An Ode To A Dad

When I was three and four and five, I had a knack for parading about in my favorite blue leotard, white stockings and black ballet shoes.  I’m not sure if I thought I was a ballerina or a fairy princess but it doesn’t matter because that’s not the part I remember, really.  Moreover, I remember the fact that my dad let me.  I slept in those shoes; I walked outside in those shoes: I’m pretty sure that entire outfit was adhered to my body, with little girl glue.  If I could get away with it, today, at 33, I’d probably parade about in the same outfit- only I’d add a tutu.  Probably one with sparkles on it.

He’s been a constant and I consider myself the luckiest woman alive to have such a man as a Father.  My introduction to wine was picking varied fruits, with my dad, so he could ferment all the goodness in his own masterpiece.  My first sip of liqueur was of the berried fashion around the age of 11 or 12 when that pesky introduction in to womanhood got the better of both of us, really.  My dad’s old-school and bloody hell- that tonic proved a miracle.  That was a treasured secret between us both for some time.  

 If I had to, I could change a tire on a car because of my Dad.  I am self-sufficient because I have a dad who encouraged and forced me to pave a way for myself. 

I am a traveler because of my Dad.   I’ve a deep and thorough love-affair with Paris because my Dad and I stood before the Eiffel Tower at midnight, watching the lights fire up the tower in to a blaze of romanticism.  Yes, effectively, I love Paris because of my Dad.

I’m a reader and lover of history and theology because my Dad’s taken the time to discuss, with me, the possibility that such a man as King Arthur may have taken seat at a very real Round Table.  Discussions around the most suitable time-frame and Arthur’s training as a Roman soldier before heading home to Britain is one I’ve only had with my Dad. 

He’s let me spew the blasphemous notion that Mary Magdelene and Jesus may have married- and he doesn’t deem me as ridiculous in this fancy.  I rather prefer this story to what may otherwise be a long-held traditional truth and I admire him for giving me that freedom where other may chastise me.

My dad is a quiet, level-headed man, driven by reason and logic.  He is also warm, kind and the epitome of calm.  He loves my mother and has loved her, I believe, since the first day they met.  And I like to think of theirs as a romance not often found in this time.  He’s also the man who let me put pink barrettes in his hair, polish his cheeks with rouge and paint his nails with a glistening clear polish.  Oh my, how I was proud of my efforts in those days.

He’s still the first person I call when my car breaks down.  He’s still the first person I call when my head spins in to history mode and I suddenly find I’m unable to remember when Hadrian’s Wall was constructed. 

And what some folks don’t know is that this man was my second chance.  He’s my step-father but I’m not sure I’ve ever really thought of him as that far-removed from my own notion of what a father is.  He’s taken me as his own, loved me as his own.  When you get old and ponder your beginnings, it becomes hard to find words that match your gratitude.  My Dad is nothing short of a miracle in my life and what I feel for him, the magnitude of my gratefulness for him, isn’t something I can put together with a limited character range of 26 symbols.  It’s profound, somewhere far beyond that, I suppose.

Really, Dad, I love you for who you are, for the path you chose to walk with me and for the support you show me every day.  Blood may run thicker than water but love runs thicker than blood- and that’s what you are to me- fearless love.

                Happy Dad’s Day, Papi.  I wish every girl was as fortunate as myself to grow up with a man like you at her side.

On Writing About a Bunch of Stuff No One Cares About

A co-worker and I danced around those topics about which we write.  He writes about being a dad.  He writes about the breath and pulse of the city and he writes with a voice that is honest and resonates with his sense of humor.  

I write about…stuff no one really cares about.

And while we laughed a little at ourselves, and maybe a bit at one another, we spoke more about why we write. 

