The Most Important Thing

(Pre-Script: This post will be best digested as the song, "Gone," #50 on the playlist, plays in the background, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

If you really want to know what the most important thing in the world is, do not ask anyone; you will hear a lot of great essay worthy, pulitzer prize worthy answers, but if you really want to know what matters to the people of this country, all you have to do is read the covers of the magazines at the checkout stands in any store. I did this just today, and I learned that the most important thing in the world is People Who Have Lost A Whole Lot of Weight. This is only slightly more important than People Who Have Gained a Whole Lot Of Weight And Have Vowed To Lose It as We All Watch.
Americans are all so fascinated with these stories of "How I lost 500 lbs,. Or "How I Stay In Such Good Shape," The cover is always some starlet who was always skinny to begin with because she is only 19 years old, or because she is anorexic, but will never admit it, and I don't blame her, why would she admit that to all of the flashbulbs who are making assumptions, judging her, and objectifying her, anyway, just so they will have one more thing to pick apart and criticise about her? or she has a personal trainer and chef, or because all she does is party, drink red bull, and pop ritalin pills all day. But if you open the magazine, you can read all about how Mary Joe Grace ate egg white omelets, not whole egg omletes, but just egg white omelets, for apparently losing the yolk is an essential part of weight loss. (I am a whole egg opportunist myself, and concider the yolk of the egg to be "the jackpot." espescially if it is a deviled egg we are talking about. That is straight up goodness, but the starlet who is avoiding egg yellows would gasp or faint if she were to ever read that. The fainting is understandable, what with the partying and red bull and anorexia denial.)
For lunch, Our Little Starlet has a salad with balsamic vinegar, chicken or salmon, and for dinner, chicken or fish with vegetables. Read the magazines, the diet is always just what I wrote, maybe a slight variation, like for example, sometimes she has an apple and string cheese for a snack. Sometimes she has a handful of almonds. And then there is a list of her exercises that her personal trainer coached her through, if you ever want to follow her personal routine of lunges and core work on the exercise ball. And then her trainer adds something cheeky, innovative, cutting edge, and new that no one else has ever thought of yet.
I don't know how many people just read the article in awe, and how many follow the eating and exercise routines of famous and not so famous people who have managed to do the most important thing ever, which is to LOSE WEIGHT, if you believe the magazines.
I used to volunteer every Monday at the local downtown homeless rescue mission, preparing and serving lunch. The food was usually some sort of casserole mash, with plenty of nutricious butter. It was grubbin'. I would often stay and eat with the peeps. It was certainly not diet food, would not fit on either south beach or the zone diet, but I don't think that any of the people eating it were complaining. I think that they were relieved to have something to eat, plus they were mostly thin already from their other addictions, heroin, nicotine, alcohol, and such, and also had other things to worry about, like where to sleep, and how were they going to get through another day, and was it worth it if the addiction wasn't there to back them up, but how could they ever get through it without the addiction, too. These are the things that weigh the balance of a heart, the kind of heart that is never featured on the cover of the magazines and is also unaware that Kirstie Alley gained all that weight back and is now going to lose it all so that she can walk on Oprah's stage in a bikini again.
After the lunch shift at the rescue mission, there was a group of chiropractic students who would set up their tables to get practice hours adjusting the backs of the homeless and destitute for free. So I would stay and get my back adjusted. Some of the students were better back crackers than others; some skillfully pressed, cracked, then thanked you very much and very professionally for your time as they nodded you out. Others took the time to notice when the muscles around the vertibrae were also tight, and would rub and loosen out knotted muscles. These were the ones I predicted would have the most successful practices someday; they did not only touch, but they chose to readjust and knead out ,the dirtiest, smelliest backs in town, backs that had been beaten and trodden down, some permanently bent, even though these people lived in America, the land of every opportunity, like Disneyland, or the Garden of Eden, who's many delicious fruits were just out of reach.

