What the #!%* Is a Derecho

The power went out the other day. I believe the locusts are on standby.

Power outages do not usually freak me out. I am flashlight vulnerable for sure. I always think they are in one of three places, and they never are, and they rarely work. Other than that, the biggest inconvenience is boredom, and the pursuant chaos of being out of control: no internet, can’t open the refrigerator, can’t find any matches for the candles I need because of my flashlight ineptitude, bored offspring, inability to do work, etc. The biggest revelation and reminder is always how much I rely on electricity; those charged particles that flow, and move and interact. It is a convenient daily miracle that I take for granted almost 100% of the time.

This past outage, I must admit, freaked me out. It lasted longer and, like when relatives call, had epically lousy timing. On day 1,000,437 of quarantine, in the midst of civil unrest with an imposed curfew, and during the hottest several days of the year so far, fate or nature or both sent in a derecho. A derecho, Merriam Webster explains, is "a large fast-moving complex of thunderstorms with powerful straight-line winds that cause widespread destruction."

Hello metaphor.

I think it’s safe to say that 2020 has, so far, been one large seemingly nonstop, derecho. 

• Pandemic
• Economic downturn
• Massive loss of jobs
• Lantern flies
• Killer hornets
• Ahmaud Awbery, Breona Taylor, George Floyd, unforgivably murdered
• Justifiable and necessary civil unrest
• Lack of compassionate selfless leadership from the President

This confluence of thunderstorms continue to gather strength, threatening their own types of power outages with pursuant chaos.

Of course there are the power outages of political failures, an overburdened and flawed medical system, income inequality, the powerlessness of joblessness, nature’s reminder of our expendability, and ongoing intolerable systemic racism. And when this derecho of shit joins forces into the perfect storm we are currently experiencing, the power outages that ironically result from and fuel it all at once are our personal outages. Our sense that we are powerless in the face of all of it. Our personal flashlight vulnerability that perpetuates the struggle to find a light.

It can be paralyzing. It has broken my heart. 

Now this next part is gonna sound weird, bear with me. I'm an improviser. I perform it, I direct it, I teach it. It charges particles in a unique way. Here's what it has taught me:

• Accept the reality in front of you and build on it
• Shut up and listen
• Be fascinated by the people right in front of you, rather than trying to be fascinating for a perceived audience.
• Cede control
• Embrace and listen to chaos
• Have each other's backs
• Make everyone else on stage look good
• Sacrifice yourself for the good of the team, sacrifice your team for the good of the show
• Everybody's contribution makes the making more unique
• You do not need to know the ending when you begin

I am not in any way shape or form suggesting that this is the panacea for our derecho. Whenever I experience a personal power outage, however, it is the truths above that create the potential energy, “the energy that a piece of matter has because of its position or nature or because of the arrangement of parts," (thank you again Merriam Webster) to charge new particles. It reminds me to be astonished and inspired by the courage and compassion I witness every day. Doctors, nurses, essential workers, protestors, community organizers, BIPOC everywhere who are undeterred, truth tellers and truth seekers. Even during our little local derecho, family, friends and neighbors tossed out life rafts and sent out posts offering to bring over a meal, to use a spare bedroom, or to open their homes to charge devices, without a second thought. These are the flashlights I find to get me through the outages. I am in awe of human beings, the other daily miracles I take for granted 100% of the time. I put my faith in the ensemble of humanity. I will work harder to have everyone’s back. 

My power is back on if you need to recharge. I’ll be here doing what I can to keep the locusts at bay.

I See

When I look at myself, I see 

• Not consistent enough
• Not organized enough
• Didn’t make you do enough chores
• Didn’t turn off the TV enough
• Didn’t teach you enough social etiquette.
• Didn’t insist on you making your own lunch enough
• Didn’t clean the house enough
• Didn’t volunteer enough
• Wasn't strong enough
• Didn’t garden enough
• Didn’t make enough vegetables
• Didn’t garden enough vegetables
• Didn’t have enough expectations
• Didn’t hold the line enough
• Didn’t teach you enough
• Didn’t let you struggle enough
• Didn’t play enough games
• Didn’t teach you enough about money management
• Didn’t give you enough of anything or everything.

Only possible conclusion: I was not enough.

