184/365 - Pampering

"Treat yourself and make me happy."  This was my beau's response when I discovered the pedicure fund he had stashed in my purse just prior to my departure for a four-day recruiting trip to California.

That, right there, belongs to its very own "love is..." statement.

Given the callused and scraggly state of my toes and feet and my recent musings about whether I could justify a pedicure as a travel expense, I gratefully obliged my beau's thoughtful, generous offer.  Even before my plane had landed - thanks to the in-flight wi-fi indulgence {I <3 Boingo} - I earmarked a cute little spa less than a block from my hotel.  I managed to get in tonight for an eco-friendly "Soul" mani/pedi, complete with a fresh fruit and whole leaf green tea soak, lemon cucumber bamboo salt scrub, Alaskan mineral mud mask, hot paraffin treatment, and foot and hand massage with lotion mixed with green tea, lemongrass, ginger and mandarin.  Oh yes, and vegan, DBP, Toluene and Formaldehyde free nail polish.

In case you might not be able to tell, I'm in Southern California.  There were whole blueberries floating in my foot soak, and I left with star flowers painted on each ring fingernail.

Now, I might normally think that such extravagances are silly and unnecessary, but as I was being doted on by these two genuinely caring, earthy women tonight, I realized that there was once a time, maybe centuries ago, when women regularly practiced this kind of tender, meticulous, ritual of beautification simply as an expression of love and kindness for one another.  

When I was on bedrest with my twins, as if my protruding hulk of a belly wasn't enough of a restriction for doing my own, a woman I knew treated me to a pedicure - "treated," as in, she sat on my living room floor and painstakingly trimmed my toenails and filed the dead skin off my feet, massaged my feet with oil, and painted my toenails.  It was an incredibly intimate and vulnerable experience.  That we usually have to pay for such "services" means we lose out on the opportunity, not just to receive, but also to give such care to one another.

Because as my beau graciously demonstrates, giving can make us just as happy.

183/365 - Becoming disorderly

Several people I know have lost loved ones recently.  Just this morning, I received the sad news that the woman who ran the mom's group I was in when my kids were babies, passed away suddenly yesterday.  She was only in her fifties.

As I pause and remember Nancy, feeling what is certainly only a tiny sliver of the loss that her family and closest friends must be enduring, I reflect on the fragility of life and the mystery that lies beyond.  I imagine that many who knew her will take comfort in the belief that she is in heaven, that she "is in a better place," although it must be bittersweet comfort for those who lost their mother, coach, grandmother, wife, friend.

I understand why so many of us hold the belief that another form of life follows death. because the notion of ceasing to exist altogether is far too unsettling a concept to consider.  The hard truth is that none of us really knows, even the staunchest believers among us, until it's our turn.

Not long ago, I came across this image, which offers a unique perspective about death:

I realize these sentiments fly in the face of traditional theology, making them difficult for some people to entertain.  I, for one, love the concept of my essence being transferred into the energy that continues to exist in the universe - especially the notion of becoming less orderly when I die, since so much about life seems to be an attempt to keep it all together.  Our vitality and the connections we have to others are so much more meaningful than the little everyday details that we work so hard to keep alive.

Nancy, as many people will attest, lived her life with extravagant vitality, and her compassion for others was expressed in her efforts to serve the outcast and needy in her community.  Her presence, in its orderly form, will no doubt be missed and long remembered by those who knew and loved her.

"One can create mildly. One can live at a low flame. We're afraid to look foolish, to feel extravagantly, or make a mistake or risk unneccessary pain-but given something like death, what does it matter if one looks foolish now and then or tries too hard or cares too deeply." ~Diane Ackerman

182/365 - Propaganda for President

People like to choose sides.  Choosing sides gives us an opportunity to justify our own often myopic perspective of the way things are, how things should be done, who's right and who's wrong.  There is no better example of this than in politics, and never more true than in a presidential election year.

According to the Washington Post, 90% of us identify with one of the two major political parties. With each party's supporters and ideals, we also get the other side's opposition:

Even if these sentiments fall on the far end of each political spectrum, they do a great job of representing one party's contempt for the other.  And fueled by contempt, oh how the righteous indignation does fly!