-XOXO,

A funny, almost horrible thing happened on the way to Meridian Avenue

(Pre-Script: To fully understand this post, you must first get inside my head. In leu of that possibility, go down to the playlist, click on the song, "Carry On, Wayward Son," by Kansas, #27, then come back and resume reading the post as that song plays in the background. It will not be for naught. I'll wait.) (...still waiting...)

There are reasons why I drive with all of the windows up. Reason # 5 is that it prevents wayward bugs from entering my vehicle while I am stopped at a stoplight or sign. Today I saw a bumble bee attempt to enter the open back window of a man's Honda Civic as he was stopped at a red light. I, too, was stopped at the light, but I was diagonally behind the Honda, so I had full visual. He was a careful driver, with his eyes on the road in front of him, and did not even see the bumble bee who was bumbling towards the Civic's back left passenger window. I started to call out to the bee: "NO! STOP!! YOU are making the WRONG CHOICE!!" it is possible that my inner panic caused a universal shift which was felt by the bee, and that this is why the bee did not enter the unsuspecting Honda driver's vehicle. We will never know, and the man will never know that he almost had a bumble bee in his backseat. I will always wonder how he would have reacted to that. I know how I would react to that, and it would not be pretty.
I'm sorry, but did you hear me when I said "BUMBLE BEE?" Please note that I did not say "Honey Bee," or "Sweet little worker bee" or any such nonsense like that. Bumble bee's are the huge black daddies that Winnie the Pooh cartoons try to cutesify, but in real life they are the size of Dallas. I know this because one such bumble bee flew in my front door a couple weeks ago, and was flying around my living room. It was the size of Dallas. I have never been to Dallas, so I just am guessing at the size, I am not meaning it in a literal sense, please, let's not get too technical here. It is not anything that can be physically measured, but if you could add up the mass of the bumble bee, both real and imagined, plus the size of the bee's ability to terrify and overwhelm, plus, again, the physical and theoretical mass of such a bee, it would add up to, roughly, the size of Dallas. I think.
I did what any self respecting person who fears being simultaneously chased and buzzed at would do: I swung a fly swatter at it with all of my might. I mostly swung in front of my face to keep the thing from getting too close, from getting any closer at all, and also I was swinging to usher the bee out the door. I am quite sure the bumble bee weighed too much for my flimsy swatter to kill, plus I am all for the peaceful coexistence of scaredy cat girl and huge flying buzzing things, as long as one of us (me) can stay indoors while the other (it) remains outdoors. I was also talking the bee through the process, since that seemed to work for Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin, but the bee seemed to be getting angry at my fly swatter, and in turn, the person behind the fly swatter, ("Pay no attention to the girl hiding behind the swatter, doing some crazy wild 'get the bee out of my house' dance of panic") My out loud words were something like, "I am not trying to hurt you, I am just trying to show you how to get outside." and "Jesus, please get this bee out of my house right now, I am terrified" and "Bee, get out, because I really don't want to have to hurt you." And you know, it worked? The bee found the doorway and flew out like a happy champ, smelling the roses and wanting to get him some of that action. Yeah, baby.
Sometimes a child will say to me, "There is a bug/spider/fly/monster in my room ." and I, in my wise wisdom, and fear of indoor bugs, and general trying to feel out a kid who is trying to avoid going to bed from one who is possibly spiritually gifted, will say "Pray to Jesus to make it go away" just in case this "bug" is actually something of a different realm that my child is seeing into, and not just an actual physical bug. That doesn't usually work, so I have to actually investigate, find the bug and destroy it. So far they have all been actual physical bugs. But at least the kids have a mental arsenal of words now to speak into the bugs they encounter in this world. Some of the words they have learned from me to speak into the lives of the bugs they encounter are, "EEK!" and "AAAAHHHHH!"
I remember one evening when I had gotten home late, the house was dark, and I was tired...but before I could relax, I had to go through my nightly routine of turning on every light and checking all of the closets and behind doors, under beds, behind shower curtains, in certain large cupboards, and any other spot in the house that looked like it could be big enough to hide a burglar, if he or she was a contortionist or just very flexible. I was in the middle of completing my burglar hiding spot check when it occurred to me: "I do not have to say a word, but if I continue to act out this type of ritual, I am going to inadvertently teach my children to be afraid." That was the last night I conducted such a ritual. I had been afraid of who might be hiding in my house since I was a child, yet from that moment on, I refused to entertain that fear any longer were it to ever appear again. In 5 years, it has not, and neither has one single burglar been hiding, just waiting for me to get home...either that or they were such good contortionists that they all got out undetected.
I cannot get over the bug fear, nor do I try to pretend it does not exist. If I need to yell at a flying thing, I do. The kids laugh at their goofy Mother, who has a tendency to give them good therapy material for later, so that the dollars that fuel their counseling and rehab habits will not be unwell utilized. Maybe when I am 75 I will be calling them, "Help, dear children I birthed so very long ago, come quickly, there is a bug in my house!" and they will either say,

