Are You There, God? It's Me. Susan.

Are you there, God? It's me. Susan.

Don't worry, nothing's wrong. I'm not going through any crazy crisis. I'm not even here to ask for anything. Well, I'm not asking for stuff, anyway. I know this sounds strange, sort of coming-out-of-nowhere like, but we have some catching up to do. Even that sounds strange, since it's not like we never chat. But something's gone awry, I feel. Something's gone totally amiss.

I've been noticing this strange... distance? creeping up on me for maybe two or three years now. As if a slow moving sludge I didn't even recognise as something that could ever really affect me has been taking me some place that seems far from where I started. Far from you. Honestly, it's as if our relationship has somehow changed. Like you picked up and left. Or just stopped speaking.

I used to hear you so clearly, like we were two friends hanging out over coffee and there was a back and forth conversation going on between us. And then one day, not any particularly memorable day, I realized that conversation had stopped. Coffee break over, back to our separate desks -- you behind a large mahogany desk in the boss's office, me back to my cubicle and counting the minutes until lunch time.

I don't mean to complain, or sound like I'm blaming you for this feeling of quiet. I've heard all my life that it's not you, it's never you that steps away. It's always us.

But what if it isn't always us? What if, for some reason way beyond my comprehension, you in your infinite wisdom chose to test my faith by seeing if I'd follow you even if I couldn't hear you? I'm a little confused as to why you'd do this, but I'm pondering it as a possibility. After all, apparently most folks don't hear you like I did at one point, and they still follow. And I'm learning that "hearing you" is different than I once thought, anyway.

I guess I'm learning that. So if you're listening, it'd be cool if we could hang out again like old times. Even if it's not exactly like old times.

Sincerely, Susan

It Was All Yellow

It's no surprise to hear that I can be somewhat impulsive and that I tend to get restless at times. So when I painted the bathroom yellow... yes, yellow... well, maybe there's a point when one has to wonder what's going on. I mean, I painted the bathroom YELLOW. It seemed like a great idea at the time, as my sudden impulses always do, but after the impulse has been satisfied and the adrenalin wears off, I'm basically stuck standing around asking myself, "What the hell did I just do?"

That's basically where I've been for the past... I don't know how long. Please don't get me wrong. I'm appreciative of the life I have. I love my husband; he's my best friend. I enjoy my job and the cool folks I get to work with. I've got so many awesome friends, so many great opportunities for adventure - the hiking group, being able to travel from time to time, trying new things... But it's all only satisfying up to a point. Is this terribly wrong of me to say? Is it just wrong of me to say it out loud?

When I get to feeling like this, which does happen from time to time, I usually start up a new hobby that typically lasts perhaps a few weeks to a month (Irish dancing classes), or I'll get a wild hair and try to start a business re-selling clothes I've found at a thrift store (I broke even, not including the gas I used going from Crossroads to Free Trade to the other Crossroads...), or (when I was younger), taking spur-of-the-moment trips (like the time I foolishly drove to Berkeley with some guy I had just met at a party because he told me about "the best coffee house in the world. It's, like, way better than all that corporate business shit." And I turned the iPod on to Damien Rice and played the carefree passenger for about 20 minutes before having that "What the hell did I just do?" moment.)

Or I'll paint the bathroom yellow.

Honestly, I understand it when the man’s not entirely convinced when I really want something, because he knows there’s a possibility the desire won’t last for longer than a few weeks. That said…

How did the bathroom end up yellow, you ask? Well, the man was having a guy's night, and I was having a rum and coke. Now, now... I know what you're thinking. Did the man have any idea I was going to do this? Yes. While the story may be juicier to say no, the truth is that the man was very encouraging of my whim and even went with me to Home Depot to purchase the paint. And again, while it doesn't help my story to add this little detail, the bathroom actually looks pretty cool. I say all this now to let you, the mystical reader I'm assuming gives a shit about this blog because you continued to read this far, know that this isn't about me and the man. Nor is it about the bathroom. I don't write an interior designer blog -- check out Design Sponge for that. No, I write the emotion-driven sometimes funny, sometimes sad, mostly truthful, always honest blog about life and me in it.

