Eccentric Lime

I wonder if I am becoming an eccentric in my aging. It's a word with conflicting definitions and synonyms. One definition refers to an unconventional person, and the other to being off center. I figure I am somewhat unconventional, if being a single gardening fool female homeowner who spends an hour or two at the cafe on weekend mornings and loves to be at home of an evening is unconventional. But I am very centered. Bizarre, freakish, and crackpot seem over-the-top. And the online dictionary lists "spinster" as an example of an eccentric. What Ever. As I painted my front door magenta last Saturday, I wondered if passers by were whispering about the odd woman who would do such a thing. And when, on pretty much any weekend, they see me on hands and knees digging in my garden, do they consider me eccentric? What do they think of someone who would plant a banana tree and pull out the Raleigh-sacred azaleas and box elder wannabes to plant roses and elephant ear caladium?

“At 20, we worry about what others think of us. At 40, we don’t care what they think of us. At 60, we discover they haven’t been thinking about us at all.” (Jock Falkson) I read that yesterday at the cafe and laugh out loud. Then go home and paint the door to the side garden Eccentric Lime.

I have a collection of photographs of yard art taken over the past couple of years on my walks through the hood. I keep thinking that one day, perhaps in the middle of summer or winter, I will have nothing to say about the garden and I will share them with you. But so far I haven't run out of things to learn in the garden. Some of them are beautiful, and some are quirky, wacky, and outlandish. Some are plain tacky. All I consider eccentric, by one definition or another. But one this week I must share. My daily drive home, and frequently my walks, take me past the Succulent Garden. Now these people are eccentric. And I'm pretty sure people talk about them. I do. To myself. The garden is full of all things prickly, sharp, and oversized. I am not a fan of succulents. I dug up a yucca in my garden and was very happy when Gwen and Joe next door dug out the cactus on the other side of our fence. The cottage on the corner of Boundary and East Streets is 

dwarfed and nearly hidden by the garden. I remember a children's book in which the garden overtook the house, and this scene reminds me of that. The cacti are even in the strip between sidewalk and curb. It is a very bizarre plot of land. I'm glad that Oakwood hasn't banned it, though, in their fanaticism to remain historically authentic. Maybe the owners are from Texas, and have tried to bring a little sense of soul home to their lives. Who am I to judge. One plant at the corner screams to be looked at right now. It stretches 12 feet skyward and looks like an asparagus on growth hormones. In the past two or three weeks it has been sprouting a bouquet that opened this week. I call it Bride of Frankenstein. I recommend to you a field trip.

Yesterday, as my door dries between coats, I continue the distasteful task of pulling out the summer annuals to plant the winter/spring ones. It nearly kills me, but I do it as one must with an eye to the future. I bring in the handfuls of the Flower I Can Never Remember the Name Of, the ones that dry nicely, and plant two more flats of pansies and johnny-jump-ups. I uncover another of those dainty crocus-like flowers. Reward. I accidentally dig up and rebury some bulbs. Something to look forward to in the spring. I leave the back row of vinca and that above unnamed flower. I'm not going to plant pansies back there anyway, so they can stay until they freeze. That's where I will start with the spring planting, so I can leave the pansies in the ground longer. I am brilliant.

The winner of the Extra Effort Award in my garden (in a good way, which disqualifies the passion flower that is, well, oversexed in its efforts) is a tough pick. The zinnias are certainly putting out, for example, in an extroverted way. (I still can't bring myself to pull them.) But my EEA choice has to be the perennial salvia. It has bloomed its introverted little pink hearts out all summer long. From the moment it emerged in the spring, it has never stopped; not for drought nor heat nor neglect, all of which have been in high supply this year. I highly recommend it for a sunny spot in your garden.

Have I mentioned that I love fall? My sister sent me a
blog link this week, and I read this, “Autumn is the season that ignites my blood, that energizes my imagination, that puts me in touch with the wonder of being in the world like no other season.” That's how I feel. Summer in the south is the only season I really don’t much like. Perhaps part of what I love about fall is that there are three whole seasons until summer. Of course, summer bores into fall, and it cheats spring by starting too soon; but still…. I love the way the garden retreats in the fall--retreats to gather

energy to return in the spring. I love the way the spring flowers reemerge in the fall, too, for a fleeting second  season. I discover violets blooming this week. (I missed them in the spring because the damn deer ate them.) I have mentioned the spring phlox before that is gathering steam. The camellia bush is blooming and full of buds; and the maybe-it's-spiderwort, but not where I planted it, is blooming its little brilliant blue winged-insect flowers (the color of the black bench I painted this summer). The roses keep putting forth. I don't know when they stop, since they are new. As long as the days are warm and the first freeze can hold off, I suppose the garden will keep on blooming.

