Sharing Secrets

A grey Sunday morning had me at the library. It’s dirty and worn, like carpet in a Greek restaurant. On the faces of those I walked past, there was introspection. There was heated discussion and contemplative staring both making me curious to perch for awhile and listen. As I picked a plot where I could ponder myself, I faced a final dirty and worn surface where words were etched: “Please help. My boyfriend hits me.”

Of late I am struck and in love with the interminable unknown of people I encounter, mostly their struggles. Years ago, my mom would sit in our front window, watching cars and feet go by as my dad lay heaving on the couch, and wonder, “When they look at our house, do they guess what is going on inside?” I imagine part of her wanted them to know.

The same wonder makes me marvel at the resilience I encounter when I am privileged enough to go beneath someone’s surface; to knock on the door, walk in and sit a spell. This curiosity is at the epicenter of my ambition to be a therapist. I am always thinking of what I don’t know, and want to stay and inquire, or be silent until it bubbles up. It’s allowed me to learn from a friend whose spirituality is precisely what you hope to find in every Catholic, but a life tenet she keeps carefully close. I saw the remnants of someone’s writhing self-esteem following years of sexual abuse, all hidden beneath the veneer of name brands and financial wealth.

We all wonder what others think when they see us. We often hope we look put together, relevant, successful and aware. And most of the time we do, which is precisely the rub that I’m careful to acknowledge when my inner critic trumpets “I wish I had. . .” Because all of us are walking around with the weight of silence.

We have secrets, and sometimes I wish we could all share, just so I know I’m not alone. Instead of etching a plea on a bathroom stall, that a woman could feel empowered to speak or scream because it’s nothing to ashamed of and everything to be enraged and hurt over.

I told a new friend one of my secrets today. I’ve known her a year or so; known her to be astute, loving, careful. . . thin. I sat with her for a while, narrating my insecurity and personal path; depression and critique. It turns out she has the same secret.

And then the sun came out.

Dear Dad

Special thanks to J.W. Meant more than you know.

Dear Dad,

Election Day means something to a lot of people. You would be disappointed to know Illinois has turned red, just as you would be disappointed to learn, the morning after your death, George W. Bush was re-elected.

Mom is depressed today. We’re sad this week. It’s been six years since I flew home after casting my ballot.

I’ve done a lot of growing up since and you’ve missed it. There are times I don’t feel like life is a whole experience without you being around to take part in the ups and downs. Like it’s a house with everything but a door. Some of what’s next for me is left to guesswork, to faith, because the beacon and barometer that was you is no longer around. I don’t walk through life with the same steel-like ambition. Everything is malleable, more risky, less sure-footed as though I’ve moved from the inside of a curve on a mountain road, to the outside edge slipping on gravel.

I’m not as strong as I used to be. I take pills now, because the sadness got palpable, unavoidable and imminent. I know it sounds bad, and some days I feel bad. Some days I wonder what happened to me as I rebuild the best I know how. But I’m learning to accept the help I need, that it’s ok to need anything at all. It’s a process.

Marc is a good man, honest and steady. Mom remarked recently he’s a lot like you: he feels deeply, but keeps it close and quiet. He too recharges with the challenge of an intricate project, one that others soon marvel and praise. I love knowing he’s like you. He does too. I wish he had the chance to hold the hand light while you worked under the hood in the garage or wash the Mustang in concentric circles.

On my journey, I’m learning a lot about me. I connect with you through my own self-discovery. Everyone thought you were gregarious and outgoing, even invincible. But I knew you to be a man on a couch on a Sunday morning, covered in a blanket. . . all but your toes. Napping. I knew you to love the silence as much as you loved to sit and listen to music. Not in the background, but music as it is and should be, right in front of you. I am the same, Dad. I’d like to spend a Sunday morning with you again.

Most of life is hard, and sometimes I question my resiliency. I wish you could lift me up like you used to so I wouldn’t have to make the climb alone. I’m working to find the tools to do it myself. I smile more now, through my body, than I have in a long time. I want to live openly and honestly, with a purpose, using those qualities as my hooks and rope. Whether you like it or not, I still want to make you proud. Most days I think I’m doing a good job.

I just wish you could tell me too.

I love you. I miss you. I promise all the best of you is with me.

Emily

p.s. I promise we are taking good care of Mom.

My Summit

I went rummaging through our closet this weekend. Re-discovered a box of my writing: journals, poetry from first grade, letters not sent. Uncovering the box felt like all of a sudden finding there's one more piece of chocolate cake. I became voracious.

Ten years ago, I was on foreign term with Augustana College. I never fit in there very well, having done most of my "acting out" in high school, I found the Greek system and a lot of my colleagues boring and contrived. Snooty, right? But I always smiled, I made a few great friends. It served its purpose. Ten years ago to the day, I was in Cuzco, Peru preparing for a hike on the Inca Trail. I write of the excruciating pain, losing toenails, not finishing the trek but still being proud. I write of sleeping in someone's backyard, with kittens in my sleeping bag and cows looming nearby.

When I got to Belem, Brazil, I write of my homestay with a close-knit, working class family. I hungered for routine on my journey but also craved adventure. I spoke Spanish that made the locals look twice.

I miss that.

Somehow reading the pages of this tattered book are romantic. My dad was 53. He wouldn't die for another four years. I was dating a man still in Chicago. He would move on. But the quality of life in the journal was vibrant and challenging; sweaty and frustrating. I didn't know it then, but I was growing.

