The Narcissistic Lover—a Trump Allegory

When they met, he was a self-proclaimed “enthusiastic suitor.” He found her to be just fabulous. And just like him, in so many ways. How could they not be together? A match made in heaven. They both believed in magic. In love. In the triumph of love over loneliness—isolation itself. Finally, they would have what they both deserved. Each other. And the world as they envisioned it.

But she didn’t get it at first—that all those perfect things he said were calculated to make her want him. At this point in his life, the calculations were so embedded in his very being that he was no longer aware of making them. He was keenly tuned in to “people like her” – women of a certain age who long to be seen, acknowledged, loved for who they are. Women who have kept themselves under the wraps of motherhood, wifehood, the double life of domestication and career, for so long that they just want to break out of the restraints and let their true selves shine forth for all the world to see, without apology. He seemed to give her permission to do that. Why did she feel she needed permission from a man, from anyone? Even she wasn’t sure why. But the world doesn’t always see women through a clear lens. Now maybe the world would see her through his eyes, and accept her, and she’d be empowered.

He knows her, or people “like her,” just well enough to know exactly what to say so she’ll want him. And accept him in spite of any red flags that may poke up. Because, after all, he accepts her fully, so shouldn’t she do the same for him? Doesn’t he see her “greatness” as he calls it? He seems to understand that she has gone too long unrecognized, and her disillusionment in the system of love will be swept away by the fulfillment of all that he promises.

Is she so predictable, she sometimes wonders? Is it so easy for him to see how much she longs to be courted, wanted? Just acknowledged? Her needs have been unmet for so long. And he seems to have lots to offer such a woman. He is like Barry White—he has ALL the words to say to make any woman feel that IT is about to happen at any moment. That union. That revelation of the perfect joining.

She waits for that. She waits for…so much.

Like the call “in ten minutes” that doesn’t come. Or, when it does—two hours later—never seems to feel as good as she hoped it would. Wasn’t she going to tell him about her day, and that awful thing that happened, and wasn’t he going to help her solve the problem, see it in a different light, soothe her with kind and loving words? Instead, she listens to him talk about a woman at work who wants him. A girl at the pharmacy who was way too young for him but really seemed to want to talk. His secretary and how much she loved his jokes this morning. Then it is always too late to say what she had on her mind. They’d have perfunctory phone sex and hang up. She would lie in bed, with the song, Where is the Love? running through her head.

When he does offer his support, or try to help her through tough times, he gets angry. His advice is always, “You should quit that fucking job!” Or: “I’d punch her in the face if she talked to me like that.” These suggestions are not that helpful to her. Still, she finds she is more short-tempered, more likely to succumb to her basest impulses—at work, in life, even with her friends—because she knows he would, too, and that he loves it when she “goes low.” He finds it (weirdly) sexy. When she told him about calling her assistant a moron for printing the wrong labels, he laughed and hugged her. Kissed her darkly, with cruel passion.

I ask her, “Does he actually show up when he says he will? Does he deliver on those promises? Is he really leaving the hamster wheel of online dating behind him or is he still shopping on Bumble and Tinder?”

“Don’t you want a man,” I ask her, “who will always see the best in you and help you be that person? One who won’t egg you on in your worst impulses. Who will remind you of the kickass woman you are and that he fell in love with. The way you are. The way he will always see you: truly.”

“Don’t you want a man,” I go on, “who won’t capitalize on your fears and lie to you to get you to cling to him? A man with the self-confidence to let you make your own decisions and hear the truth? A man who will show you his best self and admit when he errs? Who will help you find the right path and ask for your help in return?”

“Don’t you want a man, who will go into the bathroom with you at night when you’re taking off your makeup? Who will put his hands on your hips as you wash your face and, not only will he not care about that pimple on your nose or the crow’s feet by your eyes, he’ll find you beautiful still. He won’t fan the flames of your hidden insecurities. He will nuzzle your neck and pull you by the hand into the bedroom where he will respectfully and lovingly adore your body, mind, heart, and soul.”

 

Advertisements

Anticipation in the Now

Ever the questing soul, anticipation is my default state. Thus one of the in-the-process lessons I am constantly learning is to live fully in each moment.

