So what exactly is a community organizer?
Category: News and Politics
When Gov. Sarah Palin was interviewed by Larry Kudlow on CNBC just one month before accepting her party's VP nom, she seemed a little unclear about the 2nd seed job description.
In fact, she said she didn't know what the vice president does.
Kudlow (of "Kudlow & Co.") asked her about the possibility of becoming McCain's ticket mate.
Palin replied: "As for that VP talk all the time, I'll tell you, I still can't answer that question until somebody answers for me what is it exactly that the VP does every day? I'm used to being very productive and working real hard in an administration. We want to make sure that that VP slot would be a fruitful type of position, especially for Alaskans and for the things that we're trying to accomplish up here for the rest of the U.S., before I can even start addressing that question."
It's unknown whether McCain's team has had time to brief her on exactly what the VP does every day, but what is clear is that she has no earthly idea what a community organizer does every day. And perhaps that should come as no surprise.
Wikipedia describes community organizing like this: "Community organizing is a process by which people are brought together to act in common self-interest. While organizing describes any activity involving people interacting with one another in a formal manner, much community organizing is in the pursuit of a common agenda. Many groups seek populist goals and the ideal of participatory democracy. Community organizers create social movements by building a base of concerned people, mobilizing these community members to act, and developing leadership from and relationships among the people involved."
Community organizers have brought women the right to vote, fought for equal rights for black Americans, and established child labor laws. They have included César Chávez (farm labor organizer and Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient), Jane Addams (first woman to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize), and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (winner of the Nobel Peace Prize and recipient of both the Presidential Medal of Freedom and Congressional Gold Medal). Conservative Christians need organizing, too, apparently, as evidenced by the long career of community organizing by Rev. Pat Robertson. Yes, his Christian Coalition of America is a FBCO, or faith-based community organization.
Chicago has a rich history of community organizing. Think Mother Jones (famed champion for child labor laws), Saul Alinsky (father of community organizing and author of "Rules for Radicals"), and Gale Cincotta (Chicago activist to led the movement to end "redlining" by banks and savings and loans).
So being a community organizer in Chicago is really nothing like being a small town mayor. And to say so flippantly that it is falls as a tremendous disrespect to all those who have fought and suffered so that those who had been abused, neglected and maltreated by our society could fight and suffer no more. It discounts their significance in our country's history. And it shows just how absolutely out of touch the Alaska governor is with the reality of the working class in the other 49 states.
Currently
reading
:
Rules for Radicals
By
Saul Alinsky
Release date: 1989-10-23
Along came Palin.
Current mood: inspired
Category: News and Politics
I love Hillary Clinton. And anyone who knows me knows my excitement about her began when I worked advance on her campaign appearance at the University of Memphis in 1992 and never waned.
If my political activitism and party involvement had not come to an end when I began working for NBC news in 1994, I probably would have been one of the Hillary delegates on the floor at the DNC last week. But as it was, I watched from my living room and marveled at her pride. Her guts. Her grace. And I decided I would vote for Obama because she *wanted* me to vote for Obama. Still, I could not imagine that I could ever do more than vote for him. I could not activate others or find the kind of passion that had fueled my support of Clinton.
Then along came Palin.
And suddenly I found my motivation to be more than just an Obama voter. To campaign for him. To become passionate about him.
I'm insulted that the Republicans thought they could win my support by selecting a VP nom with body parts like mine. Because I can't imagine Sarah Palin and I have anything more than our body parts in common.
If the news articles from her past were lines in a screenplay, it would be hilarious. But the reality is gravely serious. Still, I'm kind of glad she's emerged to give us all the motivation we needed to drink the Kool-Aid, sing Kumbayah and chant "Yes we can," because now... we must.
Currently
listening
:
Yes We Can!
By
Maria Muldaur
Release date: 2008-07-22
Blogless in Beijing
Current mood: uncomfortable
Category: News and Politics
My friend Julie is a freelance graphics designer. One of the neat projects she is involved in periodically is graphics for the Olympics on NBC. She has travelled to work at a few Games and always sets up a blog to offer a behind the scenes look at the city and the games. In Beijing now for the summer games, she had begun to blog about her adventures. But today she was forced to take her blog down.
What a sad affair. For the life of me I can't understand why the world has given the honor of hosting the Olympics to a country that appears to be the antithesis of the intended spirit of the Games.
Currently
watching
:
Lost in Beijing Release date: 2008-05-13
This isn't mine, but I love it and want to share it. It's from storypeople.com and was featured in today's "story of the day" e-mail. Fabulous. Pea
NOTHING MORE
Often, I write all day long with white ink on white paper, late into the night, until it is all I can do to feel the letters curving to earth from the tip of the pen & then, I fall asleep. Dreaming of running, or maybe driving in a car the color of water & I wake the next day remembering nothing & I gather the stack of paper & a pen of black on the desk in front of me & the words begin to dance over the page like long legged insects across a still lake & the words in white whisper behind & underneath the new day. If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.
Green up your clean up.
Current mood: excited
Category: Life
Just wanted to show off our new packaging! Herb'n Maid is launching our green cleaning product line at St. Louis Earth Day on April 20th. We'll sell direct to consumers at the event and then to our clients for a few weeks after that. But by the end of May, we'll be directing interested parties to retail outlets that will be carrying our products.
We're rolling out the line with three products and will later make some of our other products available, too. For now, though, we're packaging our Herbal All Purpose Cleaner with pure wintergreen oil, Herbal Wood Cleaner with pure juniper berry oil and Herbal Glass Cleaner with pure tangerine oil. Our products are made in small batches with all natural ingredients. They work great and smell divine!
My friend and former colleague Darren Brune designed our labels, and they just couldn't be more beautiful. We're going to be crazy busy here at Herb'n Maid from now until Earth Day, but it's exciting stuff!