My mom suggested once that writing, for someone like me, is like breathing for anyone else.  And while it’s extreme and self-admittedly silly, the simile’s right on par, really.  I write a lot.  I have shelves lined with smashed books and even more shelves sheltering hundreds of pieces of paper, slammed with tiny letters, I just can’t seem to part with.  I have reams of paper, notepads and notebooks at the ready should something come to mind. I keep them at work, at home, in the car, beside my bed, in my purse and if I could find a water-proof tablet and pen, I’d keep both in my shower because with water comes wisdom.   I write at work, maybe when I shouldn't be.  I text myself notes about characters who take up space in my head.  I write mostly because too much exists in my head and I get lost, there, sometimes, like when I think about fries...

I have a maddening love affair with fries, especially McDonald’s fries and I spend time mulling over the fact that sometimes I hate myself for how much I love McDonald’s fries despite that the fact that I know better.  I think about the social impacts McDonald’s has on the “family dinner” and the deranged factory farms from whom they purchase their meat.  And I think about all those kids who will grow up thinking lettuce is a floppily over-sogged piece of green that looks sort of like bile.  And I think about how places like McDonald’s only procure our society’s assumption that eating foods grown from deep brown earth by people who've known and sewn the ground for generations is not only less cost effective but also less satisfying than eating a soggy slab of cow. We just cannot seem to appreciate the simplicity of a ruby-red sun-drenched fresh tomato bathed in sheets oil and vinegar.

 And then I think about the damn fries again.  McDonald’s fries are an explosion of salted amazingness. 

And since this will live in my head for a while I decide to write about how it feels to hate one’s self for loving those damn fries.  And I don’t write about the fries for anyone but myself.  Because really, who cares?

And I think, for a moment, I might be ridiculous.

And my co-worker’s words come back to me.

He explains that we write because we have to.  Not for the purposes of entertainment; nor for recognition.  Not even to educate.  We’re not trying to make a point.  We’re just…breathing.  In and out.

We write because we have to, despite what our tirades may say about us.  We’re a little off.

But he did simply say “it’s the crazy ones that make it.”

I reassess for a moment and know there’s some other eco/animal-fanatic who also loves McDonald’s fries as much as I do.  So perhaps it’s me writing about fries and slaughter houses for that person; so they know they aren't alone.

I've not posted anything here in some time.  Not because I don’t have anything to say but because what I have to say is sometimes so minimal in comparison to the intellectual complexities we’re bound to in this life.  And as much as I’d love to write intelligently about those said complexities; sometimes I just have to write about nothing. There’s this weighted pressure to ensure that one’s words measure up to something meaningful, wise and enchanting. 

And the simple fact remains: not every teller of stories' voice is equal to that of Isabel Allende’s and not every thought is as provocative as those belonging to Herman Hesse.

Sometimes it just is and that is enough.

Thus there exists a troop of folks who write despite the fact that few may care though it gives us the space to take a breath.  It provides us with the momentum of following through with what it is we simply must do.  Deep breaths in and out, providing release from those thoughts which swim through the veins of thought: gone and expelled, making room for more.

So, cheers to me (and those around me- I vow to be less haggard in return for the freedom of having removed these crazy bits from my noggin) for writing about the stuff no one cares about once more.

Hip and Awesome Surf Swag

It used to be that surfers, in most places, paid homage to the single greatest force of their own sacred haven: the ocean.  With her currents always wavering and her massive self an expansive place of solitude, reverie and risk, the sport was about nature; not man.  Not fashion and not hair do's.  Seriously?

Surfer Magazine never caught my attention as script which ever really notated the true life of a surfer- and now, looming through the mags pages is well, stupid.  I feel stupid reading the thing.  Those who pay heed to the sport as a way of life don't have the cash flow to support Tom's shoes.  They wear flip flops.  Attire consists of the most limited drapery of what's most readily available, be it clean...or not.  You're going to the beach.  Have you been to a beach?  There's water.  Quite a bit of it, actually.  Duds will only suffer under the rays of the sun, bleaching fancy swag.  Sweet kicks prove more frustrating than sweet.  Have you tried to walk, or even run, on the sand, in close-toed shoes of any kind?  It's hard.  Then, there's the nature of the beach itself.  It's messy.  Very messy.  And then, you gotta kick off your sweet $70 Vans in order to get in the water.  You gotta relieve yourself of your awesome new aqua T-shirt from Hollister which showcases some stick figure on a board, trailing through a tunnel, on a board.  Really?