So if I am eccentric for loving my garden and watching it for what grows and painting my doors the colors of the garden (I can't really think of anything in the garden that is black--so why should my doors be?), I gladly and proudly inhabit the word. I love the way water droplets on a spiderweb in the grass blades, when I water my newly-planted annuals, sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. The garden is full of wonder, and I make no apology for spending time looking for it. When Frank Lloyd Wright presented the plans of one of his best known works, Fallingwater, to the inhabitants-to-be, E.J. Kaufman said "I thought you would place the house near the waterfall, not over it." Mr. Wright replied quietly, "E.J., I want you to live with the waterfall, not just to look at it, but for it to become an integral part of your lives." When my hands are in the dirt, planting life, I am an integral part of my life and the life around me, not just an observer. I am not building a life to be revered from the outside, but full of energy from the inside. Yes, I am centered.


And if passersby look at my magenta and lime green doors, and whisper about the oddball occupant, they are just jealous.

Global Purple

The scariest thing I have done at my house (well, other than having a hole cut in the brick wall to enlarge a window; but I didn’t execute that, therefore I was not responsible) was digging a ten-foot diameter hole in the back yard to build a patio that I didn’t know if I was capable of completing. I guess I also pulled the carpet off the stairs and painted them orange. That was risky. But last weekend when Grace, as she was getting ready to pull away from the curb in front of my house, threw out, “You know, Gretchen, the only part of your house and garden you haven’t made you is the front door,” I knew it was time to take another risk. It’s not that I never thought of painting the black door--I have been wanting to practically since I moved in. I don’t know why it has felt so intimidating. It’s not even the first time I have painted a front door, though I just this minute realized that. It's just that the front door is so out front. It makes a bold statement about me to the world as it passes by, like new glasses (which I also got this month) or a new hair style. It's an Extrovert thing to do, and thereby against my nature.

Oh, I had a plethora of Very Good Excuses. Can’t decide on a color. There is a very narrow, well, doorway of time, when all the natural elements converge perfectly: not too hot or too cold to leave the door open all day; not humid, not pollen season, not windy, not buggy. I also had to be in a creative mood and be feeling brave and be able to be home all day. And the moon needs to be in the seventh house and Jupiter aligned with Mars. And...

Patti Digh (Creative is a Verb) tells of seeing an instruction painted on the shuttle bus lane on the airport tarmac, YIELD TO AIRCRAFT.  "Yes indeedy," she says, "that seems like fine advice. A 26-passenger shuttle bus versus a 545,000 pound Boeing 777 aircraft." Pretty clear who has the upper hand there. Still, we seem to need signs--really loud signs--before we can see the obvious.

 "And let this be a sign unto you, you shall Yield to Aircraft, for it is a good idea that is bigger than your fear." Grace is right. There may have been a time when black seemed like an acceptable color for my front door. And leaving it as is is clearly the path of least resistance, which I have a penchant for when it comes to many things. It was the same time I needed to put up a fence, paint the door in the fence relatively unobtrusive periwinkle purple, and close it behind me as I hid from view in the back yard. As I turn from Grace's car and look through the riot of annual color in front of the house; the non-traditional, in-your-face, making-a-statement banana tree at the corner; and the roses where there used to be boring evergreen shrubbery, it is as obvious as the full moon on a cloudless night that the door is not me. And in that instant when it is no longer a decision, but a no-brainer to which I need to yield, I see the color--the Purple Heart on each side of the steps.

The weather forecast for the weekend is 70-something degrees, no rain or wind in sight. The nights have been cool, the bug count is way down. My fear is trumped by excitement and can-do courage. And I am yearning to be creative. The planets are aligned. At Ace Hardware after work on Friday, with my leaf from the Purple Heart in hand, I go straight for Global Purple. Because I am me, I get half dozen more color chips; but I know Global Purple is the one.

Saturday after breakfast, I get my car inspected, buy another flat of pansies at Logan's (no time to circle the parking lot at the Farmers' Market to save three bucks) and three perennials--hey, they are on sale if I buy three--and purchase my quart of Exterior High Gloss Global Purple Front Door Paint. I am set to stay home the rest of the day. I jet hose the door and wipe it down, tape the windows, remove the house numbers, and decide not to dismantle the lock and handle because I know how hard they are to put back on (I am brave, but not stupid). I prime--I don't want my brilliant Global Purple deadened by an undercoating of black. While the primer dries I plant my new purple coneflower, asters, and trailing phlox (maybe the latter will thrive in the side garden where little else has done well). I discover the single mystery flower that comes up every year under the pyracantha; it always surprises me. The toad lily is even
more amazing than it was last week. And the Persian Shield, an iridescent version of the Purple Heart, is dazzling. I pick the last of the basil for my Saturday night pizza, and will top it off with the last six grape tomatoes that have been on the kitchen window sill. Fall in the South is such an interesting time of emergence and submersion.