I want it again. Feeling terrified and persevering at the summit; your summit, not necessarily the one on the map. It was all completely unknown. More than wanting it again, I want to know it when I feel it. . . honor it and document it. That trip was the start of something long since dormant that I want to rise again.

Praise Be

My life has been short on epiphanies and scant of miracles, and maybe I don't know what I'm missing? After sleepovers in grade school, my best friend Cathleen would beg me to keep her company at Catholic mass and, forever loyal, I did. The ceremony of it felt fun. It was nice to see our neighbors, people were friendly enough but the yawns came quick and fierce. We were 10; no passing judgment here. If it wasn't hooked up to a NES controller, we weren't too fond of it.

When clients started telling me in desk-side chats, hallways and mock interviews, that God was their guiding force and life compass, I perked up a bit. Not appropriate to tell an employer, sure, but there was something to this faith of theirs: Baptist, Pentecostal, Methodist. . . a Neapolitan of options. I decided one Sunday to attend a service. Good counselors have empathy and multicultural awareness. My thought is that if I am to counsel those who believe (most of us), then I ought to know where they get and give so much of their love and devotion.

I went to a predominantly black church on the South Side, accompanied by a good Sister and volunteer where I work. It couldn't have happened otherwise. Not how it did. I wouldn't have had a receiving line to bid me welcome; I may not have had a raw palm after shaking so many hands and saying "Praise the Lord" countless times instead of "Hello"; and I certainly wouldn't have been recognized by the Pastor, a hero and king among these men and women, in front of a congregation of more than 3,000. Televised. One of only several white faces in the room.

As I get older, I seek more opportunities to be the minority, feeling it's where the greatest gifts are found. This experience, surrounded by bellowing voices of worship and gratitude swelling with tidal waves in tongues and through tears. . . it was otherworldly. While I was there, somewhat exhausted from experiential overload, I felt it too. Not the presence of the Lord. Jesus wasn't over my shoulder. I wasn't saved.

But there is a magic in the vibration of so many voices singing the same song. Stomping their feet. Looking only upward not sideways to judge. Just unrelenting vulnerability for all to see. And, truth be told, I felt set free that day in Woodlawn. I stopped feeling anyone's glance and looked inward instead. And I have faith; faith in the power of a community like this to do something immense and positive.

No one would have to beg me to go again. Of my own free will, I'm at your service.

Mass of Blues

(Disclaimer: Poems are best read aloud. This one is inspired by a recent Patty Griffin/Buddy Miller concert at the House of Blues.)

Buddy lifts his best acoustic above his head

toward the stained glass.

It's a cliche to call it an offering but at that moment

I was willing to sacrifice with him.

Patty swings low on chords and they paint meaning

with yodels and riffs.

It was my thought to take the hurt he feels, this man next to me,

roll it up in my hands

and throw it upward.

It would careen toward the heavens of who-knows-what religion.

Maybe the winds up there would know how

to speed up the sad,

slow down the good.

In the crowd we sway as if to build momentum

toward letting it all out. Alley oop!

Being here sets us loose, a confession in applause,

in the smiles the spotlights show.

A lower case gospel for the skeptics.

Willing to bow to Buddy who bows only to the glass above him.

Because the light comes in,

and in that is something we all believe in.

A Complicated Sense

In class this week we explored the psychotherapeutic techniques of Virginia Satir, a renowned family therapist with a Midwest upbringing. She can only be described as overtly "touchy-feely" (I think one of my colleagues called it "handsy", clearly a very clinical term). We observed her working with a family wherein one son struggled with heroin addiction. Therapists call this the presenting problem, as the cheese never stands alone. There's always more to the story than one bad seed.

But the touching. It was enough to make many students gasp and snicker. Satir reached for clients' abdomens, embraced snugly the shoulders of the mother and son, had them standing, sitting facing each other, holding hands and kneeling. And she was in the mix in a way that would make most of us, well, uncomfortable.

Except for the fact that amazing breakthroughs happened on this tape. Perhaps not because of the touching alone but it was the touch that pushed assertions over the edge; confrontations into the open; tears down the cheeks. There's something about touch that many of us are averse to (one dear friend of mine refuses to get massages) that unlocks a vulnerability. It turns the question of whether we are connected into a statement: we are connected. You can't deny touch.

Of course, I'm speaking of touch when it comes from someone genuine. Not necessarily someone you know but a place you know to be honest and true. I sat with a young woman this week who has spent the past two weeks sleeping on a couch in her aunt's kitchen, under a roof that houses a total of eight people in three rooms. She is tired. Physically for sure, but she is depressed and anxious, unsure of who she is and "going crazy". We would have her on pills, talk therapy.

I talked to her, listened mostly. Agreed that she is in hell; that it's scary and it's survival. And then I reached out my hand to her and held hers for minutes as she convulsed in tears and an uprooting of shame and fear. The touch literally opened her up to heal. Well, I can only assume she had a little healing because there was a smile the next day.

Moving toward touch is hard for many. An upbringing without it might make it unnatural. But I'm convinced once one harnesses the power of touch and institutes it in their life that there is an opening for improvement. For change. We snickered at Satir's methods because society tells us that it's inappropriate and invasive to touch someone (and sometimes it is). But not outright. Think about how many times you thought to touch someone. . . and didn't. What if you had?

