Unfading Beauty

On Facelifts and Forgiveness

It started with a poem: Pretty, by the talented slam poet, Katie Makkai. I posted a link to her performance on my Facebook page and wrote, “wow... talk about words with power,” as much an invitation to my writer friends as an exclamation. Later that day I had plenty of “likes” and comments such as: “wow, I had to share it too;” “pretty awesome;” and “Hell Yeah!”

Then Joan posted this: “Saw this verse this morning and reminded me of your link, 1 Peter 3:3-4 (New Living Translation).”

Scripture? Really? I didn’t even finish reading it; I went immediately to Facebook’s help page to find out how to drop her.

I knew Joan from my old life; we went to a New Jersey community college together; neither of us were “religious” at the time. I moved to Pittsburgh to go to medical school; jumped the bisexual fence; adopted a son with my beloved, Pat; broke legal ground for his right to two parents; and lost track of Joan. She married Ray, her high school sweetheart; had two children; found religion; and then, some twenty years later, ‘friended’ me on Facebook.

I guess my reaction to block her posts came from my feeling peripheralized by the bible-quoting religious right. I’ve heard that I’m an abomination in their eyes, which makes me angry, and who has time for that? When asked to articulate my beliefs I say, “I’m spiritual, but not religious.” In practice, I find God in nature. I rarely go to formal services, and if I do it’s to a Unitarian Universalist church, with an occasional yoga class or meditation session thrown in.

But life being what life is, it didn’t end there. The next morning, I found this email from Joan in my inbox:

Subject: peace

Dearest Janice,

I am so sorry if the scripture I felt paralleled the video offended or hurt you in any way. I have a little calendar my brother gave with daily verse it just happened to be the verse for the 28th, and that video just came to mind when I read it. That little video really got me thinking (pondering). I have actually been thinking of a face-lift for quite some time. (Always looking in the mirror tugging on my brow pulling back my face. Ray can tell you, Ha) I found it odd I would be obsessing over this and muttered a little prayer, god if you don't think I should do this then take away the desire for it. Then I saw this video, which gets to the core.... One of the things I have always loved about you is the depth and vulnerability of your soul, it's a gift of character you do not find often and it can be intriguing, refreshing, uncomfortable, cool, thought provoking. Anyway please do not feel bad at all about FB thing, it should be a joy for you and if anything disrupts it...let it go. I would.

Busted. I guess I’d been naïve to think she wouldn’t know that I’d blocked her. Now, I had to face it directly. I went for a walk, a long walk. On my return I collected my scattered thoughts like the piles of crisp fall leaves I’d just been swishing through. Here’s what I came up with:

Joan, thanks for the kind words. I guess I didn't know that you'd know I blocked you on FB. Now that you do, and since you were so kind as to write a “peace note” to me despite it, I’ll tell you about why. It’s simple, really. As a lesbian and life-long worker in women's rights, I have been hurt (and, maybe more importantly, many of the people I love have been hurt) seriously by, if I may, "the religious right". Honestly, I do not count you in that, as I have never, ever felt judged harshly by you. But I must admit quoting scripture does scare me; I think that right around the corner there will be a very hurtful statement (including, though it is not always obvious to the person who says so, "forgive the sinner not the sin"). So, once I saw scripture quoted, I felt it safest for my mental health (and the friends who see my page) to block it. Sorry if it hurt you in any way, 'cause I understand spiritual, I understand inspirational readings (my favorites happen to come from the Buddhist tradition), and I believe with all my heart you have a right, maybe even an obligation, to live your life in a way that makes you happy inside, cause if you're happy inside, "at peace" as it were, you're likely doing well by the world (and this includes, by the way, a facelift).

Later that day, I had lunch with Kathy, my bible-quoting sister-in-love. [Since I’m all about the power of words today, bear with me while I deconstruct that last sentence. I want you to notice that I have to invent new words for my life; she’s not my sister-in-law, because marriage to my love of 27 years is not (yet) lawful. This is due, for the most part, to those whose religious beliefs bleed onto their politics. Also, “bible-quoting” is an easy summary of Kathy for this piece, but it is constricted and somewhat derogatory and required a pre-blog email where I tried to excuse it. She said “…if that is the worst thing someone could say about me than I'm not doing too badly! :)”]. At lunch I spilled the beans to Kathy about my Facebook faux pas. I’m indebted to her for my embryonic ability to see the situation with Joan in a new light. She told me that Joan might feel peripheralized by me, by my leftist politics. That was a revelation for me; it seems like “they’re” always in charge. In my own mini-search for sanity (ironically all this happened while Jon Stewart held his March for Sanity), I went back to Joan’s post and read it:

“3 Don’t be concerned about the outward beauty of fancy hairstyles, expensive jewelry, or beautiful clothes. 4 You should clothe yourselves instead with the beauty that comes from within, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is so precious to God.”