And for those of you who are already offended at my use of the word, "shit", perhaps this blog isn't for you.

Alright, for those of you still with me -- much love for looking past the momentary profanity. I hope this post is worth wading through a culturally inappropriate word or two. I have no intention of being sanctimonious in any way, shape or form. You won't hear me curse on most days because I respect the company I'm with, and that typically includes folks who don’t care for that sort of language. I've also never really made a habit of it. But from time to time, I will indeed use a "foul" word or two. Why I feel I need to explain this, I'm not sure.

Anyway, back to the bathroom. I started really well, taping the edges of the baseboards, around the door -- all the appropriate precautions. I changed into painting clothes. I mean, I was serious about this. This was my project, and gosh darn it, I was going to do a good job!

That was all during my first drink. The second tasted just as good, and my hand still seemed as steady. The music was on; I was rocking out... good times all around. I felt empowered and the bathroom was getting more and more cheerful with every stroke of the brush. So was I, come to think of it. Poured myself Rum + Coke #3 and really hit my stride. Walls 1 and 2 were just about finished, and I started working my way around the wall/ceiling edge. Got a little on the ceiling I was able to wipe off, mostly, but hey -- what's a little character? Who'd notice, anyway?

I'm pretty sure I had one more, or close to one more drink. And the bathroom was finished. A new light fixture installed, two new towel rings, a hanging plant, yellow paint and a new outlook on life! It was beautiful, and I was so glad I had done it. I wiped down the counters, washed out the paintbrush and walked.. no, strutted back to the bathroom. Most of the buzz from the rum was gone by this time (I had done an extremely thorough cleaning). I stood in the threshold of the bathroom and admired my handiwork. So creative, so rewarding.

And that's when it hit me. What the hell did I just do. It really was a statement, too, and not a question.

"I do this all the time," I remember thinking to myself. I get restless and have to change the way my life looks. As if some layer of bright paint is going to change my life to some state of constant high. As if one more crazy, spur-of-the-moment adventure is going to fill some greater need. I guess I'm looking for an emotional-need filler.

I know very well that no one and no thing can do that. And when I analyze that thought, I guess deep down I'm not really expecting it to. Perhaps those bursts of energy that materialize themselves in the next hobby of the week are just time-fillers between here and the next. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic.

But who cares? Why not? Why not paint the bathroom yellow? Why not take a dance class, even if it's not something you'll stick to for very long? Why not try a new business endeavor, drive all night to Portland for a last-minute show, build a fort in the living room, start that novel you may never finish, dye your hair, get a tattoo? My goal is to be as free as I can, and to encourage others to do the same. My goal isn't to get hurt, to hurt others, to go into debt buying things, to suggest that starting and not finishing is "cool", or to be in scary situations for the sake of some adrenalin rush (I would NEVER encourage anyone to take a drive with some person they'd just met at a party, I don't care how free or special that person appears to be).

I want to love passionately and to be loved passionately. I don't want to "show" anybody, or prove some point. Maybe that’s what I’m fighting against. Some invisible cage that some invisible person has put me in.

(Side Note: Perhaps that would explain why I needed to justify my language earlier.)

So I break out in different ways, using different tools to cut through the bars. But I find I’m still tethered to an invisible chain clamped to an invisible stake in the ground.

Maybe I actually find comfort in the cage. Who knows – maybe it’s not a cage after all. Maybe it’s a mansion and I’m no longer impressed by the marble. Call it what you will. It doesn’t seem to be enough, whatever it is.

What happens when this life doesn’t satisfy, knowing that painting the bathroom is just a time-killer? When you can’t find the heart to try and convince someone to find satisfaction in the cage/mansion because you’re not really convinced of it yourself? God, that sounds so depressing.