(When I’m writing fiction, I never proceed with an end in mind. Interesting, considering that is literally the ONLY time in my life when I could reasonably be expected to anticipate an outcome.)

In my actual, non-fictional life, I regularly wonder about, look forward to, fantasize about (and sometimes dread) the future. The power of thought, I believe, can manifest real results. I also strongly believe in road trips—life’s superfun way to teach me how to be in the now while thrilling to every next moment.

There is no moment in life that is certain—I’m certain about that. So aside from those concert tickets, a dinner date, planned vacation, my children’s visit at the holidays, and other such events, I cannot anticipate what will come next for me. But I feel certain (despite being a week away from yet another birthday) that I am young enough, brave enough, and have enough to offer the world that much is possible. Maybe not absolutely anything, but a helluva lot.

The more I travel (it’s still not enough), the more I think, as I explore strange new worlds: I could live here. Or here. Or even here! Who made up the rule that I have to stay in one part of the country? Turns out that was my stupid rule, so I can veto it from now on and pack my bags at any time.

Though I have not (as far as I know) met the man with whom I’ll spend the rest of my life (after looking with serious intent and (mostly) an optimistic heart for 11 months and counting), I realize that seeking love is a common practice among both women and men my age and that the odds are not at all hopeless. I will find that connection with a man, someone I will recognize as somehow familiar and yet thrillingly new. And (the other key element) he’ll find me. This fact is something I anticipate and, one day, will make real.

I am a productive person. I generate. I create. And I work my ass off. Secure in a career I really enjoy, I still often wonder if I might yet take a new road. Not necessarily an entirely new highway heading in an entirely new direction, but an exciting tangent, a path, that uses my skills and experience in some tantalizing new recipe. Something to anticipate with curiosity and confidence (and a dash of caution).

Being happy in my now is the goal. Being excited about the (unknown) future—that’s a good place to be too, as long as I don’t become mired in fear or lose sight of my current blessings.

 

Rauschenberg at MoMA: Inspiration, Collaboration, and the Turned-on Mind

Winter Pool, 1959

I’ve been thrilled by visual art most of my life. A combination of blessings, like where I grew up  and one particularly inspiring teacher when I was still very young, created me, a person who is literally vibrationally activated when I’m in the presence of exciting, great art. And there is a lot of great art in this world.

So on August 12, 2017, as my beloved Charlottesville was under attack by domestic terrorists, I was having a very good day. This hurts a little, in that place inside me (a vestigial mental construct left from my odd, if art-infused, childhood), but the bigger, better place inside me knows that it was okay for me to spend the day at MoMA with a friend, renewing myself by visiting the Rauschenberg exhibit called: Robert Rauchenberg: Among Friends.

You can read about it. You can (aka should) go see it if you are within a few hundred miles of New York City. There are great pictures and video clips on the MoMA site (linked above). I’m not going to describe the exhibit for you, or review it, or narrate what was in each room, elucidate each chapter in his artistic journey.

Rauschenberg’s work as stage set for dance.

Just want to say a few things. Like this: the exhibit is a window into a great and thrilling mind. Rauschenberg’s openness and his seemingly endless flow of ideas and “I’m going to try this now” moments, his humor, his relationships, his appreciation of fellow artists from composers like John Cage to choreographers like Merce Cunningham, and visual artists from Jasper Johns to Sue Weil to Cy Twombly. All of these things added to his inspiration. An angsty life of isolation, darkness, competitiveness, bitterness was not for him. He was an effluence of joyful creative pollination.

Rebus, 1955

His life and how he chose to live it, devoted to his art, to his ideas, to the ideas and art of others, inspired by the ideas and art of others—that was as much a thrill as seeing the art itself—both the majestically large pieces and the small pieces, all of it both conceptual and very real and glorious.

