The Dancing Queen and my 7-year-old Self.

Last week was all about dreams. Why do we need them? Where do they take us? What happens to dreams unfulfilled?

As I wrote with our participants, I thought about my own dreams when I was little. What did I want to be when I grew up? I remember always desperately wanting to be a writer, often a veterinarian and –for a brief period– an actress (though hopefully one without a Vicodin addiction or sex tape). How wise my 7-year-old Self was. She knew exactly what she ought to be doing. But somewhere, the very grown-up curse of self-doubt took hold and for a few years, I put my 7-year-old-self (along with the rest of me) into a box. While I busily attended to "being realistic" and "building security" that little yellow-haired dreamer story teller sat quietly in the corner. She knew the truth. She knew that to say she "enjoys writing" is tantamount to someone saying they enjoy having arms and legs. Without words I am crippled, an amputee.

But perhaps if I hadn't spent the past several years trying to be something else, I wouldn't have had all the adventures I did. Finally, I have started taking seriously the desire of my 7-year-old Self and I can't help but thank her for her patience.

I wondered then, what the 7-year-old selves of my workshop participants might look like. Were they still in there, quietly waiting? We read a poem, by Langston Hughes:

As I Grew Older

It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun–
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky–
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!


Nadine shared with us her desire to be a dancer. She seems to have come from a family that thought very little of her, and has spent many decades in a marriage that extends that tradition of belittlement. She always wanted to take dance lessons, but everyone told her that she couldn't so she didn't. And then she said this:

"I will take dance lessons. I don't know how I'll afford them, but I will. I will get the money and I will learn how to dance. I will practice and practice and then I'll be on stage. One day, we will clap our hands and cry together. I will not give up, no matter how old I get."


During the break between workshops, a woman started talking to me at the coffee table. She was some sort of volunteer with the church [where the workshop is held]. She asked if I had ever worked with children. I replied that yes, I also work with 4th graders. She laughed and said, "they [my beloved older people] aren't very different from children, are they?"

I wanted to punch that bitch in the face.

But all I could muster was, "I disagree." before I walked away. Sure, I know we all regress and that someday (God willing and the creek don't rise) I too will need taking care of. But no, it's not the same. Old is not the same as infantile. Even if we are just children inside aging bodies, no it's not the same.

More than anything, I hope Nadine knows it's never too late to become what you might have been. It's never too late for the 7-year-old-self.

Note: photo comes from inside cover of Tuesdays with Morrie, by Mitch Albom. Everyone should own a copy. Or three.

Love is a many-splendored thing.

There is something funny about being the youngest person in a room full of people talking about love, but that's exactly how I spent yesterday morning. In honor of Valentine's Day (really, will Hallmark just go ahead and trademark the stupid thing?) Neena brought exercises involving that great, ever-moving target called Love.

We looked at the underbelly of Love with Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath (poor Miss Plath lived quite squarely in the underbelly...I mean, she put her head in an oven for crying out loud) but also the quirky, sweet, irresistible side with Love Poem by John Frederick Nims (incidentally, Mister Nims never put his head in an oven).

After reading and discussing the poem, Carl said, "if it's normal, I don't want it!" We asked him to elaborate:

"One of the things I love most about my wife is that she's wack-o. She is colorful and unusual. Never boring. That makes her more beautiful."

I learned many things that morning, encouragement and caution alike: I learned to never marry someone whom you want to change, you have to just marry the person as they are. I learned you do -contrary to popular opinion- have to say you're sorry a lot. I learned that after the initial infatuation, reality will set in, but from that you can create an exciting, fulfilling grown-up sort of love. I learned that sometimes, your partner can be a real pain. Sometimes, they might drive you crazy. But after I listened to Carl and then watched as Vic's wife slowly made her way over and gently put in his hearing aid (which he refuses to turn up, for the record) and he sent her off with a kiss and genuine "thank you, my darling" I also learned that sometimes -if we're willing- we can't live without each other.

Love Poem
John Frederick Nims

My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.

Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars-
Misfit in an space. And never on time.

A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.

Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses-
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.

Thursday, Favorite Day.

Well, it's official: I'm in love with the participants of my Thursday workshop. That means Thursday is my new favorite day of the week. You can pretty much anticipate a weekly update relating to this group...