Can I Do This

It's hard to describe precisely the confluence of emotions I felt stepping into the classroom. A girl had just thrown a fit just outside the door, throwing expletives like darts at two female security guards. I'm guessing they're ladies because touching can't be interpreted. The girl storms away and I'm beckoned to enter.

I walked past old circus performers, night walkers and junkies to get here. At 10 a.m. Fully freakish in front of Uptown Baptist. I remarked at the crater in the street that would soon swallow my ankle and leave me limping for days.

Maybe I should have stopped there.

It's a sea of obstinance in the art room. Palpable anger and apathy. Seniors are sprinkled among juniors, visiting eighth-graders and a row of kids with CP in wheelchairs. I'm there to talk about how to get a job, and how my agency can help you. No one cares, but more than that, there are whispers of violence. Yard sticks are swung and scissors are sharpened. Defiance is omnipresent. And the teacher? Sitting atop his desk, sullen, sulking even. . . alone and content to watch it unfold.

I got scared. Then I got angry. Then I became complacent and shrugged. I couldn't do much with this group. It wasn't my classroom. But what if it was? How would I handle it? Send RaShawn to the principal's office. An empty threat, only effective if the call to a parent goes answered, assuming there are parents in his life.

My message was one of hope. One that would lay a brick toward self-sufficiency, but their ears were clogged with incidents and obstacles far more prescient, more violent. I can't blame them. I can't blame anyone.

I just want to help fix it. I just want to feel like I can. I want to shake loose whatever semblance of motivation might still be chirping inside, bleak and near ash but still aglow. Seeing this sea of apathy and dismay, different than what one might expect from teens so close to graduation. . . I had to pause and think about the truth. They have a lot to be angry about. Now what?

Frayed

Riding the CTA provides endless snapshots of perseverance. The man whose cuffs are threadbare, but he's still in a suit. The woman who got up, provided she slept, to take a train downtown and work minimum wage. You can remain numb to these things, blissfully unaware, for only so long and from only so far away. But I'm at the epicenter of white collar and dire. It's a strange precipice.

And I'm standing on it myself.

So many cliches come to mind in these circumstances. "I never thought it would happen to me." "At least we have each other." "No matter what, someone always has it worse." It's true. I feel humble, and somewhat at the mercy of the world. Not hopeless, but hopeful of what the conditions we are now in (one meager income) will provide in terms of opportunity.

I am not caught up in the struggle; the anxiety. I don't know how this could have been different. I am marveling at the spirit I seem to have that I didn't know was present. I feel connected to others and mostly my husband, who has emerged as a feeling and struggling individual with dreams that may just be realized.

"You just have to suck it up and make it through."
"You're going to get through this. Just a big grieving period ahead of you."

I know that many are thinking, "Phew, I'm glad that's not me." I might be overthinking, but that's how it feels. You become self-conscious when you become unemployed; become poor.

But the gentleman with frayed cuffs and a fedora is on a whole other level than me; than you. He knows the pain of poverty for sure, but you sense a richness rising off of him. That he must be someone special to be up and moving with the rest of us even with hurdles aplenty.

I am listening now.

Compulsion

There's a passage in "Letters to a Young Poet," a Rilke favorite, that lauds the experience of passion. That if you are passionate about writing, you must write. Absolutely must. As essential as air.

I love to write, but I don't have this zeal. I do find inspiration and my brain churns with ideas. It's a never ending scroll up there but little makes it to here or elsewhere. And so it is. I've often wanted a microchip that would store these thoughts, sort them, see what I think of most often. Something tells me racism and crime are at the top. Unrelated in my head but related in my purview. Of the four young men I met with today, three had convictions, two were felonies. They are coming to us, to me, in earnest but the truth is there is little to be done. If it can't be expunged, well, life gets shitty quick.

I'm passionate about approaching this issue strategically. About fighting for them, taking on the statistics and turning them on their head. I met with my advisor yesterday, talked about my pondering a teaching certificate, or a Ph.D. I want to be in the thick of it and get dirty, then pull back and pull strings.

I've taken to listening to rap. I've always liked it but not like this. It helps crack the code for motivations, inspirations and a way in to make change. Misogynistic? Truth. Cutting and violent? Indeed. But it's a narrative to explore.

I struggle with how to best apply this passion, for empowering young people, where the most good can be done. I think there's little else I can do but pick and prod and poke around down every hallway that opens until I make progress I can live with. I'm antsy about it, but this education takes time. This, my friends, is something I must do.

DDPP

Review of Dance Dance Party Party (DDPP) Chicago

I had jeans on. And I'm glad I read the disclaimer. I took off underwire in favor of sports and ditched the denim for breathable cotton. And yes, out too went the judgment of myself and the apprehension of the silliness and in came soooooo many smiles and grooves and bumps and jukes. I mean, this concept is sheer genius. Jenn Brandel is another kind of wonderful.

The studio looks nearly identical to your best friend's basement. The set-up is rudimentary and the prospects are endless. Our playlist, which changes every week, started with R. Kelly's "Echo" and lots and lots of laughs. It ended pretty much the same with plenty of Kid Sister and Gwen Stefani in the middle.

And the sweating, oh the sweating. I have been trying to get motivated to "work out" for weeks, months, years. . . and my version of working out just isn't the same as it used to be. My expectations have changed, and considering the only expectation I had at DDPP was to try something new I was pleasantly surprised that I pitted out and came up drenched after an hour of silly, sexy, full-on feet pounding dancing.