When I look at you, I see 

• When you recount with saturating accuracy the details of Overwatch or the trade intricacies of Runescape, I see focus fueled by curiosity.
• When you tell your father to eat less ice cream, I see concern.
• When you tell me to relax, I see that you see how hard I try to work.
• When you correct my form when I occasionally exercise, I see your expertise.
• When you fail and fall and fury, and still get off the mat again, I see resilience.
• When I hear you laugh, I see your individuality.
• When you put your dish in the dishwasher, I see consideration.
• When the time comes that it occurs to you to turn the dishwasher on, I will see god.
• When you bring the garbage cans back from the curb on trash day without being asked, I see independence.
• When you say to the cashier “Thanks, have a good one,” I see connection.
• When you tell your brother “sorry man, that sucks,” I see compassion.
• When you eat a fruit or vegetable, I see balance.
• When you separate, I see self-care.
• When you call with a question or problem, I see you see the strength in asking for help.
• When you help your grandmother move mulch, I see kindness.
• When you are outraged by injustices big and small, I see engagement.
• When you cry at the end of How to Train Your Dragon,” I see humanity.

Only possible conclusion: You are more than enough.

When your life was put in my hands, I knew I needed to give you everything, and that everything would never be enough, because love got redefined that day. Of course I would never be enough, because it takes you to fill in what’s next. In this grand, messy, uncertain, heartbreaking, heart-making, hilarious collaboration that is family, my only driving wish is that you can survive and thrive in the wild. I see that you will. Thank you for showing me love’s infinite capacity. Now, turn the dishwasher on.

Some Call it Sexism, I Call it...

I'm concerned. There's seems to be something wrong with my husband and both of my offspring. On the surface it might be hastily diagnosed as sexism, but more intensive trials would reveal it as something more dangerous, dick-itis.

I had a vague suspicion that they might have been afflicted with this chronic ailment, but quarantine has made urgent what I can no longer ignore. Common symptoms are:

• Willful avoidance of placing dishes in the dishwasher
• Haphazard piling of once worn clothing, often in close proximity to but never reaching the hamper
• Deceptive preliminary assistance with meal preparation, quickly abandoned after the dicing of one vegetable
• Bi-weekly inquiries of "what can I do to help;" often mistaken as deep desire to change a dynamic, but quickly revealed as a get out of jail free card to avoid actually paying attention 
• Abandonment of societally accepted masculine chore of taking out garbage
• Leaving cabinets open
• Monopolizing television with bleak Scandinavian detective procedurals and re-purposed "average man turns into drug dealer/money launderer" series.
• In an effort to boost internet efficiency, configuring an elaborate network of ethernet cable booby traps snaked throughout the house.
• Appalling lack of personal grooming
• Inexplicable unwillingness to charge phones
• Inexplicable loss of phone chargers (during a quarantine?)
• Intolerable accusatory panic when searching for phone charger due to near dead phone
• Unwillingness to change, clean or fold any bed linen, ever, in the history of forever.
• Basically never participating in any activity that is deigned as beneath their masculine pay grade and traditionally understood as "women's work."

There are exceptions which lead to a false negative diagnosis. These exceptions are usually revealed to be shallowly motivated by a desire to stay out of the dog house and rarely have long lasting effects. Doing the dishes once a week, or taking out the garbage only when asked are not actual cures, but merely temporary prophylactic remedies

The cause of dick-itis is still unknown. Inroads have been made in identifying historical and societal patterns that have served as breeding grounds for this long-lasting condition. The common underlying factor seems to be a belief that they, men, and their needs and desires, are simply more important than women's. That there is simply no room for everyday tasks necessary for common comfort, hygiene, and continuity, in their minds, which must be 100% dedicated to their lofty goals and pursuits. The easiest conclusion to draw from this is that their brains are not, in fact, big enough. 

There are exceptions, of course. There are highly evolved men who have adapted. They have built up an immunity to dick-itis. They do pay attention. And there are women who can absolutely be afflicted with dick-itis. There are also women, like myself, who employ Benadryl-like and other OTC remedies to ease symptoms. These remedies are most often administered with the "it'll just be easier if" technique, seen by many as a quick relief tactic. In the long run, however, symptoms regularly recur. 

Success has been found in steady, disciplined and vigilant expectation setting which leads to the always male soothing elixir of routine. Early treatment is the key, and many have made great strides with the "teach a man to fish" approach to parenting, as opposed to the long standing and misnomered "maternal" instinct of "give a man a fish." Ironically the onus of this time-consuming treatment falls upon women, adding to the seemingly infinite list of what is considered "women's work." 

