Romantic comedies are tragic, aren't they?

Saturday, August 13, 2011

And, frankly, depressing. They lack the bitterness under the tongue of real life. As a youngster I was consumed by the romance of romance, stories of love and strife, painted with an extravagant wash of drama. In these tales the story was almost always this: the man would first battle his own nature and then, in the end, fight for the woman. A woman, I might mention, that is inevitably a shallow and vapid figure, all-consumed by her unrequited passion.

It starts when The Man enters the picture and steals all of The Woman's meaning and purpose. In the middle, the story revolves around her pining away with longing and suffering, often while he's off gallivanting around with another woman (either in reality or perception). Finally, The (primary) Woman winds up being swept off of her feet by a Grand Gesture, just when she is at the brink of crossing the chasm into bitter spinsterhood (or {gasp!} into the arms of the Wrong Man!).

There is a lot that appeals about the classic romance - the desire to be worthy of being fought for, the primeval need to know that the Male of the species will battle another for your hand, the Grand Romantic Gesture that shows you how meaningful you are (not to mention the excitement and drama of all of this, and the martyrdom of suffering in between!).

And then you look at real life... Love is grand, but my experience of romance has never matched up to this (and, would I *really* want it to?). Romance, in the end, to be sustained, takes work, can become routine, requires compromise, and is rarely so dramatic. Many days of "chop wood, carry water" pass between romantic moments. You find the true, deep abiding love when you find yourself looking up and realizing how fortunate you are to be looking into the eyes of your partner across the table. It is a quiet, subtle thing, this love - but don't mistake it.

Sometimes, though... A Grand Gesture is ok too. ;)

Texas morning

Sunday, August 7, 2011

It's early; I am at the kitchen sink awaiting the final chorus of the coffee machine. In the corner of my eye I see what appears to be the tail end of a young black cat walking by against the sliding door of a house with no cats. As I turn to look she slips from view. I follow her onto the back porch (no cat in sight), and find a hummingbird sipping from the fire bush, flower after flower. The bird hums up into the air, inspects me briefly, and flies away.

Multiple Myeloma

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

On the plane, a tall, angular black woman makes her way down the aisle. Her knobbed elbows form a sharp bracket around her body. Two hats are stacked atop her dreadlocked hair, and small thick-framed glasses perch above a small gold nose ring. A loose scarf is wrapped around her shoulders. I imagine her to be a voodoo woman, and myself falling to my knees to beg her to help my father. She arrives at my aisle and asks if the seat next to me is hers ("is that 5A?") of course, it is. She removes the hats and the magic is gone, we are just strangers flying toward our separate futures.

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Dad is sitting up in his chair and out of it. He got a "level 4" dose of morphine this morning for the pain. He looks out the window at the clouds and sees a dragon. I'm not sure whether to be glad or not, when I see it too (I am).


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Up the hall a high sound comes... "Oh, the insane laughter again," Dad says, "at least, I hope it's laughter...". But I've registered the sound; someone is sobbing, their voice carrying a broken heart out to the world in progressively louder and more violent high-pitched sobs. The 8th floor is full of pain, sorrow, and death. Oncology, floor 8.


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"It's amazing how life gets broken down into little pieces sometimes." "How so?" "Oh, you know, here I am in my chair, looking out the window, worried about my back pain and all the little things, things that nobody else gives a damn about."


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My father's bed faces a large window, but the view from the bed is back toward the other parts of the hospital. Looking out you see the center part of the building that has the big "Methodist Hospital" sign. It is the window without a view. Each day we move him to the recliner, where he can look out and see the sky. I worked late tonight, and arrive at the hospital at just before 7. Dad is so tired, his eyes blink closed every few minutes, and I can see that it's been another long, hard day. I ask Han (his wife) if he's done all of his shoulder work, the exercises prescribed by the physical therapist to happen three times a day. "Two times," she says. He has to do one more round, five types of exercises. He does the first three types and rests, drifting out. A few minutes go by and I convince him we must do the hardest ones - a movement where I support his arm and raise it up. This is the most painful, and the more he tries to use his muscles the more it hurts - he is supposed to relax his arm completely. It is a challenge; he always wants to be in control and is terrified we will let his arm drop and cause excruciating pain. This time he is so tired, his arm is heavy but I can still feel his muscles competing to carry the weight. I remind him again to relax: "Move your head from side to side, relax your neck." "Let your shoulders drop." He does a bit.

I see the pain etched on his face, so I try to distract him. "The clouds were amazing today. They were the big puffy rain clouds, you know the kind? The edges were so sharp they looked like they had been drawn up in the sky. It was so beautiful - the tops were lit up from the sun, the bottoms gray and heavy with rain, and in between it was this incredible peach color." My heart breaks as his eyes flutter open and he lifts his head, looking out to try to see them through the window without a view.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

I have tried to imagine a world in which I did not care and place myself in it...

Power*Full 2011

My theme for 2011: powerful. I have come to see that this is not only owning (being responsible for) power I have, but also seeking and seizing (responsibly) all of the power that is available to me.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

I’m posting this to enter a contest offered by Dish Network at Aiming Low! I want to win the Google TV!

History

Thursday, May 26, 2011

I've been in San Antonio, TX for business this week. It's a happy coincidence that my company's headquarters are in SAT, as are my father and my sister, brother-in-law, and two nephews.

I went to dinner with Dad, Sis, and stepmom last night - what a great evening. We started talking about family and history, and sis and I were asking Dad about growing up during the depression. His father (grandpa) used to run a coal yard. Dad has black tattooed scars on his knees from playing on piles of coal as a child and skinning his knees. He was sure to specify - "it was hard coal - which isn't as bad for the environment as the soft coal they're using now." In those days folks used the coal to heat their houses (up north / in Pennsylvania).

Dad talked about how his father kept delivering the coal to people even when they couldn't pay... And eventually he didn't have a coal yard any more, and was as broke as all of his customers. I saw a tear in my Dad's eyes (a very rare sight indeed!!)... He remembered his father and mother, years later when they had money again, trying to track down the milkman to pay him back for the milk.

Find out about your history, people! Ask questions! Appreciate the sacrifices, the joy, the hardship and the success of the long chain of people that led to your two feet being planted on this earth today. Don't let it slip away unnoticed. My mom died 12 years ago... I only wish I could talk to her about her story.

I love my Dad SO MUCH. I'm so grateful for every meal I get to share with him. I'm blessed.

He's having some health problems now; I appreciate any form of positive energy you may care to send our (his) way. Thanks for reading.