"Hold on mother, let me put on my slippers and walk up from the basement"

or,

"Mother, I live too far away, I am having too awesome of a life for it to stop just because there is a bug in your general vicinity. Step on it, swat it, go to counseling, or ask Jesus to make it go away."

At that moment, I will know that I can rest in peace, for I will have taught them well.

-XOXO,

Stompin'

(Pre-Script: This post will infuse your very bones when paired with the song, " Mysterious Ways," by U2, #24 on the playlist, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading; I'll wait) (...still waiting...)

Trying to walk on eggshells left me with cut up feet.
Do you know how long it takes to get across the floor when you are constantly having to look at the ground and deliberately place each step?
Do you know how mentally and emotionally tiring that becomes, very quickly?
Then when your feet start to bleed all over, it is harder to tell the difference between the ground and the eggshells. It all becomes one jumbled mess.
I am not going to do that anymore.
So this morning, I put my cutest sandals on, and I buckled them just right.
I walked across the floor with my head high, shoulders back, chest out, stomach in, facing completely forward, and I stomped it out, oh yes, I did, and I did not look at the ground as I crunched every eggshell that I could.
I will tell the truth, if it comes up in conversation.
I will not tell you everything.

-XOXO,

With What Has Been Given

(Pre-Script: This poem should be read as the song, "Winter," by Tori Amos, #33 on the list, plays. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Never however the story it goes

never the princess with pink shiny toes

never the heroine, never the crime

never the one with the string on a dime

never the bride in her white wedding veil

always the dancing rain, always the hail

what you would write when you're locked up in jail,

"where is that girl with the spoon, pen, and pail?"

"where is the garden she brought with the mail?"

always a mermaid fin deep in her heart,

always an arrow and always a dart

always an angel there, perched with a harp

strings she is strumming so crisply, so sharp

songs she is writing and humming and then,

up in the hayloft she hums them again

and again and again and again and again

wondering when, she is wondering when

Honey that drips from a mouth to an ear

drip from the lips of one able to hear

thoughts she cannot think too loud or too clear

rips in her jeans from the wear, and a breeze

rips in her genes for the heir of deceased

green for the springtime and brown for the fall

always a tear for the memory of all

always a golden place, always a spark

always a rusting spot just after dark.

5/9/09

XOXO,

Little Critters, Beware.

