woman's lib

i've been dealing with some anger lately.
here's where it began.   a few weeks ago Scott bought us some tickets to a concert.  it had been AGES since i saw live music so i was really looking forward to it.  we invited some friends and went out for dinner and then hit the club.  first shock:  we were carded at the door.  i asked "is it because i look younger than 18?!" and the doorman said "no.  you definitely look old enough.  i just have to do this."
nice.
not that i want to look 18, but well, i want to look a little like 18...
second shock:  no seats.  looking around the room my friend and i quickly ascertained that we were indeed among the aged in the crowd.  we were delighted to see a woman older than us who took out her reading glasses to read her iPhone (bless you angel of age).  it seems young'uns these days don't require chairs.  we squeezed onto the side of the stage to give our poor legs a rest and managed to have great views.
here's where i start getting angry.
the band finally (FINALLY!  is that seriously the time?!) gets on stage and here's what grates my anticipatory eyes:  slobs.  amazing musicians - beautiful harmony and lyric and musicianship, but what the heck are you wearing?  and when's the last time you looked in the mirror?  and why do you all have beards like tom hanks in castaway?
i'm noticing more and more that women these days are wearing less and less and men these days are looking worse and worse (could there be a correlation?).   i think of female performers i've seen on tv lately - most are wearing what look to be hard plastic swimsuits.  fishnet stockings.  stilettos.  they look like they've been in the makeup chair for hours.  their bodies are a major part of their performance.  contrast that with ripped t-shirts, shaggy beards, baseball caps, the "just rolled out of bed!" look that frankly, i believe.
  
last night scott and i went to a movie and in the elevator we see two girls dressed to the nines - pretty dresses, sparkly purses, heels, you get the picture.  and with them:  boy in sweats.  i'm starting to see why my mom was annoyed in grade 9 when my date picked me up wearing shorts, socks and birkenstocks.

this is my angry thought:  where is the liberation?  what have we been liberated to?

and do not get me STARTED on miss mylie cyrus.  i've counted two magazines in stands that have headlines like "why we love mylie!".  one of these magazines, 'seventeen' to be exact, sent a free copy to our house (i suppose there was a teenage girl living here before us), so i read the article.  here's why seventeen magazine loves mylie - because she does what she wants and ignores the world.
wow, that's a fantastic reason to love someone.  how admirable to ignore all wisdom, all mentorship, all societal practices of decorum and decency and just do whatever you like!  naked!!  is this seriously what it takes for a girl to make something of herself these days?  justin bieber seems to have tried the same tactic and failed - nope, only girls allowed on this ride of humiliation.

ugh.
this frustration is simmering.
and then, thankfully, Easter.
once again i read the resurrection story, of women, stooped with grief, carrying jars of spices to the tomb. preparing themselves for a corpse that is hardly recognizable.  bowls for water to wash him, to speak tenderly to his body, to honour a man they loved with this last act of hospitality and sacrifice. what a beautifully feminine thing to do - we swaddle our babies, and swaddle our dead.
and then the shock of sleeping soldiers, a vacant tombstone, and no body.

grief added to grief.  

now there will be no tender goodbye.  no mutual consolation between the women who loved him.  no part of closure.
Mary Magdalene cannot move with the pain of it, and starts weeping in the garden.
and then a gardener....the same gardener who planted the world in Genesis and walked in the cool of the day with another woman, Eve.  a man who is God, who has just defeated death, who could have proclaimed his resurrection in truly mind-blowing fashion (explode out of the tomb?  come down from the clouds?  fall from the sky on a giant throne?) chooses his first act of revelation to be to a woman.  and not the queen mother or even a woman of noble character - no, a woman who had been demon-possessed for most of her life.  an utter outcast.
he says her name "Mary" and suddenly she knows him.  and her life is in that moment given incredible purpose.  and all of the female sex in that moment are valued, upheld, honoured.  the men didn't believe her story when she told them later (how incredibly frustrating for her!) - so Jesus didn't choose her because she was the most believable witness.  quite the opposite.  he chose her to reveal the worth of a woman.  this is true liberation.

and i'd bet my bonnet that his beard was nicely trimmed, even having been dead for 3 days.

why i cry and other sundry items.