After the gaggle of us left we couldn't stop gushing. At one point, I sat back and listened to some beautiful women laud and smile about the experience. It's enough to make me get mushy, but DDPP is the best therapy I've had in a long time. Heart-pounding, thrilling and special for women (who get to be girls) everywhere.

The Holy Book

I picked up the Bible yesterday. We have a cute yellow designer copy leftover from the previous owner of our condo. Kind of like a Best Western, it was in the bedside table. Since starting my graduate degree pursuits, I've maintained that I need to get to know religion if I am to effectively counsel those who believe (i.e. 95 percent of humans). I'm in the minority but more than that, I'm ignorant.

My parents were rebels in a few important ways; one being pulling away from the church and its teachings after being raised Catholic. Right on! Except that leaves me an empty slate. All at once I lament not knowing Job from Deuteronomy. And my ignorance isn't just biblical, it's all encompassing toward religion. I went to church and temple growing up but those are mere freckles on my holy past.

I'm intrigued. Marc was also raised Catholic and rebelled so he's a good default for, "I know this is biblical honey, but tell me the origins." I'm impressed he retained so much from his time at St. Monica's in Kalamazoo. I don't even remember the 50 state capitols (ok, I probably do, but don't test me). His knowledge comes in handy, but my curiosity has made me crack the binding on the Book.

A couple chapters into Genesis and I've got more questions than answers. I suppose that is to be expected. What I think is really cool about attending a religious service surrounding the Book is it's a chance to come together with a common focus. Like a big book club. Talk about the stories and interpret in real life. That's what our gaggle did with "The Help" last month. We laughed, explored and exclaimed and that's a lot of how I might like to go about the house of worship experience.

My interest of late comes from the number of offers I've received from volunteers and clients to attend their church service, not as a process of recruitment per se, rather to invite me into a community. I dig that, and I'm up for it. All in the name of research and expelling ignorance, as we all need to do in one way or another.

Rap and Rapport

I'm no certified counselor but as I establish rapport and relationships with clients at work, we get in a rhythm that might as well be official "sessions." Brandon comes in every week. Thursdays at 2 p.m. We started working on an outlet for his stress, as his nails were down to the quick. He loves hip-hop, like many of the young adults I work with, but beyond Jay-Z there is J Dilla and Wacka Flocka Flame and, as I told him, The Rolling Stones.

Brandon is a lot like many of our clients. He is Black. He is young. He is unemployed. He is hopeful. But unlike many who self-select to the wayside, he's been determined. And so we write.

Because he has a speech impediment, I suggested his command of the language might best be typed. We started working on an essay, about his love of music and goal of being a producer. It's been through edits aplenty but more than that each time we renew it he's there, present and available. It's an opportunity every time he shows up to continue to inspire, engage and interact. We're getting close a final product but it's more than just a blog entry now.

It's a relationship. Close enough now that I can poke fun at him that he can only carry a black folder (he's a Vice Lord, Chicago's number two street gang and black is all there is) and he can tell me about his dad, Supreme Chief of the Vice Lords (that's like CEO) who did eleven years in a combination of Pontiac, Centralia and Rantoul penitentiaries. He gets upset that rappers like Lil' Wayne think they are "street" because they will do time and man up to the sentence but but when you are a celebrity, according to Brandon, you can't be street. It's different where he hails from.

I just listen mostly. He tells his friends about me. I'm not a nosy white girl, he says. I ask tough questions that get him thinking. The reality is many of his peers won't seek counseling but they need it the most. They won't meet with a white counselor because we can't relate to their legacy and heritage and identity. But I think it's moments like we had today, talking about Coltrane and racism, that I get really amped to be a counselor. To find those entry-points, exercises and conversations that really begin to help. Even if it is just listening.

Close Knit

In fifth grade, my friends and I had a midpoint where we would stop to warm up on walks to school. A gaggle of us walked the half mile (no, not uphill both ways, but yes, in the snow) to Mann Elementary huddling for warmth before the crossing guard bid us across the street.

Jocelyn's house was cozy. In fact, we stayed long enough to get beyond warm to hot and then went back out in the chill. It didn't feel so bad then, and school was in sight before we felt the urge to huddle again.

It's a cold morning walk still. I have several scarves and hats for different temperatures, but my favorite ensemble is one my mom made for me: an extra long, heavy duty, hand knit pink scarf with fringe and a matching skull cap. From under the winter armor, only my eyes peer forth and barely. (I confess I've walked with my eyes closed down Wabash many times, even counting the paces.)

I don't know how to knit but I'm grateful my mom does. I love my scarf that wraps around my neck three or four times before it's run out of yarn. It's my size: big. I also don't know much about cooking, other than I know what I like and want to be able to provide the same bounty of meals my mom did for my kid/s some day. I have less time to cook now than I ever have. . . and that may not change.

I don't know how to sew, nor do I know much about the best cleaning products. I've somehow lost touch with any form of domestication and I'm not happy about it. I have my mom's generation to thank for liberation, and prefer to read or work though I do fancy organizing. I'm not hard on myself about these things, but I do lament that the penchant isn't present. If it was in me, it wouldn't get lost as the genes and personalities are passed down to the next generation.