And now it is time to return to the door. I am past the point of no return. I put on the first coat of color. It is really bright. I feel a little sick. No turning back, I tell myself. You are committed. Or is that Should Be Committed? Done. I walk away and turn to face it. The first coat, with the white showing through, is not the color of Purple Heart or the paint chip. I breathe through the second-guessing fear as I plant the pansies. All will be well, I chant in my head. I put on a second coat late in the afternoon. Much better. I think the door is laughing with the release we all feel when we come out from behind our fear. Oh, maybe that is me laughing. Today I will lay on a final coat.

Now the little periwinkle purple birdhouse stand on the porch looks dull next to the dazzling door. I immediately know it must be painted Tropicana Rose Orange, like the perfect bud on the bush next to it. And half a can of paint from my stairs is right there on top of my water heater. I paint it then and there. Some actions take four years to gather courage for, some take four minutes. No agonizing, no procrastinating. Just go for it. Yes, sometimes you are going to fuck up. Get over yourself.

My sweetheart brother-in-law, Peter, who celebrated his 60th birthday yesterday, lost his job on Wednesday. Well, he didn't exactly lose it (what a ridiculous term), it was taken from him. No, he was released. (Releasement is my newly-minted word to replace retirement.) He has been a senior, high security clearance, IT program manager, contracted by the Federal Government, for lo these many years. He and my sister have been thinking and dreaming, if not exactly planning, to move back to the Pacific Northwest for nearly a decade. And have as many excuses not to take the leap "yet" as I do for my door. They have been slowly getting their house ready to put on the market--or just to enjoy more for themselves--but I have heard no declaration of "X is the time." It's scary. I know. Girl, do I know. But even the fact that both their children are now living in Seattle, has not gotten them there. I tell Peter that, however well-hidden in a content-disguising box, however elaborately wrapped, this is a birthday gift of the highest order. The YIELD TO AIRCRAFT sign is now screaming from the tarmac. The stars are aligned. It is time to paint your life Global Purple.

What are you waiting for? Live like you are dying. You are. It is time to paint your life Global Purple.

Sunrise in the Rearview Mirror

It's that time of year: yo-yoing temperature, shortening daylight hours barreling toward the winter solstice, the expectation of color change, pumpkin/mum art at the Farmers' Market, cleaning out the garden, trying to decide when to pull the summer annuals and get the winter ones into the still-warm ground. And at work it's budget and pledge time, which means year-end then year-beginning procedures are not far behind. And that all adds up to long days at work.

The long work days start earlier than usual this year. In past years three people--me not being one of them--do the budget spreadsheet and multi-piece mailing to 600 households. This year, with a short staff and a new treasurer and finance committee chair, it has fallen by default to me. There is no one around who even knows I don't generally do this particular task. I work over 60 hours, not counting the four trips to the church on Saturday to check on the churning copier. Instead of a morning walk to watch the sun rise over the cemetery, I start the car in the dark each morning. On Wednesday, as I head down Hillsborough Street, I glance in my rearview mirror. And there is the giant orange orb, rising over the Capitol. It takes my breath away.

At the same time I am listening to the story on NPR about the Saudi woman sentenced to ten lashes for...driving. It’s not a law on the books, but a religious edict and a “societal norm” that bans women from getting behind the wheel of a car. I can understand, vision is greatly diminished by the burqa; they might, accidentally of course, run down a cleric. Rumor is that King Abdullah, who has decreed that women may vote in future elections (well, four years from now, which may be the next election since the one this week is only the third in the country's history), may have overturned the sentence. Someday the religious edict against gays marrying are going to seem, in retrospect, just as outlandish. In the meantime, hopefully the conservative push to write discrimination into the states' constitutions will fail. At least I can drive a car; and no one in my world thinks physical flogging is okay. We take so much for granted.

"Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear." With temperatures in the mid-80s and July-level dew points all week, it's hard to believe that autumn is around the corner. The plummet Friday night to the 40s, makes a believer of me. It's coming, and coming fast. A trip to Farmers' Market seals the deal. I ogle the huge pumpkins and the displays of fall vegetables. I buy a mixed flat of snapdragons (for the first time) and violas. The day is coming fast when the zinnias and vinca will not be spectacular. The question, as always, is when can I bear to pull them. I have pulled the marigolds; perhaps I can squeeze this first flat in. I look for firewood at the Market, but there's not much yet. It can wait.