But I’m tired of sanctimony. It’s just so stressful. And I’m tired of feeling bad about doing “crazy” things – things that aren’t actually that crazy anyway. I guess that’s the invisible chain – guilt. There are actually a lot of things I haven’t done because I’m afraid of feeling guilty about doing them. Ha! Isn’t that funny? I actually have moments of guilt before even doing that thing I think I *might* feel guilty about. How is that freedom? How is that living in the freedom I profess to live in?

I know I still have certain morals I choose to live by, and not out of guilt. But I also think there are some laws I’ve been living by that have been dictated by guilt and not conviction.

So now, after an evening of tea and cathartic writing, I guess I’ve decided to join a new club. It’s called Freedom. Hopefully my attendance will last longer than two weeks.

Anyone interested in painting?

Ma, Please Don't Be Offended

(published on vhcle.com)

It’s not even seven o’clock and I’m already taking illegal photos. We’re at San Francisco’s Davies Symphony Hall and I can’t help but take pictures of the strategically-built auditorium with my husband’s iPhone. For those of us who have experienced the Hall before, I’m sure you’ll agree that one can’t help but feel dwarfed by the grandeur of the ceiling with its giant, plastic-looking shields created to aide in warming tone and bouncing beautiful sounds from ground to roof to ground. It’s incredible, and the concert hasn’t even started.

We’ve come to watch the famous Yo-Yo Ma play his 1733 Montagnana cello (or will it be the 1712 “Davidoff” Stradivarius?) in Brahms’ Double Concerto, Opus 102. But it’s Colin Jacobsen who takes the stage first. Who, you might ask? Proficient violinist and composer, Jacobsen looks unabashedly young, sporting a handsome baby face barely camouflaged by a gentleman’s mustache and goatee. The audience politely claps, because that is what we are trained to do when someone steps on stage. It doesn’t matter if we are left waiting in suspense for at least two full minutes before the door opens and the expected artist actually appears. We clap.

Jacobsen politely bows in turn, and starts in with the most beautiful rendition of Bach’s Chaconne from Partita No. 2 in D minor. That song, to those of us who aren’t as well-versed in classical music as my husband (who can name the birth and death dates of every famous composer who ever lived), begins with four notes played as two – two strings being played for each note – creating rapturous tension from the very first downbeat. This man, a stranger to me at 7:02pm, is now my guide through the throes of Bach’s memories of his first wife, Maria Barbara. Deeply moving, achingly desperate, I am lost and not seeking to be found, hidden in the sonorous and sharp measures of music played by one of Juilliard’s finest collegians. God, the sound hurts so good. And Bach is just the beginning.

The audience no longer claps – it applauds! We are thoroughly impressed, and as I admire my fellow music lovers, I notice one of Jacobsen’s mentors, Yo-Yo Ma himself, tucked in-between what could only be friends and family seated in the third tier box. I tap my husband and stealthily point up to Ma’s surreptitious seat, and we smile, appreciating Ma’s encouraging approval of a protege's work. Yo-Yo Ma created a group called the Silk Road Ensemble about ten years ago in which the touring musicians play music inspired by the cultural and intellectual traditions of the Silk Road trade route. Jacobsen has been a member since its inception.

The next piece is a hauntingly beautiful and discordant “Schnittke”, Prelude in Memoriam by Dmitri Shostakovitch. This one is scary, and I mean scary. I feel as though Jacobsen was pulling me across ancient Soviet borders to walk amongst dead Stalinists. The piece continues with echoes from a second violin, played by Nadya Tichman. She towers over Jacobsen from across the stage, host to the greatest head of gray fro I’ve ever seen. She frightens me. If Jacobsen tromps and screeches through Soviet lands, Tichman is the ghost of Soviet past, and it’s not happy. What an eerie piece of music.