Well, I basically agree with that. Her religion isn’t mine, and my politics aren’t hers. I’ll continue to be nervous when I hear scripture quoted and I’ll go on fighting for GLBT and women's rights. I’ll fight for her right to a facelift as I work towards a culture where it is not needed. Just as I suspect she’ll work toward a culture where human and civil rights prevail and the need for abortion goes down.

And I hope she’ll hit Accept when I re-friend her on Facebook.

---

Pretty, by Katie Makkai

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother “What will I be? Will I be pretty?” Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill of fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty? But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dry add: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long, and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting my poor mother.

“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist.” “You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! ” “You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were six, otherwise your nose would have been fine! ”

Don’t worry; we will get it all fixed she would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that as if it were a cabbage she might buy. But, this is not about her. Not her fault she, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable appearance.

By sixteen I was pickled by ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs, laying in a hospital bed. Face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on two pints of my own blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist, like my body screaming at me from the inside out “What did you let them do to you? ” All the while this never-ending chorus groaning on and on like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood.

“Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty like my mother, unwrapping the gift-wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.

And now I have not seen my own face in ten years. I have not seen my own face in ten years, but this is not about me! This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those two pretty syllables.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? , ” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no.

The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing, but you will never be merely “pretty.” Katie Makkai

Fiction

I’ve written a piece of fiction.

And now I feel like a little kid who just got a new bike. Not any new bike, but one I’ve built - with my own hands. It’s a simple bike, no gears or fancy hardware, but it works. I’m totally psyched. The pedals make the wheels turn and the handlebar allows me to go around in a circle between boxes in the basement. A thing of beauty. I’ve even named it, and the name incorporates its essence: complex mechanics, potential energy, my ticket to ride.

But … what will happen when I go outside with it? Will the brakes work when I’m going down a hill? What about bumps at high speed? Will it hold up?

I’ll find out tomorrow when my classmates put it through the “workshop” process. And, of course, I’ll post it on my blog if it passes inspection.

Not Just Yet

Nectar leaks slowly from the dark red center of each waxy Hoya bloom this morning. The large old plant sits in my sunroom, in front of the sliding glass door that leads out to the second story deck where the birds await their seed and the grill needs to be cleaned from last night’s chicken dinner. The sun breaks through the branches of the tall maple and lends the deck and the sunroom the feel of nature, unusual this close to the city. I write here in the mornings, kicked back in a yellow flowered recliner with my laptop and a cup of coffee. But, in truth, I haven’t written for quite awhile. My last blog was four months ago - that’s a long dry spell. Of course, I have all the right reasons: real life gets in the way; I lack inspiration; my inner critic is winning … the usual.

Today, I will start here, with the Hoya. A cutting from my mother’s plant, it is a vine with deep green leaves that wind round and round the handle of the basket that holds its pot-bound roots. The rich fragrance reaches as far as the kitchen, but only in the evenings and only when it blooms, which is rare. I’ve had this plant for over ten years but found my first bloom just two years ago. That it blooms at all is the envy of my sister, Kathy. She waters hers religiously and keeps it in a good spot, but, still, it never blooms.

The drops of nectar can last for days and this morning they appear like tears. Perhaps they’re for my mother – she’s eighty seven and has ovarian cancer. She’s endured multiple bouts of chemo but is now ready to say ‘enough’. I’m proud of her for choosing that path now, at a time when she’s still up and around. She’s able to walk to the dining room and does chair-exercise every day at her independent living center. Still, she depends heavily on Kathy, the sister who lives nearest to her, making it all the more unfair that it’s Kathy’s Hoya plant that won’t bloom.

I wonder what’s next for my mother – in all likelihood it will be a steady loss of function and friends. Already, I’ve watched in awe as she’s incorporated the deaths of many whom she’s loved - three in the past month alone. One of her chemotherapy agents has made her already thin skin exquisitely sensitive to heat so she rarely bakes her loving gifts of apple pie or strawberry cake anymore. Her day-to-day memory is diminishing along with any hope of watching her great-grandchildren grow to maturity, including my own son’s newborn daughter. And every day she deals with dizziness and pain, abdominal swelling that requires periodic needle taps, and of course, the foreboding loss of appetite … even for ice cream.