I mean he tried things. Nothing was “not worth” his exploration. He’d have an idea and bam. I have no idea how his “Erased De Kooning Drawing” was received critically. Who cares? He went to visit the great De Kooning himself and said, hey, I want to try this thing. I want to make a piece of art that is an erased drawing. How about one of yours? De Kooning was like, okay cool. Here is a piece I actually like a lot so have at it. Rauschenberg gave it a shot. He doesn’t seem to have started an entire phase of his art based on erasing drawings, but it was a thing he did. Jasper Johns came over and said, cool. Let’s frame it.

Canto II, the Descent (from Dante series 1958-60)

The drawings of all 33 cantos of Dante’s Inferno. I could have spent the entire day just on those. My God.

Charlene, 1954

His florid, red pieces—gorgeous assaults. I want to fill a house with them and then never leave it.

Automobile Tire Print, 1953

The tire tracks—John Cage’s Model A, one tire dipped in black paint, Rauschenberg’s 20 pieces of typewriter paper stapled together.

Hiccups (not as it was displayed at MoMA), 1978

Hiccups, the 97 zippered-together pieces of handmade paper, each an explosion of color and each a unique assemblage of transferred items run through a lithograph press.

Grapheion, 1988

His lithographs and silk screens. I mean those ALONE….

Gold Standard, 1964

His use of all media from toothpaste to old clothes to rusty nails to glue to film to silk to tossed out shipping boxes to canvas and paint and about a thousand other things.

His 9 Evenings combining an incredible mix of artists and audience-participation and lights and performance.

Monogram, late 1950s

His humor. The stuffed goat in the tire. Majestically itself. Having gone through several versions. I mean, how can you just have one version of a stuffed goat in a tire?

Bed, 1955

His incredible fabulous combines, (most of the pieces shown in this blog) a term he made up to make people stop asking him “WHAT IS THIS?”

Some of his pieces are statements, some of them just… something excellent to look at. Well, no, I take that back. They are all statements, aren’t they? Statements of an aesthetic and a consciousness and a will to create.

I love how being in the presence of a lifetime of art—his or any artist’s—Van Gogh, Renoir, Pollack, O’Keeffe, Kahlo, Rothko, Nevelson, whoever it is—invites you into the soul of that artist. I guess it’s like that with reading someone’s writing, seeing someone’s dance, hearing someone’s music. But the difference is that you can be inside a room with ten visual creations at once, in an exhibition with 500 pieces, maybe. You can’t simultaneously watch 500 ballets or read 500 poems or listen to 500 sonatas.

So this experience of visual art is like an immersion, a flood. You open yourself to it and you are filled with it. If you let yourself, you almost become that person for a moment. Or maybe for a lifetime, because you have so fully experienced that outflowing of another human, one so willing to commit her or his ideas to the plane of perceived reality (I’m being very careful here). For some that is a risk and for others, maybe for Rauschenberg, simply an imperative, like reproducing, or an instinct, like breathing.

As haters come out of the darkness, I will not let myself forget the light that is in us. Spend a day with art—every city has a place you can go, a gallery or museum with a room you can sit in and feel the flood of ideas and— beauty or not beauty—artistic spirit. Some say that is the very thing (not brutality, not hate, not rage or selfishness or the lust for power) that defines humanity.

Bathtub, 1973

PNW Part III

My kids being awesome

After a final day of experiencing the coolness of Nevada City, CA and Grass Valley, CA (where Win did find the most amazing fanny-pack for outdoorsmen and the Salvation Army and I bought some geological artifacts (aka crystals such as witch’s broom) at a local shop called The Cult of Gemini), Maggie and I said a temporary goodbye to her brother and we headed north again.

Fanny pack for fisherman

En route to Etna, CA (which seemed to be mostly a crossroads with a few houses and a school) for a halfway point/overnight, we drove towards Lake Shasta, Mount Shasta, the Shasta Dam, and our vision was filled with the huge snowcapped 14,179 foot high semi-dormant volcano. We got rather excited by the human story of the building of Shasta Dam during the Depression. Not to mention the beauty of the dam itself, a testament to some badass engineering and a lot of really hard work. The lake, created by said dam, looked pretty delicious on a 99° day. It seems many of the lakes in California are created by humans, not ancient glaciers or springs or meteors—not even god-like creatures with big feet and magic jazz-hands.