Again, the audience applauds – this time out of awe and general speechlessness, as if to ward off the ghost of Shostakovitch himself. The two bow and gather center stage as they are joined by a viola, cello, bass and bongo. Each musician makes themselves comfortable. As with Bach’s Chaconne, the drop of the first note hits the floor, bounces off the plastic shields and hits our ears with a smack! They’re off and running, and it’s a race to the top! They call it “Ascending Bird”. Jacobsen and Siamak Aghaei, a master of the Iranian dulcimer, created this fast-paced, bright piece to represent an ancient Persian myth of transcendence. A bird attempts to reach the sun in an effort to shed the confines of its earthly body. Twice it falls, and yet, in sheer determination, ascends once more, finally breaking through barriers between physical life and eternity. Bird and sun become one. Or so the story goes.

The troupe hits its last note with a quick stroke, and suddenly we’re up on our feet! No longer the polite, skeptical audience from an hour before. This final movement has released us from our own physical hesitations to not only appreciate, but participate in what became the highlight of the symphony. Jacobsen and his troupe shared a bit of that transcendence with us, and for lack of a better word, we’re pumped!
They bow, leave the stage, come back, bow again, leave the stage again, and yes, come back for a third bow. What an opening to an amazing night. One of the ushers mentioned their attempt at getting folks to go in for the pre-concert, to his chagrin and their loss. But many of us were the better for it.

The actual concert, or the second half, as I refer to it, was a beautiful portrayal of two talented musicians sharing the stage for Brahms’ Double Concerto. A pleasure to watch Ma and Jacobsen play off of each other with each phrase and stanza of Brahms’ grand and complicated piece. Such intricate rays of sunlight seem to poke through a dense forest as dual soloists “speak” their first lines. A few measures later and they make way for clarinets, oboes and flutes to introduce a new theme. Ma and Jacobsen echo the moment and bring us back to the dark forest floor via accidental notes and major chords in an exciting adventure through Brahms’ musical creation. The piece ends with driving force and the classic “final note” that indicates completion. Of course, we are enraptured by being in the presence of such musical masters and stand in appreciation.

While feeling so thankful I was able to see Yo-Yo Ma in concert, I cannot help remembering the moving moment when I first heard Jacobsen play. Ma, please don’t be offended, but I must admit I left with transcendence, rather than Brahms, on my mind.

Past Musings Worthy of Re-Visiting

He Who Has Been Forgiven Much

46You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. 47Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little."

48Then Jesus said to her, "Your sins are forgiven." Lk. 7:46-48

"He who has been forgiven much, loves much." What an amazing, and yet difficult concept at times. Sometimes when I have had to humble myself after a foolish act, it can be so difficult to love people. BUT... I'm not sure that love was the true love Jesus spoke of when He told this to the disciples.

Love is more "patient and kind...", not a smiling face or a phone call I was supposed to make. It's looking at someone in the eyes, knowing full well what they've done, and realizing in your own heart that you are no better, even though you thought you were. You are no stronger. I am no wiser, I am no more capable. Jesus is the only one ... He puts in me what I can not put in myself. Grace. And that grace can only come after I've allowed Him to forgive me for what continue to be the stupidest mistakes of my life. Love is not always "doing" things because you think that's what they need or want. It's humbling. It's just understanding. It's just... long-suffering. Long suffering. Have I ever suffered long? And that, for someone else? Perhaps. But I've only known the bliss of that suffering after I've walked in their shoes (and most definitely not on purpose... because I thought I was better than that).

And so Jesus, get this, JESUS underwent all the same temptations we deal with:

18Because he himself suffered when he was tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted." Heb. 2:18

He suffered. He suffered long. Because He knew we would suffer, in our pain, our guilt, our shame. And He wanted to be able to look us in the eyes and know what it was we went through. So we can now look others in the eyes, unwavering, with compassion and LOVE. And forgive.

