Two Feet In.

Muskrat Love

I.
Approaching the piano, I felt sure that no one was listening, and so was uncharacteristically confident. Had I sung "Tomorrow" like the rest of the girls, I could have slipped away unnoticed as planned. I didn't.

It had only been a few hours since I kissed my parents, and watched with a mixture of relief and anxiety as they maneuvered our Ford Granada up the long, gravel driveway out to the main road. I was thirteen years old, and they had just deposited me at a performing arts camp in the mountains of New York state, where I was to spend the next three weeks learning to sing and dance and act.

I had barely finished unpacking my duffel bag when my counselor sat me down for my intake interview. Leaning in close, hand on my arm to appear interested, she asked, "Now Elisa, tell me about your talents."

I sat there, looking at this perky, pony-tailed stranger and wondered what I should say. "Well, I like to hope and dream. I watch people and imagine their lives and their thoughts and what makes them happy and what makes them sad. I create stories in my head about places other than this one, and… I'm really good at sleeping."

That's not what she wanted to hear, though, and I knew it. So, I didn't say anything, shrugged my shoulders, and was told to prepare for my audition.

The musical to be performed that summer of 1979 was You're a Good Man Charlie Brown. Auditions were held in the dining hall and we were told to bring our own music for the accompanist. My parents had sent me off to camp with my guitar, which I only marginally played when forced to practice, and my Liberace Big Note Songbook, a compendium of 101 popular songs made easy for uninspired novices like me.

Camper after camper went up for their audition, and one after the other sang either "Tomorrow" from the musical Annie, or "Consider Yourself" from Oliver. By the time about ten auditions had happened, the rest of us had stopped listening to the drone of "Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I'll love ya, tomorrow…" over and over again. The hall hummed with the whispers of bored campers waiting their turn.

I picked something from my Liberace book – not because I liked the song, but because it was one that I had sung before, and so I knew that I could hit the high notes. My parents used to require a musical performance each Sunday evening: me playing the guitar and my sister Amanda on flute – further incentive, I suppose, to get us to practice our instruments. I often dreaded these recitals, but for once I was happy that I at least had one song in my repertoire.

Feet planted firmly on the floor, hands on hips, I closed my eyes and imagined myself at home in my living room as I started singing:

Muskrat, muskrat, candlelight. Doin' the town and doin' it right, in the evening, its pretty pleasing…

All noises ceased, and from up and down the line of waiting campers I could see faces slowly turning toward me, mouths open, in silence. Up to that point I had been singing my heart out, and even staying in key. However, seeing all those faces so still, watching me in disbelief, my voice began to waver, and my hands started shaking as I worked my way through the chorus:

And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed,
singing and jinging the jango.
Floatin' like the heavens above,
it looks like muskrat love.

I was no longer in my living room, with my parents nodding their head to the music and clapping with approval. By this point a pit was growing in my stomach, I felt queasy, and the worst of the song was yet to come. Taking a deep breath, I focused on a bright motivational banner ("Aim High!") hanging beyond the open-mouthed stares, and continued:

Nibbling on bacon, chewin' on cheese
Sammy says to Susie "Honey, would you please be my missus?"
And she says yes
With her kisses

By now the stares had turned to muffled snickers and a few outright laughs, and the true horror of the song I had chosen began to press in on me as I tried hard not to cry. I had two choices: flee the audition, or continue on to the end. Vacillating there on the edge of fleeing, I realized that I had to finish—that if I left I would never have any chance of getting chosen for the role of Lucy or Linus or Snoopy, which, I finally admitted to myself, I wanted. I closed my eyes to pinch in the tears, before the final, awful verse:

And now he's ticklin' her fancy
Rubbin' her toes
Muzzle to muzzle, now anything goes
As they wriggle, and Sue starts to giggle…

One more round through the chorus, and I was done. I tried to become invisible by pulling my windbreaker around myself, tucking Liberace underneath, and slouching towards the swinging doors that led out of the dining hall and down to the waterfront. Eyes down, look at no one, straight to the door, I only wanted to go back to my cabin and hide.