Shasta

Below Shasta Dam

Biggest (not tallest) dam in the country

Yet another amazing Mexican meal here at Joe’s Giant Orange Cafe in Shasta Lake

We also went to the headwaters of the Sacramento River—where the water percolates, freezing cold, from a spring. The spot felt very sacred to both of us. We lingered for quite a while, breathing in the ozone-infused air and dipping our feet into the water until numbness hit—in less than ten seconds. We set some intentions, let some things go. And moved on.

the headwaters

The further we got from our time with Win and Heather, the more we looked forward to seeing them again soon, as goodbyes are not as much fun as being together. Nevertheless, we pushed on towards Portland.

The last few days of our trip—Saturday to Monday in Portland and Monday to Tuesday back in Seattle, were glazed ever-so-slightly with melancholy as the sun and crisp air outlined every sweet or inconsequential moment and beautiful thing with dazzle.

Mostly these last days were about people, not places. Examples:

  • On our first night in Portland, two dear friends (connected to me through a board on which I serve), took us out to dinner on the Wilamette River (not pronounced Wilamĕtte but WilAHmette) and talked long past the setting of the sun… which happens very late out there on the first day of July, on the western edge of the furthest west time zone in the country.

    Breakfast at Lianne’s … comfort and love!

  • We visited the largest new and used book store in the country: Powell’s. A full city block, several stories high, and requiring a map to navigate. Um… some advice: go to Portland, OR immediately if you have not been to this store.

    One floor of 6, one room of a million

    Powell’s Books Forever

  • The next day, Win arrived, sans Heather, having driven a total of 9 hours just to spend 24 more with his mama and sister. We spent some time just chatting as we wandered around heading into stores like Patagonia and Icebreaker.

    #FlyFishingGeek

  • Another happy former teacher-former student reunion took place while we were in Portland. My children, Win and Maggie, plus Alison, her husband Tom, and John, all gathered one afternoon at the Rogue Distillery and Public House (a good place to geek out over Oregon beer). John was the oldest (class of ’91), then Alison (’98), then Win (’04) and Maggie (’07). I was almost giddy with the excitement of such a gathering. Nothing would make me happier than having a chance to sit and have a drink or a meal with every student I ever taught. That afternoon, we talked about academia, real estate, the school, music, their children (John), upcoming birth (Alison and Tom), jobs, plans, and whatever came to mind. It was perfect.

    Teacher Love

    14 years apart and so much in common (John on the left, Win on right)

  • Breakfast with friends (at Gigi’s—another delish breakfast spot), dinner with friends, and a chance to wander the city by car but no chance to park it and take a walk through the Japanese Gardens or the Holocaust Memorial because it was July 4 weekend and tourists just like us got up earlier and were far more organized. So my kids and I just tooled around. Found a coffee place. Found a lunch place (honestly it was pretty amazing—called Fat City Café and basically you need to go there). There is never a shortage of talk when we are together, in a car, on a trail, or sitting at the counter at any given restaurant or coffee hot spot anywhere, any time.

    Fat City fun

Eventually, we had to say goodbye to Win. He drove off towards Bend and a meet-up with Heather, and Maggie and I drove back to Seattle where we spent the 4th with our friends, Anna and Louise. This fun included an afternoon in the sunshine on Lake Washington, and a long, joyful, speed-boat ride around one end of the massive lake.

Last night with Anna and Louise!

Lake Washington and me, chillin’

Louise is a badass boat driver!

Ranier was supposed to be behind me but I failed at this pic.

As the sun headed towards the horizon, we were at the airport again, waiting for our redeye. As we flew, we felt sleep deprived and a bit sad. Also a bit happy. Maggie was going home to her girlfriend, her cat, and a new job. I was going back to summertime-as-I-know it. Some work, some play, more work, a little more travel, if I’m lucky, and maybe a few good dates with a few good men.

Final photo…of my kids being together, with me, which is the best part of all.

 

 

 

 

PNW Part II

The first installment of my PNW travel blog left us off in Olympia, ready to head southward towards California, where we were to meet up with Win, my son (and Maggie’s big brother), and his girlfriend, Heather. We road-tripped down Rt. 5 making several stops along the way. And no, not all of them were for espresso drinks.