Click the thumbnail below to see a large image of our product line.
Quickpost this image to Myspace, Digg, Facebook, and others!
J
Currently
listening
:
Come Clean
By
Puddle of Mudd
Release date: 28 August, 2001
What we can’t discuss in America
Current mood: inquisitive
Category: News and Politics
I wanted to share this column with you. The writer raises some interesting points that are worthy of consideration and discussion. -Pea
WHAT WE CAN’T DISCUSS IN AMERICA by Victoria A. Brownworth
copyright c 2008 Journal-Register Newspapers, Inc.
Much of the past two weeks on the political landscape has been spent discussing Barack Obama, his pastor, Jeremiah Wright and how race is addressed–or not–in America.
Obama gave what many thought was an important speech here in Philadelphia after Wright’s controversial and inflammatory comments hit the mainstream media. Whether it served to broaden discourse on the subject of race in America remains to be seen. I haven’t noticed that there’s any less tension between the Asian shopkeepers in my neighborhood and the African Americans who live here.
The conversation is taking place at the same level it always has done: among educated black and white Americans who think of themselves as "post-racial."
Real America is not post-racial, however. Real America has biases we have not even begun to address. One of those biases is gender.
I envied Barack Obama last week when he was speaking. Not an envious position, certainly, having to somehow explain why you are raising your children in a church so fueled by misinformation, anger and hatred. Or why you consider the man making the misinformed, angry and hate-mongering statements your mentor. Nevertheless, I was envious.
Why? Because for the 30-odd years of my life as a civil rights activist I have wanted to be able to both make or hear a speech like Obama’s–except about gender.
I have, of course, as someone who has written about these issues for decades and thus fallen into the role of "expert," been privileged to be a regular speaker on panels, on radio programs and on TV about gender bias in America . But I have never had the kind of national forum Obama had last week. Nor do I know any woman–more famous or less famous than I--who has.
Three hours after Obama spoke at the Constitution Center , Hillary Clinton was speaking at City Hall.
Hillary Clinton can’t give the speech about gender that Obama gave about race. We just aren’t there yet. As far behind as we are on race in America , we are light years further behind on gender.
This election should have provided the perfect forum to discuss race and gender. Clinton alluded to that with a kind of wistfulness at her appearance in Philadelphia –but knew she had to change the subject.
Because we aren’t there yet. A black man speaking about racial bias is considered brave and ground-breaking, but a woman speaking about gender bias is considered a coward and a whiner.
A few months ago, the award-winning editorial cartoonist Pat Oliphant did a cartoon which ran first in the Washington Post and then in the Philadelphia Inquirer that was outrageously sexist–depicting Hillary Clinton as a cry-baby unable to deal with world leaders.
If we need a litmus for whether we are further ahead on race than gender in America , that cartoon was one example.
Here’s another: MSNBC hosted an entire show with GOP strategist, Roger Stone. Stone was there to discuss founding a new group called Citizens United Not Timid. The group is an anti-Hillary Clinton 527. We can’t print the acronym in this family newspaper, but ask yourselves: would MSNBC host a program devoted to the founder of a group where the acronym spelled N.I.G.G.E.R.?
No.
Then there is the G.O.P. t-shirt with a red circle and slash through it, Sen. Clinton’s picture and this: HO8. A t-shirt with the female presidential candidate who is tied for front-runner for the Democratic Party as "ho."
The reality of race politics in America is this: Educated white Americans of any class do not use the word *nigger.* They don’t use it and most don’t even think it.
Yet it is perfectly acceptable to use the word "bitch," "ho" and even the word for female genitalia that is the acronym of that group run not by some marginal nutcase, but a well-respected member of the GOP, to describe women.
"Bitch" used to be one of the seven banned words by the FCC. No more. We say the "n" word rather than "nigger," because "nigger" is too offensive to even speak. But we now *accept* that "bitch" is common parlance, as is "ho."
At a speech given by John McCain, a woman in the audience asked–referring to Hillary Clinton’s candidacy–"How do we stop the bitch?"
There was laughter all around, including, sadly, from McCain himself, who has professed to be friends with Clinton .
Imagine someone asking McCain, "How do we stop the nigger?"
Do we think for an instant that there would have been laughter? Do we think if McCain had laughed, even if uncomfortably, that he would have been able to remain a candidate?
No. But as far as we have yet to go on racism, we are still light years ahead in that battle than we are battling gender bias.
One of the many inflammatory remarks of Rev. Wright was directed at Hillary Clinton. Wright queried, "Has Hillary ever been called a nigger? Has Hillary ever had a cab whizz by her because she was black?"
The simple answer to such race-baiting rhetoric is no.
But here’s the opposing question: Has Barack Obama ever been called the slang term for female genitalia or had a 527 founded about him using that acronym? Has Barack Obama ever been threatened with rape because he was a woman? No.
The parallels are there, but the reasons we don’t discuss them are far more damning of America than are the reasons we don’t discuss race. The fact is, most educated Americans *aren’t* racists. We know that no race is superior to another. But the majority of Americans–including women–are sexist and truly believe that men are superior to women.
That fundamental difference allows for the disparity in our society between men and women that damages the lives of *every* girl of *every* race growing up in America today. Every girl for whom Hillary Clinton’s candidacy is just as ground-breaking and thrilling as is Obama’s candidacy for African Americans.
Much has been made of surrogates for Clinton making comments that may have had a racial undertone to them, such as Geraldine Ferraro’s. But *every* surrogate for Obama has made sexist comments about Clinton , as has the candidate himself. No media outcry has occurred.