Grace. How strong are the arms of grace. God, how You've carried me, taught me how to wear grace and pass it on to those I love, who have had to look me in the eyes and tell me something no one ever wants to say. And I can have grace. Because I am no better, and because He has had grace for me.

It’s 9:30am the Sunday after Christmas and I’m defrosting bags of fruit on my dashboard as Jamie, my husband, drives us toward Roseville. We’re late for a post-Christmas breakfast and we’re supposed to bring the fruit. Frozen mangos, frozen strawberries and frozen blackberries slowly show signs of weakening and I mix the fruit together under a blasting vent of hot hot air. Jamie’s got his window rolled down even though it’s raining to try to escape the heat that inevitably permeates the car…

We call that the ghetto defrosting technique. Works for chicken, too, I hear, but fortunately we were only responsible for the fruit.

You ever get the feeling that Christmas is no longer a holiday, but another busy weekend in a life of busy weekends? I’ve gone to 5 different houses and celebrated Christmas 6 times over the past week, opening presents with people I love, opening presents with people I don’t really know, giving presents to people I love and, again, to people I don’t really know. I’ve packed away enough sugar to make the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man look like a joke regardless of how many wacky jacks I do (thanks, P90X, for reminding me that I’m never too old to feel ridiculous). Moreover, tomorrow’s Monday and I, like a few other lucky folks, am getting up at 6:30am to get ready for work. Just another weekend, starting another week.

Cynicism aside, Christmas is actually my favorite holiday and it has been rather wonderful, though over much too soon. Jamie and I drove through the Fabulous 40s (Sacramento’s idea of Beverly Hills, without the awful pinkish terra cotta houses) last week to appreciate all the beautiful lights on all the beautiful homes. Minus one - I know it’s a hit with the kids, but the “Toon” Christmas house is perhaps a bit… how do the English say… twee? Regardless, bravo for the effort and camaraderie of the neighborhood to decorate for this appreciative renter without the means, space or general desire to hang lights (I mean, I’m defrosting fruit on my windshield, remember? I’m not the fanciest person around, even if I do blog about it). I admit, I’d rather drive a few miles to see the rich folk’s work because, in our neighborhood, peeps be taggin’ garbage cans and bumping down the block to obnoxious bass music. Who’s actually going to hang lights and ask to be a target for vandalism? I know I’m not alone, either. I mean, let’s not deny it -- the Fab 40s is the place for lights. And Halloween candy, too, for that matter. Am I right?

But all in all, it was nice to spend Christmas with my family and friends. Everyone had their trees decked out like it was the belle of the ball, each one sparkling in fancy jewels and fine attire…And the company was good. No, the company was great.

Christmas, in general, is great. I don’t care when Jesus was actually born - if my friends and family want to celebrate His birth on the 25th of December, fine with me. Any day is a good day to celebrate that.

Finally, as a tribute to Fancy Pants and the point of the blog, Jamie got me Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Trendy, I know, but oh so fancy pants!!!

Merry Christmas.

Grazie, Signore, for the Gift

It's Christmas. Well, it's, like, two days til. But I think it's fair to say that once the calendar turns to December and that cute little kitten in the Santa hat stares at you from your kitchen wall (trust me, it was better than November's iguana dressed as a turkey--thanks for the free swag, SPCA), it's Christmas. For some reason I got this wild hair to start a blog about something most (average) people could care less about (yet the cool kids still find completely interesting) -- 18th Century fanciness (with the occasional philosophical musing). You're welcome.

The inspiration, by the way, happened today at work. Had to put in a half-day, which was mostly composed of eating cookies, chocolate dog chow (it's a chocolate-covered popcorn snack, fyi), biscotti and doughnuts. The other half was participating in an awesome gift exchange that didn't include buying a present for someone else -- it was all company swag -- and surfing online. I just discovered Amazon.com's wish list, and while I can't purchase everything I want whenever I want it, adding things to a wish list is oddly satisfying. Like I'm shopping without having to spend any money. Honestly, I think I'm more turned on by the seeing and compiling of items (even if it's just in cyberspace) than I am of actually having things in my possession! Yup, my husband is fully supportive of my wish list habits.