The long term effects of caring for someone with dick-itis lead to 

• Irritation
• The silent treatment
• Seething sub-surface resentment
• One more cocktail than is probably necessary
• Too many potato chips
• Mumbled, unsubtle rants of "I guess their dicks are so big it prevents them from bending over to put their 5th glass of the day in the dishwasher."
• Eye rolling
• Re-evaluation of every choice you've ever made

There is, unfortunately no quick fix. Most men will say there is. Their quick fix is "just tell me what to do, don't expect me to know what you want." They are right, to some extent, none of us are mind readers. To the rest of the extent though, understanding that if one person cooks dinner, the other should enable balance by doing the dishes should not have to be communicated or taught. In the year 2020, a mere 100 years after women were finally given the right to vote, it should be understood.

We've Got This

Logically, I knew Elizabeth Warren was going to drop out of the race. The numbers weren't there, I get it. My heart still broke, and my soul took another hit.

I don't need to be logic-ed out of my reaction.

I don't need to have my heart de-valued as a barometer.

I don't need to be dismissed because what I feel collaborates with what what I think.

And yet you will keep doing it.

Consciously and unconsciously, you will lessen me because I lead with love.

It won't matter that my heart fuels my passion.

It won't matter that my passion sparks my curiosity.

It won't matter that my curiosity drives hard work.

It won't matter that my hard work leads to results and change.

You will call my arguments strident, and you will call his same arguments revolutionary.

You will expect me to be grateful for the things I've gotten to do, and you will accept that he is simply entitled to do what he wants to do.

You will remind me that "we've come a long way, baby," in hopes that I will suddenly realize that a long way certainly should be good enough, because, let's face it, you're exhausted by all this.

You must be exhausted that we are exhausted.

It must be exhausting:

Hearing us plead our case,

Watching us fight for our relevance,

Realizing our hearts and minds together are stronger than your historical construct can comprehend,

Understanding that a seat at the table is not a threat but an invitation to infinite possibility.

You must be so exhausted. I get it. Go ahead and take a nap.

We've got this.

Dear Senators

Two things keep going through my head as I sporadically listen to the impeachment proceedings:

The first is a quote from Aaron Sorkin's The American President uttered by Michael Douglas: "I was so busy trying to keep my job that I forgot to do my job."

The second is something my father told me many years ago: "Don't just give your boss what they ask for, give them what they need."

As to the first, I know reality is infinitely more complicated than the purity the statement proposes. Of course in order to do your job you need to be in the "room where it happens," a room in which everyone else's motivation will rarely equal your own. Once in the room, staying in the room to accomplish what you came there to do often requires compromise, which, once practiced, can lead to habit. I do not believe compromise is a bad thing. It is sometimes the best thing. It is often the tactic that leads to progress and better collaboration. That leads me to another bit of family wisdom. When I was planning my wedding, my sister Susan said to me "Compromise on the things that aren't important to you, don't compromise on the things that are." Staying true to the core of what you know to be right, and just and good for the many, even if it costs you convenience and maybe even your job is not worth compromising. So I say to you Senators that voted against witnesses because you feared it might affect your future electability, my heart goes out to you, because to be ruled by fear is a hard way to live, and it is the best and easiest way to give control of your life over to others. You are not leading, you are not representing, you are acquiescing. Even if the worst is true, and you will not be elected, you still have eleven months in the room where it happens to make the best happen.

As to the second, giving your boss what they need. Your boss is not President Trump, no matter what he has on you, says he will do for or against you, or promises in return for self-serving loyalty. Your boss is the country, your state, your citizens. Your boss is us. What we need is to believe in integrity again. We need to believe that the purity of statement number one is possible in the real world. We need to believe that you care more about us than you do about your job security or your personal legacy. We need to see courage in order to reaffirm our own, in order to believe that our actions are not futile. That with patience and diligence and civility, we can be united in a way that celebrates and respects differences of opinion. That multiple truths can exist at once, and lead us to seek how that diversity illuminates a new collaborative truth. We need to see you love what this country aspires to be more than keeping your job. That is what your boss needs.

It's not going to happen overnight or with one vote. It will happen over time, as courage becomes habit. It will continue to be complicated and fraught, but at the heart of every tangle is the need for a few seconds of absolute bravery to care more about what is right rather than what is easy.

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.