Picture this:
i'm sitting on one of the Adirondack chairs in my front yard.  beside me is a Camellia tree - huge, over 10 feet i'd say, and breaking into bud.  i hear the creek laughing.  i see tiny purple pinpricks of flower on its bank.  it smells like spring.  the warm breeze feels like spring.  the blue sky and mountains surround me.  i breath deeply.
my son, who is home from school because he's sick, is kicking his soccer ball around the backyard (yes, obviously sick-as-a-dog).  he looks down the side of the house and sees me sitting.  he yells "he mom, do you remember this?"
and then he sings "i've been dreaming of a true loooooves kiiiiiiss".
from the movie "enchanted".  have you seen it?  you should.
his pitch is perfect.  he even works the vibrato and extends his arm out as he holds the last note.
my son, at the age of almost seven, is a hopeless romantic.  and i am the object of his affections.  i love it.  i know it won't last (it better not last!), so i will soak in every ounce while i can.
and that was my perfect moment of the day.

i love spring.  i love love love spring.  and here, being in a home with a beautiful established garden, every day is a treasure hunt.  today i found new purple hosta shoots, 2 inches out of the ground, that i swear were not there a few days ago.  there is a tree blooming with some tiny fuschia clusters of flower.  something is green and leafy everywhere - i'm hoping it's hyacinth (otherwise i have a truly invasive weed that i'm smiling at daily).  i found tulips today that i hope will be out for Easter.  i truly feel like there is magic taking place out the front window.  it fills me with wonder.  what an incredible gift to be reminded, year after year, that death and rest bring lift and flourishing.  that even the lifeless rotted sticks of a plant can be made new.  i love seeing the dahlias returning - the new red shoots pushing up right beside the dead brown ones from last year.  pure miracle.

i am realizing more and more in my older age that i love tradition, rhythm, ceremony.  i was reminded of this last week when i cried at my sons little league parade.  what was there to cry about?  a row of boys in too-big t-shirts plodding behind their coaches.  and bagpipes.  but i looked at the crowds of people cheering on their sons and brothers, and these awkward boys, and thought of how this organization has been doing this for so many years... and i was done-in.

maybe it's the public encouragement that makes me cry, i don't know.  i cry when we watch "the voice" and one of the coaches gives a heartfelt congratulations to their team member.  i cry in Christmas productions when everyone starts clapping. do i just tear up with applause?  man i'm strange.

i keep reminding myself that tears are the storehouses of disease and stress and they just need OUT.  i think i've kind-of made up that philosophy/biology, but it works for me.

i've been painting non-stop the last 3 days, trying to finish two pieces for our church's Easter service.  i'll post them when they're completed.  as i've been painting i figured out how to listen to audio files through the library.   what fun!  painting while listening to a story.  i've been listening to "big stone gap", a story set in the blueridge mountains of Virginia.  the author (Adriana Trigiani) is reading it (i love that) and she has this magnificent southern twang that i simply can not get out of my head.  i keep asking Scott "am i talking with an accent?" and he just smiles.  what's weird is that i'm thinking with an accent.  as i type these words i'm hearing them with an accent.  and i want to say "corn grits" and "higgeldy-piggeldy".  now, that felt good.  i've been listening to Adriana's voice for three days straight and i'm still not finished the story.  i haven't seen the physical book, so it could be 600 pages long, but i think it's taking so long because she just takes her time.  this manner of speaking does not rush.  i'm listening to the story in blueridge mountain time, and i wish my whole life lilted and paused and swaggered like her voice does.

tomorrow is a busy one with my daughter's 10th birthday party. the theme is "cupcake spa", and, being the sole spa employee, i hope it doesn't kill me.  death by cupcake and face mask.  hopefully i will find a moment to peruse my front yard miracle, and speak to myself tenderly in a southern drawl.

