Last Sunday was International Women’s Day, one of my favorite holidays. It’s such an easy thing to celebrate. Of course! What took us so long to come up with this holiday?

Places with a history of communism celebrate this with pleasure. Many other places celebrate it with guilt.

Google had a doodle for it. A circular parade of paper dolls in what appeared to be women in the costumes of different professions.

I”ve been looking forward to this woman’s day, 2020, since it marks the 100th year anniversary of American women getting the vote (most of them, anyway). And I’ve been reading a lot of feminist literature.

That’s a lot to think about.

One of the books pointed out that women think in terms of relationship. How will policies and personal decisions affect those around us?

And I realize what bothers me about that google doodle. They are not in relationship with each other.

As a woman, I think of myself in relationship to others all of the time. A mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter a friend.

I have a lot of connections, and they pull me and I pull them.

Equality is a small part of the story. An important part, but nowhere near the whole picture.

In the creation of a person, which we women do, and in the creation of a society, which we all do, there are a lot of components. There are an incalculable number of compromising, giving and takings, sacrifices and demands.

It impossible to keep track of it all.

These books have convinced me to take better care of myself in these interactions. To fight for myself as much as I would for my family. To require an equal partnership moment by moment and to speak out when I am blocked or hampered.

What give me courage to do that is that I am not doing it only for myslef. In woman-fashion, when I speak up and demand I am doing it for everyone.

He did set his lower lip when he played the bass. His daughter pointed it out to me. We had been friends for a long time. She was one of the few friends I could trust.

Thing is, most of the time I didn’t see him. He was playing the bass behind in the seat behind me as I played the piano.

He had a band, and he played really well. He played at home, with an amp and a guitar out in the living room. He was the real thing.

Sometimes I would get to go to some of his band’s performances. They played Christian music, of course. But I loved it. I loved being near the performance, done by people I knew. Impossibly cool.

He encouraged me, and told me how to be in a music team–that is what it was called when we played the songs at church. But it was kind of a band. And I was the lead instrument.

That’s what he said.

I wanted that to be true. And it was true, when we all played together. I wanted to be a real musician, but I had no idea what that was. I’d taught myself how to play, and even though he said I was the lead instrument I was sure that I was secretly deficient in all kinds of ways. As if I had huge hole in the back of my pants but could never quite see it.

I practiced, all alone, learning what I could on the Casio keyboard I’d bought from Costco. I was alone and ashamed, but I did all I could.

I asked him, the one who knew, “Is this how it works? That I will get to a certain level as a musician, and then I’ll stay there? That I’ll be set?”

He cocked his head, trying to understand my point of view. Then he shook his head decisively. “No, you keep getting better.”

“You do?”

“Sure. I practice, and I think I’m better than I was last month. I know I’m better than I was a few years ago.”

I looked at him, wanting it to be true. Wanting there to be something I could be good at and get better and better. To have something in my future that I could count on and look forward to.

I trusted him. He was a full-on grown up. And he said I was good. Probably he was saying it to be nice, but when we all played together, it did sound good.

But then things happened and we didn’t play together anymore.  And I became a grown up and I didn’t play much anymore. Life has a way of catching up with all my time.

This year, I decided I had to do something creative. I had to make time. I wanted to write more. I also gave myself permission to buy a new keyboard.

And it was there. In a way that writing was not. I remembered how to play the keys. The way I had learned to play never left me, and I could play something new every single time.

It was right there. Practically where I left it.

And I remembered. I thought about Bill and his bass. I wondered if I could find people to jam with. Maybe I could find a band.

Somewhere between the chord changes, I thought maybe someday I’d get to play with him again. That would be incredible! I’d kept in touch with his daughter. It felt good to imagine that bass behind whatever progression I was working out.

Then I heard the news. Bill’s heart gave out.  It’s done.

I owe him. I owe him big. I wish I could tell him.

He made room in his life for creation, for music and performance. I didn’t know then how hard that could be for grownups.