The lack of fashion passion, is for a surfer, not a thing to be trifled with, nor is fashion what most of us want to read about in a magazine whose purpose is to take on a few surfing journeys.  But then, I try and actually read the articles and it's like navigating my way through a disjointed acid trip.  The beginning sentences are framed in a way that brings me to a place of horror.  The frame in which the first part of the sentence is encased appears to be similar to that of some hostage release letter.  It's blocky and ugly and takes my mind away from the point of the story, and now I'm so angry about having to navigate my way through advertisements, acid-trip colors, logos blocked by giant neon green pot leaves, I'm not even interested in reading the damn article.

So why read it, then?  Great question.  I suppose I could shut my trap and leave well enough alone, but the fact that the mass population, say....like kids in land-locked Oklahoma might be reading about the sport through the eyes of some pompous money-ridden mag makes me sad.  This is not what surfing is about and I still stand firm by my belief, that crapola like this is not the basis upon which sea-faring athletes base their love.  And I guess that's my point, really.

For those who stand strong in their love of the sport, one single thing remains true.  Respect.  Lots of kids spend plenty of time just staring off in to space when at the beach.  The immensity of the ocean is not something most of us believe we can "overpower."  That surfers respect their limits...most of the time...is something which holds to true to the honor one feels when on a board and totally at the liberty of the sea's own navigation.  The most handsome, saucy and brilliant surfers will tell you they respect her limits.  Being on a board, in the middle of nowhere, is prayer to lots of folks.  Having the honor of gliding over the seas and under the greatest open sky is an honor; it's church to these sorts of folks.

So, I guess I'll lay off on the reading of pretty much any hip awesome surfing mag and stick to the stories about kids (now old guys) who worked 3 jobs in summer in order to buy their first board and then grew to discover the smallness of their own ego the first time they were swallowed up by the changing tide, only to fall in love with a piece of nature.

Nothing.

Funny thing life is.

The ironies and the simultaneous moments which oppose one another, in one giant stint of chaos.  When you see the logistical success which you have attained but then  feel that somehow the world and her singing birds have slipped, some, from their well-hinged axis.  Washing in a tiny shower filled with every big thing there is to feel.  When Metallica songs are played by four simple cellos.  And when the world is cold outside and your insides are snugged warm and tight.  And when a cold-hearted day is warmed by the grace of a humming white cat.  Or when freshly swept, polished and mopped floors are suddenly dusted once again with white only moments later.  Or when you come to find that in some lights you have become who you so wished not to be, aware suddenly that through all the fighting, you've not fought hard enough, still, to be who you envisioned.

And then there is the security of a few tiny and weak-standing walls.  There is peace in the fur-covered wood floors you just mopped because it is something you recognize and life without the source of the fur just couldn't be the same.  And then in this tiny space one finds that the chaos and the unknown is suddenly hushed and quieted as soon as the door shuts behind you, placing a well intended barrier between yourself and everything you cannot control- like the axis spinning, just a smidge off kilter.  It's here that you finally see that though it's one of the worst, your bed is in fact perfect and just what you need.

When it becomes so quiet that you come to see that the race you're running and won has long since ended and that all along the way, you've missed the sight of gnarled branches uprooting from the earth, the green of the trees and the veins of their leaves and the trumpeted voices of the birds whose songs were meant to urge you to move forward.

When you realize that you are quiet and hushed like hot tea...not gregarious and bold like a red wine.

When suddenly you are the small sound of a simple whisper and like it.

Day 21: Best inside joke

Oh boy...this could take a while...focus.  Focus.

The hardest part about describing why an inside joke is so funny is because of the nature of its existence: it's kept within the confines of folks who were present at the birth of something which made its presence known, somehow and most times really isn't all that funny to the rest of us, but here goes...