In the Cameron Village parking lot, I observe a most unexpected event. An elderly woman opens her car door, then walks away from it and deliberately steps on several acorns caps to hear the delightful crackle they make. Then she gets in her car, closes the door, and goes on her way. I am enchanted.

Seeing the sunrise behind me has gotten me thinking about the surprises and delights (and disappoint- ments) of the summer. I had a wonderful vacation in the Pacific Northwest, spending several days with Emma and Wynne, wandering the streets of their Wallingford neighborhood with my camera and making muffins for them; and doing what they do when they are not working: beer at the corner bar where they are known, Wii (my first time!), Scrabble (they trounced me), bowling (held my own), babysitting the adorable Xelli and Decca; and a ferry ride to Whidbey Island. Then a surprise delightful Amtrak ride toward time with mother and sister. I discovered that you can go home again and it is a wonderful journey.

In the garden my banana tree continues to delight. It is taller each year, and blasts above gutter level this year. The annuals are their most beautiful; I am especially excited by the volunteer cosmos. I feel like a real gardener when plants I didn't plant this year fill the garden. My first foray into vegetable gardening meets with mixed success: the summer squash with their beautiful blossoms and bountiful fruit is gratifying. Brussels sprouts, peppers (there are some on the plants still, but not maturing), and eggplant are disappointing. Still, the old-skin eggplant bloom makes the planting worthwhile. The grape tomatoes are all I need, but there is no late season bowls-full of green ones to make the yummy soup recipe I discovered a year ago. I pick the last handful of pitiful-looking fruit for my Saturday pizza; today I will pull the rest of the vines. And the basil, though enough, was not lush and full. No pesto. Sometimes just enough is all we get.

The passion flower that blooms for the first time probably wins the prize for stun-value. And the elephant ear caladium that isn't supposed to return unless you dig up the corms and keep them warmish over the winter (I didn't) gives me most satisfaction; although the Persian shield and red/green coleus that I rooted in the house last winter and replant make me pretty darned happy. And when it is too hot to be in the garden, I try my hand at painting flowers. My friend Roberta's flowers on window glass panes hanging on the fence around her amazing garden inspired me. She, however, is an artist, so I didn't imagine that my attempts would match up to hers. And they don't, but never-the-less, I surprise myself with how well mine turn out.

On the downside, along with a tornado passing a half mile from my house and snapping trees in the cemetery and the surprising earthquake, are dumping a cup of coffee in my laptop, a leak in the roof, and knee surgery. As for the first two--it's just money. The bank account is relieved of any heft it might have been enjoying, but all is well. And the knees, the surgery takes care of the immediate problem--and another drain on the bank--but both knees are making their presence known now. They are announcing what is coming and can't be stopped: advancing age. I guess I might as well get used to it. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

A dear human being died this week. Wendell Manuel was a full-bearded man with a wicked sense of humor who seemed as unlikely as anyone to don a ministerial robe on Sunday mornings. He was the minister of the progressive Presbyterian church that was the shining spot in the four years my family lived in Starkville, M-I-crooked letter-crooked letter-I-crooked letter-crooked letter-I-humpback-humpback-I. Wendell baptized Emma and made me laugh through the time in purgatory--at least on Sundays. The past couple of years he has suffered horribly a Job-like existence. Parkinson's disease, three kinds of cancer, and a bagful of minor inconveniences--like pneumonia, a feeding tube, and lesions in his mouth. He wrote regular status updates and emailed them out to his broad constituency of friends and former parishioners in Virginia, North Carolina, and Mississippi, where he and Quinn returned in retirement to be near their sons. And each lengthy email was filled with his wonderful humor as he described all sorts of horrors no one should have to endure. An amazing man. Rest in peace, dear Manuel; and good life to you, sainted Quinn, who cared for Wendell and her elderly mother through it all.

This week I find the toad lily blooming! I have been watching for it. It is a bloom that rivals the passion flower in outrage- ousness. And that it opens at the end of the season, makes it all the more special. You have to wait for it. Yesterday I do something I rarely think to do. Stop. Lie down in the grass. Look up. I lie down under the banana tree and watch the clouds float by in the Carolina blue sky. I love clouds. And did I mention that I love my banana tree? Planting it was one of the more radical things I have done in my garden. A friend whose opinion I valued tried to talk me out of it. It's not natural in Raleigh, North Carolina. Sometimes I just don't feel like following the rules, and being predictable. There are three gardens in my walking radius that have banana trees and I wanted one. I ignored the talk and went for it. And it makes me so happy.

