Category Archives: Writing. Loving.

It’s heart-wrenching to be invalidated by someone you love.  I was around ten years old when I showed my father a picture I had drawn and colored.  Sitting at the dining room table, I was pleased with what I had done.

As I remember it, he grabbed the drawing, shook it, and yelled “You colored outside the lines!” 

Oh.

Well, this tendency of drawing outside the lines has become a quality of character that I adore.  It is a Christmas gift of immense proportions!  I did not know in that moment that his criticism would become a mantra of sorts, kind of like my personal 11^th commandment.

“Thou shalt always color outside the lines because that’s where learning, character growth, and love are placed.” 

Ironically, the same man who was pushed to anger about my straying outside the lines was also the person who taught me about taking chances.  In a booming voice Daddy would stride into the kitchen with vague ingredients in his large, deep brown hands and look into the boiling pots on the stove. 

“Improvise!” he’d shout, and we’d watch with doubtful, although hopeful, faces as a splash of this or that was thrown into our evening meal.  Sometimes, his improvising didn’t work, but most times, I was astonished to see, it worked out just right.  So, yell as much as he might, my first lessons in straying outside the lines came from him. 

I was sitting behind my desk and chewing.  The rules in my third grade class were clear:  no gum chewing; no eating.  It wasn’t that I was being openly rebellious.  It’s just that as I quietly watched my teacher chewing, I had decided that a rule was a rule.  Didn’t everybody—even teachers—have to follow the rules?

So, as she chomped away, bold as you please, and drew math examples on the board, I put the gum in my mouth and began to chew.

“Take the gum out of your mouth.  You know the rules.” she said. 

So I said (my sister tells me that I always had to have something to say), “But you’re chewing gum, Mrs. H.”

Okay.  If you’re old-school you may have some belief about child-adult relationship values, and how the adult has the final word.  But I color outside the lines.

Mrs. H. glared at me. 

“Why are you chewing gum?” I insisted as my classmates laughed, went silent, or coughed with surprise.

“It’s medicine!” she snapped.  “On the black board, 100 times, I will not chew gum in class.” 

I hate the sound of chalk on blackboard, but although I’d lost the battle, in the end I won the war.  I don’t remember seeing her chew gum in class any more. 

I found out later that it was a chewing gum laxative.  But knowing myself as I do now, I’m pretty sure I would have asked “why?” anyway.   That’s the mold from which this cookie is cut. 

Drawing outside the lines—or in my adult persona, challenging the status quo— requires at least a dot of courage in order to ask the questions.  I may not get the answers, but I will ask the questions.  Asking puts me in the driver’s seat. 

Drawing outside the lines is what compelled me to (politely) explain to a manager that she was abusive—knowing full well the consequences.  I am healthier and happier for it.

Even when we try to stay inside the lines, twisting and shifting our personalities and behaviors to be liked, life’s pictures shift and change, and we find ourselves grabbing new colors, different inks, or sharper pencils to keep up.  Sometimes we just have to go over those little lines to make life beautiful and–dare I say it ? –filled with dignity, love, and respect.

The cynical (you know how I feel about cynical…) might ask, “How’s that workin’ for ya?” 

Excellent!!!

Happy Holidays, everybody.  May the New Year continue to bring you peace, joy, prosperity, and courage!

I’m late with the posting this week.  I’ve been reflecting on a word that’s brilliant with the light and warmth of one hundred thousand candles.  Dignity.  I am learning more and more about this word every day.  Here is my definition (I did not ask Merriam-Webster about it). 

As human beings, we are born with the right to see ourselves in the best light through our own eyes.  Dignity is our birthright.  When we are unable to uphold our own vision of our best selves, we project our smallness of vision onto others and try to “bully” them into seeing themselves as we see ourselves—without dignity. 

It’s almost Christmas.  I’m into one of those looking inside places that makes some people hang up the phone with a “see ya’ later.”   Perhaps it’s the long, cold and dark days leading up to the solstice that has me wrapped in the warmth of this word that is wholly connected to respect.  Perhaps it’s the memories of all the times someone tried to strip away my vision of my best self through my own eyes.  Perhaps it’s just that, with the approach of the solstice and the New Year, I do what I always do every year.  I pull out my journal and reflect on the passing year and the changes–large and small–that have pushed me to growth.  Have I stayed true to my values?  Have I been able to give each person, including me, the space to see her best self through her own eyes?  Have I given away my vision of my own best self?  Have I been respectful of the planet and its resources?  Have I dispersed joy and encouraged dignity, or have I contributed to fear and uncertainty?