  • Key gustatory stops included:
    • Fabulous and unexpected Mexican lunch in Eugene, OR. Mama Mayra has 5 stars on Yelp, all of them deserved. Definition of hole-in-the-wall, suffused with fragrant cooking aromas, smiling diners chowing down at worn linoleum tables.

      Lunch in Eugene.

    • More coffee. (So not all our stops were for coffee but, I mean, we made stops for coffee.)
    • Bricktowne Brewing Co. in Medford, OR. Don’t hold the “e” at the end of “Bricktowne” against them. The beer was good, and Maggie loved their dry pear cider.
        

      Maggie’s list of high points (cough) would include: “it’s legal!”

    • The best breakfast place ever in the history of history— Morning Glory Café in Ashland, OR. This place had a menu so delicious and creative, a décor so campy and cozy, servers so sassy and efficient, that we are seriously considering a move to Ashland for the duration of life.

      The glories of Morning Glory cafe.

We arrived in Placerville, CA by evening of our second day of driving, after stopping for groceries. Our arrival, and the much-anticipated bear hugs from the bear-of-a-son (I was prepared for his bear-like-appearance), took place in 109° heat.

But the heat was incidental. What mattered was the warmth of being with both my children at the same time for a whole week. Slipping back into the on-site mother-groove and letting the flow of talk and laughter fill me up. The Maggie and Win show is always fun to tune into….

I felt blessed to be able to see through a small window into the life shared by my son and the woman he loves (beautiful, vibrant Heather). For three of the days I was able to stay with them and see firsthand the easy, intimate rhythm of two people who love and support each other. The fact that one of them is my grown child made it especially meaningful for me.

  • Here are some of the superfun things we did together:
    • Visit Lake Tahoe. I’ve been collecting possible words that I can use to convey the impact of Tahoe on my brain/psyche/soul. I came up with this one: WOW. The three of us (Heather was working) had a little picnic, took a short hike around (part of) the lake’s perimeter in the 100° heat (with lots of looking-at-the-view stops), then went somewhere to drink a cold beer.
       

      This was the “cold beer” part of the day.

    • Wine tasting. Heather was not having a good day that day. It got notably better when we started puttering around to a few nearby wineries and tasting their honorable wares. Turns out that Napa is not the only county in CA with a zillion superb wineries. Within 5 miles of where we were staying there were 20+ we could visit. We checked out about 5. Our favorite was Jodar. Of all that we visited, the people were the most real, the wine the most delicious, and the atmosphere the most jovial. Plus, geeks that we are, we learned the most and liked that. Side note: as Heather, Maggie, and I sipped wines and nibbled cheese, Win hung out either outside or in a nearby arm chair, depending on where we were, reading fly fishing articles on his phone.
    • The Haircut. When we first arrived in CA, we saw firsthand what no scissor and no razor looks like on my son for 7 months. Remember Jeremiah Johnson? Or maybe Forrest Gump on his cross-country trek? Like that. And in temps pushing 110°. Win: “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get a cut.” ENTER MOTHER (wearing imaginary cape, hovering five inches off the ground with hands on hips): “To the rescue!” So, the day we visited Nevada City, CA, we stopped off at a barber shop on the outskirts of town. When the four of us (all rather tall humans) poured into the little shop (we left the dog outside), the barber was unfazed. She proceeded to cut an elegant swath through my son’s hair collection, moving it from his head and face to the floor at her feet.

      Pre-cut, in car with the gang of us including Stella the bestest dog ever.

      Mid-cut with the unflappable barber.

    • A woods-walk on the Deer Creek Tribute Trail near Nevada City. Beautifully maintained by locals and with gorgeous retaining walls, artistically designed, including niches where people have created community altars to nature.

      One of two altars with additions by us.

      Suspension bridge on Deer Creek Tribute Trail.