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Sometimes we have to look back to see what’s coming up and what the new day will bring. Dream big. Dreams may be closer than they seem. Plant the banana tree. The small things may turn out to be the big things. 

Autumn Schizophrenia

Week before last it was 90 degrees. Last week highs struggled to reach 60. This week it's back in the 80s.  It's the same every year, but to hear people talk--including me--you would think it's the first time in the history of the world the temperature has been so schizophrenic. It is summer's last gasp. Now, with the autumnal equinox behind us, fall struggles for a foothold. I suppose we all let go of the past kicking and screaming; and we leave skid marks as we dig in our resistant heels to what is new. Eventually it all evens out. I, for one, don't let go of the southern summer kicking and screaming. I am more than happy to leave it behind; and I love autumn--bring it on! Yesterday, in celebration, I buy beautiful yarn. I am ready to build a fire, wrap in an afghan, and knit. Which reminds me, I need to go to the Farmers' Market and buy firewood.

Staff retreat is this week. We go to our favorite place in Durham, where we love the meeting room rocking chairs and the Sisters. The food is pretty good, too; and we get our own rooms. We are less enamored with the plethora of dead Jesuses. As friend Suzanne says, "You would think it time they resurrected Jesus." I walk the meditation trail twice with my camera, which seeks out the mushrooms. It is a good retreat. Two new staff members, who are as different from one another as two people could be, join us. The new blood is good as we seek better ways to communicate with and care for each other and the congregation.

Speaking of autumn and work... yeah. Lots of work around finances and budgets and program start-up publication needs (my schizophrenic job). But one task I brought on myself this summer, when I spearheaded a refurbishing project in the front office and the hallway outside the office. And now, along with the seasonal busyness, it must be completed. As the finishing touch, a church member and I scored 
a find at Habitat ReStore: a cabinet with work table top to replace the unsightly mishmash that was next to the copier. A volunteer repurposed it beautifully and brings it upstairs mid-week. That leaves me to empty out a large metal cabinet that had been in the office, then moved temporarily to the hallway. Now it's in the soon-to-be new administrator's office. It has been reproducing junk like field mice for a couple decades, and I unilaterally decide it's time to clean out the nest. The new administrator should not have to move into a storage unit. So, I spend Saturday morning purging.

Among the items I find are:

• Enough hanging file folders to supply a large, pre-computer age business
• 17 IBM Selectric ribbons (that's a typewriter in case you have forgotten, or never knew)
• A box of labels for a dot matrix printer
• One quadrillion tabbed notebook dividers
• Tons of miscellaneous hardware (yes, in the business office); some neatly labeled, by a certain anal previous administrator, as to what long-discarded-whatever they belonged to. Others kept by someone(s) who had no idea what they went to, but couldn’t bear to throw anything away, however useless. Reminds me of my dad and his methodically-labeled box of "string too short to save"

I am not a saver. I have seen the consequences of keeping everything that someone somewhere might need someday--or not--and I travel light. When one lives alone, purging is a breeze. But I am not the only stakeholder at the church, so what doesn't get relocated goes back in the cabinet. Staff has two days to rescue what they can't live without and find someplace to keep it; on Wednesday it will be liberated from its decades-long cabinet captivity.

Back home I take stock of what's happening in the garden. I need to cut the grass, but in the past week or so there has been more rain than we have seen all summer. At least more consecutive days. With the ground too wet to mow, I take advantage of the soft earth and pull plantain weed out of the lawn. It has profited greatly from the rain. Eradication is like trying to rid the sky of stars, but I attempt.

I also clear the weedy grasses from the water meter cover. It takes me back to my childhood when it was my family's month as volunteer meter reader for the Seminary Hill Association, which bought water from the city. I love how doing something as simple as exposing the meter in my yard reminds me of going around the hill with my dad recording the meter readings in a little spiral notebook.

I wander through the yard looking for retreating plants, but I am surprised by what is experiencing rebirth. Yep, it's a schizophrenic time of year. Several of my ferns that had long since disappeared in the summer heat and drought, are poking cautiously back up, like it's spring or something! The Japanese painted fern isn't even being cagey. It's just full-out back. My favorite wild phlox that blooms wherever it wants--mostly in the yard--until the heat settles in for good, is up and blooming again. But the surprise that leaves me gasping with delight is that the Prairie Something bulbs I mail-ordered and planted three years ago that has never bloomed, is!