That's when I saw him, or rather, his feet, Black Converse All-Stars, no socks, blocking my path to freedom. To get by I had to look up, a fleeting-half-backward-still-trying-to-keep-my-head-down-and-get-out- the-door-without-falling glance. Dark wavy hair, dark eyes, tall. He wasn't laughing at me like the others, but rather smiled and gave me a thumbs-up as I walked out the door. It was a kind smile, and I was amazed. I was also, nearly instantly, in love.

What I Know To Be True

I.

There is a labyrinth in a church courtyard around the corner from our house – a maze set in bricks on the ground.  My daughter, Rosie, and I would often visit when she was young. I would slowly wind my way through the maze, trying to get her to follow behind me, but her impulse was always to cross over all the boundaries and go straight to the middle.  She was simply not that interested in my adult explanation that the journey is why people walk the labyrinth—that following the path gives one a chance to be quiet with their own thoughts and dreams.

One of the last times we visited the labyrinth together, I was in the middle of my usual monologue about following the path when she suddenly interjected, “Mama, what do the people think about in the lab-rint?” 

I paused for a second, “Well, maybe about their lives, or about the people that they love, or maybe about God.”

She was quiet, a puzzled look appearing on her face, before asking, “Mama…What’s God?”

Suddenly I felt so much like a parent — I was about to impart upon my daughter her first impression of God, at least since she has become a creature who can remember things.  True, as a just-barely preschooler, her memory is still in formation and not always reliable, but it still felt important. I experienced a stab of fear. Can I really answer this question?  Am I ready for this responsibility?  

Thinking back to my childhood, I am not able to remember my parents ever talking to me about God.  They must have done so at some point in my upbringing, but religion was such a non-issue in our family that it didn’t happen often enough to sink-in in any meaningful way.  My father is Jewish, my mother grew up Episcopalian, but neither one has any ties to their religious background.  

However, when my sister and I were young my parents decided that it was time for us to have a religious education, and they began to send us to the local Unitarian church each Sunday morning.  While we “went to church” my father shopped for hardware at Hechingers. He almost always waited in the car for us at the end of the church driveway, and we would stop to get Big Macs on the way home.  Sometimes he would actually attend the “grown up” service, but whatever happened in that part of the building was a complete mystery to me.

At the Unitarian Church I remember holding hands in a circle each week as we sang, “Here we are, all together as we sing our song, joyfully…” and not much else.  We had a few youth group sleepovers, and may have even staged a play for the adults. I basically liked my time there, but felt unsatisfied, as the thing that I really wanted to learn about – God – was not particularly high on the agenda.

For as long as I can remember, the concept of God has been something that has felt clear and true in my heart, but not always in my mind.  Like my daughter now, as a child I was searching for the details: what, how, and why? It became evident early on that my family wasn’t going to provide much enlightenment on the God issue, or about religion in general, so I realized that I was going to have to figure it out on my own.  And in my search, I made a few mistakes.  

New Decade

I don't make Resolutions, but I do set intentions for how I want to engage with both myself and the world in each new year. The beginning of a decade, 2020, seems an especially important to time to recognize and honor these intentions, most of which are not necessarily new... They've always been part of me, but whatever combination of time and space that the new decade brings is providing openings for me to stitch them together into a new combination, a whole that is greater than its parts. As a quiltmaker (who hasn't made a quilt out of fabric in many years) I still always think this way: how can I put things together, both for myself and others, in a way that is generative, or beautiful, or that will have effects beyond just me. Sometimes I succeed, but I think the effort is crucial even when I end up feeling exposed or vulnerable or like I've just plain made a fool of myself. There's no shortage of making a fool of myself in middle age, but the nice thing is that I don't much care anymore what most people think about my exposed vulnerabilities. I'm pretty darn unflappable, and I know that beauty grows out of those vulnerable spaces.

