Sexy?

This weekend I did something that made me feel so incredibly sexy. What was it, you ask? Tried on a new low cut/high cut something? Walked around in stilettos? Modeled some fabulous new color lipstick to make my lips pouty? Actually, I ate an orange. No knife either; knives are not sexy. A big, fat, juicy California orange, the size of a softball. Used my fingers and thumbs. No fancy nail tips to deal with. Peeled off all of the skin, then separated the sections one at a time, slowly and deliberately. Ate the sections by biting into the middle of each one. The juice got everywhere – down my fingers and hands, dripping onto my wrists. One bite of a section made the juice squirt onto the tip of my nose. Juice gets all sticky on the lips too. Felt wonderful and organic and was ever so yummy.

It’s nice to be at this point in my life, past the low cut/high cut whatevers and past the stilettos, and enjoying food too much to deal with delicate and fussy manicures. Just eating oranges and feeling as feminine and fabulous as humanly, womanly possible.

Waterfalls, watershed and let's move on...

The anticipation of forward movement is the only exciting prospect before me. It is the metaphor of melting -not like the melting of the Wicked Witch (from water contamination, you will recall from the Wizard of Oz) - but from getting unfrozen, unstuck, like the snows of winter going their way at last. Becoming something else - a new medium, liquid, not solid.
Where will be flow this time?
We need some enthusiasm for the first of April.

Hoping for Happy

When I was 22, I was a newlywed. Looking back on it now, I was a wreck in what I thought was happy clothing. My daughter is now 22 and a newlywed and wears whatever clothing she wants. I hope it is happy clothing. More than that, I hope she is not really a wreck. There is something to be said for being a wreck when you're not-really-a-wreck, and you're so happy and nervous and excited and looking forward to wearing more happy clothing with your not-really-a-wreck husband who is also nervous and excited and wearing happy clothing - for better or for worse, etc. and so forth. And you wash his happy clothing and your happy clothing and when you're waiting for all the happy clothing to be clean and dry, you're still a happy couple, not-really-a-wreck, enjoying the stuff young marriage is made of. My hope for my daughter and her husband is that they are really, truly, sincerely happy, regardless of how happy their clothing is.

Spring

It is the time for stepping out of winter skins (and coats). The energy of renewal is moving us in mysterious ways. What is next for you? A questions I am meditating upon as I find the robes(and shoes) of warmer weather much more to my liking. Thanks to artist Annelies Van Dommelen for the image to inspire us.

Eight

I am struggling with this current phase of my personal female being, my Womanness. I have just faced one child's end of college - and beginning of marriage. My second child is a young adult, looking forward to college years and the grown-upness that accompanies them. And here I am, picking through their outgrown clothes and a plethora of bittersweet belongings left behind. And the sadness, when focused upon, can be overwhelming. I know this is what we raise them for... the roots and wings in living color, you know? But that does not eliminate the sadness. The sadness - for me - is at the core of my Womanness, softly screaming "what am I supposed to do now?" My Womanness - having born and fed and raised and cared for these amazing, awesome people as best as it know how - is no longer needed in the same capacity. I have relied on my Womanness for self-confidence, credibility, and basic daily function for a very long time, and honestly I don't know quite how to do it otherwise. Does Womanness evolve? Does evolving get rid of the sadness? What's next? Fiiona and I chatted a bit, oddly enough over my e-mail address. I have always felt a closeness with the number 8. I use it alot, and consider it a "lucky number" if there is such a thing. I attach it to e-mails and e-mail addresses and stuff... just not sure why. Until Fiiona mentioned the word "infinity" and the shape of the number 8. Ahhh, this makes sense. A thesaurus lists "infinity" as "perpetuity; eternity; time without end" and suddenly I feel so much better. Maybe I should think of my Womanness as an infinite being - always evolving and never ending - the number 8 in mind, body, and soul. Maybe this means my Womanness is capable of perpetual love, self-embracing evolution, and a spirit that can experience time without end. Womanness is not locked into anything, unless we want it to be.

So to all of my fellow Dangerous Crones, have an infinitely self-loving and fabulous day!