Every growing thing in my garden is my most something. Even the catbrier, which is my most detested something. The flower I love most for its multiple beautiful stages is the hydrangea. From the dead-but-not-dead winter canes, from which green leaves directly sprout in the spring; to its beautiful green, gradually morphing to pink/blue/purple long-lasting-if-you-keep-it-watered summer bloom; to the faded fall color that dries in the house for winter beauty, it is a most amazing plant.

I have been wondering if the toad lily is going to bloom this year--I can't remember its estimated time of arrival. A couple week's ago I notice buds. I check it out again, not blooming yet. Something to anticipate; maybe next week, or the next. I pull more marigolds; they are mostly gone now. Only the black eyes of the black-eyed Susans remain. The zinnias, vinca, and that Annual I Can't Remember the Name Of are blooming like they have no intention of stopping. Ever. The late-planted lantana has finally taken off and the Mexican petunia that struggled this year is blooming. I even spotted some morning glories this week. I keep accidentally pulling the vines with the ivy; I am pleased by their tenacity. The volunteer cosmos just keeps coming. And the sedum that I didn't remember having a bloom is lovely.

I confess I have been lonely this week. Maybe it was the two days and an evening with people at the staff retreat that makes my beautiful home feel temporarily empty. Maybe it's the rain, which I love, but which raises a yearning for a snuggle-buddy. Maybe it's watching the season-opening Grey's Anatomy and Christina's reference to Meredith as her "person" and feeling like my persons have all faded away, and I will never have one again. Being in what I thought would be a garden in full-out retreat, but isn't, reminds me to never say never. Everything is seasonal. The person-drought will come to a close when it's time; and probably when I least expect it.

Autumn. I exchange my spring/summer porch decor for the autumn/winter version. I welcome fall, which will come into fullness in its time. I am glad to cycle along with the seasons. They come, they move on, they return. All is as it is ordained.

Dance Like Your Hair's on Fire!

All week the weather-tellers predict a 25º temperature plummet Thursday night. My anticipation can not be greater if the forecast were for snow. And I love waiting for snow. As promised, Friday and Saturday, under a gray sky, the drizzle-filled air does not get over 60. The heat is not over, but it has loosened its grip. Human beings will never stop trying to control whatever they can, but at least for now, they cannot keep autumn from coming. The autumnal equinox begins Friday, at 5:05 AM, ready or not. It doesn't mark an absolute cross-over, but it throws up the signal: the change, it is a-coming. The annuals are blooming their hearts out, but they can't keep it up. The perennials that didn't succumb to the heat and drought are beginning their descent into the earth to rest and renew. The geese honk over my roof this morning, heading south.

There is nothing cold about the emotional temperature in Raleigh this week, though; it's on fire. Early in the week, the State legislature voted to put an anti-gay marriage amendment  on the May ballot. Of course they don't call it that; they call it protection, not discrimination--it's a scary line. I am weary of this regressive state. I just do not understand how a same-sex couple wanting to legalize their love is threatening to straight marriages. Truthfully, I'm not sure why anyone thinks it important to legalize love. In my humble opinion, I think tax laws should not address how and whom a person loves. I think any adult should be able to say who they want to make decisions for them if they are incapable of making them themselves, and who they want to leave their stuff to when they die. And if they write it down, that should be good enough. Why should you need a state sanction for that? The government should not be involved in whatever ritual of commitment feels right for two people, and men and women of the cloth should not sign a civil document for anyone. I say ban all marriage laws. And Brian at Cafe Carolina, who gave me free coffee this morning, agrees.

People are afraid. That's all I can figure out. And I understand fear: fear of change, fear of losing control, fear of dancing. But the world changes every single day--the political world and the natural world. Our families change, our job responsibilities change, we change. And we never had control to lose, only the illusion. A historical note of interest about North Carolina: in 1920 our beautiful state--marred only by the frightened, control mongers--had the opportunity to be the final ratifying "yes" that gave women the right to vote. But the legislature defeated the measure by two votes. The next day Tennessee had the honor of ushering the 19th Amendment into law. When did North Carolina ratify it? 1971.

Within the state both pro-suffrage and anti-suffrage groups campaigned vigorously and distributed materials to persuade others to support their cause. Just as they are now on the issue of who should be able to marry the person they love, and who should not. Those opposed to the amendment did so for a variety of reasons, including:
• the belief that voting rights should be the purview of the state 

• women who became involved in politics would neglect the home 

• women would be forced into roles they did not want, such as having to serve on juries 

• giving women the vote may lead to Negro suffrage.