I suppose instead of knitting or darning or soup-making, I will teach my daughter how to write a resume and work with her strengths; how to ask for help and give too; how to tell the truth about who she is and hope she learns how to sit quietly better than me. Though probably not until well past puberty.

Mind you, I still haven't given up on making good soup, stews and sandwiches. But my time for learning will have to wait, hopefully not until it's too late.

Poor Perspectives

There was some scuttle this week among a few clients about the injustice of funds being sent abroad to Haiti when they are in need. They feel neglected, take the toll of Katrina to heart and remain hopeful that a break will come that will lessen their anxiety about opening their eyes in the morning, provided they ever closed in the first place.

This viewpoint may stir something in you; something of wishing our own poor could see the bigger picture of helping others and receiving in return. It's a poetic notion but I sense Jabbari and Karmen aren't buying it. After all, their needs are immediate too. Shelter is nebulous, food is got through any means necessary and the will to live and prosper wanes with each passing day without progress. It reads like today's script from CNN's Headline News, but it's happening here.

So what should I tell them? That these are extraordinary circumstances that require immediate action or death is certain, moreso than the devastation already endured? That among those Haitians who are surviving, there are many dying still? Everyday? That they remain closer to life, clothed and clean, even if their deepest agony is never washed away?

How do I instill the idea of global giving, the understanding that we're all connected, when Americans are inherently individualist from the time they are kindergartners? You're graded on your own merits. You advance to the next grade because you got enough points. You graduate based on your own successes and failures.

We don't raise American children in a community. Wait. We don't raise poor American children in a community. They are taught to survive, and survive alone. It's no wonder they are bitter. Global giving, fundraisers with stars and Obama's blessing are something they've been waiting on and feel they deserve. Perhaps if they, and we, understood that the betterment of someone else makes everything better it wouldn't be such a slap in the face to see money they need go overseas.

And so it is. . . me? I told them to write about it. And I may just post one of their essays on my blog. Stay tuned.

RomCom Romp

I've renewed my interest in going to see movies in the theater; watching movies at all, actually. Obviously, time is required. Cash is required. Blah. It's magical being in the theater, in the dark, consumed by a screen you can't avoid or pause at your leisure. The responsibility lies with the cast of hundreds that made the story come to life to tie a rope around your emotion and tug, tug, tug until the credits roll. You're constantly engaged, introspective and at the best times, in stitches.

Romantic comedies are always a gamble though. It's hard to get romance right, plausible, palpable. . . the whole bit. I'm not adept at figuring out why I loved "It's Complicated" so much. Maybe because I was with the Great Momini (GM), or because it was a day off; because parking is still free at the theater or because the laundry was done. Is it because of that I relaxed and enjoyed it? Doesn't seem to give Nancy Meyers and the indomitable Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin much credit does it?

No, I enjoyed it for the story. God bless the story. It's why "Up" and "Avatar" won Golden Globes. It's the damn story, just like song lyrics, that makes me lose my breath laughing and clutch my chest for a mercy I hope never comes. It's delicious.

My takeaway from the film is the grace of life, even in it's most trying moments. It's easy to imagine someone, the heroine, being graceful when surrounded by a flawless house, money for renovations and an educated, gorgeous brethren of a family. But to be able to extract that nugget when I don't necessarily have those things is the true power of writing. Being human, being flawed and vulnerable, is so intoxicating to watch on screen. It's inspiring to see a woman do it and still soldier, even for someone who hasn't grieved at the loss of a partner. . . through divorce, death or otherwise.

Charming and true, "It's Complicated" is unexpectedly brilliant. A romantic comedy that truly is romantic, without being over the top fictitious. Love.

Hungry? Honey.

Review for Meli Cafe and Juice Bar; Greektown

A Meli, a Meli, a Meli. . . it means honey in Greek, so you know Lil' Wayne might very well have considered it as inspiration for "Lollipop." Sadly, I'm not sweet over heels for this corner shop. Now with 300+ Yelp reviews, I threw a bookmark on it long ago. With a Monday day off in concert with my refusal to wait to dine, I took Ruthie there for lunch.

Parking in G-Town, if you're not eating gyros or souvlaki, is a grand pain so take the #8 or Blue and make a trip of it or just pay. We got seated right away at 11:30 a.m. on a holiday Monday, which I would say is hardly normal judging by the throngs of people who came in behind us. Nothing makes lunch more fabulous than being able to say, "Man, we got here at JUST the right time."

The menu is ample and everything, seriously everything, sounded good. Fresh ingredients, ample portions. I likey. Like the lovely Jelena Z., I chose the Chipotle Chicken wrap as a tip of the hat to the lunch hour though many a scramble were calling my name. It packs a punch, makes you wait to cool off and then applies an elixir of avocado. The wrap was deep. Poetic, even. And so were the potato crisps (p.s. they're chips, sir).

And hot damn the food came out fast. Everything was lickety split. As I often do with my mom, I got in a few good questions. Today was, "Where were you the day MLK got shot?" She was teaching at Cather Elementary on the West side. Shots rang out around the neighborhood. She grabbed her sister and hightailed it north as things got revolutionary, out of anger, frustration and grief. The next morning? Bullets in the chalkboard as those who mourned made gunfire in the wrong direction. Tumultuous for sure; important to remember.

It seems trite to say, but Meli wasn't memorable.