I want to get better. I know I’ll remember him as I do.

reading father boyle talk about his gang members, i feel so much kinship. I’ve got these stories too

and it’s awkward. I dont’ look like i do. I don’t have tatoos on my face or anywhere. I look extremely acceptable

But i know that i have stories that freak people out

I can pass. I can make my hair shiny sometimes, and i have a vocabulary.

I passed passing and now make people uncomfortable the other direction. people say “I appreciate you being so on top of things” which is another way of saying “can’t you slow down and back off?”

I know there is a shadowy figure that people see that they think I am.

I can pass as someone worth feeding. but it’s tenuous.

because it takes a lot of effort

All my life, I have had non-standard hair. Other people had ‘normal’ hair, but my curly head just was not

I’m behind. I’ve been working to hard and I’m not sure how I’m going to get caught up.

I know the working parents…and which parent isn’t working?…knows what I mean. I am neglecting my daughter.

Every time I see her I tell her to comb her hair. It’s starting to get curly.

Curly is another word for tangly.

Let’s be clear, her blonde hair is not curly like my hair, it has some wave to it now.

My hair, I know, is non-standard. My daughter is still in the range of normal. But there is a new level of tangles that need some attention. I’ve been trying a few different products, but it seems that it needs to be blow-dried after her evening bath.

With my curly hair, I read about people who blow-dry their hair. It seems that people use blow driers to dry and straighten hair.

This is way too much work for me. My weird hair doesn’t seem to get dry that way. I figured people with normal hair could blow-dry their hair in minutes, but my hair is not that lucky.

I got the short end of the stick.

So when I tried to dry my little girl’s hair, I was surprised that it seemed to be taking a long time. She hated it, and the hair was barely drier than when we’d begun. I was mad at myself for not seeing it through, but no one was having a good time. I gave up.

The next morning, though, her hair was far smoother.

whaddaya know?

It was enough.

That was not what I expected. I thought that it would be a lot harder. I’d always assumed it had to be bone dry to make a difference.

Her hair responded. My little bit mattered. I thought I had failed. But I’d done just enough.

For her, for this, that was enough.

Maybe that perfectionist pressure I’ve been putting on my self for other things is not required.

Maybe the tangles aren’t as stubborn as I’ve assumed. What if it were easier?

Friday is Valentine’s Day. Hearts and Romance.

Last Saturday I took myself to see “Who’s Afraid of Virgina Woolfe?”
I left the theater at a run to get back to my own husband. What mean and horrible people filled that play! I was so glad that my days are filled with a responsible and respectful partner.

I mean, mostly. We both are not so good about re-hanging towels on the rack, and other similar transgressions. But we are nice to each other.

Chris said, “Nice people make poor drama.”

In my nice low-drama marriage, I am ready to admit that we are also low on the typical Valentine’s Day hearts and flowers.

For the last couple of weeks, it’s been like this: one of us will say “Valentine’s Day is coming.”

The other will pull eyes up from whatever is being read or eaten and we will lock eyes. Like a game of chicken. Who will say what first? What is expected? What is required?

What if one of us has plans, and the other forgets? Like some kind of blindfolded competition. Neither of us wants to be the one to under-give.

I don’t want to undergive. But this is not what my husband means to me.

I was talking to someone about how I don’t have time to explain to people what’s happening in my day. I was sad that I used to have a whole bunch of friends who I could tell about my day and they would be able to follow along.

I went on, “It would take too long to explain before I got to what I wanted to say. Like, I would have to set the whole table before I could get to the dish I actually want to serve. I can’t even begin, because neither one of us has the time to get to what I want to say.”

Except my husband. He’s been paying attention to all the episodes, the whole season of my life. He’s been willing to binge watch along the way.

So I don’t have to begin my stories with a montage intro “Previously in Murphy’s life..”

He’s been paying attention. And he has opinions about what will and should happen next. He’s a fan.

And I feel the same.

It’s a precious thing, so have someone following along on my life. I’d rather have that than a box of chocolates. It lasts a lot longer.

I taught someone the word “ersatz” this week. I only learned it last year, and it’s not in common usage.
 