I am trying to cut back on my addiction to the “news,” and I try not to dive into the political on this blog.  But I’m going to take a bend in the road this evening because I feel like it; and because it’s my blog. 

It doesn’t matter whether a person is pro- or anti-abortion, pro- or anti-death penalty, gay or straight, a man or woman, a Democrat or Republican, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jewish, or Buddhist.  If a person cannot carry his words of life in a way that supports dignity in all people, he is using up precious oxygen and stripping away someone’s vision of her best self through her own eyes.  I say, save the oxygen.  

Dignity.  The right to see ourselves in the best light through our own eyes.  

The days before the winter holy days are a perfect time to re-affirm a committment to treat every person with dignity and respect through the next year.   It’s a challenge, right?  So, what else is new?

U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton gave a historic talk on December 6 before the United Nations on the rights of LGBT individuals throughout the world.  And while her emphasis was on this particular struggle, I took away the moving lesson around which she weaved her message:  it is the absolute right of every single person to be treated with and live his or her life in dignity and respect.  You can find it here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MudnsExyV78

This is my continuing goal for the New Year.  Yours? 

Frowny-faced.  Don’t you just hate it when you see someone with lips all turned down at the edges and the forehead is all wrinkled?  “Happy Holidays!” you want to say, and then you reconsider because, the truth be told, those down-turned lips are scary.

I’m the first to admit to life’s difficult times.  Originally, the title of this post was going to be “Obsessed with negativity.”  It’s actually something I know a little bit about, so I was set on blasting our national tendency to sink into whatever cesspool of the month makes us feel sad, scared, angry, bitter, or distrusting.  You know, the old “if it bleeds, it leads” form of journalism.  But, I changed my mind.  I changed my mind because I get tired of giving negative news oxygen.

When I was little we could sometimes irritate our older relatives with our spontaneous, out-of-control laughter.

“What do you have to be so happy about?  Maybe you need something to do.”

We had something to do.  At Easter, my favorite holiday, we would eat jelly beans, Marshmallow Peeps, paint Easter eggs and fill Easter baskets.  We’d wear our new clothes with hats and gloves for church and dirty the gloves with chocolate Easter bunnies.  Wasn’t that “doing something?”

We relaxed as spring, evidence of renewal, warmed our frozen little hands.  Even frowny adults smiled when, after a long and hard winter, the first tiny buds appeared on what would become honeysuckle vines.  Even the most cantankerous neighborhood elder would find him/herself out in the sun marveling at the delicate green of new grass as they planned where the tomatoes would go later on in the summer.  My obsession with positivity began with the spring.

There are childhood things that stick in your mind like bubble gum to a shoe for no really good reason.  Like the melodies and words for each weekday’s theme song from the Mickey Mouse Club (good for getting our bass player to bend into a laughing U shape).  Or Shirley Temple singing, “On the Goo-oo-ood Ship Loll-lee (screech) Pop.” Or “High Hopes” by Frank Sinatra.

I am embarrassed to admit these things.  But the truth is the truth.

These songs, as goofy as they were, had an impact.  One of my favorites was the theme of a Sunday radio show broadcast from a local church.  “Happy Am I!” the minister and congregation chanted back and forth.  The ebullient song with its positive surety made a difference in my pre-teen mind, and, still, more than 40 years later I find myself singing it when I need to remind myself that, yes, I am happy.  Words have power.

Have you ever checked out tree frogs?  I was in upstate New York one summer, and a friend and I were listening to tree frogs.  They begin their chatter at dusk, croaking to each other in a call and response fashion that sounds like a lovers’ spat—all in croak-speak of course.

“Yes, you did!”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

“No, I didn’t!”

Reminds me of some conversations I’ve had.

“9.6% of workers are unemployed!”

“90.4% are employed!”

“9.6% of workers are unemployed!”

“90.4% are employed!”

Tree frogs.

I have crafted a plan for myself.  I spend at least a half hour every day in laughter.  It feels good, burns calories (the research says so…) and Lord knows I need it.

Recently, I canceled a subscription to a popular magazine.  Over the years, the publication had changed editors, and I had hoped that with an editorial shift the content would get lighter, less critical; less cynical.  It did not.  Annoying Cynicism should be its title.

