Answer America

Like many others I know, I am angered by the current economic conditions people all over this country (and the world) are facing. Nothing makes you feel smaller than not knowing what you as an individual can do to make a change for yourself and others. Indeed, as children, we are taught if we work hard and follow our dreams, we will have the success we have earned and undoubtedly deserve. Without that opportunity to do what we were trained to do, without menial jobs to put food in our bellies, it makes it almost impossible to believe this country has the American Dream to offer anymore. 

I have been following the Occupation of Wall Street with more than just a healthy curiosity, but with genuine interest in contributing in any form. When I was invited by a friend to join the protest of the 10-year anniversary of the war in Afghanistan, of course I jumped at the chance. If anything, I told myself, I’ll take a few pictures. 

Initially, I was intimidated. I was surrounded by such impassioned people and I couldn’t seem to find my voice to repeat the chants. Mainly because it taps into my rage that innocent people are being killed every day. And that the war is costing $330 million a day. The soldiers that come back who are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder are not receiving proper care. That it’s been going on for 10 years!!! The list goes on and on. How could this modest protest make a difference in the face of our country’s incessant war mongering? It seems our government has outgrown us, we the people, and our voices no longer matter. Even as I write this, the president I voted for, who promised to bring our troops home, has not made good on that promise. I don’t know who or what to believe anymore. 

At one point in the protest, they played the sounds of an air raid over loud speakers and asked everyone to lay down on the ground. I took a photo from a crouched position and really began to listen to the sounds over my head. I imagined I was a soldier fighting over there, and that this was a sound that I awoke to, alerting us of an impeding air strike. I was overwhelmed with emotion and began to cry. I buried my face in my hand, fearful for all those men and women who are fighting a war they no longer believe in. Watching the people they served alongside them dying every day. How unfair it all seemed to me. Justice for no one. 

As the sun set, a group of Aztec Indians, dressed in full garb, came forward led by a beautiful Elder. They performed a ceremonial dance that had everyone standing around in delight and awe of the beauty of such ancient, skilled formation. The Elder began chanting, asking for dignity for all. The word Dignity took on a new meaning. As I write this, I still am not sure what it means. Defined, it is the quality or state of being worthy of esteem or respect. Inherent nobility and worth: the dignity of honest labor. Poise and self-respect. And I ache for all those who share in the loss of dignity for a day’s work well done. Who have lost their self-respect because their homes have been taken away from them. There is no nobility when you are unable to care for your children. And how can we respect those who govern when they continue to lie to our faces and strip the fiber of this country? There are too many without the means to live decently, and too few who are indecent enough to eat the largest pieces of the pie.

I’ve asked myself for many years, in the face of extreme wealth, how much is enough? How many houses, cars, and lavish trips does one person really need? How many nannies, how many expensive shoes? Now, that question has shifted. How much is enough - to survive? When you are willing but unable to make ends meets, willing to work every day but finding nowhere to turn and see your standard of living slipping through your very fingers, unable to sustain and provide for yourself and your family, how much injustice can you possibly take before you’ve had enough? How much is enough?

A Platform From Which to Soar

This feeling is like no other. It encompasses everything learned through experience, all the trust and hope and faith in one’s self and taking stock of your abilities with pride. Defying fear of loss, denying regret at every turn, fueling your present moment with a vision of tomorrow that is tailored by you as artist – in front of a gigantic canvas surrounded by fresh paint. 

Many attend and try to describe the sensations that surround the event and the subsequent euphoria when one overcomes the challenges faced by just being there. No one talks about the minor setbacks and the long, hard hours, and the exhaustion that can take you out of your comfort zone, slapping you for being in any way spoiled from such creature comforts. It’s a personal battle that you wage in signing up. Given enough time to negotiate one’s limits, embracing your human element and honoring that inner voice that wants to protect you from feeling under the task at hand, only then can you see just how far you really can go and what you are truly capable of. The only thing that ever stands between you and what is already inside of you, waiting on you to recognize its been there all along, is you. Once determined, and the steps are taken, you find everything you need at your hands, and the thrust forward is remarkable! It’s as if there never was a time when you felt you couldn’t do, whatever that may be. You are capable of that which you can imagine! 

Looking outward with that new found confidence that comes from within, trusting yourself to do right by you and others, it’s amazing to me how not alone we all really are. So many like minds with the goal of achieving their own personal brand of brilliance. I am encouraged by the choices belief brings, knowing when you focus on an outcome that gives back in such generous and supportive ways, what you get back is far greater than any expectation you can assign to an event. People do care. They want to soar, as you do. Reaching your capable hands forward, allow them to be clasped by those ready to lead you further along that path, or help guide those ready to learn how to grow. We are all in a unique position to do a great many things with the time we have left. All it takes is the giving of ourselves to ourselves the permission to fly.

“Come to the edge, he said. They said: We are afraid. Come to the edge, he said. They came. He pushed them and they flew.” - Guillaume Apollinaire

Photo by: Pear Biter

Fourthcoming

She came barreling down the path in a pink, ruffled dress, her legs barely keeping up with her whimsical drive. Such a tiny girl, her spirited dash infectious. I found her father with my pointed gaze. She couldn’t have been more than 3 years old and yet she left her papa in the dust.

“Wow, can she run!” I said to her dad as he struggled to catch up.

“She’s really excited” he smiled. And as he passed me, I wondered if my frown would burn on my face forever, the well of disappointment sinking deeper.

See, this was one of those days set aside to break up our oft-mundane existence, otherwise known as a holiday. And on this day, we celebrate our self-gratifying independence with noise and bright lights. We wait all year to do this in such a memorable display. And it’s fun for the whole family. At least, it’s supposed to be. I’ve always enjoyed this holiday because I’m surrounded by family and friends bbqing and celebrating. And honestly, fireworks turn me into a giddy 10 year old.