Per the usual both classes had me laughing out loud. The nice thing about them is that they're too old to give a f**k about what they say. I admire this. It's honest. It's endearing. Often it's funny. Sometimes it's sad.

In one exercise, everyone chose a random (blank) postcard and wrote the message that it inspired. Carl bemoaned the bad food in England where "they have a hundred religions and only one sauce." Vic, who is in another group, is tenacious, outspoken, and likes to question everything. EVERYTHING. Por ejemplo:

Me: "My name is Phyllis. We'll be doing some creative writing today."
Vic: "Why?"
"Pardon? Why what?"
"Why is your name Phyllis? Who named you that?"
"Umm. My parents named me Phyllis. After a friend..."
"Oh, well that's very nice. Now what exactly do you mean by 'creative'? And why writing?"

and on and on and on we go. Anyway, we read a poem by Charles Bukowski, Bluebird. The exercise was to write what was in their own hearts. A lot of the responses were funny (a rascal) some poetic (a herron) but I really loved Vic's because it surprised me:

He said: I have joy in my heart. Because I am 80 years old and that is older than my mother and father lived to be. I could live to be 100. I feel good.

Bluebird
Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

A real prize winner.

I don't like New Year's Resolutions. This is because once I'm told not to do something, I have no choice but to do it. Call this a personality flaw. Call it rebellious. Whatever. Instead, I opt for New Year's Bonuses. These are things I take on to make my life better. Last year I started sponsoring a little girl in Guatemala to go to school. The year before that I started drinking at least 32 ounces of water daily. This year PB and I started making a trip to the Farmer's Market every Saturday. Our challenge is cooking one dinner per week made exclusively from local vendors. It's been a fun learning experience coming up with our own recipes unique to what is local and in season here in Central Texas.

Last week I made the trip solo and got there less than an hour before closing. The guys at San Miguel Seafood hooked me up in a big way...I was hoping for a couple nice filets, but they were out of absolutely everything except whole fish. I was hesitant but they offered me a 2 lb., 11 oz. Red Snapper for only 10 bucks. Can't say no to the end-of-day deals.

At any rate, I also snatched up some mustard greens and baby collards before heading out. I felt pretty great with my giant fish in his ziplock bag and was instantly transported to being a kid at the State Fair of Texas. And folks, the State Fair is a big effing deal here in Texas....

I remember this one time, maybe I was eight or nine, and our family went to the State Fair. In the game area, I became absolutely obsessed (in only the way a child can really, truly, obsess) with winning this giant, plush, stuffed Coca-Cola can (scarily successful marketing). I'll never remember what the game was, but that I played it incessantly for more than hour. I used all my money just trying for enough tickets to get that stupid plush Coca-Cola can. At the end, I had enough to get some crappy consolation prize. Whatever it was, it was small and worthless compared to what I had been trying for. The Fair was closing down and I was dejected. At that moment, I probably should have learned that no matter how hard we try, we don't always get a good deal. But instead, I felt small and insignificant. I felt I'd been cheated and taken advantage of...the man running the game got all my money, after all!

I walked away and Mom asked me how my game went. I explained to her my disappointment. For the record, neither my Mom nor Dad were ever "helicopter" parents: instead, they fostered some serious independence and free-thinking in all of us. So I was surprised when my Mom turned around, marched over to the game booth and made a case for me. I watched within earshot as Mom asked this goober if it would really hurt anything for me to trade out my little toy with the big one I really wanted and had worked so hard to win. He flatly replied "no," and that is pretty much where things ended...although in my fantasy world, Mom decks the guy in the face.

...Anyway, back at the Farmers' Market, I felt my giant fish needed a name. After all, people were staring at the two of us together. I called him Barney. PB and I read up on cooking Barney whole, with his head intact. We rubbed him in olive oil, sea salt, and cracked pepper, and stuffed him with fresh tarragon and sliced dancing tangerines. Yes, Barney was absolutely delicious. We sat outside on the deck with wine, enjoying our good fortune.

As I savored our prize winning fish, I thought back to that day at the State Fair. I remembered that life isn't always fair, it isn't always nice. That some people think everything is black and white. That "rules is rules." But I also learned family will fight the good fight for you.

And some twenty years and a few hundred miles south, I learned that sometimes your very best efforts really can go rewarded.