And, ack, the price. For two juice drinks, a cup of soup and two sandwiches it was over $40 with tip. That makes me sadzies. On the other hand, I will not be eating for the rest of the day, so perhaps it's worth its weight. No matter as time with moms is time well spent, and a good meal is just gravy on top of it all.

Cream Puffery

**Note: I am going to start posting my Yelp reviews here, because I know most of you don't hit up that site and I can't ask you to. Times are tough and at a premium. Without further adieu. . .

Beard Papa's Cream Puffs

"Can you say hype? I mean, who knew the Gordon's Fisherman could be repurposed for such a sweet and nifty gimmicky, trendy, puffy purpose. It's Japanese people. As a business culture they are brilliant masterminds of turning toward Americans and saying, "Look at this. It's cute, you love it, buy lots of it."

Cream puffs are not my idea of a treat. I don't sit at my desk at 3 p.m. (prime craving time) and think, I neeeeeed a cream puff. Well, shit, those days are gone because instead of trying to avoid walking past Sugar Bliss for a frosting shot when I'm itching my arm in anticipation I'm headed underground to hit up BP's.

You can't hide the fact you've eaten one of these puffs, and you certainly can't eat it on the train. No, if you get it to go (and you will) you will need to be patient and get home before you devour. They're beautifully messy, irresistibly marketed and unexpected enough that you ought bring them to any occasion. From birthdays to break-ups, celebrate with BPs. Truth."

p.s. Have my California or New York folks had these??

Going to the Chapel

Marriage was on my mind this week. Between Elizabeth Gilbert being on Oprah talking about her new book (I don't know about you, but I couldn't get through "Eat, Pray, Love" so "Committed" will remain far away from my purview), an article in Marie Claire about women needing to be less picky (hallelujah) when selecting mates and a candid conversation over margaritas with my husband I think there's a lot to talk about.

Humans are social beings. It's true. Even the most introverted among us feels better, happier if you will, with some other human energy nearby. And save a few cases (James Franco's love affair with Japanese Sex Pillows and objectum sexuals), we need to be near other humans to get to know intimacy and socialize our way to being attractive to a mate.

This will be the year of pregnancy for many of my friends, barring any complications as getting pregnant is far less elegant than naivete allowed me to believe in childhood. But I still have many single friends too. Marc and I wonder with frequency what the deal is with the women we love not finding love. I think Lori Gottlieb has a point that many women feel "entitled to the cultural ideal. Mr. Right should look a certain way, have a certain kind of job, have a sense of humor, be romantic in these ways and show it with certain gestures. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. Why do we always focus on the latter?" Amen. No doubt. So hard to do in practice.

And I do think most of my friends who are not in relationships would prefer to be. Though even those who are married might consider themselves lonely, I'm also no fool to know it's different when you're unattached. Staying positive is challenging and continuing your own personal growth without paying much credence to "the quest" for Mr. Right is impossible sometimes.

But is it possible that marriage, in a traditional sense, might shift again? It really was a group effort if we look back far enough in history. One man, many wives. When women didn't have the rights we do now, to work as a surgeon (god forbid) or start a business, we needed men to have financial "freedom." And those damn 1950's ideals are stuck in our heads now too. Woman near stove or vacuum, anxiously waiting for briefcase to show up to eat pot roast. The truth is, we don't need them anymore, and sperm banks are proof.

So why is it such an ideal? Why do we want it? Again to quote Gottlieb, "We want this soul communion, an almost therapeutic relationship instead of a working partnership. And we think we're perfect because our friends sit around and tell us we are. We're one another's Yes Women. Which does nothing to help us suss out how we might be better partners."

Honesty in friendship is a certain truth. But honesty with yourself is paramount. It's one of the reasons I am such a huge fan of therapy because whether you've been avoiding confrontation or just ignorant to the need for growth, it's impossible to avoid. That challenge is what I'm so intent on for myself and all my gal pals. Head toward the work, not away from it, and evolve.

Because guess what? A whole person is one super sexy individual. And one who will be more open to those who also have work to do. After all, it doesn't get easier when you fall in love. . . though some would argue it's better.

Zen Out

There was much discussion this weekend of the multitude and magnitude of things that need to be done. The perceived need, of course, is largely self-inflicted. Truth be told, if we don't re-do the fireplace or rip up the carpeting the world will not shift on its axis. This is truth.

A year or so ago, I grappled with crippling depression and anxiety. I can speak from experience that this feeling is unthinkably awful. No one can see that you're struggling with moving the mental train forward just one track but you are. . . and each decision is seemingly mortal. Medication helped me. Talk therapy really helped me. I'm ok now, but the anxiety that I felt then raises a small finger from time to time. I'm just better and feeling it coming and coping.

Owning a home is obviously anxiety-inducing for anyone. With school starting this week (three classes), group therapy one night a week and weekends that will spent studying and reading and resting well. . . I see the time ticking backward down to zero. I feel anxious, but I also feel challenged. It's become important now more than ever than I find some zen. Zen to me is doing less and doing less for me is sometimes unfathomable. I told Marc I wake up and literally count back from midnight to figure out how the day will work. The perfect day.

The totally unobtainable perfect day that perpetually leaves me disappointed.

Oh my.

Writing has always been calm for me. And so it goes. But so has music. And not just background-while-cleaning or muting-traffic-beeps music, but really listening to music. For me, it's the lyrics and poetry and lilt and lull of the words. I'm getting to know The Avett Brothers, thanks to our cousins Amie and Andy. There's something palpable about the right song and the right time. I remember this about choosing our processional and first dance songs for our wedding.