This year, no such joyful regression occurred. In fact, it was all I could do to hold myself together and not throw a child-like tantrum. I had no one to blame it on. The faceless internet gave a list of locations to view fireworks, the shows all starting at 9:00pm. Picking a park nearby, droves of people show up only to meander around aimlessly, questioning the validity of the ad. Children waited with their parents on blankets. Teens, doing their part to stay out of trouble, kept to themselves. Couples and families awaited the sky to be set ablaze. Yet, the fireworks never came.

“They had them here yesterday”, a kid told me, as he and his friends walked out as shadowy figures with their heads down. I could feel his disappointment in the dark. It was too late to drive to another location. We had missed the show.

I wanted to cry! How could I be robbed of this small pleasure? I wait all year for this day! Why did I pick the wrong venue? As I made my way back to my car, I was too upset to speak. Which was fine, because I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news for all those still waiting for a light show that would never happen. And then I saw the little girl in the pink, ruffled dress. She had the determination of a marathon runner. And her father, gasping behind her, shattered my heart with his exasperated smile. In that moment, I pulled what little grace I remember possessing, and found my way out. Not just out of the park, but out of this depressed space. It’s okay to be disappointed, I told myself. An innocent mistake certainly doesn’t define you.

On the drive home, I opted for back roads. Something in my gut told me that because I was in no rush, I should take my time and work on shifting my mood. Suddenly, as I was making a left at a traffic light, and enormous “Boom!” went off directly above me. I looked up in time to see a spray of green lights about 40 feet above my head! Then, each green dot of light turned to white and the white light slowly fizzled down like snow across the dark night sky. I have never been this close to a firework this size. I laughed out loud and told my fast beating heart that I am very much alive and well. And that's indeed what matters.

Le Pew

Holy shit.

While I was getting to it (and I will), the Fonz, who was resting by me out in the cabana, started barking and ran off – before I could stop him. Now, I already had words with him about the neighbor dog – an exhaustive topic of conversation – so, I was taken aback when he ran towards our back door. Barking ensued, and because he stayed so close (and not run up the back of the yard, as was his signature move) I realized something else was happening. I got up and drew back the curtains. The Fonz was confronting a skunk!!! Who had already sprayed him!!! And I can only wish that you had been here to see my reaction. I picked my dog up and started hollerin' HOLY HELL to the skunk. Like a real mad woman, or – rather – a mother, protecting her young. “GET OUT! NOW!!!” I SCREAMED, at the top of my lungs, at this furry rodent, his tail positioned-at-the-ready towards me. He wasn’t budging, and I wasn’t having it. Although the Fonz already REEKED, I wasn’t about to have another demonstration. I told the skunk where to go, and how high to jump getting there, my blood popping through the veins in my neck. I was literally daring him to make another motion towards the Fonz, and now me. My focus never left this skunk’s eye. He skuttered away.

Now, The Stinkiness prevailed. Allow me to interject. I have always loved the smell of skunks. Especially when they are hit, unseen, near the side of a deserted highway. When that glorious aroma wafts in through the cracks of my windows, I'm wide open to receive. Of course that sounds terrible, in lieu of prior tragedy. But as I get a sense of it’s intoxicating smell, I cannot roll both windows down fast enough, breathing in deeply. Call it taste. That smell has always appealed to me... However, the actual fight or flight scent is very different. Not unlike what gasoline would smell liked if it turned sour. And worse than that. It penetrates. Into everything.

Into the shower, I rush us, with the cans of tomato soup, juice & paste (surprisingly, there were many in my cupboard) scrubbing us both down, clothes, shoes, & towels - anything we might have touched. The Fonz shivers under such an unknown solvent. Still, after everything, there’s something in the house that lingers. I’m continually blasted with the smell. No amount of scrubbing floors and cloth will guide me to it’s source. If I am to believe that a single patch of hair carries THIS potency, well then, I have a new-found respect for that creature, the skunk. No wonder that poor cat in the cartoons was always trying to get away. I now understand it. After all these years, only now I get it.

Backagony

..or My Newfound Respect for the Back.

This will, no doubt, point to the things we dare to take for granted. It will also help remind us to celebrate when things are going great! Why not?? The two are first cousins.

Apparently, back pain can be chronic. The thought is staggering, in itself. My newfound respect was acquired from my own set of Backagony. I sit, still coming to terms with it. I insist on getting to the bottom of it. How dare the spine be so sensitive as to blow it for the rest of us! I cannot let my daily drive and inspiration be fueled by the discomfort this kind of core invasion delivers. I’m past it now. Time to figure it out and move on.

So, I did. Through the stiffness, I battled a few resistances. But I made it through. Haven’t felt that incapacitated in a while, over a week and a half of battling – and by battling, I would reactivate the pain by washing the dishes. Not a cute look for an over achiever.

Putting it in my mind, what it felt like to move.. To be able to move my hips and dance.. Well, that brought me back to center. I started to shake my hips, and it seemed to move that lower back/hip pain further south. The best I’ve felt in days!

This may seem silly, but I’m going to hail the spine. For all it does, and the nerve endings under its command. I salute you.

Folly is a Girl I Know

Folly is your own time well spent.

How wonderful to have time spent well, on you and those you care about. There is a divine freedom in that. “I choose to do this”.
So be it.

Folly is fearless. She can also be completely ridiculous! Sometimes mischievous. But always fun.

Don’t misunderstand – Folly knows Foolish. That’s clear. Because Folly likes the stage to be continued. There’s no need to end the evening so soon..

Folly will dare you. She’s wicked that way. But nothing she wouldn’t do herself. Because Folly is brave. And brave is so free.

Folly feels good.