In that spirit, I am reviving this blog that I haven't written in for the past two years, as my overflowing mind needs this outlet. In the intervening time, my life has flipped itself on its head in many ways, and often I've found that my stated intention of "mining for exquisite" has seemed pretty darn distant. But I've managed to come through it to a place where I am undoubtedly stronger, hopefully wiser, and  most definitely hungrier than ever to write, create, wrap my mind around other minds, to tell stories, to listen to stories, to work through a project or two (more to come on this), to engage with some co-conspirators, and if nothing else, to show off some amazing sky.

Onward!

Return of the Light

Reaching for Grand

I initiated this blog back in September with grand plans to document the exquisite as I move through a challenging phase of my life, parenting teenagers and in a sense, parenting my aging mother. I wanted a space where I could document, process, share, and/or vent. And a space where I could remember to see and hold on to the beauty through it all.

I posted five times, before life started kicking up a storm and I retreated into the non-public comfort of my own mind. Trump was elected, work became overwhelming, my mother had surgery that brought a new set of worries and complications, and managing teens again morphed into a full-time job all on its own. More often than not it has felt like a vise has been constricted around the part of my brain that craves intellectual and creative engagement, that part of me that is alive and hungry. 

A dear friend recently wrote to me and reminded me about the importance of seeking that which is exquisite. She said, "I don't know anyone else who uses this word and I love that you do, and especially that you do so in the face of real struggles and pain. It's easy to be philosophical when things are easy. The real challenge is when things are hard." The vise is still there, but now more than ever it feels crucial to return to this space. Maybe others will join me, and maybe not. Either way is fine. It is a space where I will engage with the exquisite, even when it seems hard to find.

I've been thinking a lot about what this idea of exquisite means for me, and perhaps my writing here is my attempt to give life to that concept. It is easy enough, I think, to find it in an amazing sky, a transcendent song, or the feeling of my feet upon the earth.  But more and more I crave the exquisite in the form of connection, be it face to face or virtual, with people that I love and with communities of solidarity. In these times we all need to build these alliances, nurture love, persist through difficulty, and allow the strength that we gain from connection in all of its forms to both root us in ourselves and drive us forward collectively.

As I write this out I think it sounds both corny and grand. I'm okay with that, I think, as reaching towards corny and grand will always carry me farther than withdrawing into cynical and narrow. Maybe you, too. 

Artisanal

This blog is not Search Engine Optimized (that I know of), it doesn't have a Twitter feed, it isn't connected to my Facebook account, it hasn't been Feedblitzed. I've only told a small circle of friends of its existence. This will all change, I suspect, but for now I'm keeping this cozy little corner of cyberspace simple. Maybe too simple - if a tree falls in the forest, and there's no one around to hear it...?

A friend and I joked recently that many of us who like to write may be returning to blogging, especially as online spaces like Facebook either burn themselves out or drive people away. We decided that things like context-collapse, nipple-censoring, and the time-suck aspects of social media might spur a back-to-basics artisanal blogging movement, and in that spirit Two Feet In may be the world's first overtly artisanal blog. Joking aside, however, I am interested to see how and if a space like this can grow on today's internet, where everything seems to be linked to everything, and so far this is linked to nothing. Maybe I'll  end up spreading the word about it on my Facebook page. Maybe you will "like" something that you read and pass it on. And maybe not. If it does grow, at least it'll be organic!

Regardless, this space won't just be my voice, as I've been inviting a few of my friends to contribute. If you are going to do artisanal blogging, it should indeed be a collective effort. Stay tuned...

Amazing Sky #1

once upon a time in tucson

One of the most popular features of the first incarnation of this blog was Amazing Sky. These were periodic posts that shared images of sun and clouds, fog and rain, stars and moon, or whatever the photographer found amazing or inspiring about that small glimpse into the expanse beyond our particular spot on this earth. I know it was popular because site statistics at that time indicated that a significant percentage of visitors arrived via a Google search for amazing sky. A few of them became regular readers. 