Obama has said, for example, "Taking tea with foreign leaders [something Sen. Clinton did as First Lady] is not foreign policy experience." Really? Because I thought diplomacy was key to foreign policy experience. When was the last–or first–time Obama took tea with foreign leaders?
The diminishing of the work women do is a constant in American society and discourse. Women’s work is devalued to the degree that in 2008, women *still* only make two-thirds of what men make for comparable work. There is no glass ceiling for men. There are more African American CEOs in corporate America than there are female ones. Yet women comprise 52 percent of the American demographic and African Americans represent 11 percent.
Race-based hate crimes remain a concern in America , but rape and domestic violence are the two most common violent crimes in the country, according to Department of Justice statistics. What’s more, according to those same statistics, one in four girls in America will be a victim of a sex crime before she turns 18. And the leading cause of death among pregnant women? Murder by a spouse or boyfriend.
These issues are all about gender.
Barack Obama may have faced racial bias growing up in Hawaii, going to private schools and later attending two Ivy League colleges–Columbia and Harvard. But Hillary Clinton has faced biases that Obama did not because the one thing that can be said in America today is that gender remains a bigger impediment than race in every venue of American life.
When Hillary Clinton attended Wellesley College , Ivy League schools like Columbia and Harvard were not yet open to women. When she attended law school at Yale–newly opened to women–she was one of only 20 women in her class.
Obama may have broken new ground with his speech last week in Philadelphia . He may have gotten a new conversation going about race.
Obama has two little girls. Unlike their African-American forebears, those little girls are not having to grow up hearing the "n" word. However, they *are* growing up hearing themselves and other girls referred to as *bitches,* *hos* and the "c" word.
We are starting to talk about one terrible legacy–racism–in America . The question is, when will we begin to talk about the other terrible one–the all-pervasive sexism that reduces women and girls and all their many and varied achievements into nothing every day in America and to which no one pays any attention at all?
My friends Boyce and Beth Wallace are my heroes. They moved to Colombia, South America when they were in their 30s, packing up their two young children and driving south from Texas through Mexico and Central America to begin a life as missionaries in Colombia. They built churches. They founded schools. They created hot lunch programs. They started a job training program for young widows of Colombia's violence. And in the 1990s when the other protestant denominations pulled their missionaries out of Colombia due to safety concerns, Boyce and Beth stayed. They said they had to because there was still so much they could do there.
Now they're in their 70s. Still in Colombia. Still working to improve the lives of Colombia's poor. It is Boyce and Beth Wallace who introduced me to the plight of Colombia's aging and who are working tirelessly to raise money to complete the construction of a nursing home in Cali. In their retirement, they accomplish more in a day to improve the lives of others than I can hope to accomplish in a year. They are, in a word, amazing.
Boyce has been keeping us abreast of the political situation in Colombia. He had been concerned about the looming threat of war, and from afar we have joined him in prayer for peace in Colombia. Today, though, we received this e-mail from him, and I wanted to share it with my MySpace friends.
Dear Friends,
We are rejoicing because the first step towards peace has been taken between Colombia, Ecuador, Nicaragua and Venezuela this afternoon. In a scheduled meeting of the Grupo de Rio, a meeting of Latin American presidents, in Santo Domingo, it was decided to openly deal with the crisis. The four presidents: Uribe of Colombia, Correa of Ecuador, Chavez of Venezuela and Ortega of Nicaragua, decided to present their disputes openly before the body. It was a heated debate with speeches for peace by other leaders.
Then in an unexpected intervention, Chavez went through a brief history of recent L:A: conflicts and revoluntary movements that have ended in peace with a minimum of blood- shed. Many of the former revolutionaries and "communists" were present representing their legitimate nations. Then he made an emotional plea for Peace! After all his war rhetoric, no one could believe what they heard. Soon after his speech, Uribe retreated from his hard line and they all got up and began hugging each other! This was happening before our eyes on Television. We could not help but cry at seeing peacemaking before our eyes.
Maybe this is a premature celebration and we pray it is not. We believe the Lord was working before our eyes on screen. Accusers and accused, insulters and insultaded all changing their positions: It was like the close of a revival service. Here were Latins solving their own problems by themselves. No doubt this meeting is going to be interpreted in many ways, positive and negative, but we rejoice and thank God for moving among these leaders and holding off what could have been an ugly war. You were praying with us. Now we want you to share in our thanksgiving to the Lord.
In this crisis, Beth and I asked ourselves what could we do as peacemakers according to the Beatitudes, and decided the only thing and the best thing we could do was pray for those who are working for a peaceful solution to this problem. It seemed so impossible at first, but was it?
Boyce and Beth
Currently
listening
:
Weightless
By
Katie Herzig
Release date: 31 January, 2006
Why I’m sitting at my desk with tears in my eyes
Current mood: distressed
Category: Pets and Animals
I don't blog enough. I keep so busy with my freelance writing and my new business that by the end of the day I can't seem to carve out time to reflect and write.
But this morning as I was working at my desk, I received an e-mail that shocked my system and sent me scurrying to MySpace to share it with my friends. It's graphic and it's hard to watch, but it must be seen. Please take a few minutes to view this Humane Society investigation of a beef supplier that provides most of the hamburger to school lunch programs for children across the country. Watch it. Think about it. Share it. That this kind of thing happens in the US is unimaginable.
You don't have to be a vegetarian to be overwhelmed by this investigation. Anyone with a soul and a conscience will be moved by these images. Thanks for taking the time and for trusting me when I say: This video must be seen. This video must be shared. This video must be discussed. (If my links don't work, you can view them at http://video.hsus.org)
An update... after I initially posted this blog this morning, I returned to hsus.org and learned that 143 MILLION POUNDS of beef from this provider was just recalled as a result of this investigation. It is the largest beef recall in the history of the United States. Even if you won't watch the video, visit the web site and read about the problem and what YOU can do to help pressure Congress to close the loophole that allows this to happen.