    • Geeking out about gold rush history. The “kids” and I headed to Coloma, CA, location of Sutter’s Mill, the site of the first gold nugget discovery by James Marshall (1848). The South Fork of the American River flows gloriously by the spot where a saw mill was created. Soon the non-existent town, and the area of CA that was home to around 150,000 Native Americans, was flooded with white men fixated on quick wealth (a tale as old as time), and about 120,000 of the rightful residents were utterly wiped out. The blip in the road that is now a few historic buildings and a little museum was, for about 8 years, a thriving metropolis.

      Highly knowledgeable and skilled blacksmith at Coloma.

      Super cute lunch place in the heart of this “birth of the gold rush” area.

      Surveying the North Fork.

      Recreation of Sutter’s actual mill.

    • Having a beer with a former student of mine at The Club Car in Auburn, CA (forever memorialized for me now). He and his wife are ranchers dedicated to sustainable animal husbandry. We sat at the bar, sipping local beer and talking about ranching, the environment, the school with which we all share a history, Gareth’s kids (small, lively, and brilliant and whom I’ve not met), my kids, who were in 3rd grade and kindergarten when Gareth graduated. It was joyful. An hour and a half passed and we parted with hugs all around.

      Maggie, Me, Gareth, Love.

The best part of any trip can happen between the “things we do.” This mother-daughter trip was across the country but we also logged over 1700 miles getting from Seattle to our meet-up with my son, plus about 2-300 additional miles exploring together once we got there.

The hours in the car included some of the most beautiful views imaginable.

Casual driving view….

Pull-over view American River.

Plus lots of fun scoping out coffee shops on Yelp and going out of our way to hit them. And then we read one and a half books (I read to Maggie while she drove –neither of us ever outgrew read-aloud). When we were tooling around with her brother, and Heather too sometimes—plus don’t forget Stella the dog—it was like a magical car-based opportunity to … well, talk. Then there was the talk-while-walking-around-random-towns, the talk-while-exploring-nature, the talk-while-eating, talk-while-cooking, talk-while-shopping, talk-while-sitting-around-and-forgetting-what-we-were-supposed-to-be-doing, and so forth.

Walk and talk. (This took place later, in Portland, but you get the idea.)

Not at all sure that wasn’t the best part of the whole trip.

But eventually daughter and mother headed back north, with plans to meet up with Win (and maybe Heather) again in Portland just before July 4th and our flight back. The last chapter of my PNW blog will be posted very soon….

 

 

PNW Part I

Skyline snapped en route from airport.

The pull of the Pacific Northwest grew gradually but inexorably over the years. When my son moved out there six months ago, there no longer existed a single excuse not to just… GO.

Seattle to (almost) Sacramento and back again in 2.5 weeks. Another epic journey undertaken with my 24 year old daughter, Maggie.

In this overview (Part I) — Washington State. If you told me tomorrow that I was moving there, had a job, a place to live, and sorry but it just had to be, I’d kiss you. Seattle stole my heart and the whole state captured my spirit.

High points included….

  • Seeing a dear friend from my school days in NYC and her wife, and getting the quickie overview of Seattle from a wise and pragmatic person who instinctively knew what we’d love.

    The wonderful Anna and Louise.

  • What we saw (and loved):
    • Lake Washington (where my friends Anna and Louise live) and the view of snow-covered Mt. Ranier at one end. For an easterner this hit my eyeballs as “A Mountain” putting Mt. Alander or Brace Mountain of my nearby Taconic range into stark perspective as “mountains”—note my use of capitalization. (Ranier is 14,410 feet high and topped by a glacier. By way of comparison, I learned to ski at Catamount, in the Berkshires, with an elevation of 1000 feet and topped by mostly trees.)

      Lake Washington and Mt. Ranier.

    • The troll under the bridge. Yes! A glorious art installation and he even holds a real live VW bug in his trollish grip.
    • Lenin-in-mid-stride. Someone thought it was a great idea to buy an old statue of the leader of the Communist Revolution from the Russians and install it in front of a café. He makes an impression in any city.

      Lenin striding.

    • The Olympic Sculpture Park (part of the Seattle Art Museum). Set on the water, artists like Alexander Calder (in all his majesty), Richard Serra (whose amazing work is at Dia Beacon in my neck of the woods), my old fave, Louise Nevelson, and many more, are on fabulous display. One artist new to me, Jaume Plensa, knocked my eyes out with his monumental Echo….