Many of the images I shared were ones that I took, as I'm always on the lookout for amazing sky and have been known to go well out of my way to find the perfect shot, to chase the moon, to follow a storm, or catch the last moments of a sunset. I have a hard drive full of amazing sky, a fact that delights me. The above image is one such example that captures many layers of skyness.

I also solicited submissions of amazing sky to include on the site, and had images sent to me from friends and strangers. I got sky from Dubai, from Lone Pine, CA, and from backyards near and far. Here's an example of crowd-sourced amazing sky from back in 2006:

   

A friend that moved to the desert recently reminded me why I stop for the sky, again and again. As she put it, there is "nothing like staring into space (literally) to remind me to focus on what's important and real, not the chatter and bs." I need those reminders, especially when everything else seems full to overflowing and my mind is on spin cycle.

So, please stare into space today, and consider sending me some of your own amazing sky. As just as before, poetry, reflections, stories, dreams, or stream of consciousness musings are always appreciated.

 

Love and Dust

I went to church today for the first time in as long as I can remember - as in, not a special occasion event, but a regular Sunday morning service at our local Unitarian Universalist congregation. My mother has been wanting to check it out for the past year or so, and whenever we try to line up our schedules it hasn't worked out for one reason or another. Yesterday, out of the blue, I decided that today needed to be the day. I didn't know why, but it seemed important.

Soon after arriving and settling into our seats, I realized that today is September 11th. It's not that I hadn't realized it before, but somehow the significance didn't quite filter through the nearly impenetrable maze of stuff in my head. As the music began, and as I grounded myself in the moment, the memories of that day, 15 years ago, came flooding back. 

I've written about My September 11th, in a public way, and it remains one of the pieces that I've published online that generates response - most of it positive, but a good deal of hateful rhetoric as well. A few years after writing the original piece, I made a short video to accompany it, which also got a lot of airplay, and even more hate mail. I was interviewed during drive-time on a South African radio program. It was definitely one of the more surreal experiences of my life - sitting in my car in Berkeley, talking to a radio DJ half a world away, and fumbling to explain how my writing expressed not just my own failure to be a fully engaged human, but also a failure that lives in each of us.

In My September 11th I wrote: "As long as we allow the existence of near and far, of nation-states, and borders – as long as we stay within our own zone of knowledge, comfort, and understanding, those fault lines will remain. Fault lines that crack and splinter, rifts that eventually rupture to tear us apart. What will it take for us to see humanity as a whole, rather than as subdivided entities, as “us” and “them,” as one or another person being wronged?" As I finished speaking my three-minutes of South African radio time, I remained on the phone line and could hear as the station shifted to the traffic and weather report. It was, after all, commute time there, amusing and very real evidence of shared humanity.

Today's sermon touched on Reality, Grief, Hope: Three Urgent Prophetic Tasks, by Walter Brueggemann. In Brueggemann's words: "I suggest that the prophetic task now, in contemporary U.S. society, is exactly to perform hope that is characteristically a tenacious act of imagination, grounded in a dream, song, narrative, or oracle, rooted in the elusive but faithful authority of God. The prophet is the one who dares to speak such a future that is out beyond all evidence. The work is not simply to reiterate old acts of hope, but to be informed by such old acts in order to perform acts that may be grounded in divine initiative."

The minister ended with these words: "We are all made of love and dust." I used to joke that much of my public writing is driven more by heart than by a well-articulated political analysis, and that may indeed be true. I'm not all that much of a God person, but grounding hopeful action in dream, song, narrative, or oracle, that is, in something akin to divine, resonates with me deeply. Love and dust. Today's sermon seemed to be a good call that self-criticism be damned, it is time to get my voice out there in the world again. I think I'll take my mom back to church next week too.