My own glass ceiling

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, re-reading the postings to the blog which I've photocopied since I have no computer here. I write every day in my own journal, so why not address the conversation sitting in front of me?
In many ways I find it difficult to relate to some of the sentiments expressed. I've not experienced the phenomenon of being held back, burned, or even disappointed as a result of my gender. Maybe it's because I haven't pushed myself beyond my own comfort level (always the "underachiever"), or because I chose a profession populated primarily by women, or even because I've always been - how should I put it - just "average," "ok," or maybe sometimes "cute" in appearance.
Many of the women I know who are beautiful beyond the average Jane have struggled with other aspects of life - disappointed by loves, careers, even self-image, regardless of their intellect or achievements. Are the expectations of a plain Jane so much lower?
I used to think (back when imagining myself something other than I was) that I'd rather be smart than pretty. These days I just hope that, if stricken, I'd rather be blind than deaf.

The Changing Same

So there I was, one of 3 women among 40 men, panelists / experts all, for a 4-day symposium on global poverty... We know about poverty, we single women who were the "cuspers", the ones coming of age when the '70s version of the women's movement was gearing up... Funny: "movement" is just that: moving... It never ended, even though I thought we were exempt, that we were free from the shackles that restricted our mothers, the closed doors and low ceilings that sapped aspiration like Vermont maples in March...

I was invisible, despite my words, despite my knowledge, despite my experience and -- dare I say -- wisdom... I sketched the big picture, from my vantage point, of a field I've helped to birth, a pioneer's reflections on decades of progress... But I was invisible... The men -- all good, decent fellows -- had important things to say, and even sounded a similar clarion call, although mine was broader and deeper... They were questioned, they answered questions instead of me, they were recognized... I was invisible...

Ever since the New Hampshire Democratic presidential debates, when Barack said to Hillary, "You're likeable enough," my consciousness have been re-raised... I'm acutely aware, in middle age, that unless you've the kind of power that goes with position or money, you're going to be ignored... Men are like that... They're very clubby, they tolerate each other's differences, even while fighting... But women are ignored... It took me awhile to get over it (I'm not really over it), to see that it wasn't me, it wasn't that I talked too much, or too long, or too little, or too late, or too this... It wasn't that I wasn't good enough, or concise enough, or anything "enough"... I wasn't a part of the club...

It's hard to live a cliche, when you're part of the battalion... But that's what is going on, both for Hillary (once you separate the Hillary from the female, but we need to remember that, after all, she likely wouldn't have gone so far without Bill, now, would she?), and for all of us who came of age, the Flower Children, trying to get back to the garden... We almost made it, but we didn't...

The military knows that the first troops are likely to die so that others may follow... The first ones up the walls of the castle, up Pork Chop Hill, or parachuted to the ground, are in no-man's-land, outnumbered and on a mission to change the game... The gamechangers, if they survive, eventually retire, and then, maybe, tell their stories... We of the Woodstock generation, the whatever wave of the women's movement, have not retired, and we haven't reaped the rewards due war heroes for trying to change the game... And I'm not even sure we've changed the game!

If you're over 50, single, and in reasonably good health, you still face tremendous odds... You're more likely to slip into poverty, if you're not already there... You're likely to live longer, but with fewer support systems... Public policy doesn't even know you exist, in this family-centric, poll-driven, consultant dominated world of political discourse... And if you've devoted yourself to a cause, to a calling, well, you're not going to be recognized for that, unless you're sponsored by a powerful agent... The rewards are psychic, sometimes self-generated, other times a gift, such as what happened today...

I received a warmly generous, enthusiastic and effusive thank you from one of the students with whom I've been working, whose passion for her cause is boundless... There is synergy there, the life force passing on... When people ask me if I have kids, I say, No, I have lots of students all over the place... This is the continuity, this is the connection... Nurturing, role consistency....

Yet intellectually, I am invisible... This irritates me, especially since I thought we had settled this.. My consciousness is being re-raised... The past is present, the changing same has come 'round again... When this election is over, there will be a boatload of Ph.D.'s examining the role of gender in affecting people's views, media treatment, and so forth... Better we should examine our own lives...

Alone in the desert

Finding oneself after all the hubhub of being the perpetual girl friend, in all of its many forms, seems to appear in alot of women's lives. Interesting, since I have become attuned to this quest I have found alot of historic precedents. Yesterday at Dia.Beacon - the Contemporary Art venue, I saw the work of Agnes Martin. Apparently, she ceased painting for ten years, at midlife, when she moved to the remote desert of new Mexico to build her adobe house. The solitude was a necessity and prelude to engaging by disengaging. She sought the Big horizontal (she was over the mountains).
It's funny that last year at Big Sur I just wanted to stare perpetually at the Big horizontal of the Pacific Ocean. I could have been there alone - but wasn't.
I'll have to go back.