I was thirsty today... thirsty for a big, hot mug of the stuff that made me feel so warm all over when I met him. Busy schedules can put a chill in the air between us when we are always coming and going in different directions. But I won't allow it. He won't allow it. And so I filled up the copper kettle and lit up the gas stove and then steeped myself in the stories of our new love. I held the cup to my lips and inhaled the warm steam of an exciting beginning when I was not afraid to pour out my heart and lay my soul bare and naked without apologies. The bits of our story I revealed here were like wholesome muffins popping over their tin pan, and today I feasted on them and re-nourished myself. And now I serve them up again so that I may return to them again and again whenever my shoulder turns cool or my faith runs... short. I am blessed.
PART ONE: First date originally posted on 05 May 2007
Oak bar on a Friday night. Pinstripe pants, shirtsleeves cuffed and a day's work behind him. He turns to see who is coming in the door. It's not her. He looks down to check his watch. Five minutes late turns to ten minutes late when he hears her say his name.
She's sitting next to him, wearing a dress that gently hugs her every curve. Wearing classic silver hoop earrings, a traditional silver watch and an artisan ring on her right hand that probably reminded her of happy times spent somewhere exotic. Wearing heels that were tall enough to elongate her slender legs but not too tall for taking a walk in the park. And wearing that smile. The smile that had drawn him to her the first time he'd laid eyes on it. And now she was sitting next to him wearing that smile just for him.
Leaning in, she kisses him softly on his left cheek and apologizes for having kept him waiting. He had already forgotten about that. Now that she was here, he knew he would have waited hours for her. And it would have been worth every second.
Nervousness has turned to excitement. He watches her eyes as she tells him about her day and suddenly realizes he has lost all sense of her words and has instead lost himself in the way her eyes look into his as she says them. They're green. He imagines that they appear even more intensely green against the colors in her dress. God she is beautiful. Beautiful because of the way she is put together and more beautiful still because she has absolutely no idea how beautiful she is.
He has shifted his glance from her eyes to her lips as she laughs at something he's just said. When she smiles, he notices that she has a habit of gently biting her bottom lip with the tip of her top front teeth. It's subtle and he wonders if anyone else has ever even taken the time to notice that she does this. It's endearing. And it makes him want to kiss her.
He feels her hand on his right hand, which has been resting on the edge of the oak bar. Suddenly he is back in the here and now and realizes that she has asked him a question, though he has no idea what it was. He gives in to his secret wish to kiss her, leaning in to put his hand on her cheek then applying a sweet, soft kiss to her high forehead. Her cheeks flush. Her right hand grazes her bare neck and it's obvious he has caught her off guard. He imagines she is not often caught off guard by much of anything, and he likes knowing that he has found a part of her that she has allowed herself to leave a bit vulnerable, just for him.
His soft, brown eyes lock onto her gaze and neither of them can look away. Something very important is happening here and he wonders if she realizes it. It has been nearly three years since the love of his life was taken from him suddenly and unexpectedly in a car crash. She was his first love and he had feared she'd been his last. Now, though, he had hope that this angel on the bar stool next to his was here to let him love again.
Age: 30. Status: widow. No matter how many times he'd written that on official documents, it had never lost its sting. When he'd met his wife, he'd never been with a woman except in the dreams he'd allowed himself in quiet moments as he'd laid in his bed alone. Two years after they'd married, he was once again alone in his bed and just sure he'd be alone the rest of his life. Tonight he wasn't so sure.
Again he feels her soft hand, this time on his arm. He was daydreaming again and she'd caught him. He wanted to enjoy the present moment with her, to savor this first date and go home remembering every detail. Perhaps it was the glass of wine, or the two glasses of wine, he'd had while he'd waited for her to arrive. But he felt heady and couldn't keep his mind from drifting into the future. His mother would adore her. His father would welcome her with open arms. And it wouldn't be long before his parents would begin asking for grandchildren. He laughs outloud and startles himself when he realizes what he's just done.
"What's so funny?" she asks him. He doesn't know what to say and dares not divulge his heart's over-eager plans for her. For them. So he takes her hand and raises it to his lips, removing the moment's awkwardness by kissing her hand the way he'd seen an elderly man in the movie ticket line caress his wife's hand, wrinkled and marked by all of the years they'd shared.
Again she blushes. The moment is interrupted by a waiter who's brought him the check. Is it really possible that this night is already over? He wished he'd insisted they have coffee and dessert. That would have ensured him another 30 or 40 minutes in her company. He'll remember that next time. God please let there be a next time.
He opens the door for her and they step out into the night air. "It's a beautiful night," she offers. He wants to tell her that every night must be beautiful wherever she goes, but he stops short because he knows that his sentiment will not translate well into English. His French accent allows him to get away with sharing more openly than American men could ever get away with. But this one is better kept to himself.
They walk toward their cars and he prays for God not to let this evening end yet.
"Would you be interested in going for a walk?" There it is. The words have come from her lips, not his. And now he knows she must be feeling at least a little bit of what he is feeling, too. So they walk, and as they cross the street, she slides her hand into his. Landing on the opposing curb, he grasps to make sure she doesn't take it away again. Hmmm. She doesn't even try to.
So they walk. He recognizes that she walks as effortlessly in those sexy heels as she might, he imagined, walk in a pair of old sneakers. They walk and talk and stop and talk. He fights to hold back the things he wants so much to tell her. How he'd given up hope of ever having what he is now so confident he can have with her. Such thoughts and words would scare her away. God please don't let me scare her away.