 

 

Wild Horses

Many years ago I had a dream about wild horses. It is a dream that I've thought of often recently, as I attempt to find what is exquisite even in the most challenging of circumstances. In the dream I am watching wild horses -- big, strong and beautifully sleek multi-colored horses that are most definitely untamed and free. They dance with each other & rear up onto their hind-legs in an intricate give and take. Someone is trying to catch them, and I laugh knowing that will not be possible. 

Last week I found myself in the emergency room, hooked up to machines, fluids dripping into my IV, waiting for the results of my CT scan and blood tests. Part of me questioned whether I really needed to be there, as the symptoms of extreme vertigo had mostly passed, and the either real or imagined numbness and tingling in my left arm now seemed more phantom than not. But I had to wait... For the test results, for the doctor to assess everything, for the discharge orders. There's not much like hours in the ER to spark contemplation. My wild horses stopped by for a visit. They made space and time open up, even for just those moments - a visceral reminder that the exquisite is always available.

Recently, I read a poem by Marie Howe, on sorrow, and the first lines have been echoing through my head:

Sorrow

So now it has our complete attention, and we are made whole.
We take it into our hands like a rope, grateful and tethered,
freed from waiting for it to happen. It is here, precisely
as we imagined.

If the man has died, if the child’s illness has taken a sudden
turn, if the house has burned in the middle of the night
and in winter, there is at least a kind of stopping that will
pass for peace.

Now when we speak it is with a great seriousness, and when
we touch it is with our own fingers, and when we listen
it is with our big eyes that have looked at a thing
and have not blinked.

There is no longer any reason to distrust us. When it leaves
it will leave like summer, and we will remember it as a break
in something that had seemed as unrelenting as coming rain
and we will be sorry to see it go.

Sorrow. So now it has our complete attention, and we are made whole. When I wonder about the connection between sorrow and finding the exquisite, I think of this poem, this line. It is an understanding I didn't have have at 20, not at 30. I might have approached it at 40. Now, at 50, I think I understand, or at least am beginning to get it. I suspect that my learning curve will continue to be steep as I move forward through new and unanticipated challenges. These relationships - sorrow and joy, finding our own wholeness through challenge and contradiction - are part of what I'd like to explore in my writing here, and I hope that others will join me in the conversation, especially woman who are both grappling with, and reveling in, the fascinating facets and contradictions of growing older.

 

 

Two Feet Redux

Welcome to Two Feet In, a new iteration of a blog that I created and inhabited between the years of 2004 and 2009. Two Feet In was, and will be again, a blog that can't be defined or pigeon-holed into a particular subject or genre. I wrote about whatever came along that captured my attention, my fascination, my outrage, my wonder.

Here's the list of categories that loosely organized the writing: absurdities, amazing sky, amazing teachers, amazing trees, body culture, capitalism, Code Pink, education, education and militarism, humans, mama chronicles, miscellany, music is spiritual, observations, Palestine, poetry, politics, quilts, race, rampant consumerism, wanderings, war and peace, world. I was never been good at putting things into categories back then, and I suspect it hasn't changed much in the intervening years, though I'll undoubtedly revive many of these topics.

When I began Two Feet In, I had a preschooler and a toddler. Those children are now teenagers. My father has passed on, my mother is aging, I've divorced and repartnered, my family structure has changed. My life is not as easily categorized or defined, and that's okay with me. At least once a week someone reminds me that I embody the so-called Sandwich Generation. It's likely that this will be part of the new Two Feet In - the challenges of growing older, shifting responsibilities, changing roles. I'd like to open this space up to other woman facing similar changes. A friend joked that we are two feet in, not six feet under. It is a bittersweet joke. We are embracing life, or trying to do so. Some days that grip feels more solid than others.

Here is a screenshot of one of the very first Two Feet In posts, back in 2004:

I've always loved the idea of portals, and recently I've liked seeking out moments in my day, openings to something greater, portals to the exquisite. Two Feet In may not lead directly to the long, long sky, but I'll be aiming in that direction. Mining for the exquisite, in spite of the inevitable.