In hindsight we can ridicule those individuals and groups for their short-sighted bigotry and misogyny (though sadly there are still people who believe those things). They were afraid then. They are afraid now. They are still trying desperately to hold on to some kind, any kind, of control and power. Everyone is dancing like their hair is on fire to make happen what they believe it right.

Over the past year, the Wake County school board majority has been passionately working to repeal the school system's diversity policy. They have all sorts of faulty rationale, but what it really comes down to is socio-economic racism. They don't want the privileged among us to have to put their children on a school bus, or to sit next to a student in the classroom who doesn't look or dress just like they do. Both sides are dancing like their hair's on fire.

I watched a disturbing (Danish) movie last night, In a Better World, about bullying. Bullying comes in all shapes and sizes. The child who befriends a bullied child and uses the power of that friendship to talk the grateful recipient into wrong-action, is as guilty of victimization as those who name-call and beat children not like them. Politicians and preachers who lead their disenfranchised and fed-up followers toward the wrong star are just as oppressive as a dictator.

On a happy note, three weeks ago, my daughter and her girlfriend became engaged! No, they cannot legally marry in the state of Washington. Yet. But Washington is a progressive state. If not always pushing the envelope like their neighbor Oregon, they don't like to fall behind. I am thrilled for Emma and Wynne. Thrilled that they can openly share their love. Thrilled that they are not afraid to post their happy news on Facebook. Thrilled that my 95-year-old mother is honored that they want to have a ceremony next summer in her side yard, and that she loves Wynne as much as I do. Thrilled that perhaps in some way I eased the path for my daughter to know herself and to not be afraid to be who she is. I am not an outwardly cause-passionate person, but in my own way, I dance like my hair's on fire. I have tried to know and be true to myself even when the path was rocky.

I have a confession to make though. None of us are without our own insidious homophobia, even those of us who are gay ourselves. While I have referred to Wynne as my daughter-in-law (jumping the gun in a way I would not have until the fact of the wedding, were they a heterosexual couple), it took me several days to realize that I am to be the mother-of-the-bride. It kind of hit me like brick. I will need cute shoes and an outfit! I just was not thinking of this marriage in the same way I did when my son told me he was engaged. I am on the path now; I hope that is enough to forgive myself, and for Emma to forgive me. We move slowly, the important thing is that we move. Start the dance slow, but move on to jitterbug.

It makes no difference to me if the state recognizes their life together; but if it is important to them, I hope they dance for the right like their hair is on fire. We all have causes about which we are, in whatever way, passionate. I am unlikely carry a sign on the Capitol grounds (though I might, and I have marched for a cause) or write a letter to the editor (though I am writing a blog) or give a speech to the masses (no way in hell). That doesn't mean I'm not on fire. And no one can tell me what causes I should be dancing for. I am irritated by people who think everyone should throw themselves into every fire. There are people dancing for one important cause and who, though they may be passionate about others, do not have the energy to throw themselves completely into another dance. I have mentioned here three causes--gay rights, protection of diversity, bullying--that are really about the same thing: holding one group of people down so another group can stay on top. Dancing for one is dancing for all. They are all about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That rings a bell.

People intent on passing legislation to hold back love for all and among all will be no more successful than keeping women from voting or keeping autumn out of the garden. Religious leaders who use the Bible to justify their bigotry will not be successful, because the Bible is all about love. "Weeping may come in the night, but joy [and dancing!] will come in the morning." The One who is More is doing a new thing in the world...and the sun will rise on the new day.

“Be fully passionate about something. Let your heart be moved. Know what you love. Shout it for others to hear. Write, sing, paint, live--like your hair’s on fire.” (Patti Digh) And dance!

The Way We Were

All over the world--or at least in America--religious leaders and bloggers are sharing their words and arguable wisdom about the events that happened in this country ten years ago. And people are recalling where they were and what they were doing when they heard about what was happening in New York and Washington, DC and Pennsylvania. Some are remembering the event and some are wishing they could forget.

I was doing pretty much what I am doing right now, except in a journal. I had been working part time at my current job for about a month. I wasn't working that Tuesday morning, and I was at my outdoor table--as I am today--at Bear Rock Cafe, down the street from home. A young woman sitting at the only other occupied table was talking on her cell phone. This was before cell phones were pervasive--it would be a few years before I had one--so that in itself was of some interest. It was 

her conversation that was really getting my attention, though. She was talking about an airplane and fire. Her voice was serious, but calm. I thought "There must have been a plane crash somewhere," and I said a prayer for the pain the loved ones of those lost were experiencing. I finished my journaling and my coffee and scone, and walked toward home, stopping at the Hallmark store, perhaps for a card for my nephew's birthday. Over the radio piped through the store, I heard what really happened. I abandoned my search for the perfect card and ran the rest of the way home, where I turned on the TV. I watched in horror the live view of what was happening in New York City, and the replay over and over and over of the planes hitting the skyscrapers. And then I saw the second tower fall.

