroes and been heroic. The title has not been bestowed based on holding up buildings or flying around the galaxy; but because of finding the bravery to get through a day, or week, or year, and possibly making that day or week or year a little easier for someone else.

I have known (and dated) rogues, and wish to be a bit more roguei-sh, truth be known; because rogues often dare what others do not and therefore widen our perception of what's possible.

I am grateful for all of the wise old mentors in my life and carry their words with me in all that I do.

I have known, and probably been, villains with complexity, and found forgiveness in recognizing their pain and fallibility.

Humor has, does and will continue to sustain me with perspective and discovery.

I have felt gravity, been delighted by surprise, cried at betrayals, been grateful for redemption, and relished the moments of tableaus when all has been happy and content, if only for that moment.

I have definitely misstepped and compromised and lost the trust of others as well as myself.

I've chosen money over the truth of my narrative more often than not, and still have credit card debt.

Have I tried too hard to make everyone happy? Read a few of my past blog posts and catch up.

And I have re-discovered my heart time and again in my children.

I may not always succeed, but I strive for courage, honor and loyalty.

I recognize the epic in the personal, and how the courage to be personal is often the most epic gesture.

I know Star Wars does not resonate with everyone in the same way. Your Star Wars might be Harry Potter, or the Avengers, or The GodFather, or Jane Austen, or Pokemon, or Basketball, or whatever feels familiar and amazing, and restores, resets and reignites pure wonder and conviction free of cynicism and doubt. Me, I call it the Force, and I will continue to wander through the galaxy led by its insight, with my trusty light saber by my side.

Glitterizing Glue

I am a sucker for anything anthemic. Soundtracks, epic movies, Shakespeare, "Our Deepest Fear" and Hoosier speeches. I buy into them. I feel moved to move. And then I get home.

I do all of the things I presume, based on predictable movies about sports and women realizing their full potential outside of motherhood. I change my routine, try scary things, get a tattoo, change my hairstyle, drink more water, eat dark chocolate, create manageable lists which create the illusion of an energizing montage. At this point I should have my own film company who's first venture was unexpectedly well received and conveniently bank-rolled by a kind independent older woman I happened to meet at a bar while I was being drunkenly charming and authentic. I do not.

I have moments of inspiration. Moments of pride in what I can do. Moments when I feel I really know how to do what I want and love to do. Here's my obstacle though. It is one of my own making. I will forever put other's dreams, needs, hopes, what have you's ahead of mine. It's not because I'm a good person. It is, ultimately, because I do not believe I have "it."

Mandela says "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure." Mr. Mandela, I love your beautiful thoughts, however, I not only fear I am inadequate, I have a full on absolute in my bones faith in my inadequacy. I fight it and fake it because I have an equal full on absolute in my bones love of creativity and the limitless possibilities imagination and collaboration possess. I work hard, prepare, and people please my ass off because I fear discovery of my fraudulence. The discovery that I am, in fact, spectacularly ordinary.

I know there is nothing wrong with that, with being spectacular at being ordinary. I went to High school with the gifted author Kelly Corrigan. She made so clear what I often feel: some of us are the glitter and some are the glue. My struggle is that I long to be the glitter, when, in fact, I am glue. Most of the jobs I get hired to do are the glue jobs: teacher, director, coach. As a mother, I have always chosen glue over glitter, they are the glitter, always. And as a wife, I have cast my husband as glitter.

I understand glue. It is definable and easily applied. It can get gunky at times, and can also wear out and stop working if not used properly. For the most part, though, It is functional, useful, multi-purpose.

Glitter gets everywhere. It sticks to things unapologetically and stubbornly. It does not negotiate and rarely behaves as expected or planned. It catches the eye. It looks like what I believe magic is.

I know no one is just one thing. Our dimensionality is unique and the reason the snowflake metaphor is so popular. I have some glitter properties and have experienced glitter moments, but I am, essentially, a binding agent. And I'm sure all of the people I know to be glitter, do not define themselves thusly. I'm sure they battle what they perceive to be inadequacy. I'm sure they think I have it all figured out the same way I know they do. Which leads me to this: Why does it matter?

I've convinced myself that it matters or will yield peace and illumination for me to know I am this or that. As if quantifiable identification will unlock all mystery and open up prosperity and peace. It has consumed far too much of my time. Maybe if I know, I can figure out how to be historical, how to believe my presence has been worth the space and time. Maybe if I know, I can finally figure out what I should do for a living. Maybe if I know, things would feel clear? Maybe if I know, I'll discover I'm wrong and that I really am glitter. I think this is why I never go to a psychic; I'm pretty sure they're going to tell me that things are pretty much going to keep going the way they're going.

And yet, I still resist who I am. I am Meg, not Jo. I am Louise, not Thelma. I am Ethel, not Lucy. I am Klobuchar not Warren. Who I am is ok. Yet who of us is ever ok with just ok?

Poets, and theologians, biologists, visionaries and minds far greater than mine have puzzled on this far better than I ever could. They would have a conclusion or plan of action or glittery idiom encouraging me to dance like no one's watching, and I would love them for their perceptive insights into my soul, and secretly hate them for the same reason. I know my exploration should return me to where I started, and please T.S. Eliot in my knowing it for the first time. Instead, however, I, in my bones, believed that by the end of this I would discover that I am actually glitter.

I am still glue.

Necessary. Respected. Strong. Dries clear. Tough. Krazy. Super.

See what I did there? I glitterized glue.

Shame on me.