This first date ends just as the night sky begins to show hints of morning's impending arrival. He kisses her. Hard. He puts one hand on her cheek, the other on the back of her head. Her breathing changes and he knows he has discovered just how she likes to be kissed. So he does it again and again and again as many times as she will let him.
"Goodnight, and thank you for dinner and for a delightful evening."
She's ending the date now. The night really is over. He drives home alone, smiling and 100% sure that this... whatever "this" is... is just beginning.
He sleeps that night alone in his bed but for the first time in a very long time not feeling alone at all. He closes his eyes and remembers every detail of her face, every curve of her body, every delightful moment of their first date. He suspects those details will never fade, because this girl... she is the one.
PART TWO: "Third" Date originally posted on 06 May 2007
It was the kind of day not meant to be spent indoors. Thankfully, she would spend hers outside in the most beautiful of surroundings, the Botanical Gardens. Walking among happy couples young and old and families out for a Sunday stroll. The peonies were just beginning to raise their buds and open their petals in the May sun. It was her favorite time of year. Her favorite kind of day.
It was the kind of day not meant to be spent alone. Thankfully, she would spend hers in the company of a beautiful man. A scientist who knew all of the plants by name and genus but did not overwhelm her with information. Rather, he watched for her to show an interest in a particular plant, then placed a hand around her waist and leaned in to whisper the plant's secrets into her ear. To be with a man who knew more than her about something was as refreshing as the cool breeze that found them in the woodland garden.
It was their second date, but he would always call it their third. He counted the day they'd met as their first date. She didn't, but she thought it was adorable that he did. To her, the day they'd met might have been a day that would change her life, but not a first date. Still, she indulged him and anxiously awaited their "fourth" date every bit as much as she'd anticipated what she'd considered their first.
Each time he divulged something new about himself, it was though it had been torn from the pages of her journal, where she'd penned her heart's poetry and dreams of what "he" would be like if she were to ever find him. But she kept that secret safely to herself and enjoyed listening to him speak words she was almost sure she'd written.
If she had written him into being, she wished she'd done it a long time ago. Because walking hand-in-hand with him -- hands that fit together like puzzle pieces -- she could see the empty silhouette that she had carried next to her all her life begin to fill in with pieces of him. His brown eyes and heart-melting smile. His dark, curly hair and olive complexion. The way he looked at her as though admiring a piece of priceless art. The way his hands always seemed to know just where to touch her, his arms when to hold her tight. The way his eyes looked into hers and saw straight into her soul. He had to be a figment.
But he was real. And it was the kind of day meant for sharing. The kind of place for new love to blossom. The kind of date you wish would never end.
But when it did, he asked if he could see her again... the very next day. And that was the kind of thing she hadn't had for a very long time. The kind of thing she deserved.
PART THREE: Dating Advice She Could Live Without originally posted on 08 May 2007
It had been four days since she'd heard from her. And that could mean one of two things. (1) The first date had gone well. Extremely well. And she had spent the past four days with him, talking about him or thinking about him every waking minute. (2) The first date had gone well. Extremely well. And she had allowed herself to get her hopes up and then had them dashed when he hadn't called her in the days that followed.
These were the concerns of a mother who had seen her daughter have her heart broken more times than any girl should. The first time, her 10-year-old daughter's "boyfriend" had kissed another girl at the public swimming pool. After that, she'd taught her to protect her heart. She'd even forced her to tell her highschool boyfriend that they had to see other people when she went away to college. That ended in heartbreak 2 when he'd left her for a foreign exchange student named Ulga.
Over the next few years, she seemed to have mastered the art of self preservation. Boys came and went. She seemed unphased as they entered and exited her life. Some people might have described her daughter as cold. Closed off. But she saw her as smart. Cautious. She never stopped to wonder how her daughter saw herself. Scared. Alone. She was nearly 30 when the heartbreaks began to come again, this time in quick succession. She would get all wrapped up in some guy who was all wrapped up in her. Sometimes it would last for two, even three years. Frivolous bliss. Silly dreams. Of course it wouldn't last! Love never lasts. It would end, and she would come crashing into a puddle of tears at the foot of the bed and stay there. Why did she bother to pick herself back up, only to put herself back out there to be hurt again?
As a mother, she had a responsibility to protect her. It was one of those times when tough love was totally justified. Her daughter's heart had been broken by a guy she'd known in college. He'd looked her up years later and professed that he loved her. That he had always loved her. And when her daughter had allowed herself to believe and dream and hope, he'd had a change of heart. When he left her, he said she'd seduced him with her beautiful words and her beautiful voice. So she told her daughter he was right. The failure of the relationship had been her own fault, she told her. And then, "You're not the relationship type," she told her daughter, who sat crying at the other end of the phone line. "Some people are just meant to be alone." The crying got louder, but she continued, "There is not someone for everyone, and maybe there just isn't someone for you. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can begin to be happy alone."
And there it was. Words that spoke to her own fears about herself, now projected onto her heartbroken daughter. They were words that would leave a scar that even now has yet to heal. She carries the scar but she still hasn't learned the lesson. And as recently as four days ago, she'd gone on another first date. Maybe even a second and a third. If so, she may already be well on her way to another broken heart. Perhaps it had already happened.
She would call her. That's what good mothers do. They call and check on their children, even 36-year-old children. And so she called. A cheerful voice answered the phone and exploded into, "Mom, he's the sweetest," and "He's so smart, so thoughtful, so fascinating..." and so on and so on. He was one of the good ones. And she knew her daughter would screw things up and drive him away in no time.
"Are you letting him do all the talking," she asked her daughter. "You're not telling him about your...?" "I hope you're not calling him." "You haven't told *him* how great you think he is, have you?" "Don't get your hopes up, angel. Remember what happened with...?"