So, keeping the corners of my mouth turned up and my heart open, I canceled.  I just didn’t want weekly cynicism as a part of my days.

Go ahead.  Say I’m in denial.  Call me Pollyanna.  Believe me I have been called so very much worse.  But whatever you call me, call me laughing because I am obsessed with positivity.

This is not a pleasant word for me.  It brings up inner challenges in the commitment to write one’s truth.  The prods and pokes of fear are pushing me towards keeping things small.  Safe.  Predictable.  I’m learning how easy it is to slip into a provincial–narrow-minded–state of mind  as I sit down every week to put these thoughts into W.O.R.D.S.   The provincial promises safety, but there is no reality in it.

“Keep the point of view narrow.”   But a narrow point of view is like going backwards.  Like so many provincial serving politicians today.  No thanks.

Dreams are a critical piece of my internal GPS system.  They direct me to places I need to explore, and, on several occasions, when the thick broth of memory drips into my sleep, I travel back to a time where we experienced joy in a solidly  provincial world on my grandfather’s farm in South Carolina.  In these dreams, I am wandering the landscape of the farm.  Over there are the pigs.  Here are the chickens.  Down that path are the grape vines.  There are the fig trees there, and over there are the fields of vegetables and fruit.  Sometimes I am standing on the back stoop or sitting on the front porch or looking out the window over my grandmother’s wood burning stove.  We would heat the irons to press our clothes on that stove.  Sometimes I am staring up in the inky black sky at the constellations and losing myself in their depth.  I know what the safety of provincial feels like.

I remember glorious mornings when we kids harvested corn, vegetables, and fruit in the mid-morning sun.  The corn husks and corn silk caused my skin to itch miserably, and although I complained, I knew that by dinner we’d be sucking on sweet, juicy kernels lathered with fresh butter.

Oh, darn. I forgot about the scary corn worms.  And that, my friends, is the problem with nostalgia—aka narrow thinking.  It’ll leave out those worrisome corn worms of life every time.

Our visits were fun because we did not have the burden of being trapped in the restrictively hard farm work like other kids and relatives. We would always go home to our own restrictions.  Theirs was a world of fiercely provincial ideas that kept them safe from the outside world, and while there, we fell in line with those restrictions.  Given the life-threatening politics of the time, I understand that provincialism was a positive force in saving lives.  So, it bothers me to hear:

“Things were better in the old days.  People were better when they followed tradition.”  Really?

I want to burn the bridges to these words, these proclamations that amount to painting ourselves into a corner of life with a teeny, tiny brush.  Rural provincialism had a life-saving purpose.  But that was then; this is now.

Everyone longs for a safety net of predictability, but aren’t narrow views weighted with constrictions and fears that keep us from seeing the bigger world up close and personal?  It seems to me that this yearning for a return to a simpler life is accompanied by fear.  Fear is accompanied by ignorance, and ignorance cheers the repression of civil liberties and a person’s right to make his or her own choices.

I met a woman who has lived in Philly her whole life and never once ventured outside the one or two miles where she lives, works, and prays.  She did not know anything about the lives of the other cultures with whom she worked.  She had never been to the Italian Market or Reading Terminal Market or visited Old City.  Yet, she had some very strong, narrow and wrong views of how to whip the 21^st century world into shape.  Efforts to keep things small, predictable, and controlled always fail.  Look at Prohibition.

This evening I went to a local observatory to watch the waxing moon through high-powered binoculars.  I don’t have words (me who can rattle on) for the breathtaking beauty of the crescent and the clearly outlined shadowed side.  The sky was salted with stars, and the constellation Orion so huge and clear it felt as if it enveloped the earth.  Looking through the telescope, I was stunned by the sight of Jupiter with two bold stripes across its body (rings) and two of its moons.  The universe does not offer a provincial view.

There is so much to see, to do, to experience.  So much that can open our hearts to the beauty of being alive.  But we won’t know this if we keep looking backwards, yearning for a life that’s all Andy Griffith-y and Mayberry, without those worrisome, but necessary corn worms and beautiful, but itchy corn silk.

Can we, as a nation, afford it?  What do you think?

Immersion.  The word has both positive and negative definitions:

To be completely submerged in liquid.  To become totally consumed by an issue, object or person. Or, (there is something to be gained from Wikipedia) a type of therapy where one overcomes one’s fears through face-to-face confrontation.  Umm, not so much my favorite definition.  I also like to think of immersion as:  to be completely drowned in a strong emotional attachment such as love or hate.

