Paint Who’s Wagon?

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What does it mean to be middle-aged? Is there a line drawn across the cosmic playfield that says on this side, you are old, on this side, young? If you love Big Band and Glen Miller, are you old? If you like Rhianna or Jay-Z are you young? If you like InSync or Boy George, are you just … weird?

The older I get, the fuzzier the line gets. I have friends on the 40/70-year-old line that lead fairly “normal” lives:  Dancing with the Stars, American Idol, Oprah. Then there are those who are a little more wild: The Shield, Sons of Anarchy, AC/DC. Where do most of us fit? How do we know where the line is between antique and hip hop? Between dancing and throwing our back out?

The trigger mechanism tonight was Paint Your Wagon, a musical made 40 years ago. Imagine:  Clint Eastwood singing. Lee Marvin dancing and singing about beans. This movie is 40 years old; twice as old as my youngest son. Yet there are some of us who sit around, laughing and singing the songs as if they were still on the top of the charts. When I watch musicals like Brigadoon and Sound of Music and Camelot, my kid looks at me like I’ve grown a second nose. Musicals give most teenagers the willies. If it’s not High School Musical or Glee, it’s not a musical. He shakes his head and goes to watch movies where people get their limbs cut off or that showcase breasts that hang out like watermelons in the summer sun or guys sitting around smoking weed and talking about getting laid. It’s at these times that I feel so disconnected. So…old.

I know that every generation has to evolve. What was fascinating, entertaining or daring to one group is not necessarily to the next. I find myself cringing at songs like Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini and The Bird is the Word. And those were from the generation right before me. I’m sure that same generation shivered at songs like Transylvania 6500 and Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree. Even my parent’s generation had dissenters: I have a song in my collection called If Swing Goes I Go Too by Fred Astaire, singing about “some old fogey wants to ration swing.” Imagine! Our parents being rebels!

Of course, there are many other reflections of generation gaps, many other blank looks from both sides of the fence when music and movies and clothes come to the forefront. I am not the first to discover that there are a number of meanings for the same word, and not everyone is on the same page of the dictionary. My son is fond of chillin’ and hangin’; I can imagine what that would mean to my grandfather’s generation. While I try not to use phrases that date me like groovy and far-out, I can’t help but fall back on standbys like cool and hunky dory, words that dance on the edge of fogey-ism.

I think alot about the generation gap. Not so much how I am on one side or another, but how I can bridge that gap. Sooner or later everything revolves back onto itself. Not back to exactly the same spot; not to the same beat (eight-to-the-bar, jive, waltz), nor to the same words (commie, greaser, beatnik), but to explanations for the same situations that haunt all human beings. As much as underwear sticking out from atop blue jeans and skull caps shake our interpretation of fashion, I imagine mini-skirts and go-go boots did the same for those who wore spats and garters.

All generations wander through the fog; some with purpose, others just along for the ride. All generations start out with a dream, a hope that they will somehow make a difference in their world. One way or another everyone wants to be noticed; everyone wants to be remembered. Some make slasher movies; others cures for diseases. Some climb Mt. Everest, others walk the track for Breast Cancer. For some of us the best we can do is pass along our lasagna or apple pie receipe. We all contribute in our own way.

But back to the over-the-top musical from 1969. Listen to the words to the title song:

Where am I goin?  I don’t know

Where am I headin’? I ain’t certain

All I know is I am on my way…

When will I be there? I don’t know

When will I get there?  I ain’t certain

All I know is I am on my way

We are all wanderin’, we are all goin’ somewhere. And few of us know when we’ll get there. And yes, we are all chillin’ and hangin’. We are all part of the same cycle, mixing and blending and blurring the lines of old AND new. Amazing what happens when all generations fall into the same pot — we become one amazingly flavorful stew.

Groovy.