She rattled off reminders meant to protect her daughter's heart by erecting a steel wall around it and robbing her of the self-confidence to tear the wall down ever again. But her daughter seemed to be ignoring her. How could she do such a thing? Doesn't she remember how terrible her father treated her, treated them? Has she forgotten all the times he made her mother cry? Wouldn't allow *her* to cry? Her father had been sweet and fun and thoughtful and all of those things, too, when they'd met. But even as a child she'd seen how quickly that can change. Why would she ever put herself out there to be exposed to such terrible risks?
Her daughter did not hear her. She'd stopped hearing her months ago. She'd watched her mother wall up her heart and then bemoan her own loneliness. This was her mother's life. But it would not be hers. Sure, she was scared. She had lost pieces of herself every time her heart had been broken. And she remembered well how long it had taken to put herself back together again sometimes. Once it even took two years to suit up and return to the dating pool. But she was finally well put together and ready. The only pain in her chest now was caused by a mother who allowed her own heartbreak to deprive her daughter of the thing she wanted most: hope.
PART FOUR: Documenting Dates originally posted on 10 May 2007
They had stopped measuring time by the number of dates they'd been on and, instead, decided to measure time in the number of weeks since the day they'd met. His idea. And after dinner at the end of Week 1, they'd sat at her computer, reading her blog.
Not this blog. But a blog she keeps to share the stories of the beautiful old souls she met in South America. A diabetic old man who sells ice cream from a tiny cart in a dangerous neighborhood in order to pay his medical bills. A man who had foregone having a family of his own in order to care of his aging mother, only to find that in his twilight he has no one to care for him. An angry little old lady who had witnessed her husband's murder and then had to watch helplessly as her seven young children died of starvation and exposure. That she cared so deeply for these people made him want to kiss her.
"This is a very good thing that you are dong," he told her as he took her hand. He scrolled up and down the page, looking at the faces of the people whose stories he'd just heard. He grins. A funny thought has crossed his mind and it shows from ear to ear.
"Are you going to right about me next?" he asks. She hesitates and asks him what he means. "You you going to write a story about a Moroccan man from France?" He laughs at the notion. "I'm just kidding." He leans in and kisses her playfully on the forehead.
Suddenly she doesn't know what to say. He is so sweet and trusting. Was it wrong for her to turn their private moments into short stories and share them with... well... everyone?
"Maybe I already have!" she teased him, and then immediately closed the laptop and logged out of this particular topic of conversation. But the next day as she sat down at the computer to write her blog, she felt a nagging sense of guilt.
So tell me... what do you think? Should the storytelling stop? I know what *one* of my friends thinks, as he cautioned me after the first short story landed on this blog. I'm curious to know what *you* think. What if *you* were "that guy"? And if you blog, what "rules" have you made for yourself when it comes to blogging about the people in your life?
PART FIVE: Now I know how it feels to be exposed on MySpace originally posted on 13 May 2007
I love to read my friends' blogs almost as much as I love to write my own. They're windows through which to peer into each other's souls, if we'll let them function as such. Last Friday, my friend Nicki opened a window into the heart of a girl on her first day of 8th grade in a new school. As I read, I was so proud of her. Of her openness. Of her self awareness. Of her word choices. It was as though she had turned a mirror toward herself, and I'm a fan of that exercise.
Quickly, though, the mirror was turned toward me. What an amazing discovery... to be reading a friend's blog and celebrating her openness and courage, then to realize she is no longer talking about herself but about me. And she wrote about her feelings and memories of me with the same openness with which she'd written about herself.
Reading this, I felt a lot of different things. Honored. Loved. Humbled. I felt chills run up my spine and down my arms and suddenly I had my answer to the question I'd posed here on my blog last week. This is how it feels to discover someone close to you is sharing your story in her blog. This is how it feels to read another's account of an experience shared by only the two of you. This is how it feels to learn how much you mean to someone else and to learn it in a very public way. This, I imagine, must be how it would feel for this amazing man in my life to read my blog and discover short stories based in part on time shared only between the two of us. And this... THIS FEELS INCREDIBLE!
So I told him today that I have written about him on this blog. And I invited him to read them if he'd like to. If he does read them, I hope he experiences my short stories with the respect and reverence with which they were written. I hope he has chills rippling up his spine and down his arms and that he feels honored... loved... humbled the way I felt when I read what my dear, sweet friend had written about me. Above all, I hope he sees the care with which I've crafted these stories and recognizes that his secrets... and indeed his heart... are safe with me.
And by the way... if you're curious, here's a LINK to the blog my friend Nicki so lovingly wrote last Friday. Thank you, Nicki. You are my soul's sister.
PART SIX: Don't worry. The story continues. originally posted on 20 May 2007
A few have e-mailed to ask about the latest on the new romance. Our brave gal is still wearing the smile that landed on her face the moment they met. And our beautiful guy e-mailed from France to say he's still smiling, too. Yes, France. He's gone to visit his family for a couple of weeks. So for now we'll leave them in their perpetual state of newness and excitement and wait to see what happens when she picks him up at the airport.
Thanks to all of you who follow their story and root for her. She's each of us who's ever had her heart broken and found the courage to hang onto the dream and the strength to put herself back out there again. How she maintains her ability to trust is beyond me. But she does, and it's that vulnerability, I think, that makes us want her to have what she dreams of... and what she so very much deserves.
This guy may be all of those things. We don't know yet, and neither does she. But where there is hope, there is a pocketful of possibilities.
So there's that.
PART SEVEN: The Phone Call originally posted on 27 May 2007
She sat holding the telephone receiver in her hand, though nearly 5 minutes had passed since he'd said goodbye. Her head was spinning with a rush of images and words, of warm light and cool air. This is what it felt like, she imagined, to be happy. Wholly and completely happy.