So this week, it seems appropriate to share the words from "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise" and ask, what song is speaking to you right now?

There's a darkness upon me that's flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what's wrong and what's right
And it comes in black and it comes in white
And I'm frightened by those who don't see it

When nothing is old, deserved or expected
And your life doesn't change by the man that's elected
If you're loved by someone you're never rejected
Decide what to be and go be it.

There was a dream
One day I could see it
Like a bird in a cage a broke in and demanded that somebody free it
And there was a kid, with a head full of doubt
So I scream till I die and don't ask for those bad thoughts to find me out

There's a darkness upon you that's flooded in light
In the fine print they tell you what's wrong and what's right
And it flies by day and it flies by night
And I'm frightened by those who don't see it

Cocoon

Surrounded by Kleenex (though blowing my nose is strictly forbidden), bottles of pills and bouncing back and forth between "Jersey Shore" and Food Network Challenge is starting to, well, get to a girl's head. And my head is full of all sorts of technicolor tensions. I'm getting antsy for normal.

It does help to be surrounding by cuddlies. My sister is at my feet, curled in triangle after flying half way across the world. So long Malawi! Marc has gone to pick up pizza because my appetite has reemerged (damn) and voila. . . Friday night is upon us. It bears mentioning my favorite someecard of 2009 boasting the headline: "I'd consider going out tonight if I wasn't so tired from thinking about how to get out of going out tonight." Of course I'm not even considering going out, but it does bear mentioning that home is so much sweeter when you own the home you're in and begin to really make permanent those indentations in a favorite leather chair or arrangement of side tables so that ice cold Coke is within reach.

Oh listen. . . she's snoring. Light the fireplace, pass me a slice and color me grateful for the little things.

The Great Momini

Photo courtesy of Miriam Doan (www.miriamdoan.com)

My mom looked a hot mess when she picked me up for my surgery appointment yesterday. Bags under the eyes, unkempt hair, weary demeanor. "I couldn't sleep worrying about you. I can't help it. I'm a mom."

I've explored my relationship with Ruthie a lot of late, especially as I look to Marc and his relationship with his parents and my friends' discussions of how their parents are eager for them to wed, have babies, come home for the holidays or just take better care of themselves. Family dynamics are fascinating to me, especially since mine have always seemed so simple. I've discovered recently that it's precisely because my mom didn't ask me to move home, or beg and plead and insist, that we did. That we wanted to. That we couldn't wait to be back and have Sunday dinners or Saturday lunches or anything in between.

Calling my mom is like a reflex, like startling awake after a nightmare or throwing a hand across the chest of a car passenger when you've braked too hard. It can't be helped. When she was admitted for triple bypass surgery in October, reflexes went into overdrive. I didn't know how to tell her that she had to fight this and fight it hard because I need her around. For a long time. Sometimes I don't understand how she can be so generous, thoughtful, strong and magnetic all at once. I saw her weak and sad and vulnerable and still she was The Great Momini, even more so for being human?

I wanted her with me yesterday because there's this reflex of calm from having her near. There's just no other place she should be than close to me. And that's final.

So Long Sinus Infections!

I had sinus surgery today. After years of chronic sinusitis and a severely deviated septum, I'm finally done with it, optimistic for the recovery and relief. For the moment, I'm high on Vicodin and packed with gauze but it only gets better from here. Sudsly is gone (we affectionally called him Allergen Heap, after one of our favorite female lyricists), the house is vacuumed with mighty HEPA-ness and I absolutely can't wait to get back what I started not to realize I was missing. . . a day without Excedrin. "Boo" for endoscopic surgery and a whole day at the facility and dull pain but "hooray" for everything else. According to the surgeon, two of my paranasal sinus cavities were righteously infected. You're telling me, doc.

What is astounding to me is how many people suffer with sinus problems. And I mean like lay in bed and beg for mercy suffer. Anything literally "in your head" is a horrible kind of pain. Once I told the world that I was going under, many folks expressed interest in the procedure, side effects, discomfort (one woman thought they broke your nose to do it) and overall process so they too could consider it. Folks, you have a sister in this. . . and hopefully a success story too!

10

Will there ever be a decade quite like this one? The aughts were naturally the most eventful so far, riddled with sorrow and joy and triumph. Some things I'll never forget, in absolutely no particular order:

1. My dad died. Mentally first, then physically. I asked my mom if she thought he would be proud of me for making my career switch. Turns out he was proud of me no matter what.
2. I graduated college, and began my master's degree. Graduated college? Really? That seems untouchable now. Impossible that I slept in bunk beds and had boys climb in my window on the first floor of Andreen.
3. I met, moved in with AND got married to my best friend. He gives me the credit for giving him the courage to pursue me. Everyday I'm reminded of the reasons we chose each other.
4. I moved away from home and back home. Sweet home.**
5. We bought our first house. We thought we wanted a yard, a basement and our own walls but lo and behold we're in love with Wabash.
6. I love what I do. It's tiring in ways I never imagined, and pays a hell of a lot less. . . but I love it. I can't say that I could do it without my husband's support. Or rather I could, but it would require more sacrifice (i.e. living at home, sharing an apartment, letting go of my car).

