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.

Menopause Raptor

Menopause was lonely. That's the only explanation I can think of. She's kind of kept to herself recently. It's been nice, really; I mean, she's not horrible, yet, but it has been nice to sleep more and be less itchy. She made it pretty clear today, though, that she's feeling neglected. She got me up at 5:00 with both barrels of restlessness and anxiety. I tried ghosting her by playing Candy Crush and Wordscapes in hopes of falling back to sleep, but then she countered with a slow creeping hot flash, that never got out of hand, but sent the message that she was not to be trifled with. The dogs seemed to be on her side as they licked my face with aggressive affection.

Round 1: Menopause

So, I got up in acknowledgement that she wanted to play. But now she was on my turf. I generally tend to kick ass at mornings. Today was no exception. I fed the dogs, ate breakfast, finished knitting a Dr. Who hat, went for a run, made breakfast for offspring #1, sent the emails, gave a pep talk to my husband, and picked up those five things I forgot yesterday at the grocery store(forgetfulness should have tipped me off that she was laying her foundation).

Round 2: Me

She's a patient little raptor, though. I was pretty confident that I had turned the tables, and then the crook of my elbow started itching. She skipped a few levels and went straight for the odd and obscure. I assumed it was because I was wearing a long sleeved sweater for the first time since last year, because that made sense to me. That felt controllable and logical. The elbow pits needed airing after being so used to their freedom for the last five months. But the itching persisted, as did a few small red bumps. Oh, of course, it's a bug bite. That makes even more sense. Maybe I got it on my run. Then it started on the other elbow. That seemed weird to me. Either the the October bugs are impressively synchronized, or something else is wrong. So I armchair MD'd it. I literally googled "itching in crook of elbow," and many things came up which was a relief and yet another reminder that I am, in fact, ordinary. As I read all the explanations for elbow crook eczema (allergies, reaction to fabrics or perfumes, etc), it occurred to me to google one more thing. "Menopause eczema." There were multiple headings. I clicked on one, and the kicky picture they used to set the tone of the article was a women's arm. Just the arm, being scratched by the the other arm right in the crook of the elbow.

Round 3: Menopause Raptor

I get it menopause. You will not be denied. You are a worthy adversary. I enjoy our banter and lively hormonal chess games. I get that you want me to be less Irish about all of this and drink more Kombucha, but I am not yet ready to give up chocolate chip cookies for ones sweetened with the honeyed richness of age and wisdom. For today, I will drink an extra glass of water. I'll surrender that rook to you. But I'm coming for you tomorrow. I'm taking that melatonin with a glass of wine and a giddy defiance.

Your move.

Whimsy in an Everyday Day

What if I left?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone and always hit the "I can't talk right now" option when they called?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone and always hit the "I can't talk right now" option when they called, and brought one of the dogs?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone and always hit the "I can't talk right now" option when they called, and brought one of the dogs, and sold geeky knitted crafts at comic-cons across the country?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone and always hit the "I can't talk right now" option when they called, and brought one of the dogs, and sold geeky knitted crafts at comic-cons across the country, and stayed in Air BnB's that realized my fantasy of living in a cool cozy quirky apartment?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone and always hit the "I can't talk right now" option when they called, and brought one of the dogs, and sold geeky knitted crafts at comic-cons across the country, and stayed in Air BnB's that realized my fantasy of living in a cool cozy quirky apartment, and ate bread and cheese all day like we all say we want to when we're not quite drunk but tipsy enough to believe in possibility?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone and always hit the "I can't talk right now" option when they called, and brought one of the dogs, and sold geeky knitted crafts at comic-cons across the country, and stayed in Air BnB's that realized my fantasy of living in a cool cozy quirky apartment, and ate bread and cheese all day like we all say we want to when we're not quite drunk but tipsy enough to believe in possibility, and had to scale back to prepackaged cheddar, but still sharp cheddar, because my cost to profit ratio for career knitting was different than I envisioned?

What if I left and didn't tell anyone and always hit the "I can't talk right now" option when they called, and brought one of the dogs, and sold geeky knitted crafts at comic-cons across the country, and stayed in Air BnB's that realized my fantasy of living in a cool cozy quirky apartment, and ate bread and cheese all day like we all say we want to when we're not quite drunk but tipsy enough to believe in possibility, and had to scale back to prepackaged cheddar, but still sharp cheddar, because my cost to profit ratio for career knitting was different than I envisioned, and I tripped on the uneven sidewalk outside the grocery store where I have to buy my more financially accessible cheese and landed hard on my knee and dominant knitting hand?

and I did not have the liquidity to cover the co-pay?

and I realized that this day was offspring #2's birthday?

and by hitting "can't talk right now" so many times I have alienated him beyond the healing powers of a witty text laced with love and the perfect hint of poignancy?

and I couldn't knit anymore because the anticipated arthritis from falling on my hand hits almost immediately?

and the Air BnB's smell funny?

and even my dog understands that whims get complicated?

and maybe instead of leaving I should live a little and suggest we get Chinese?

and that is how I will add whimsy to this everyday day.

What Did You Do Today

What did you do today?

I, ummm... I checked things off of my manageable list. I used to put eat breakfast on my list. Not because I forget to eat breakfast, but because I knew that would be something I could definitely check off.