She hadn't expected him to call. Secretly she'd wished he would, of course, but every time she caught it crossing her mind she'd reminded herself it was all too new for her to think he might miss her. But halfway through his vacation, he'd reached halfway around the world just to hear her voice. To ask about her big day. To tell her he missed her. It wasn't so much what he'd said as the way he'd said it. Sweetly. Sincerely. Almost longlingly. And despite the oceans and continents that divided them, she felt connected to him in a whole new way. It felt good.
Sitting there with the phone still in her hand, she felt a sensation in her chest that she hadn't felt in quite a long time. It was warm. And she felt like it was melting her insides, turning everything tingly. She wished she could conjure up the words to capture what she was feeling.
And so she tried but discovered it was beyond the limited lexicon developed through her public school education. She didn't have a large vocabulary, which some might say is a handicap for a writer. But she prided herself on having a precise vocabulary. And for the most part, it had served her well.
She smiled out loud when she felt one perfect little word inching its way toward the tip of her tongue. It was her favorite word and had been since the first time she'd read it and heard it defined as "found money." One beautiful word to describe this sensation that had taken over her chest and was now making her absolutely dizzy with happiness.
Serendipity.
PART EIGHT: He's home! originally posted on 01 June 2007
Violins played. Angels sang. And her heart skipped a beat when she saw him walk out of the airport wearing the weariness of a 15-hour flight... and a smile.
She reached up to kiss him and he swept her off of her feet. Literally. Swept her up and held her, her toes dangling 6 inches off the ground.
It felt good to know she'd been missed. It felt even better to know he was home for good.
Tangled and Touching originally posted on 08 June 2007
The stillness of the air is stirred by a slow-turning ceiling fan. The stillness of the night, interrupted by nothing but the sound of his breath. He's on the edge that separates wakenness from slumber, and as he crosses over he takes his smile with him.
He has every reason to smile tonight, her head resting now on his left shoulder, their feet tangled and touching.
The language department originally posted on 10 June 2007
"You're smarter than me," he said. "You don't know it, but you are. You process things much more quickly than I do. I have to consult with the language department first."
He laughed. And she told him how much she loved to see him looking so happy. He didn't need to consult the language department to process that one.
"I have been happy since I met you," he said.
She wanted to capture that moment and save it forever. And so she did. Right here.
PART NINE: Tea Time originally posted 14 June 2007
After a long workday, he would drop by the gym, shower and then head off for night class. He was working with a personal trainer and working on his second Master's, flexing his muscles and his mind.
Early mornings found him doing homework under a desk lamp. Late nights found him right back in the same place. Much of his day was a mad dash, but every day around 3:45 the pace slowed, and for one hour his world revolved only around her.
It was their Tea Time.
As he waited for her to open the door, he tried to guess which new exotic tea she would have waiting for him. It was a ritual he went through at the door each afternoon, but not once had he guessed correctly. Secretly, he liked that.
Watching her pour the tea, he noticed she had done something different with her hair today. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed her bangs from her eyes and told her how beautiful she was. He felt her cheek warm as she blushed.
As she laid cookies out on a plate, he noticed a small crumb on the corner of her top lip. It made him smile, imagining her sneaking a bite of a cookie as she waited for him to arrive. She sat down next to him and he leaned over and -- without mentioning the crumb -- kissed her and made it disappear.
For an hour, he blocked out the stresses of his day and allowed his thoughts to linger only on the words that were coming for her lips. On the smile on her face and the way she looked at him.
For some, Tea Time may be just a break in the day. But for him, it was his day. It was what he looked forward to when his feet hit the floor in the morning and what he reflected on when his head hit the pillow. Everything else what just the stuff in between the time he would kiss her goodbye and the time he would greet her with a kiss again.
Whispered truths originally posted 20 June 2007
She never realized how empty her life had been until he filled it.
Filled it with little things like dinner for two and afternoon tea.
With jazz bands, dancing and a reason to wear that fabulous dress.
If she'd written him into being she couldn't have written him this wonderful
This kind, this patient, this appreciative of everything she does and is.
And just before dawn, she whispers these truths softly into his ear.
Little does she know that before she'd awakened he'd whispered them into hers.
PART TEN: The First Dance originally posted 24 June 2007
They danced to the rhythm of a high hat, smiling and blushing. It was their first dance, and electricity passed between their fingertips as they moved across the dance floor.
They watched a sure-footed, silver-haired couple, twirling and touching. And he imagined they must have danced together at least once or twice a month for the past thirty years.
He wanted to dance with her like that. To know her so well he could tell after just three notes of a song whether it was one she would want to get up and dance to. To know her body so well he could anticipate how she would move, where she would place her hand, when she wanted him to hold her tight.
But theirs was a new love and this was their first dance. He had all the time in the world to get to know her that well. To dance with her in a jazz club on Saturday nights and in the kitchen while she makes him waffles on Sunday mornings.
The rhythm of the high hat brought him back, back to their first dance. And he prayed it would always do that. Years from now, when they're silver-haired, when they're sure-footed from all the years of twirling and touching, the rhythm of the high hat will always bring them right back here to the excitement, the electricity of their first dance.
PART ELEVEN: Shared Space originally posted 11 July 2007
She checked the clock as she opened the oven. He'd be here in an hour, And the aroma of homemade cherry pie Would greet him at the door. It would be the start of a wonderful weekend That was theirs for sharing And a chance for them to sample A taste of what may be.
It wasn't just the picnic in the park Or the daytrip to meet her family As much as it was the time in between, Time they filled with yard work and car washing, With after-dinner clean-up And pre-dawn pillow talk. Even the mundane became magical, it seemed, Just because it was shared.