7. I found friendship with my mom. As those "in the club" know, amazing transitions happen in relationships after death. It isn't without my dad's passing that I would have this closeness with Ruthie. We were a family of three and stay a family of three, as I often say.

I plan to write a post on each of these, and uncover more too. I encourage you to reflect on the past decade. If you lament being single, lackluster in a job, overweight (me! me!) it is helpful to see what greatness you have achieved. I promise you that if you can't make a list on your own, I can do it for you. Consider it a challenge.

** Marc took the above photo from the top of the John Hancock building, almost exactly one year ago today.

Would This Be a Good Status?

It went through my head all the time, and then the emails asking if something was wrong started almost immediately. "Did you defriend me? I thought we were cool?" or "Is everything ok? I saw you weren't online anymore?"

It happened quickly, with one keystroke on a random Sunday. I didn't deactivate, I deleted. And it was entirely and completely necessary. As I've hearkened to many concerned compatriots, it was as though I broke up with an addict boyfriend who depleted me of resources needed to survive, namely time.

Dramatic? Yes. But it was for me. Quitting Facebook was symbolic of my "less should, more want" (LSMW) philosophy. It had become another thing I had to do, or should do, before I went to bed, before I brushed my teeth, before I got to work, before I got home and no, not everyone takes it to this extreme. I envy my husband for using his CTA commute to update his status and engage, not a minute more.

But inherent to my first 30 years was a desire to connect, and I thrive on contact with others. I get a lot out of reading about someone's failed pot roast and commenting that I ruined a porterhouse just the same or I know the remedy for what ails them. It made me feel important, validated my role in the larger world and provided a bullet point under my definition of "success."

But the time suck was painstaking, and the hours clocked by without a care and none of my wants were getting anywhere near the top of the "to do" list and so. . . delete.

I had an itch on New Year's Day. Create a profile again. Add all the revelers I had met the night before. Connect, connect, connect. It was exactly the same feeling for me as resisting a cupcake in a window. Keep walking, keeping thinking and move on. . . because I'm getting more of my wants met from within (with plenty of hurdles along the way). I don't need it for sure.

But I don't even want it anymore.

*Disclaimer - This is in no way meant to offend anyone who still loves Facebook. I mean, I still do. I mourn it daily and allow myself to check my husband's once in awhile. I can't handle missing baby photos or updates from Africa. But I think of it like having a Snackwell instead of an Oreo. Just a taste, fewer calories and no commitment. I'm still me, after all.

Desperate for a Voice

I warned you not all posts will fall under a philosophical category. I want to talk about Chicago too. Career musings. Relationship happenings. General observations.

Do I have your permission?

I think my friend Nikki does it best in terms of documenting over at her blog, but the city is grand. Even though my iPhone and bus pass have been stolen out from under my savvy self in the past three months, I ignore the inconvenience. Rather, I've become a bit obsessed with the "under belly." Truth is, ignorance is rampant among many Chicagoans. A large percentage of the population identifies "The Bean," Willis Tower and Magnificent Mile as hallmarks of the city.

But one of the beautiful consequences of working in social services is you can't be ignorant to so much of what the city really is.

I had three young men promise to hunt down whomever took my phone, the same young men who make me cry because they want to succeed so badly and have every reason not to bother. It makes me less angry that my things being stolen cost nearly $400 because the under belly is so under served.

I mentioned the circumstance to Jada, one of my favorites, a young woman who went through "the system", mother of one and daughter to a heroin addict, that "these are tough times, people are desperate." In fact, she is desperate. For child care so her son isn't surrounded by drugs all day and for a full-time job so she can save for a house. For time to go to school so she can fulfill her dream of being a rehab counselor. For warmth because she is the prey of a slumlord who turns on the heat when she feels like it.

But she said to me, "No one should be desperate enough to take from someone who is trying to help us. That's why people hate us."

Many Chicagoans are desperate. For dollars, for clothes, for food. The New York Times profiled the growing reliance on food stamps as the sole source of support for many families in this country. Of course, on the theme of ignorance, the Republican's comments are maddening. On the other hand, I thank Jason DeParle for giving what I think under served Chicagoans are most desperate for. . . a voice.

Embrace the Want

Although I'm not about to commit to writing posts that conform to one topic, my slogan of 2010 (thanks to group therapy at the Awakening Center) is "less should, more want." Before break, we discussed the confines, parameters and implications of the following words:

should
want
need
deserve

Should was a cinder block. Cumbersome. Want felt completely foreign, shameful. A wistful vapor. Need, on the other hand, is completely entitled. Needs are scarce and therefore to be heard when voiced. And deserve? Well, I think I have deserve all wrong. In my head it goes, "After a hard day, I deserve to eat a pizza." That's right, a whole pizza. Not just a slice. I don't "deserve" this; not in the slightest.

And so yes, we should have gone to Kalamazoo for Christmas. I should have gone to Costco on Saturday. I should read more novels and call more friends.

But I'm finding that, if I clear out the shoulds, the "forbidden" wants bubble to the surface. And the wants is what makes me joyful and inspired. I'm encouraged that my New Year is not kicked off my resolutions, though I think most of us have grown out of that ideal. Rather a philosophy. I think of it as a mental check to make throughout the day. I had to go to work today, non-negotiable, but what do I want to do now?

Well, I want to write more. Writing keeps me alive and engaged. Connected to the want. And so it goes. . .

Embrace the want.