Feng Shui in the Cubicle

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           One day I was sitting at my desk at work, green computer screen glowing, honky-tonk music spurting out from a speaker not far above my head, trying to concentrate on a long list of numbers that needed to be entered into the computer, glancing at pages waiting to be proofread and images to be downloaded, when a word drifted across my consciousness – Feng Shui.

            For those who need a bit of a refresher course, feng shui is the ancient Chinese practice of arranging one’s personal space in order to achieve harmony with the environment.  This harmony is known as chi, the “life force” or energy that exists in human beings, nature, and all animate and inanimate objects. It is everywhere.  There are books and classes and consultants and everything in between to help us stressed-out people calm the flowing water of our psyche.  Of course, people like me who jam ten pounds of sugar (daily duties) into a five pound bag (24 hours), rarely have time to read the back of the brownie mix box, let alone sit down and read a book about harmony and the environment.

            But I wanted to learn about feng shui so I could bring a little bit of peace to my corner of the office.  With indigestion and carpel tunnel threatening every turn, there had to be a way I could tap into my calm center somewhere between 7:30 a.m. and 4:00 p.m.  So I called a friend of mine who is into energy and higher levels of vibrations to see if she could give me a crash course on harmony and flowing water.  She told me feng shui was not something you can learn overnight; it is a gradual meeting of mind and space, of openness and channeling.  Wanting to know more, we scheduled coffee and chi for the next night.

            She talked, I talked, we drank coffee and ate chocolate cream pie and I brought out a pen to take notes.  But we never really got around to talking about feng shui, because we talked about kids and sushi and Nicholas Cage instead. Still wanting to open my pathways just in case chi came by, later that night I went online and Googled the term, and came across a few guidelines to bring harmony to my cubicle.

            When sitting at a desk, the entrance door should be in a clear line of sight, and you should have a view of as much of the room as possible.  Well, I struck out before I even got up to the plate.  My desk faces the wall — worse, it is a corner unit, so it faces two walls.  The only line of sight I have is where the two walls meet.  That, and an oversized computer screen. Hopefully everyone else’s clear view of my back is enough of an opening to get the energy flowing.

            When lying in bed … well, I stopped reading that suggestion.  If I was found lying down at my desk, my chi would not only flow but be flushed down the toilet.

            Straight lines and sharp corners are to be avoided, and especially should not point where people tend to sit, stand, or sleep.  See interpretation and explanation for point number one.

            Avoid clutter.  How can anyone who works in an office not have clutter?  How can a spiffy multi-tasker like myself give up piles of paper or a dozen catalogs within arm’s reach or stacks of manila flats or thirty CDs with images or weekly bulletins from Human Resources?  Oh, and don’t forget the pictures of my kids and my stapler and tape dispenser and staple remover and yellow highlighter and white-out and my pink pen for corrections and stickies for emergency notes.  Strike two.

            Roads to and from ancient towns were often curved and winding, an attempt to disorient and keep away evil spirits, who were believed to travel in straight lines.  Now, I admit I have to maneuver through hallways and around cubicles just to get to my desk, so I wondered — if I circled the halls long enough, would I be able to ditch the bad spirits and run into feng shui?  This wasn’t quite a strike, but more like a ball. 

            Some objects are believed to have the power of redirecting, reflecting, or shifting energy in a space. These include mirrors, crystals, wind chimes, and pools of flowing or standing water. This suggestion is a cousin of the “lying in bed” dilemma. I didn’t think my boss would let me bring in a water fountain, and, although there is enough hot air coming and going around here to tinkle a dozen wind chimes … mmmm, no.

            So I sat and pouted in front of my computer, realizing that there was no way I could rearrange my daily grind and surroundings to let the energy flow freely.  Feng Shui would have to wait until I got home.  I knew that at least there I would be able to rearrange chairs and hang mirrors and listen to the wind chimes that hang on my balcony.