      Echo

      We walked together in the sun and the breeze, wearing light sweaters in late June. Bliss.

    • Pho.

      The Pho was delicious.

    • The salmon ladders. If you’ve never heard of such a thing, you’re in good company. It was new to me, too. Ladder is a misnomer, really, as the engineering is more about stair-steps that head upstream through gateways, so the salmon can access their spawning grounds despite the existence of a lock system that controls water flow into and out of the giant Lake Washington. There is a viewing spot below ground-level where we could watch the valiant wild salmon swim against the current, find the gateway to the next level, and use their muscular little bodies to push through it. They were beautiful and Maggie and I were thoroughly transfixed for a good hour. And yeah, we took about 9 million photos and at least 8 thousand video clips. We were inspired.

      The salmon in the ladders.

    • The first five or so of a plethora of small coffee spots we stopped at during our trip. My friend, Anna, understood that we needed to see multiple “temples of coffee” as she called them.
    • Amazing Copper River salmon.
  • Visiting friends, Tom and Nina, in Olympia, WA and experiencing their love and wonderful tour-guiding.
  • What we did with them:
    • Walked through part of the Olympic National Park. Since the park is about 1400 square miles, we were on just a microscopic fraction of it, but what we saw filled our eyes and souls with great beauty. A temperate rainforest covers most of the park, and we walked what is called the “staircase” trail, which starts about an hour and a half from Olympia. Majestic cedar trees, Douglas fir, Sitka spruce, and hemlocks towered overhead. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, but we were cool and comfortable as we walked. We stopped frequently to inspect a fern, some moss, a section of rapids, or a fallen cedar (one was especially enormous; the root system, lying on its side, towered over us).

      Tom, Nina, and me posing beside the huge fallen cedar.

      One of our hiking companions, Tom, is 81 years old. He impressed all of us! 

      Beautiful couple and a beautiful view.

      Tom and Maggie walk ahead.

      Trees grow on other “nurse” trees.

      The Skokomish River from up hgih.

      The Skokomish River.

      Taking a rest as we walked the Olympic State Park Staircase trail.

    • Toured the Capitol building in Olympia, WA. To be honest, many capitols in this country were constructed with ugly in mind. Or maybe it was just economy. But this building and all the ones around it are modeled on the neoclassical style of the nation’s capitol. The capitol itself was not only quite gorgeous, but contained more marble than I’ve seen in one place outside maybe the Metropolitan Museum. Fun fact: the supreme court of Washington is comprised of five women and four men. Seems about right.

      Washington State Capitol.

      A VW bug would fit in that chandelier.

      WA House.

    • Drank more great coffee.
    • Ate more delectable salmon. Plus some crazy-good chicken Perloo made by Tom, a Florida Cracker born and bred.

Washington State secured itself in me as a destination of my heart. I constantly imagined myself living there and began fantasizing possible move-to-Seattle outcomes for myself. It’s probably a good idea for me to visit in the winter and really experience the daily rain I don’t think I’m going to mind, but won’t really know till I see it firsthand.

Olympia is a port city.

Next installment: heading south through Oregon to meet up with firstborn, Win, in CA.

 

 

The Wonder of Wonder Woman

When the movie ended, tears welled up. My throat closed. I was overwhelmed with emotion.

Not a tear jerker movie, so why?

I always enjoy superhero movies. We all do—or lots of us, anyway. The possibility of good prevailing. The presumption that there is good. That there are people devoted to doing the right thing, fighting injustice and evil, for the sake of all the world. These heroes have grit and brains, sometimes brawn, and often super powers to boot. What’s not to love?

As I sat with my adult daughter in the theater watching the opening scenes—powerful, dauntless women exhibiting their prowess with weapons and their badass skills, swiftness, and strength—I was thrilled to my core. That feeling never stopped until the final scene. Diana’s evolution into Wonder Woman is superb—the way she always speaks her truth, calls a spade a spade, kicks ass, calls the patriarchy on its shit, does what’s right and not only what is expedient, is not willing to settle for “good enough,” and does not care one sliver of an iota what anyone thinks of her. She even loses the man she loves and… well, she survives.