I'm face to face with that free time we often dream of. You know the "If I only had more free time I'd do (fill in the blank)" free time. It's not as blissful as you might think. It is often quite paralyzing, in fact. It's not a given that free time will be filled with brilliant achievement or soul cleansing actualization. Most of my free time is spent fearing that I lack what's necessary to fulfill the potential I have long believed has laid dormant due to life, kids, husband, details.

On my manageable list for the last two weeks has been "write." I like writing. What keeps me from writing is the How & Why. How will this be any different than anything else I've tried? How will it result in anything more than polite compliments from friends and family? Why go back to something this late in life when no one could possibly be interested? Why bother? How & Why. Those words curtail my free time into manageable lists. And there is always one word left uncrossed off on those lists at the end of each day. Write.

But not today. Today I set my timer for ten minutes. I'd write for ten minutes. And then that word will get crossed off today's list. And written anew tomorrow.

So, for now, I'll write until the...

A Mother's Day Talk of Shame

Mother’s day is complicated for me. It is not a day of emotional rainbow unicorns and puppies turned inside out and wrapped in brunch, flowers and another meaningful charm for a bracelet that gets in the way when I do just about everything. This is probably because motherhood is complicated for me. The best word I can use to describe it is relentless. Don’t judge me before you look up relentless. It is relentless in its challenges and its joys, its triumphs and its failures, its monotony and its surprises. I do not recognize my experience in the current Mother’s Day mythology; so my tribute to mothers will not be dipped in pastel and served with a mimosa. It will, instead, be coated in something sticky, seasoned heavily with shame and incredulity, and accompanied by something a little stronger which has hopefully been aged in a barrel.

1. I'm embarrassed that I care about Mother's Day.
2. My house is dirty most of the time.
3. My children love each other, but are not friends.
4. Sometimes I block my son’s number.
5. Pretty sure I’m going to have to rely on my dogs to care for me in my old age.
6. My ideal Mother’s Day is a day without my family.
7. I hate grocery shopping.
8. I know for a fact that everyone else is a better mother than I am.
9. I know for a fact that nobody else knows how to parent my kids better than I do.
10. I know for a fact that I have no idea what I’m doing.
11. I am jealous of your kids’ success, genuinely happy for it, but, yes, jealous too.
12. Part of me keeps doing all the cooking, and baking and nurturing crap in hopes that they will eventually have a eureka moment about reciprocity.
13. My husband makes long impossible to-do lists for every weekend. He can’t wait to check off make Mary breakfast & buy Mary gift every second Sunday in May.
14. I don’t remember my children’s first words, I was too exhausted to write them down.
15. I know I cannot actually make them happy, but I keep doing everything possible to make them happy.
16. Sometimes it’s not my fault that it’s their fault.
17. It’s great that they put their dishes in the sink, but why the fuck can’t they put them in the dishwasher.
18. Their suffering still twists my heart into pain and fury.
19. Perhaps my greatest failure as a parent is their inability to find anything.
20. Sometimes I get pissed that I’m always the last one allowed to get pissed.
21. There are many things I could have done if I hadn’t become a mother.
22. There is not a single one of them that I would trade for being a mother.
23. No experience has ever taught me more about the glorious beauty of imperfection and chaos.
24. Don’t ask me what I want for breakfast, after all these years you should know it involves breakfast pastries and bacon.

You are all fierce, beautiful, fabulous for your flaws warriors, who embrace every facet of Relentless every day! Happy Mother's Day.

Bob Newhart Got it Right

Endings are hard. Just ask the writers of Saturday Night Live. Sometimes they end a sketch well, but those are usually in the first half hour. Because endings are hard. That's why there are two too many seasons of The Office, the "see everything turned out alright" ending of Broadcast News, and the coda at the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Bob Newhart got it right, but he is one of the few. Because endings are hard. The finality of letting go is so unknown.

I often do not know my ending when I begin. I learned from improv that if I pay attention, trust my instincts and build on what is in front of me, the ending will present itself. I look at writing as a process of discovery; a continuing suspenseful delicious unveiling of the truth. Every blog post I have written over the last five years has been a product of this search for this often ridiculous and surprising truth. I promised to always tell you the truth, and it has been the easiest and most rewarding act of my life thus far. Easy because of the courage I find in words, and rewarding because the discovery behind the meaning each post's unique collection of words grants helps me breathe deeper, walk steadier and see clearer than I did before.

And now the ending is presenting itself.

There is no drama. There is no single reason. There is no big news. I am not done parenting, not by a long shot. And I am still making plenty of mistakes and figuring it out as I go along. It simply seems that life, circumstance and plain old instinct is leading me to figure it out in different ways.

I thank you for reading, for sharing, for commenting. My ongoing hopes are that we do not feel alone in our doubts, that we embrace our beautiful flaws and recognize their strength, and we continue to laugh at ourselves because we need to wear our imperfections like badges of honor. Let your loved ones see you fail and not give up, so that they feel comfortable doing the same. Because without failure, we lose innovation.

This Blog began five years ago with a list; a letter to my kids about what I really wanted for Mother's Day. So, since Mother's Day is right around the corner...

What I really want to give myself for Mother's Day

1. I want to forgive myself.
2. I want to remember I have not made my last mistake.
3. I want to keep laughing at myself.
4. I want to take the non-mom part of me out for a drink and see what she's all about.
5. And I wouldn't mind an unnecessary pair of shoes.

Thank you all.