            But wait!  There was one more point — not really a point, but a closing statement.  Every environment is unique with its own energy, challenges, and possibilities. By becoming aware of your surroundings, connecting to its energy, and using the inherent wisdom and inspiration of nature, you can create surroundings that reflect your highest potential and support your personal and professional goals.   Let’s dissect that for a moment.  I am aware of my surroundings.  I can feel the energy that flows through my body, through the pen and onto the paper.  I can gaze at the fields of Ireland through my screen saver, I can listen to Mozart while I type, and I can read about astronomy during my breaks.  Becoming aware of one’s surroundings is nothing more than living in the here and now, taking what you can and making the most of it.

            For all the hoopla, I think I have finally found the secret of feng shui.  I finally know how to arrange my space in order to achieve cosmic harmony: keep my kids’ picture in sight, eat lunch outside when the weather is nice, and make sure my M&M dish is always full.

                        

Chocolat Under the Tuscan Sun

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Life is a kaleidoscope of feelings: it is pain and death, birth and life. Because the cosmic implications of these things are way above my head, I would rather contemplate my own daydreams.

When I was young I always daydreamed of living in a big house. Living at home with three brothers, then in a little apartment of my own, I fantasized about living in a house rich in history, complete with sculptured gardens, fountains and shaded verandas. The where of the house never quite crystallized; it always existed in that nebulous place half way down some winding, deserted road, picket fences guiding the way, stone lions at the gate — all that.

Time slipped along, and, seeing as I didn’t become an actress or a rock star, there was no easy way to obtain said  mansion with sculpted gardens, fountains and shaded verandas. It didn’t seem to matter, though, once I got married. Children came into my life; changing diapers and trips to the park were more important than parlors with fireplaces and crystal chandeliers. Practicality seeped into my daydreams. Suddenly having a house with a washer and dryer on the same floor or a fenced-in back yard made much more sense than twenty bedrooms to clean.

Eventually my little children turned into teenagers, and my daydreams evolved into finding ways to keep one step ahead of them. I couldn’t let my personal plans take me too far away — after all, how could I play the slots in Vegas when my kid would be throwing some video game/poker game/who-knows-what-we-can-get-away-with game I’m sure he’d throw given half a chance?

Now that one son is married and the other in college, I have finally let my daydreams take on a more surrealistic tint. Escapism is now more enjoyable than ever before. None of this taking off to the Dells or locally-based casinos — now my fantasies are more like Under the Tuscan Sun or Chocolat.

            Take my first daydream: Tuscany. I want to take a bus trip down Italy’s back roads and just hop off at some wonderfully enchanting town and find a charming place to live and settle down. I want to work from home (writing or editing or something that makes a lot of money from my own living room). I would like to be thin as a rail and meet some exotic Italian and ride off in a Ferrari to his vineyard in the country.

            Or how about a different daydream? I could always be whisked off to some quaint little town in France. I would blow into a town on the spring breeze and make a living doing something creative — say, making chocolate. Or, since that idea has already been used, perhaps I could open a shop that sells oatmeal raisin cookies. I’d wander through this quiet gem off the beaten path, taste the local cuisine and throw simple gourmet parties with skill and grace. I would be thin as a rail and meet some exotic Irish pirate and ride off to his pirate cove off the ocean.

            Both of these video women slipped into their new world carrying only one suitcase. They looked absolutely divine in whatever they wore, laughed and bonded with the locals, and made a difference in their little town. They had no husbands or pets, no costumes to sew or dog poop to scoop. If children were part of their scenario, they were precocious and well mannered and never experimented with drugs or peanut butter on the roof of the dog’s mouth. They had an invisible source of income (enough to either buy a dilapidated house or a run-down building) and turn it into something beautiful and homey, and most likely never had a second mortgage piled atop the first one. These beauties didn’t have to punch a time clock or find clean underwear for everyone or make room in their basement for more hunting and fishing gear.

I know, I know — they also had to make it alone through their world. They didn’t have that magical bond that ripens through the years, nor the love of family, nor friends who knew and cared about them for years.  Their new roots would never have enough time to dig in very far, and they’d never get a chance to go back to ‘the old neighborhood’. Their choices were made from circumstances I will never know, and their futures would be fruit born on the branches of a totally different tree.

