Sunday, June 21, 2009

Ode to Glamour.

Today I considered the glamour of those I chose.

Family -- the unchosen -- sometimes spark anger, disappointment, frustrations, feelings of being taken for granted. So in counteraction -- here, my friends --you all are at your finest, in no particular order:

Chloe, in shorts and full make-up, talking about her dance-hall days in the 1940s; Sara's soft grey bob, Southern Belle accent and gold lame sneakers; Nandini's wrists encircled in fine gold Indian jewelery when her hands are still; Courtney in a high ponytail mood; Nicky in siren red and smiling; Reena's hair falling over her face; Mike in shorts and an apron, cooking for a crowd, olive oil in hand. Janine H. smelling of Chapstick and sunshine the full promise of summer made tangible on her golden legs. Nolan's peachy country girl skin misted in a cloud of Camel smoke inhaled like Marlene Dietrich. My two tiny Jewish friends -- Lynda, spiritual and serene yet drinks Jack Daniels like a cowboy; Sharyn spunky and rock-and roll, devastating in a prim, white blouse. Kim, Miami beach babe, self-depracating laugh at herself. Erna, always December 31,1999 at any restaurant.


Tracy's bubbly laugh that sucks you into her joy, Paula's pretty feet, her toenails painted. Maggie W, genuinely shocked and enjoying it. Sune, with her emails full of country values and observations in a big City. Zoyon, the person most comfortable with silence I have ever known. Betsy peering over those wicked reading glasses, Karen's tone and expression when relaying tiny details we all miss in children.

Liz and everything about the ocean; David in Ramon mode; Fusun telling a story at the dinner table, lilting and gentle. Wilhelm, one of the few whose every aspect of life screams foreign movie-like glamour. Maggie M. more beautiful in real life than in those fashion magazines. Ben explaining performance art; Celia's droll take on reality, and Sam, an effervescent fizz and an expert at friendship.

I know I missed some of you. Inspiring all, I say.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Catching my breath.

The tightness is loosening. Slowly. But it has begun. My throat is unclenching and the squeezing around my heart is relaxing. I lost my balance, my tuned chakras, my feet lifted off the ground unexpectedly.
I just got really tired, and pushed on instead of stopping. The momentum of life shoved me forward and on.
My girls wrote tests, aimed for the end of the academic year and bore down with purpose. I made a lot of it happen as it should. And they were wildly successful. Plays, recitals, sports, parties, graduations, goodbyes, thoughtful gifts, notes, sincere thanks. Late, late nights and early mornings waking up before the beep, anticipation of a crowded day springing my mind into early overdrive. Fleeting affectionate glances at a spouse frowning in constant concentration and industry. Overscheduled, overworked, overplanned.

I was too busy to notice much. And yet... my girls stopped wanting to practice their music every day as they have done for way more than a year. I pick up my guitar and strum a few chords, but I can't sing. It is as if I have no voice. I focus on my lesson coming up and not what I am doing in the moment. I apologize profusely to my tutor. I can't sing, I can't play. She looks at me kindly and says music is your soul, it needs a rest. Art is your true self and it is tired into silence. Let it catch its breath.

I drink peppermint tea. I actually feel better.

I read with focus and start creeping into the alternate universe. It is a start.
I think about summer and food.
We are in Sonora for the weekend, the beginning of the school summer vacation. We go to the farmer's market early on Saturday morning and I buy plump peaches and apricots surrounded by a warm cloud of their own sweet scent. I smell each one pressed to my nose. Pure. Like ice water from a mountain stream and not from a plastic bottle in the fridge. I buy garlic, dusty and bunched in limp ponytails, their leaves still attached. I look at the farmer's hands and imagine him yanking the garlic out of the damp soil. How satisfying that must be. Shiny, elegant eggplant looks lacquered deep purple, just as it should. I mentally pair it with the chubby tomatoes, thickly sliced and honest. Green beans, stiff with freshness and snap, colored summer squash frilly and whimsical. Almonds and walnuts, growing in acres all around Sonora, shelled and proudly labeled with gold stickers bearing family names. I buy a large bag of salad leaves from a gentle man whose eyes seem grateful when I point at a cushiony bag of greens. Spring mix, he says with a shy smile. I look at the tiny crowns carefully selected and plucked with care. Bitter, sweet, peppery.

We sit on the curb and drink coffee from the coffee lady.
Peruvian blend in a styrofoam cup. No milk, just half-and half, she says unapologetically.
I decide to share my huge double almond croissant with Henk. They had just brought a tray down from the French Patisserie downtown, and I watched the young man weave through the people holding it high above his head, the terry cloth dish towels flapping to reveal larvae-like lumps languishing in butter and sliced almonds. Jenna and Sarah eat butter croissants and snow cones. The wind picks up and globules of warm rain plop down on the square. No-one seems to notice. I duck my head under an awning, my face dangerously close to some cherries and smile at my husband. Time to go.

I get home, eat some of the fruit and roast some garlic and eggplant. The heady smell loosens my chest a little.
The kid up the street saunters over with his weedwacker. The afternoon air fills with the smell of cut weeds and grass. He is fourteen, flushed and jaunty, his mind filled with the possibilities made real with a little extra cash of his very own. I watch him from the deck. He stops and shyly tells me he has saved the wild sweet peas growing all around the house. I thank and praise him in my mom voice, while marveling that this country kid knows a sweet pea and its value.
Jenna and Sarah fill a plastic tumbler with blooms and put it on the table. Someone knocks it over and there is water dripping down onto the floor. I clean it up, refill the cup and put it back. No irritation. I am feeling better.

I put on some country music this morning. There is a sad little song I would love to play. Maybe today, after lunch.