Sunday evening came too soon So they made the weekend last 'Til Monday morning knocked on the door And took him away again With a smile on his face. And her house key cradled in his hand. Time spent apart would never be the same Now that they had shared space.
It's a very exciting time at Herb'n Maid, the green cleaning company my boyfriend and I launched in August. We were on TV here in St. Louis last Monday and Friday. Here's a link to the package that aired on the local Fox station at 5PM on Friday.
This is a repost of something you probably haven't read. I wrote it back in April, just a few before I met Larbi. I dug it out over the weekend as I was thinking about something my father used to say. Nothing profound, really. "Timing is everything." I discounted his words for many years, but as I live, grow and experience, I become more and more of a subscriber to this doctrine.
For example, two parties of a strained marriage may both go through periods of commitment to "working" on the relationship. But if they don't go through those periods at the same time, their efforts are futile and frustrating. The marriage will not endure.
A woman may be loved by a wonderful man who is everything she might someday want in a husband, but if she is young and committed to her career and not yet ready to commit herself to a marriage, his love is ill-timed. The marriage will never be.
Sometimes in life, however, we get our timing right. And with every fiber of my being, I believe... and hope... and PRAY that Larbi and I have done just that. I'm overwhelmed when I think about the realization I had - and wrote about - just days before we met. Had I met him a week sooner, had I met him before I'd reached this point on my personal journey... who knows. But we met, well... we met when we did. And the timing just seems like everything.
I'm Snow White April 27, 2007
I'm Snow White. I take in nature's wounded and nurse them back to health, then set them free and watch them go... away.
Once it was a Shar-pei who'd fallen from a second story balcony. Three newborn rabbits orphaned right beneath my bedroom window. A kitten who'd hidden well and survived when dogs killed his littermates and his mother. An underweight Angora goat buckling who was destined for a farmer's freezer. An abused Persian cat who'd never been petted... ever.
Each of these required an investment of my time, my energy, my finances, my love. And I invested generously. I guess I thought God had dropped them each on my doorstep, placed them under my care and given me the gift of innately knowing just what to do. Warm goat milk breathes life back into cold, little newborn rabbits. A soothing voice calms an orphaned kitten. And love, well, love cures just about anything.
I'm Snow White. I take in guys who've been wounded and nurture them back to their full potential.
A high school sophomore who'd just learned that the woman he'd always known as his cousin was actually his birth mother. A classmate who'd -- as a boy -- watched a social worker come into his home and tear his foster sister from his tearful mother's arms. A beautiful guy who'd been sexually abused by someone he trusted when he was young and voiceless. A grown man haunted by the ghost of his alcoholic father who had beaten him mercilessly... daily.
Each of these required an investment of my time, my energy, my self-worth, my love. And I invested generously. I guess I thought God had dropped them each on my doorstep, placed them under my care and given me the gift of innately knowing just what to do. Fear of abandonment can be calmed by letting him know you'll never leave, and then letting him put you down until you don't believe you could make it on your own if you did. Self-loathing can be cured by constantly lavishing him with compliments and praise until he's so full of himself he decides he is too good to be with the likes of you. And love, well, love can cure just about anything, as long as you can accept that you won't receive any in return... and I can't.
I'm Snow White. I see what's broken and I fix it. I see someone with a missing piece and give them a part of myself to fill it... leaving myself with a gaping hole. I see the hole in myself, and mistakenly think that I need fixing.
BUT I AM NOT BROKEN!
I'm perfectly put together, with feet firmly planted in the here and now, eyes focused on what I want for my future and hands folded in prayer... prayer for God to guide my feet toward the point on which my eyes are fixed.
BUT I AM NOT BROKEN!
I do not need to be fixed or mended or patched or pieced but loved... loved not in spite of but because of all that I am. All that I've overcome and all that I'm yet to be-come.
BUT I AM NOT BROKEN!
And I deserve more than broken lovers with their sad stories and their gaping holes and their potential... their promising potential that they could discover and realize on their own if only they would look deep within and look up to God instead of looking to someone... like me.
I'm Snow White, dammit. I'm happy and dopey and sometimes I'm grumpy. I'm not afraid to bite the big, red apple. To look into the Mirror Mirror on the Wall and see myself. Truly see myself. See the things I don't like about my self and attack them head on, all the while loving myself the way I am right this very minute. And why wouldn't I?
I'm Snow White. Not waiting for my Prince Charming or my Prince Chocolate or my Prince Anyone-at-All.
I'm Snow White. I know now that every prince was once a frog and that it was more than likely I who took them home and loved them back when they were lonely little frogs. I who nurtured them and encouraged them and finally kissed them and set them free, free to be princes with their princesses living happily-ever-after-all-that-I-did-for-them... leaving me with the paralyzing fear that I might actually be worthy of nothing more than frogs... ever.
BUT I'M SNOW WHITE! Fair be me and fairer far to see.
I will not kiss frogs or patch holes or let anyone... anyone... treat me as though I'm broken. Because I am not broken.
I'm Snow White. And I'm living Happily Ever After right here right now and right at this moment and this is not The End. This is just the beginning. My beginning. And this is how it begins...
Once Upon a Time.
Currently
listening
:
Tim’s House
By
Kate Walsh
Release date: 05 June, 2007
It ain’t easy being green... but it sure feels good.
Current mood: peaceful
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
I'll blog soon. I will. I have so much to say, all packed up in tiny little caplets that I store in a secret stash. One of these days, when I'm rested... when I'm free of distractions and obligations... I'll place a caplet on my tongue and wash it down with a tall, cool glass of sweet tea. And then I'll write. And if I'm lucky, you'll read.
In the meantime, I hope you'll take a few minutes to check out the web site I built and wrote for the small 'green' business Larbi and I have created together.
inspired
uncomfortable
thirsty
busy
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peaceful
