The Real Me

Every Sunday evening, I get together with an eclectic group of four men for a play date. I play my flute and they play their oboe, horn, clarinet and bassoon. This isn't a euphemism, it's a woodwind quintet. 

We might not normally socialize except for that love of music. You've got a 61-year old math teacher, 40-something church music director, 30 or 40-something appliance salesperson/expert, an 80-year old insurance salesman and me, a 32-year old blonde realtor/mother. 

Being a flutist is something that has defined who I am for such a long time; I've been playing for more than 2 decades. After I got married in 1999 (to a non-musician) and moved to Florida and then to Oklahoma, I didn't have that musical outlet anymore. The way I used to make friends no longer existed and making friends in other ways was a real challenge for me those first few years of marriage. 

Up until 2007, I hadn't played with anyone at all. And then one day a stranger with an oboe called and said, "I hear you play the flute."

What's interesting about this quintet is that, even though we've only been playing together for less than 2 years, I sometimes feel this is my most authentic moment of the week--when the girl I envision in my head really comes out to play. This is the person I was before I became a wife, mother, Okie or professional. In those moments, I'm just that girl who was playing the flute back in middle school, high school and college--the same girl who seems to be lost as the years flit by. I miss her.

Aside from family, I have a "post-1999" friend who attends all my performances. By coming, not only does she have stellar musical experience (ha!), but I feel like she's really interested in who I am and who I've been. That may sound a little dramatic but there's hardly anyone I see regularly that has any acquaintance with the "pre-modern me." And the fact anyone might be interested in that girl is refreshing.

The Inevitable

I've had an interesting week. What started with an outpatient procedure has turned into a therapy that may be months in the making. I won't bore you with the details, nor do I really want to tell everyone what's going on (don't worry-not life-threatening).  

What has me really thinking are the side effects which could include many exciting menopause-esque experiences, depression and weight gain. YEA! Happy 32nd Birthday. Here's an extra 10 pounds, bad mood and brittle bones. Oh, and maybe some extra surgery for good measure. I guess the good news is it's not cancer. 

What IT is, however, is a reminder that my life is underway. I'm an adult. This kind of stuff is starting to happen to me and my friends. 

I've got this wonderful group of women with whom I meet once a year. We all went to college together and have managed to stay in contact over the last decade. At our most recent gathering, I looked around the room and saw three women with children-- one who adopted (me), two who did it the old-fashioned way--some in happy marriages, some on the rocks, one who bravely made it thru a divorce with her goodness and optimism still intact. Two dealing with chronic illness, two living outside the borders of America.

I've been really blessed. Happy marriage, easy life, effortless transition (i.e. no contractions) into motherhood and about the sweetest child a gal could want. So, I keep thinking--is this it? Is this the moment when it gets messy? And then I think, if this is the "messy," and I'm worried about it, then I'm just a whiner. Because compared what many of my peers have endured, this is a breeze. My husband loves me, my child is healthy, life is good. I guess what has me anxious is the knowledge of how quickly things can change.

I see it happen all the time-- who doesn't? One minute you're healthy, the next you're sick. In one instant you can think things are going great and you look away for one moment and it's all falling apart. 

Even now at those weekend reunions with my eight dear friends, some are dealing with death, disease or heartbreak--and we're young! Someday, I suppose, some of us will be missing. The thought that "maybe it could be me" is a hard concept to grasp. But, such is the reality of the grown-up life. 

The Election, Part Trois

Greetings from a whole new world! I am, of course, ecstatic at the outcome of the Presidential Race. I cried during Obama's acceptance speech and felt admiration during McCain's concession. What a hard race.

I am so pumped!! Guess where I am going????? Wait for it--

THE INAUGURATION! That's right. Me in D.C. taking in a huge bite of history! I'm sorry for the overuse of !!!!! but how else does one express jumping up and down with punctuation?

What to wear? I'm definitely going to need a beautiful coat (the 5 or 6 I already have simply will not do!) maybe in a gorgeous blue and perhaps a ball gown? I JUST DON'T KNOW! It's too exciting to even think about.

Sorry there's nothing deep here today. Just me and my glee.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Election, Part Deux

November 4th. My anxiety level is at an all-time high. I literally could NOT stay in my house today! 

Is it weird that I'm constantly on the verge of tearing up? Butterflies are going nuts in my stomach and I think it's because I feel like I'm a spectator of history. No matter who wins, this election was like no other. 

My friend, Virginia, really nailed it a few months ago when, talking about Obama, said something to the effect of 'It's like Dr. King's vision and dream coming true. Obama embodies that vision.'

In the primaries, I was a Clinton girl-- still am. When I voted for her, I felt very emotional because I could hear a crack in that glass ceiling. And being the mother of a little girl-- I want her to know that equality isn't just theoretical. That m

aybe when she's an adult, she'll be able to make the same salary as a man doing the same job--that she won't be viewed as inherently weak and unprepared because she is a woman. 

But I am also the mother of a non-white child. Annie is Cherokee. Not like many, who are tribal citizens but look White or Black or Asian or Hispanic because of other facets of their ancestry but CHEROKEE. There's no mistaking that she's an Indian. So, voting for Obama brought another wave of emotion because now I can tell my daughter with conviction that the highest office in the land is open to her as a woman and minority. 

God Bless America.

Guess what? I don't have all the answers.

I think it's interesting how some of the folks with whom I attend church think that admitting to any doubt is somehow an indication of weak belief. I am sure this isn't unique to my community of faith but I imagine that if I were a new believer or someone struggling, hearing such sunny "I never waiver" declarations or "I always do X" could be really off-putting. 

I hope God leaves a little wiggle room for doubters, because I must admit, I often look at what I believe and think, "Am I kidding myself?" I look at the world and I see why people turn their back on belief; I totally get it. Sometimes I'm a "fake it 'til you make it" gal and I hope that in the end God says "Well done" all the same.

I'm trying to have some compassion for these super-optimistic-my-life-and-family-are perfect-we-always-believe-and-have-faith-matter-what people. It must be exhausting to teeter on such a high pedestal.

Comparing Ailments

Well, it's official: I'm old. 

This morning in my Cherokee language class, my teacher, two other classmates and I were discussing the places where we hurt. My prof is in his sixties. We both have the same pain in our heel and I was giving him tips on how to make it feel better. 

Also, my back is killing me after painting my daughter's room. And while my back aches like an arthritic grandma, I'm growing two new zits in my oily t-zone.  So now my shopping list reads: 

1. One pkg Doan's backache pills

2. Clearasil

Existential Crisis

It's not often that I grieve, mostly because, so far, my life has been pretty posh. Nothing bad has really happened in my immediate personal life. If you'd asked me if I really cared  about the suffering of those across the world, I would say "yes," but if I was truly being honest, the answer would be that I was indifferent. 

Sunday at church, the picture above was shown during the lesson. I'd seen it before-- probably years ago. It won a Pulitzer in 1994. But when I saw it on Sunday, it upset me so badly that I couldn't stop crying. The ache at my core was what I would expect if I lost someone close to me. When I saw that girl, I saw my own child and it made me sick, furious and filled with despair.

I don't know what's changed. Has becoming a mother made me more sensitive or is it just age that does it? Whatever it is, I'll tell you this: I had an existential crisis sitting on that pew. 

I wondered where was God for that girl and for the millions like her? Why do I give all this money to church when it could be better spent feeding the hungry? Why are we burning FOOD to fill our gas tanks? I was humiliated at the audacity of my desire for "stuff," when all some are begging for is a cup of clean water. Like I said, I had a moment-- and I don't know yet what to do about it.