Yesterday on NPR the news anchor said it was the "worst terrorist attack in history." And that is what I have been thinking about for the last 24 hours. Who decides, I wonder, what is "worst"? Who defines "terrorist"? Nature's terrorist attacks have changed lives this year: floods, tornadoes, typhoons, earthquakes, hurricanes, and fire. Certainly those cataclysmic events have changed the people they affected far more than 9/11 did. The holocaust was surely the worst terrorist attack for European Jews in the 1930s and 40s, when nearly 6 million of them were murdered. Surely two atomic bombs dropped on Japan was the worst terrorist attack if you lived in Japan in 1945. Being black in the US south in the 1950s was daily terror. The Vietnamese in the 1960s and the Americans who involuntarily joined them there could not possibly have imagined more terror. And we didn't and don't have to live in those places at those times to be horrified at what human beings can do their brothers and sisters.

And that, to me, defines terrorism: one person treating another person with disrespect for their humanity. Any act of physical or emotional aggression is a terrorist attack, one-on-one or many-against-many. A husband against a wife, a mother against a child, a boss against a subordinate--just because they can. Some straight married people who think their way of life is threatened by love between two gay people. And gay people who are terrorized because of who they love. One religion or one political party thwarting the efforts of another just on principle. One socio-economic group holding another down just so it can stay on top.

But, one could argue, flying planes into skyscrapers changed the whole world. Did it? Or did it just change for privileged Americans? The vast majority of the world's people have never and will never fly in an airplane. They don't care that people have to stand in line to take off their shoes and go through security now. I admit to waxing nostalgic at not being met at the gate by someone who loves me, but already my children barely remember that. We grow accustomed to such change. I don't mean to make light of what happened ten years ago, but is keeping me safe from a terrorist more important than feeding people in the Democratic Republic of Congo? Women and children in Africa were starving before 9/11, and they are still starving. It didn't change their world. In fact they are dying in greater numbers, perhaps because money is being diverted to killing the terrorists we can see, rather than the invisible killers--the one that kills a child somewhere in the world every six seconds. Yes, for some--for my children's generation--it was the beginning of a loss of innocence and feeling safe in their own land. But generations of people in the Middle East and many other places--including America--have never experienced that. Not in their country, nor in their cities, nor in their own homes--if they have one. They didn't have innocence and safety to lose that day.

And was it the attacks that changed us, or our reaction to them? We in America certainly had the opportunity to change the world because of that day. The whole world was watching to see what we would do. The whole world was in our corner that day. Yep, we changed the world alright. For the better? Each of us must decide what we believe about that.

Defining moments. Moments that changed the way we were.  The historical event that defined the moment of lost innocence for me was November 22, 1963. I was sitting at my desk in my sixth grade classroom when the principal came in and, without speaking, put the radio on my desk near the door. We heard that the President had been shot. That was the day I knew there was evil in the world.

I am also thinking today of the good things that changed the world in ways we will never return from. I just feel like looking at the positive and hopeful on this day of remembering sadness. Penicillin. The electric light bulb. The automobile. Air travel. The telephone. Internet. These were not events, of course, but all were tied to someone's aha moment. Moments when everything changed.  Some days even some of those things seem evil, but there is no stopping ideas from blooming. Plastic! Environmentalists may disdain that aha moment, but I am glad not to have the slippery glass Breck shampoo bottle to deal with. "What?" my children might ask. "Whoever thought glass in a ceramic bathtub was a good idea?" My dears, plastic was not affordable to the masses until I was nearly through my teenage years. And now, of course, most bathtubs are plastic, too. It is hard to believe. What we so recently thought was life-changing, like airport screening, quickly becomes "the way it has always been."

Air travel, television, and the internet have made the world smaller. And mostly that is a good thing. It brings with it the opportunity to see the terror in the daily lives of others; and what we know about we can potentially do something about. And it sometimes brings the opportunity to perpetuate terror. Unfortunately we have spent more time and money dealing with those who hurt us than we have on the more prevalent issues that face our world. I fear that we have only brought more terror into the garden.

For good or evil, our world changes with great frequency. It is not just a single biggest or worst event. I believe, or at least I hope, that the events of September 11, 2001, eventually will prove to have strengthened the search for love and hope and compassion among all the world's peoples.

“A pattern that others made may prevail in the world
And following the wrong god home we may miss our star.”
                                        --William Safford