Anyway, it's no secret amongst my friends that I like to dress up. I'm a theatre major (as one can easily tell by my spelling of "thea-tra"), and I love costumes. I especially love fancy themes, and nothing says "fancy" like the 1700s. I mean, tell me you don't agree -- wigs, white powder, chandeliers, string quartets, bonbons, Versailles, amazing dresses... all things that give a definite impression of "fancy" in true 18th century style. And while the pannier (the underskirt hoop, not the bike bag or the cheese) kept doorways wider and sitting a bit more difficult, I'd still opt for one of those awesome dresses over jeans, any day.

All that to say, I stumbled upon some fabric choices and Baroque dance instruction DVDs on Amazon and started my list... and started this blog. After all, it's history preservation, and it's fulfilling a potentially expensive shopping habit, so we all benefit.

In order to keep the above things prevalent, I've made it my task to endure to capture such fancy 18th Century fancy-pants trends and write about them with passion and flair.... It's really not a job, it's pretty fun for me. Did I mention I was the drum major in my high school marching band and I'm basically an all-around nerd? Respect the baton, people. Don't mock the gift.

After shopping-by-osmosis, I got all excited about general 18th Century genius and had to watch a period film. I popped in AMADEUS as soon as I got home. While perhaps not a medium for learning all there is to know about the musical genius, the movie, I think, shares an accurate portrayal of 18th Century regalia, and Mozart, regardless of the medium he is portrayed in, is definitely fancy-pants enough for me. So take that, potential highly-educated music know-it-all critic. Movies rock.

But in all seriousness, I am easily influenced by movies, and while I don't remember when I first saw AMADEUS, I know why it still affects me today. First, any man willing to don the period-appropriate attire (i.e., tights, wig and frou frou lace neck piece) is a man of influence in my eyes. Yup, real men wear pink (or other pastels...at least on occasion). Second, Hulce's laugh is genius (as is all the acting). Third, the story is chilling. So here comes the first dose of personal musings and philosophy.

If you've seen the movie, you'll know it's not really about Mozart at all. It's about Salieri and his continuous struggle with God. I think that's what really strikes a "chord" with me, to be musically punny. Here's this musical mastermind (Salieri) who kowtows to his personal feelings of inadequacy and great need for human approval and blames God for Mozart's unique talent. Salieri gives Mozart utter control over his self-worth, completely unbeknownst to Mozart.

"Because you use for your instrument a boastful, lustful, smutty infantile boy and give to me only the ability to recognize the incarnation..." states Salieri as he places the cross with the suffering Jesus in the fire, swearing he and God will be enemies from thence forth.

Ah, how often we blame God for our own feelings of inadequacy and deny Him the honor of being responsible for so many other more wonderful things -- for giving us the ability to hear such music as composed by another, or the ability to see things of great beauty, or the thrill of experiencing things of such stirring quality...
Is experience not a great gift?

I didn't create the pattern or the shape of the 18th Century costume, but I can appreciate it for its beauty. I was not offered a part in AMADEUS, but I have been moved by the actors' performance. I am not everyone's best friend or the life of the party, but the lights shine just as brightly and the food tastes just as delicious. Is not experience that which makes us human? Is not the means through which we experience those things that which makes God, God?

"God was singing through this little man," Salieri admits in defeat and bitterness, speaking of Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro". Yet he also admits Mozart's music was marvelous. Through jealous teeth, and without appreciation, he admits Mozart's performance was marvelous. That makes me sad. After all, what is the point of experiencing something marvelous without appreciating it?

Indeed, a valuable gift in this life is being able to appreciate God's ingenuity regardless of form, regardless of host.

A lesson learned from 18th Century fancy-pants: Don't mock the gift.