Namaste:  my childhood friend and best manfriend has a way of taking the simplest things in life and expanding them in to something show-worthy.  I would compare him to Seinfeld, but it's not the same thing really.  Take yoga for instance.  It's a heavily sought after outlet for a multitude of reasons- the benefits are expansive, varied and tangible.  They're also a benefit to one's sense of personal peace and inner mindset.  Then take James' ability to play any instrument on the planet.  Then add a dash of perverse sense of humor.  Mix 'em all together, and try to do even 5 minutes of yoga in his presence.  You wont be able to do it.  The sweet sounds of some terrible New Age music filters through the air and just as you get in to downward dog, he's naming the poses as you flow through your set...and it's not so much the look on his face that makes it so painful but the tone of his voice...it's indescribable, but in my stead to really push through the course of something as simple as a sun salutation, I suddenly imagine trying to take a yoga class with him....I'd pee my pants before I got to minute 4.  It just could never happen.

"Namaste...."

Day 20: Why do you love to cook?

Oh my goodness...I could write a book about the reasons why.

I may not know the science of food, but I know the passion of food, and it started with my Mom's family in the South.  A place where breakfast is breakfast, lunch is dinner and dinner is suppa'.  I have dreamy recollections of sitting down, with a table of 20 and eating myself full of happiness.  Forget recognizing when you're too full in my family- you're too busy laughing to stop stuffing.

I also give some of my love of cooking to the novel "Like Water For Chocolate."  The idea that a person loves so much, feels so much that she dispenses her emotional state in to the food she cooks is a profound notion to me.  Food tells stories.  Where it comes from tells a story.  Is your lemon from your backyard, or is it imported from down south?  What's it remind you of when you smell it.

The memories the smell of food triggers are unrelenting to me, and to be able to harness those memories, to see the smiles of those eating my food makes me whole.  Baking bread brings me back to Paris.  Fish tacos to Mexico and black beans back to Costa Rica.

Food is magic, if you let it be.

Childhood memories swarm to the front of my brain when I smell chocolate baking, hot in an oven.

The crazy spice of peppers, grilling gently on the stove reminds me of my boyfriend's mastery of all things salsa and spicy.

I love to cook because it forces me to try something new.  A beautiful cake is instant gratification- entirely selfish, yes, I know.

Watching a person bite in to a piece of cake, and sit back just to take it in is better than tv.

Then, of course, there's the apothecary...the use of herbs for healing purposes.  Aloe heals burns.  Ginger calms the stomach.  Chamomile eases...lavendar induces peace...the list just goes on.  Plants are our food.  They are our first aid.  Food is the story of family.  Food is heart and soul in my book.

And I love to eat too....

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Day 19: Why young adult novels?

Ah...this one's interesting.

I suppose it's true that I do have a soft spot for young adult novels.

There are a multitude of reasons for this, namely the recognition that so many of these novels touch on facets of life we find, still present, as adults.  Lost love...unrequited love....the pains of finding your spot in life.  So many of these novels are really a great depiction and example of the "Hero's Journey."  We all find ourselves on some path at some point.  It gets muddied, twisted, confusing and ridiculous.

I remember, to the day, the moment I realized it might behoove me to read what kids were reading.  As a student teacher, there existed moments in which I had to remind my students to put their books down, in prep for the next task.  It was with a happy heart, I watched some students red, completely immersed in another place.  A place they could relate.   A hero or heroine they responded to, respected and understood, whose challenges were similar to their own in life.  I suppose what really pushed me was the desire to get to know what it was they really related to and what it was in a story, that made a book so hard to put down.

Mostly, I suppose I love young adult novels because there still exists on those pages a place in which a person might still be able to refine themselves and find a place they admire and adhere to.

For some of us, finding a character with whom we identify is a relief of sorts.  To know that a person out there has experienced what we have and to see that person rise from the ashes is inspiring.  And as an adult, we are able to recognize that though that character may be unreal, at least the author cares enough about something and someone to write a story about overcoming some loss or moment...

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