Welcome to the hour after my morning bath where I immerse myself in the myriad life issues that exist for me at any particular moment.  The word immersion holds incredible power.  I am an immersive personality, and I dare to argue that this is very different from obsessive.  But you can decide for yourself.

I’m a late bloomer and always have been.  When I was 40, a friend looked at me (or was it my sister?  Hmmm.) and commented, “Are your breasts larger?”  First of all, how rude!  Second of all, is there someone (cute guy?) who needs to know?  And third of all, no I didn’t get transplants.  I just matured – very slowly.  Now, where was I going with this?

In the same kind of way, I’ve had some time over the years to late-bloom into what it means to be immersed in something.  There are only two things in which I have had life-time immersion:  love and creativity.

They say that when you meet your soul’s true love time stands still, and you are immersed in the profundity of the heart.  This has happened twice in my life.  (Eh? You’re asking. Twice true love?)  Yes, twice.  The first time was in those precious moments immediately after my baptism.

I was ten or eleven when, in the tradition of the Baptist church, I was wrapped in white from head to toe and immersed in a pool of (not warm, I might add) water.  I was trying to maintain my child’s faith in the grace of God and the dexterity of a man of the cloth.  Between God and preacher, I was promised that I would not drown.  I did not, and my faith—in both—was sustained.

“In the name of the father…” I held my breath as the water covered my head and I was brought up again.

“The Son…”  I held my breath again as I was dipped once more and brought up.  Why I did not struggle is a question I have to this day.

“And the Holy Ghost…”  Was I imagining or did I have to hold my breath longer that last time?

On rising from the third submersion I came from the chilly water feeling warm—and time stood still.  For days afterward, I felt immersed in what I could only desribe as God’s love for the world and everyone and everything in it.  I don’t know what I expected, but this is what I received.

I said there were two experiences when time stood still.  The second was when I stood before the meditation master whose teachings have, ever since, guided my life and spiritual practices.

Immersion.  These two experiences serve as my reference and compass.  To be consciously immersed in the truth and experience of daily life is my forever-after goal.  To my suprise and delight, one day I wrote a poem.  Some of the lines are:

My Beloved has appeared and even the Lord of Time must surrender. With such golden Light, who can resist Him?  He illumines the walkway of my heart, and fears fall away.

Trying to explain it is foolish, and, as some folks (oh yes, the folks) have been prone to point out, it can sound a little weird, but ahhh…I finally see where this might be going.  Words. I have my own blog where I can be consciously and fearlessly immersed in the experience of time standing still through words.

I’ll celebrate.  Happy Thanksgiving everybody.

She Has Seen Us

There is nothing new under the sun.  Or Moon.   I thought about this as I witnessed the moon in its glory—so large and full that I felt I could reach out and take a slice—on November 11, 2011—that auspicious date that was at the front of everyone’s consciousness.  That’s how close I felt to the moon that day.

If the moon could talk, She would stun us with a vast repository of human history and behavior.  She might laugh at our amazing ability to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.  Or she might pray for us with compassion.

The Moon might say to us “Lighten up. I saw that argument go down with the  Neanderthals.  All about territory.”

Or She might sigh and say “Oh, yeah.  Religious bigotry.”  She would cluck her tongue.  “Every time there’s a new prophet, people kill each other.  Such a sad repetition.”

Then the first child of the New Year is born and She would celebrate with laughter.  “Another baby!  Oh, there is hope yet for this old, old world below.  Perhaps this one will help smooth things out!”

Then a child dies.  “Oh,” She mourns.  “So many trillions of deaths.  Young and old.  Children and grown.  It doesn’t get any easier.”

“Ahhh.  Yet another war,”  and She might shake her head in wonder that we never figured it out.

I thought about these things as I watched the moon that day.  I thought about our current political landscape and the fear that rages within the hearts of people around the world.  But, I also thought about the love and the extraordinary kindness generated by so many.

“Look at that,” the Moon might say.  “She took those bags of food to her next door neighbor.”

“Oh, my.  That young girl collected all that money to build homes for the poor in another country!”

“Their 60th wedding anniversary!  Such committment.  Such love.”

We startle ourselves with news of the birth of the 7 billionth child, when so many billions have gone before.  Every note of music that’s ever been claimed by every composer who’s ever lived has been claimed before.   Every lover who’s ever made love was not the first to surrender to that warmth.