I can barely stand it. But she can, and does – with grace. How she does that is my question. She is Catholic and her faith in God is strong, so that helps, but it’s more than that. Her ability to accept what comes her way would impress the most devout Zen Buddhist. Honestly, she counts herself as extremely lucky. Where I see that she grew up poor and without parents, she’s grateful that her older sister and brother kept the family together and “raised ‘em up right”. Despite the deaths of her granddaughter in a house fire and her daughter from Hepatitis C, she sees only her five remaining children and multiple grand- and great grandchildren who are healthy and happy. And there are times that I wonder how she can live another day without her life-long love and best friend, a man who was kind and smart and fun, who took care of many of the details of living. She tells me not to worry; he’s holding a spot for her in heaven. He promised.

So, while I watch her stare down the throat of death, she simply smiles and taps it nonchalantly on the cheek and says, “OK ... but not just yet”.

And me? I stand next to the Hoya plant and swirl in my own discontent. The litany seems long this morning but on top is the impending loss of my mother and my own lack of direction: I’m fifty-four, my life is half over; I’ve changed my career path so I can write, but I’m not writing. What am I doing?

The clear and tenacious nectar simply waits for me. Finally, I touch a drop from one of the waxy blooms and ask the universe - the vague godlike energy of truth and love and nature - to help me find and be the best of me. Aiming for what I vaguely understand to be my chakra energy points, I rub cool fluid between my thumb and middle finger above my head, to remind me that I’m connected to everything and inspiration and comfort are available. I place another drop on my forehead to pull out trust in my own intuition, a third on my lips and throat so I may cut through fear and ego to communicate a respectful truth. I note the hint of sweetness and take a few slow breaths before I place a fourth drop on my heart to remind me to both nestle and release the gift of love. The next drop goes on my skin at the level of my adrenals, my solar plexus, for the energy and the stamina to take on whatever life offers. I linger here long enough to notice the fluid gets sticky as it dries and I know I’ll have little reminders of this blessing all day. Two drops are left. The first of these I rub onto on my lower belly, near my ovaries, to draw out creativity and openness to the new and sensual, and then, warmed by the dappled sunlight and an inner calm, I aim the final drop for the base of my spine as I sense myself connected to the earth, whole, and, in fact, exactly where I need to be.

There, I am blessed. Not by the Catholic God my mother loves, but no less so. It’s different, I know, and in a future blog, I’ll detail my connection with spirituality through nature. But in this moment I’ll simply notice that I feel shored up, more able to emulate my mother’s resilience, at peace with my place in the world. I can wait for the blooms and will breathe in their intoxicating fragrance when I can.

As for today, I’ll upload this writing to my blog, despite its imperfections; and then, after I feed the birds and clean the grill, I’ll email my sister, Kathy, to share what I’ve learned about the Hoya plant while writing this – turns out a long dry spell between watering will actually increase the chance of a bloom.

Upload revision 9-28-09

uploader's remorse

I planned to write my blog this morning on regretting with hot faced embarrassment the quality of my most recent piece, "The Hand of Justice" (future blog)... but my memoir classmates did it for me - I've plagiarized the words they used when uploading their own pieces:

enjoy.

roughest draft in the world...
I am "telling" a lot
scenes are coming
pick the best ones
for the piece.
question is
working?
for or against?
Should I
choose one issue,
stick with that?
or should I
tie them
together,
connected?

I’ve bitten off
more then i can chew.
back there again.
an early draft
as yet unfinished
very rough
working on that!

a little overwhelmed
with information
so I feel like
is there?
a lot of telling
not enough showing.
still struggling
what it wants
when it grows up.

two essays here
I'm wondering
what to keep
what to save
another time.

DRAFT.

forgot
add a title,
open this one.
(so far)
never managed
I'm sorry
it's late—
trouble.

Let me know!

sticking my neck out

I've been thinking about potential themes for my memoir, for my life. One might be ‘sticking my neck out.’ You know, jumping into something before I know the consequences, either because I have no inkling of those consequences or because I think I can tolerate the ‘hard parts’ before I know what the hard parts are.

The first time I remember this, literally, happening was a warm, fall day, I was sitting in the aisle seat near the back of a yellow school bus, thrilled to be venturing into to my 3^rd week of kindergarten. I wore a plaid dress with a limp cotton belt and I had a pixie haircut, which I hated because, of course, I wanted to have long luxurious hair like the women on the Prell commercials. My bare legs stuck to the seat, but no matter. I was happy, engaged, giggling with my new friends. In fact everyone on the bus was excited and energized. This energy was familiar to me because it resembled my own family of eight when moods were just right. Joy shared evokes more joy. In our family one voice overtakes the other, then another, as if whoever gets the biggest laugh, wins. So I was comfortable being just another in the clamor of kid-voices on the bus that day.