(Pre-Script: to understand the deep depths of this post, it must be paired with the song,"The End Of The Innocence," #41, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Let's be clear: I do not willingly share my dessert or perfect bath water. So today, I was running a hot bubble bath, about to soak my aching muscles after a long, difficult run. But when I flung my towel over the shower rod, a LIVE Mosquito Eater bug ( Proper Latin name: "Nasty scary bug more huge than your worst nightmare"*) fell off of it into the bubbles and Epsom salt below. I do not have brain sanity space to wrap around the fact that I had just been carrying a towel that contained a live nasty mosquito eater bug. It was now in my bath, attempting to ruin my moment of relaxation. I tried to get the bug out, but I could not find it. It seems that many white bubbles hid it, and the more I swirled the water, the more I could not find the bug. Ew. I tried to reason with myself that Mr. Nasty would surely drown. Some of you will be horrified that I wanted to kill the bug; but it had the nerve to lounge on MY towel and fall into MY bathtub, therefore turning the creepy factor of my life up about 7 notches, and it was in MY house. When it comes to bugs in my own house, I fall on my 2nd Amendment Constitutional Rights. And then I stand there. And then I conduct battle there. If the bugs would just stay outside, in their own happy outdoor world, they would be safe from the execution of my wrath. Once they dare cross my threshold, it's war, and I do not intend to lose. Some would say, "Oh but the sweet little spider means you no harm and will eat the flies. Let it live." The same person will say "Oh, but the sweet Mosquito Eater means you no harm, and will eat the mosquito's, let it live." To which I say, Spiders infested the worst nightmares of my childhood. Have you seen a blown up picture of how closely a spider's eyes are spaced together? It is enough to make you feel nauseated, at the very least. I never need to see that again. Besides, I am sure that there are enough spiders in places like the Amazon Jungle to eat all of the flies in the world. In my house I have a fly swatter for that. Never mind about my aim. Mosquito eaters are huge and ugly. I would not have minded if mosquito's and mosquito eaters had missed the boat together. By "the boat," I am referring to Noah's ark. But they did not miss the boat, proof that I am once again not in control of everything. Thing #7 that I am not in control of: What creatures made it on and off of Noah's ark alive. Thing #2813 that I am not in control of: The Giant Mosquito Eater that had the audacity to fall into my bathwater just as I was about to step in.
So I had a choice: Do I...

A.) step into the tub anyway, even though there is a mystery bug floating somewhere in it's very depths? Do I allow for the unexpected protein addition to my bathwater?

Or do I...

B.) Keep searching indefinitely until I have found, removed, and destroyed the offending bug, possibly causing perfect temperature bath water to go cold?

I chose A.

Someone just read that and fainted.

But I tried to tell myself that the thing would drown. I tried to block the buggity from my mind, and was halfway successful as I soaked in the Epsom salt warm bubbly goodness of the moment. But then as I drained the water, I caught a glimpse of huge buggity Mr. Nasty rushing towards the drain...and I shot out of that bath like a rocket. Oh yes, there are benefits to working out, namely being able to rapidly jump out of the tub at first glimpse of a huge buggity Mr. Nasty.

"But Michelle,"

My Imaginary Reader is interjecting, I can hear it now...

"Michelle, what about draining the bathwater and starting over? Then you could have still had a relaxing bath experience, bug free."

Gentle Reader, I did not even think of that. Drat.
-XOXO,

*The Proper Latin Name used here is just a guess.

The Eagle Has Landed.

(Pre-script: In order to become the sponge that absorbs this post like hot soapy dishwater, you will first need to go down to the playlist, click on the song, "Superman, by Five for Fighting, #10 on the playlist, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

"Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator or the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint." -Isaiah 40:28-31

I have never been carried on the wings of an eagle, but I have ridden in an airplane many times. It was not always fun. There was turbulence, the claustrophobia at being in a tight space in the sky with too many people and not enough air, leg, or elbow space. The food was not good. I might have had some circulation problems. The great Physics Professors of the world will tell you to stand on a scale while you are high up in an airplane, because surprise, you weigh less the higher you go, since weight is an equation of gravity. You still have mass though. And if you are nervous and Catholic on a turbulent airplane, I'm sure you have a lot of Mass, too. I pray a lot on airplanes. Really, I just want my feet to return to the ground. The Earth ground, not the ground of the airplane in which I am flying high above the Earth, my home planet.
So I really can't imagine enduring the flight of an eagle. I am sure it is extremely windy. I imagine I would get bugs in my teeth, bugs everywhere. Bug gut splatter on my cheeks, bugs I, oops, swallowed, that were flown at me to be protein rich snacks to keep my energy up, so that I do not fall asleep on this big bird and fall off. ("Thank you, Lord, for that unexpected protein.") Does the eagle swoop in such a way that the eagle clears a cliff or a wall or a branch, but I still get wacked? Exactly where do I hold on? What are the chances it could turn around and peck me, or squawk at me? "HUMAN on my BACK! Get the HUMAN off of my Back!! She is like an ADDICTION! Get her OFF!"