The thought that the Moon has witnessed it all, uncountable times before, gives me  solace.  We are not the first to struggle through difficult times.  We are not witnessing anything new.  There is nothing new under the Moon.  Or sun.

The question is:  What have we learned?

“Take it off.  Just take it off!”

I was about 20, walking the streets of Washington, D.C., feeling good, when an angry woman placed herself beside me and shouted those words in my face.  I was wearing a fall—an added pony tail—in my hair.  Women have been wearing them since the dawn of time…right? But for me it was the wrong time and place.  It was the 70s and we were moving heavy into a new phase with African-American hair — pride and all that.

Her anger was frightening, but what pierced more was her judgment.  She didn’t know anything about me.   Judgment is a word with extraordinary power.  When used amongst us ordinary folk, it is a poisonous, hard edged weapon.  As such, it is my view that judgment belongs only in courts of law.

I’ve thought about that woman off and on over the years.  In 2011, I see all forms of dark-brown girls and women sporting their blond, straight, pony-tailed and, otherwise colored and expensive, added hair.  She’s probably in her late 60s or early 70s by now — if she’s  alive.  Is she spending her time stopping folks and screaming at them still?  Or did she have children and change her perspective?  Perhaps her anger landed her in the justice system where judgment is ladled out like soup on a daily basis.  Perhaps—I am so frigging wicked—she herself is now a kinder, less judgmental blond.

“Judge not, less ye be judged.”  I’ve certainly done my share.

I was sitting in a restaurant-bar in Eugene, Oregon when a really good looking man began flirting with me.  I allowed myself to make some quick judgments:  “Hmm.  Good looking black man 30-something, single? Probably dates white…”

And that’s where things got interesting.  The universe picked up the thought and carried it to his brain.  I’m not kidding.  Anyway, at the word “white,” he blared out “There’s judgment in your eyes!” and put his beer on the bar.  I was speechless.  How did he get in my head?  Had I said something out loud?  Was there a ticker tape running the words across my irises?  I defended myself as best I could.  He explained.

“I can see it in your eyes.  You think you know me.”

So, he hadn’t really read my thoughts per se, but he had seen them.  The light of my interest had disappeared, and in its place…judgment; the eyes reveal it all.   Fortunately, we worked it out, finished our beers and became good friends.  But I learned something very important.  Even when our lips are smiling, if there’s judgment, it shows in the eyes.  I want to be judgment-free.

“I am a Christian,” she informed me.

This is why it was her duty to judge me harshly.  I had gone to school for a short time in West Virginia and during that time I was staying with her family.  I didn’t like looking into her eyes.   They were overflowing with judgment.  Everywhere I went, her judgment was beside me.  Her eyes revealed her distrust of blacks who did not talk like her (I was too “proper”); or dress like her; (I wore make-up and perfume); or pray like her. She spent a lot of time keeping her adopted children away from me, frightening them into following the word of God, lest they too smear their lips red.   I judged her very harshly back.  Now, I understand that hers was life commanded by fear.

I want to be judgment-free.

Some of life’s largest landmines of judgment lie in the fields of cultural expectations.  But we are not two-dimensional creatures.

I read a story about one of my s-heros, the late writer Zora Neale Hurston.  Hurston could easily set off a landmine by being herself and claiming her humanity.  In Alice Walker’s dedication to I Love Myself When I am Laughing… And Then Again When I am Looking Mean and Impressive, a Hurston reader she edited, Ms. Walker addresses the judgment around Hurston’s ability to righteously step outside of social expectations.   When Hurston’s play Color Struck won second prize in a literary contest, Hurston entered a party yelling  “COLOR…R. R  STRUCK..K. K!” with pride.  Two women that Ms. Walker knows told her they wouldn’t have liked Hurston had they known her.  Ms. Walker writes,  “Apparently it isn’t easy to like a person who is not humbled by second place.”

Some of life’s largest landmines of judgment lie in the fields of cultural expectations.  But we are not two-dimensional creatures.

Is it possible to be judgment-free?

I could just imagine the conversation of any one of the young couples inside the upscale suburban restaurant as I slogged by the windows.  I was covered from head to toe in dirt and everything about me—coat, hat, bags—was askew.

She: (peering over her glass of Pinot Grigio).

“Honey, look at that woman. Should we call the police? She’s all covered in mud.”