Suddenly I found myself thinking: Wait a second, is that someone speaking to us?

I tried to gather my attention, and when I finally tuned in to the driver’s deep voice I heard, “…and so if you want to come up here and sit…” as he pointed to the floor next to him.

Front and Center! That would be fun.

He continued, “…Well then, just say so now.”

“Oh I do! I do!” I shouted out as I leaned into the aisle and waved my hand, an enthusiastic volunteer.

“Then get up here!” he bellowed.

Uh oh… he’s not happy; he’s mad. He’s mad at us. I tentatively got out of my seat.

“Come on, get up here!” he yelled, exasperated.

Now I’m in trouble …

My joy dissolved. Slowly, one ankleted oxford in front of the other, I walked up the up the suddenly long, eerily quiet aisle. All eyes were on me.

Oh, this is not at all what I thought.

Struggling to figure out what went wrong, I began to whimper. An older girl reached out and took my hand.

“You didn’t mean that did you?” she asked. I shook my head. She called out to the scary bus driver, “She didn’t know what you meant. Can I keep her here with me?”

“OK. Everyone just keep a lid on it, will ya?”

She pulled me onto her lap. I was saved, safe, and only a hair less confidant as I made my way in the world.

finding my spine

Good News!

A structure for my memoir, a spine, as Natalie Goldberg put it, has presented itself to me! Finally. We talked a lot about structure during Marc Neison’s Craft of Creative Nonfiction class at Chatham last term, but I could not, for the life of me, come up with a good one for my memoir. This morning, after reading Prompt 286 in Goldberg’s “Old Friend from Far Away” it came to me:

Waves. The ocean. The beach. The shore. Tides. Bird migrations. Dolphins. Jellyfish. Seaweed. Hurricanes. It’s all there. Primarily, though, it’s the waves – rollers, breakers, cappers. Waves can bring me in or take me back. Gently lift me off my feet or chew me up, spit me out, and leave me gasping for breath.

.

The beach has been part of my life since the beginning:

My first disappointment? When I was 4 years old and Bobby, a family friend, carried me past the breakers to the rollers… a thrill with no fear; a strong adult held me sure. She tired though, and went back to the blanket to rest, promising to take me out again later. She fell asleep and woke with sunburn … no more rollers ‘till years later.

Best family memories? Yearly trips to Wildwood, NJ. Sisters. Aunts. Long hot walks from our rental to the beach lugging beach chairs and coolers with baloney sandwiches and soda. Mom happy and jumping waves with us. Dad laughing.

Lost virginity? At the beach. ‘Nuf said.

First time living away from home? Long Beach Island. May. Alone. So lonely that I held foil on the TV antenna to get reception, actually said “goodnight” to the newscasters.

Closest I ever came to death? Jumping the biggest waves ever! I was caught in one, took in water, and couldn’t get my breath, and then, weakened, couldn’t fight the current to get back to the beach. Just made it, thanks to the help of a friend. Later we realized it was a ‘rip tide’ day. So that’s what the red flags meant …

The sexual assault that threw me for a loop? The Outer Banks. Avon, NC. While on vacation. While getting a massage. While trying to relax, for cripes sake…

Follow-up legal wrangling? All at the beach, Manteo NC. Three court dates. Interesting weather each time, once in a hurricane. This will come up in the memoir.

.

So, that’s a structure… at least a beginning of one. Right?

...

Maybe I’ve had too much coffee this morning, but I thought I’d share this too: here are some photos of, I guess you'd call it art. Believe me, I am not an artist, but I had taken some time off after the sexual assault and while I was trying to sort through the waves of feelings ; ) that kept coming over me I took to journaling, then I tried poetry, then gluing words and yarn together on canvas. I kept trying to depict the circle of thoughts - “the maddening nimbus with twists and turns spinning me dizzy on a center of truth” - (a line from one of my attempts at poetry). Here's the center:

.

Center of Truth – early

.

Center of Truth – later layers

.

The reason I am uploading this now? As I worked on the piece the ocean showed up as my internal strength. Anything good I found within me flowed up from there in the piece of art. The ocean levels everything and helps me find my self again.

.

So, I think I should use waves, the beach, as my structure. How, exactly, I’m not sure. Maybe that’ll be my next blog.


...Janice