While I relished every moment, at the same time I was thinking about all the little girls in theaters across the country watching the movie this summer. Not just being inspired by a real-live woman hero, but one for whom there are no excuses made for why she is what she is and why the men defer to her, admire her, and put their faith in her. The little girls sitting with wide shiny eyes in dark theaters across the US are seeing what little boys have absorbed their entire lives. (And by little boys I mean white little boys because little boys of any other color are always dealing with a different paradigm too.)

Our sons, not to mention our sons’ fathers and grandfathers—grew up in a world where this paradigm was their everyday reality. Not just in movie theaters where they saw men and boys ruling, being the coolest, fighting, winning, dominating, saving the women, saving the world, bossing and managing and commanding others—but in every history book, on every street, in their homes, in their schools, at their jobs, on billboards and in TV ads, in the halls of power, on the news. The very fabric of their reality was that they could, would, and do have the “right stuff.” That they can do whatever they want. They’ll be admired and rewarded for it. They will probably even be given a pass on a lot of bad stuff they also apparently “can do.”

For me, my sisters, the women I went to school with, my friends, our daughters—and every girl child born on this planet, pretty much since history was a thing—has NEVER had that. EVER. That thing the boys just get automatically. A system infused with an acknowledgment, endorsement, and affirmation of their power, goodness, potential, and significance in every sphere of life. Every sphere of life, you get me? They grow up just KNOWING they can and do rule. As in—the world.

When Cleopatra reigned over Egypt, Queen Elizabeth I was queen of the most powerful empire in the world, and Catherine the Great was empress of Russia, every advisor, every colonial governor, every other person in power in their countries and every other country at that time, in the time before, and the time after—were men. And the sacrifices they made to do what they did were not any that male leaders have ever been expected or obliged to make. So don’t throw these fabulous outliers at this situation as proof that what I’m saying isn’t true, because you know it is. The unbelievably rare exceptions call the rule into stark, horrific relief.

In spite of the beat-us-down reality with which we are flooded every moment of our lives by not just the media but life-as-we-know-it, women have made truly significant inroads. Painfully, inch by inch, up against odds no man can imagine. Not the odds created by being inferior and having to make it against their natural superiors, since that is a myth of mythic proportions that no civilized human says out loud any more. No. The odds created by the status quo and how comfortable everyone seems to be with it. The sexist objections and roadblocks coming from all quarters.

And still, we persist.

But imagine. Imagine a world in which every CHILD was infused and flooded with a different truth: that all humans have equal powers of wonderfulness. Every child can be fast, strong, cool, smart. Anyone can do any job, with the right skills and aptitude. (Let’s be honest, you don’t want me doing your taxes.) Anyone can invent, heal, design, create, govern. Anyone can learn how to save the world through science, theology, philosophy, technology, scholarship, political or economic reform, education, and love….

In that world, neither gender and no race could or would ever be able to get away with dominating another because all of us would have grown up with these beliefs instilled in us. No man would proposition or deride a woman on the streets. No man would get away with a slap on the wrist for raping anyone. No woman would have to accept less money for the same job, let alone accept that she is “less than.” Women in equal numbers would be senators, governors, CEOs, engineers, brain surgeons, heavy machinery operators, and airline pilots.

The pressure would be off men to carry all that responsibility. Who asked them to, anyway, poor guys?

I know and love the fact that more and more girls are wielding “swords” in the playgrounds of America this year thanks to Wonder Woman. They feel a glimmer of that feeling—that empowered feeling that they deserve.

So why did I cry when the movie ended? Why was I so choked with helpless emotion? Because even the most empowered of my gender, raising our daughters to know and to feel their own worth, their own stunning strength and brilliance, will never really know that feeling—to be ENTITLED to your power. Because there is a different and tragic law of the land, accepted by most without even thinking about it—a law that governs everything from the color of our Legos to the length of our shorts. From the dreams we have about our future to things we do on a Saturday afternoon. From the best possible scenario we can envision for ourselves to the darkest fears we harbor in our hearts.