He: (shaking his head in amazement.)

“No, Babe.  I don’t think so.  That’s not mud, Babe. It’s mud and dog shit!”

Yep.  He would be right.

I had stepped off the commuter train a few minutes before and was taking a shortcut through the parking lot when I stepped onto a grassy strip and fell.  My left leg splayed to the left; my right leg to the right.  I had braced myself with my right hand, only to feel my wrist sink-deep into—unbelievable—a pile of wet, slimy, dog shit.  It just got worse from there.

I had fallen in winter before; slipped on ice and broken my ankle.  So, I lay there for a moment allowing the freezing rain to pelt my face as I took long, deep breaths and began to cry.  Pulling my hand out of the dog shit and wiping it on my coat, I cursed the jackass who didn’t scoop.  And it was a big dog.  I wiggled around, so nothing was broken.

Now, for most people, a fall would just be a fall.  But, for me, having been blessed with a neurotic need to find meaning in every little thing, I looked for mystery; an answer from the universe.  And true to my experience, I got one.

I was suffering a dogged commute into the City of Brotherly Love and working for a rigid, mean-spirited manager who could suck the joy juice out of a dinosaur.   She derived her own happiness from—and I quote—“…dashing people’s dreams.”   But she’s not the story here.

Later that evening, over my own glass of wine, I asked myself how I had become so risk-averse when it came to following my dreams.  I had taken a “safe” job that in the end was devastatingly toxic.  I talked to a couple of friends.

“It’s not the time to change. Look at the economy.” Ouch.

“Adapt! You grow stronger by adapting.”

From cradle to paycheck, I’ve adapted to other people’s times, places, and priorities.

“Bloom where you are planted.”

God!!!  I frigging hate that phrase.  It was time to move on.

Many years ago, I had a chance to meet one of my heroes, the late, great jazz saxophonist Illinois Jacquet.  It was a lifetime moment.  There I was, face to face with the jazz master himself.  I told him I sang jazz and his eyes lit up. “Hey, Smith!” he said to his partner.  She’s a singer.”  My heart beat like Ellington’s band playing “Take the A-Train.”

“Where do you sing?”

I paused, shuffled my feet, and coyly said something about working to clear up debts right now, and fluffed it up with some stuff about overcoming fear of pursuing my dream.  With the word fear, the jazz master’s eyes glazed over, and he didn’t miss a beat (no pun intended).

“If you love something,” he asked softly,  “how can you fear it?”

He stared compassionately at me for a moment, wished me luck and turned away.  I recalled this conversation as I rinsed my muddy, shit-streaked boots in the bath tub.

Fast forward to the summer after my fall.  I was sitting in a park listening to a Brazilian band, and I had been singing along.

So danco samba, So danco samba, vai, vai, vai, vai, vai…

Then, as if on mental cue, the group began an original tune “Singing Takes Away the Blues.”  My feet tapped the ground, but my heart settled in my throat and tears filled my eyes.  I missed singing.  The question, however, was: how much risk (yeah, yeah… in this economy) at my age (sigh) was I willing to take?

On the way home, I thought about the past winter’s commute, my miserable manager, and—oh yeah—can’t forget the dog shit.

And, because I am the kind of person who has a neurotic need to look for meaning in everything, I took “Singing Takes Away the Blues” as a sign.

That evening, I sat at the computer and fired off an ad for a musician-collaborator.    ‘Cause,  I said to myself, if I love something, how can I fear it?

******************

A special shout out to  the spectacular group Mina for being my sign.  If you ever have a chance, go see and hear them! 

“Peach is a spring color.” 

The pronouncement, without doubt, came from a rather frumpy, round-faced saleswoman behind a cluttered counter.  I was tempted to ask her, like on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, “Final answer?”

I felt my shoulders tighten.  Peach is a warm color; a happy color; a soft color.  Any season , particularly fall and winter, could use the rouge of peach. 

She didn’t have a friendly look.  Rather, her eyes, openly combative and judgemental behind large black rimmed eyeglasses,  informed me that she was tired, had been on her feet for at least six hours that day, and was not in the mood for dumb questions.  Something about the way her eyebrows scrunched together disturbed me.

This was my eighth store.  I kid you not.  I had been searching almost all day for a peach colored sweater to wear in a photo the next day.  I was exhausted, hungry and had been circling sweaters in every store like a chicken hawk.