One of my family members recently urged me to watch 2016: Obama's America, saying "If you care at all about the future of our country; if care at all about your children, you will make it a point to watch this movie prior to the election."  I took the admonishment seriously and have researched the film.  I may yet watch it, but I will do so with skepticism - not so much because of the commentator's political assertions, but because it is so very clearly propaganda.  Living in a university town that leans liberal, I am exposed to vehement anti-Romney propaganda all the time.  A good many of my Facebook friends post political ads and status updates daily now, and with friends and family standing staunchly in both camps, I witness propaganda-bombs launched left and right.  Sadly, this is the only political meme I've seen so far that I believe is true...

  

Several of my friends have admitted to "unfriending" people because those "friends" posted political commentary contrary their own.  So deeply rooted is their contempt that a relationship with someone on the other side, let alone the opportunity to entertain a different perspective, isn't even a possibility.

Despite what some might consider a pollyannic persuasion to bridge the gap between divided people, I still believe in the value of discourse.  Of course, it's ironic that I lost my best friend several years ago to irreconcilable differences over yet another contentious topic - religion, but back when she and I were still friends, we used to have some very engaging political discussions.  We would go round and round and round again, and after several hours of hashing through a particular issue, we would often realize that at the root of each of our arguments was actually the very same ideal.  We just didn't agree on the best way to articulate it or to achieve it.

Of the many idealistic hopes that I may have for this country, fostering a more constructive dialogue between our two political parties and their followers is perhaps at the top of my list.  One of my favorite shows used to be The West Wing (all political persuasions aside).  One of the most memorable episodes was when - at the unexpected opportunity to sway the Supreme Court toward a more moderate, even liberal majority with the appointment of not one, but two Justices - President Bartlett chose to appoint one notoriously liberal judge and one steadfastly conservative judge.  His justification for the decision was that debate is healthier and that we, as a people, are more likely to find common ground when we are compelled to consider vastly different responses to a particular issue.

Common ground is only possible though, if we are willing to hear and consider the other side.  If our initiative is to converse and not to condemn.  If we take the time to check, not just our facts, but our political egos before entering the arena of debate.  Otherwise, we'll just keep voting for propaganda and politics - and against principles and people.

181/365 - Timeless Tales

After reading the series of books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, my kids and I have embarked on the "Little House" tales once again.  This past weekend, we rented the first season of the TV series from the local library, and I was just as eager to revisit the show - a childhood favorite - as my kids were to start it.

Tonight, as we watched the second episode, Laura Ingalls presented the perfect teachable moment for my daughter Lucy: Laura, along with her sister Mary, was expected to go to school for the first time.  Laura was anxious about her inability to read, much like my six-year old towhead who just started first grade.  The best part was when Laura was practicing her new spelling words, she recited the exact same words that were on Lucy's spelling list last week.  I could see Lucy, with a slight smile on her pretty face, sounding out the letters right along with Laura.  And then I wept through Laura's recitation to her class about how much she loved her ma.  Not that I'm even close to being as even-tempered and reverent and willing to give up my indulgent new clothes for my girls like Caroline Ingalls, aka super mom of the 19th century who threshes her own wheat by hand with a smile on her face and barely a bead of sweat on her brow.

Even though the TV version of "Little House" offers a slightly faded reality after a few decades of life lived, I'm still a sucker for good wholesome drama - especially ones that tug the heartstrings and impart timeless wisdom about relationships, family values, faith, and love.  I hope Laura Ingalls Wilder will help my children understand - and remind me - that “the real things haven't changed. It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong."  Wise words indeed.

180/365 - Serenade

Oh, how a song can expose the most secret searchings of the soul.  It lays in wait until the very moment the soul itself weeps of fatigue, when the usual demon chasing and solitude induced mornings after a good eight hours of sleep and a few sun salutations still don't chase the clouds away.  The song and the soul meet in the moment of surrender, when you admit that what you wanted was merely another of life's illusions and that your reality is an illusion to those who can't hear your soul sing.