The great thing now, though, is that I don’t really have to leave home to escape. Dreams, like movies, can be created at a moment’s notice. I can include family and friends in my escapades, or keep them separate through my writing. There’s no reason why I can’t create Tuscan or Athens or even the Great North Woods right here on my little patch of land. Food, music, good times, all can be a part of any reality I choose. All I have to do is play. I can play Italian music and put a bottle of Lambrusco on the table, or hang Japanese lanterns and put a movie like Ran or Shogun on in the background and use chopsticks for my homemade stir-fry.  I can have everyone dress in togas or play polkas to go with my polish sausage and sauerkraut. I don’t need an occasion — I don’t need an invitation.   

Happily ever after doesn’t only exist in the movies. The possibility exists every time we wake up, every time we turn around.

Don’t let your hang-ups of what others have or do or where they go stop you from planning your own escape, even if it’s for an hour or an evening. My glass from Goodwill can be fine Italian crystal and my basket from last year’s Easter can hold the most fragrant of delights. No one will know, and, if you are creative enough, no one will care. They will play right along side of you.

I’ll tell you, though … I wouldn’t mind going for a ride in that Ferrari now and then …

 

Frivolous Facts and Falderal

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Why not fill your head with useless — but amusing — information? Here’s a few facts that you can toss around with friends and family.

 

In the Lord of the Rings, although Bill the Pony is a feature of the novel, the writers initially decided not to include him as the Fellowship make their journey for the simple logistical reason of transporting a horse deep into the mountains.  The problem was solved in the more difficult shots by using the classic pantomime trick of dressing two people up as a horse, one at the front and one at the back.                                                                                                                                                                                              

The average American’s vocabulary is around 10,000 words — 15,000 if you are really smart.  Shakespeare had a vocabulary of over 29,000 words.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

47 elephants and dancing bears survived the sinking of the Titanic and got jobs in New York thereafter.

In the movie Carrie, the slow motion scene at the end of the movie was filmed in reverse to simulate ghostlike movement effects. If watched vigilantly, cars can be seen driving backwards in the upper left hand corner of the screen.

For the movie The Wizard of Oz, Judy Garland got paid $35 a week, while Toto got paid $125.

The national anthem of Greece has 158 verses. No one in Greece has memorized all 158 verses.

Almonds are a member of the peach family.

 

 

My Muse is an Irish Wench

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Everyone has a Muse in their life — a spirit guide, an angel, who nudges them forward; an invisible energy who inspires us to be something more than a slug on the couch watching TV or a potato chip-eating machine. 

I have one friend who insists his guardian angel travels with him wherever he goes; I have another who contacts one spirit guide for meditation and a different one for balancing her checkbook.  I know one woman who never leaves home without St. Christopher, and a fellow writer who swears he consults Shakespeare’s ghost every time he gets stuck writing his novel.

St. Christopher and Shakespeare are fine and dandy, but what do you do if your creative muse is an Irish Wench?  The stories of leprechauns on St. Patrick’s Day are bad enough, with their drunken rowdiness and stealing of gold for their pot at the end of the rainbow and all that.  But what if your Muse turned out to be a woman with a heart as green as the Emerald Isle who hangs around with those drunken leprechauns?

A Muse is supposed to be your inspiration, your guide, through whatever creative endeavor you undertake.  Venus inspired Michelangelo; Cleopatra inspired Marc Anthony, Athena inspired Odysseus. The original Muses were daughters of Zeus, who presided over the arts and sciences. It just so happens that my inspiration is a fiery Irish barmaid who comes complete with cleavage and clover. 

She pops up at the most inopportune times, standing and dancing on my shoulder or steering wheel or computer, rattling off in thick Gaelic who knows what, hoping to jumpstart my creativity.  Dressed in her flowing gauze dress with the girdle that pushes up her breasts in the most obnoxious manner, my little sprite demands attention right then and there.  And I’d better stop and acknowledge her, or she will turn everything upside down.