I LOVE peach: peach melba, peach pie, peach cobbler; then there’s peach body oil and bath soap.  But as it stood, any of those items would have been easier to find then a warm, soft peach sweater.

“Gosh, I really wanted peach,”  I began, and quickly dropped the rest of the sentence…something about those eyebrows.  I was holding a lemon-yellow blouse that was on sale.  I wanted it.  I loved it. 

“That’s a good price, under $10 dollars.”  She made an attempt at a smile.  Weird.

“Yellow,” she continued, looking at me as if I had no home training.  “It won’t be long before spring.” 

Right.  It’s the end of October.

I replied cheerfully, “When I wear it, it will be spring tomorrow!”

Silence.  A stare.  Awkward.  Something about  the eyebrows…

“There must be something peach colored.  A blouse, a top?” I asked with frustration.  “I’ve been to sooo many stores”

“Peach is a spring color.  We won’t have it until spring” 

Who makes these rules, anyway? 

I would have looked more normal to her if I had been spewing pomegranate seeds from my nose.  But, I, pity the fool, had forgotten the rules:  no whites after Labor Day and darker colors until spring.  I’m guessing it’s an eastern thing.  

Clutching my yellow blouse (victory!), I settled on a soft chartreuse jacket that would be warm and flattering for my photo the next day. 

I’m already planning next summer’s shopping spree when I’ll be buying every peach-colored item I see to alleviate future winter misery.  Ahh… It’s a challenge to live in the present moment. 

Delayed Gratification.  The words sparkle with tension. 

I was eleven or twelve and wanted to wear stockings and makeup.  Absolutely not, I was told.  Pouting got me nowhere.  Mouthing off, while within my  constitutional right to free speech was, frankly, stupid. 

There was only one thing to do.  I had to plan for my thirteenth birthday and the lipstick that I would plaster across my wide mouth.

When I was sixteen, I had a list of things I would do once I was eighteen:  date who I wanted, go where I wanted, smoke cigarettes, and drink gin and tonics.  I would plaster my face with makeup, wear short-short skirts and become famous.

Now, the truth of the matter is that at sixteen I was not emotionally ready to do any of those things.  I was a rather young sixteen, and, frankly, dating would have gotten me nowhere except in awkward situations with boys who were even more awkward.  I wanted to do, in the immediate moment, what “all” the other girls were doing.  Today, as I think about the pregnant high school girls I knew, I am thankful that none of those changing voiced, raging hormonal fellows were lining up at my door.

Sociologists call it “impulse control.”   I was bred on delayed gratification.  I am intimately familiar with delayed gratification.  I know impulse control—sometimes to a fault—like I know my own breath.

Perhaps this is why I am more than a little frustrated with people who whine about the political process and want change overnight with no effort on their parts (vote in the last election; thoroughly study issues and history?).  It’s the same impulse that whines for the money, the new car, the jewels, or the lover immediately, without putting in any effort.  Perhaps, in either case, they are not ready.

I remember how long it took me to finally begin writing every day.  I remember how I chided myself because I wasn’t discovered (yeah, lightning in a bottle) and because I did not feel the need to jump through the many hoops and changes required to become famous.  I remember how I showed little understanding or compassion for myself as I tried to fit into my own skin and, at the same time,  figure out where I was trying to live the life of another.  The creative business is hard work.

I’ve spent many evenings looking up into the night sky, trying to hear stars  breathing because I did not have the inner muscle required to jump with both feet into the roaring fire of the creative business.  With the wisdom handed down from my parents and grandparents, I now see that I just wasn’t ready.  Through the miracle of what I will label Grace, I was protected until I was ready and able to accept the consequences of whatever it was I wanted to do.  

A popular actress once said to me, (when she saw my yearning for creative success in conflict with my fear to do the work) “God’s delay is not God’s denial.”  For the rest of my life I will send her blessings for her compassion.

Just like wearing make-up and high heels and perfume and nylons didn’t fit my psychologically  state as a sixteen year old, the business of show business and the world of a creative professional was the wrong fit once upon a time. 

There are those who will think my parents were too rigid, and on many other issues, they absolutely were.  But on the issue of waiting until the right time, I can tell you that they were wise.  I learned that time, inevitably, clears out the trash and shows you what you really want and who you really are.  And how to get what you want with self-destructing.

Patience, process and the right time.  Delayed Gratification sparkles.

“God’s delay is not God’s denial.”