"Then Moses went up to God, and the LORD called to him from the mountain and said,"This is what you are to say to the house of Jacob and what you are to tell the people of Israel: You yourselves have seen what I did to Egypt, and how I carried you on eagles wings and brought you to myself." -Exodus 19:3-4

Y'all, it is clear to me that my idea of what it means to ride on the wings of an eagle have always been a bit too idealistic. They have been glamorized. Because I DO remember what the Israelites had just been through in the beginning of Exodus; it had been painful, scary, and dangerous, and...I doubt that in the midst of their deliverance they felt very much like they were being carried on anyone's wings.
At one point, the idea of flying in an aero-plane was novel, fresh, ideal. Then people did it. Then they did it again. And again. And again. At some point people "got it," that the aero-plane was a small thing (relatively speaking) to herd people into for the purpose of transporting them from point a to point b, fast. Sometimes the period between point a and point b is more pleasant than others. Sometimes it is downright restful and restorative. I have at times found the perfect sweet spot for resting my head, and have slept peacefully and deeply, lulled as I was by the white noise of the engine. Oh, sweet white noise of the engine when exhausted girl has found a sweet surprisingly comfortable position in which to fall asleep, the cares of my "real life" far below me on ground, the ground of the Earth, my home planet, which I am soaring high above. At other times, there are 5 crying babies, I am stuck between two "leg spreaders" who are also "snorers," and "arm rest hoggers," and the movie is one I have seen already and hated already. But at the end of each flight, I have always, always ended up where I was supposed to be- On two feet, on the ground, the ground of the Earth, my home planet, at point b in the destination. It is always such a relief.

-XOXO,

Interrupted tasks

(Pre-Script: To get the biggest bang for your buck, you'll need to, read this post as the song, "Unwritten," #5 on the playlist, plays...go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

It was cold in the car, and I listened to music and wept and talked to God. It wasn't too cold, just luke warm, but I felt slightly feverish, and thought, "I am just feverish because I am heartsick, not sick sick." but then I drove past the school that is shut down due to a confirmed case of the Swine Flu, and I thought, "it is possible that my feverish achy feeling is more than a physical manifestation of my emotional state." I was tired, too, because not enough sleep and heartache and weeping and possible swine flu will do that to you. So I put some things away, I washed some dishes, I dried some. My tasks were interrupted. When I think I have a thing figured out or dialed in, it slips right away, it tosses around a bit, comes back to me changed, sometimes warm. sometimes cold. sometimes room temperature, but always changed, Like a thing that has spent time in the dryer.

The things I get tangled up in like bed sheets
and strings
and hearts and things
long remembered comforts inverted,
I get tangled and strangled
in locked houses long abandoned
drafty, not immune
haunted as ghosts
not actual ghosts but
ghosts of a thought in my mind that lingers and walks
through the walls turns on the lights and bangs on the pots-

"Michelle," my imaginary reader is interrupting,

"Michelle, did you just go from prosey-story type telling to a poetry type of thingamajigger- thingy in the middle of the same post?"

Gentle Reader, yes, yes, I did.

"Um, but Michelle, I am SO confused."

It's okay, Gentle Reader. It's okay. Sleep on it. Goodnight.

-XOXO,

P.S. Listening to music while weeping and talking to God is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.