For instance, one of my favorite short stories popped into my head while I was at work.  The push to get this written came across loud and clear – write me now.  Couldn’t my Muse have at least waited until lunchtime to rattle off her idea?  I tried to stall my creativity until noon, but it only got worse.  I’m sure some of my creative metaphors got mixed up in whatever I was typing. 

Or how about the time that one of my book’s most romantic interludes hit me right in the middle of my son’s soccer game? It was pretty hard to make mental notes when I was screaming encouragements to his high school team.   And what about the poem that hit me driving down the highway at 65 miles per hour?  Or the full-blown idea of a murder mystery that hit me while I was mowing the lawn?

Don’t get me wrong – my little wench has brought me much pleasure through the years.  She has encouraged me to write some really intense interactions and deeply emotional poetry. Her Wild Irish Rose attitude inspires me to write out of the box, to reach deep inside for feelings and fears that normally don’t see the light of day, and to let those feelings influence my writing.

But I have to admit her timing needs a little work. 

I do appreciate her help ― I really do.  But I have to teach her to work on her impulsiveness.  There is a time and place for everything ― even inspiration.  Great ideas often have to ferment in one’s psyche before they become full blown masterpieces.  And there’s no doubt that you have your own muse dying to catch your attention.  All you need to do is listen.

Now, if she could serve me one of those Irish brews as often as she jumped on my bandwagon…on second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea.  If she served me beer as often as she demands attention, I’d be drunk before I started.

Even the Universe Chuckles

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1 Even the Universe Chuckles What exactly is middle age? 

You always hear people talking about their “mid-life crisis”: how one particular panic attack or moment of decision changed the second half of their life.  But what if your perception of reality has become tilted over time?  Would you even notice it? 

I know I share the sentiment of many who feel their cosmic clock ticking away, day after day, year after year, without as much as an apology from said clock for moving near the speed of light.  Some of us reached this level of maturity easily; others bumbled and stumbled our way here.  But all of us have filled our hearts and minds with experiences that made the journey worthwhile.

Humoring the Goddess: Managing the Madness Magic of Middle Age mingles a bit of magic with the madness that surrounds us as we ease away from the dreams of our 20’s to the realities of life past 40. Magic, you say? The older I’ve gotten, the more I realize that magic is nothing more than our point of view. Magic touches and guides us from within, a mixture of common sense, experience, and nonsense, taking us from dreams to reality and back again.  And since it doesn’t cost a thing, it can be tapped into over and over again.

Alrighty. We’ve chatted about middle age and magic. What about this blog? What can you expect from this corner of the universe?

Each week, Momentary Musings will bring you stories that twinkle with honesty, irony, and positive energy. There also will be Quimsical Quotations, witty words from some of the most fascinating minds in history; and Frivolous Facts and Falderal, useless bits of entertainment that have nothing to do with the world in general but keep you chuckling with the universe in particular. And believe me.  The universe chuckles.

Sometimes life twists and turns as if we’re traveling down some corkscrew highway.  We think we know where we’ve been, where we’re going.  Suddenly children and elves and family members come along and fracture whatever notions of normalcy we have.  What was simple suddenly becomes complex. We feel slower, chubbier, and denser than we ever have been before.  Other times we fly with the grace of a downhill skier.  We develop insight like Einstein and patience like Gandhi, making the circle of life complete once again.

Let me assure you, you are not alone in your misgivings about middle age, whether you are heading in that direction or already there. There is a thread of truth that rings through all my stories, a thread that connects us all with smiles and tears, sighs and adrenalin rushes. And hopefully you will come to understand that it’s okay to experience them all.

Enjoy your journey through Humoring the Goddess: Managing the Madness Magic of Middle Age.  Before you know it you’ll be humoring the Goddess yourself, no matter what your age.