maybe i'll even be serenaded by a little prince in t-ball uniform.

the grass is greener (much greener)...

i hesitate to say this, thinking of my dear prairie and ontario friends, but i weeded in my garden for over an hour today.  do you hate me?  i noticed this plant sprouting all over the place, so i ripped one out of the ground and made the trip across the street to my neighbour Shirley, who just happens to be a horticulturalist (praise the Lord above).  she told me it was something that had "californian" in the name (my mind has a bucket for plant names that is riddled with holes).  i asked "is it a weed?", and she said "well.....".  it seems that this particular californian sprite is quite pretty when it flowers, but will take over the entire lot.  she said "if it was my land, i'd rip them all out".
so, i squared my shoulders, marched back across the street, and did just that.
as i was uprooting these leafy wonders, i started feeling the guilt descend.  i knew it would.  Shirley said they would become beautiful.  and i was de-beautifying something.  killing something beautiful.  i remembered that i had recently stated "God is beauty".  as i dug down in the soil, caught hold of the deep root and yanked it out i thought "i'm pulling God out of my garden".

and then i thought "janet, does anyone else think like this?  are you totally weird?"
and THEN i thought "i'm sure psychopaths and philosophers have self-conversations like this one all the time".  somehow that was reassuring.  (!!!!) [no offense to philosophers].

Scott came out to join me and we raked and cleaned and the kids came out and collected bugs and snails with the neighbour-girl.  perfect.

but back to killing beauty:  a bird flew into our kitchen window today.  i know what you're thinking "it's because it's so clean Janet" - and i know you're thinking it in that snotty voice of yours because you're one of my friends who rolls their eyes at my habitual cleanliness.  but i swear, it's NOT clean.  it has nose prints and hand prints and food and winter grime all over it, so HA!  i was in the kitchen with my kids (probably wiping something), and they were eating breakfast (probably singing to each other and hugging, as per usual**) and BAM!  this bird smacks into the window and then flies/falls into the tree/bush next to our house.  we were stunned (probably not as much as the bird), and then we heard this horrible crying sound.  seriously.  the bird was crying - this hauntingly mournful caw.  i think it was a seagull.  what's amazing is that it left this incredible print on our window - you can see the shape of it's body and then the feathers on its wing splayed out - as though the bird was dipped in chalk before it hit the glass.  it's horrible and beautiful at the same time.  i keep starring at it but the whole time i'm telling myself to look away - like when scott is wearing socks and underwear but no pants.  it's so horrible, but i just can't stop myself.

i spent five hours starring at a screen, clicking a mouse, typing names, preparing client statements today.  five. hours.  straight.  i can't believe i have the gumption to be typing right now, especially since i'm going back for more tomorrow.  sometimes i wonder what the worst job in the world is.  here's some ideas on my list:

• anyone at the end of a 1-800 number that has the words "customer service" attached to it.
• a disney princess.  at disney world/land.  you might disagree (sorry ruth, and sarah), but i think that attempting to please four year old girls 8 hours a day, wearing satin and gloves and a wig, and never being allowed to just ONCE tell a whining parent to grow up = hell.  i remember seeing those little girls, waiting in line to see the princesses, their hair curled and eyes covered in blue eye-shadow and dresses puffy with glass slippers and fairy wands.  terrifying.  i'd rather work with prisoners.
• a doctor who specializes in hemorrhoid removal.  
• a mother of quintuplets who believes that breast milk is the only option.
• truckstop bathroom cleaner.

tomorrow, when i'm in hour four of computer face, i will remind myself of these other jobs and smile.
but now i really need to stop feeling the glare of laptop light on my face, so off you go.  try not to kill anything beautiful.



** when i say "singing" and "hugging" what i mean is arguing over who's foot is on who's chair and attempting to be first at everything and trying to get the other in trouble and laughing about the word 'bottom'.  it's code.