It means “substitute,” and I needed it to explain to her how I wanted this year to be different from how last year went.
 
Last year was very busy. That has to shift.
 
I worked really hard at my job…my jobby job. I had a lot of responsibilities and I got up early and stayed up late and nailed them to the wall. It took a lot out of me.
 
And I’m proud that I did that, but in a sort of unsatisfying way.
 
My job takes a lot of thought and I have to be smart and creative to do what needs to be done. So it is creative output.
 
But it’s a very low-grade version. Like eating popcorn for dinner.
 
I’ve done that before. I admit. I can eat a huge amount of popcorn and it is technically food. But I’ve learned that if I do that, I will feel weird.
 
It’s not very good for me. It will do. And that’s probably why I feel like I need to eat a whole lot of popcorn to replace a real nutritional dinner. But a lot of not-enough still isn’t enough.
 
That’s where ersatz comes in. Ersatz means substitute. So, eating a huge bucket of buttery popcorn is ersatz dinner.
 
And working hours and hours and weeks and weeks using my creative energy on work things is like eating popcorn for dinner.
 
It’s ersatz creativity.
 
And boy howdy, I know how to lean into that bad-for-me bucket of popcorn, or the never-ending inbox at work. Neither of those will tell me to stop. Work is very happy for me to keep it up.
 
But I feel weird and unsatisfied.
 
I’ve learned my lesson about the popcorn, but it only just occurred to me that work is ersatz creativity. At least for me.
 
I’ve been longing to create something. And it was easy to stay in my rut and create these factory spec cogs and widgets for my employer.
 
Until I had to spend several weeks sick in bed and I had a chance to see what I was doing.
 
I had to clear some mind space to figure out how to get to what I really wanted. And rebuild some boundary walls.
 
I have to have a reason to say no.  
 
I would think I’d learned that. I have. And I have forgotten it.
 
My first book is about this very topic. The Parable of Miriam the Camel Driver expressed it beautifully. I need to re-read my own book.
 
This is my life. I loan my creativity out. And I want to keep some for myself, for the quality, nourishing self-expression I know I’ve capable of.
 
The easy way doesn’t satisfy. I don’t have to accept the substitute.

I woke up from a nap

it’s super bowl

Sunday

and we went shopping for food

I took a long nap and woke up to

Veronica had used a cookbook and cooked rice and a modified black beans recipe

she make fantastic rice

the black beans were a noble attempt

but I explained carefully that she was not yet allowed to use the stove without helpwoke me up

The thing that stops us from writing is not a lack of imagination.

What stops us from writing is being interrupted.

That’s what the famous author–whose name I didn’t catch–said in the Facebook ad. It’s true, and it’s probably a very successful ad. I hope they do get a lot of people buying their course on how to write.

I was thinking about that snippet all day today. I was not writing. I knew I needed to. I really wanted to. I had this weekly wonder to write, but also I have a short story I’m working on that it really exciting.

But I really had to clean the house.

Really. It’s seriously filthy. I’ve been sick…still climbing out of that pit. And I haven’t had time to do the basics. I still took a three-hour nap today, and when I woke up I just had to do something about the floor.

And I knew exactly what I was doing. Not writing.

This reminds me of when I was studying in college, and I would feel compelled to clean my house during the last week of the semester–the week when all the papers were due.

My house was so clean that week.

I was interrupting myself.

I really want to finish that short story. It’s been FOREVER since I wrote one; I was beginning to think I didn’t know how.

But I’m excited about it, but I’m still not making time.

I will be so glad when I am over this flu. I want those nap hours for my own use.

And as I mop the floor I accuse myself. Those three hours back so I can squander them on un-creative activity?

Sigh. I’m not myself. Or maybe I am, just a particularly awful version.

I have to trust that I will have the time, find the time, make the time to get to the part I long for.

The floors do look very clean now. Maybe that will help me concentrate.

And maybe tomorrow I will not need to sleep so much.

It takes longer than I want it to, but I’m moving in the right direction. At least I hope so.

I hadn’t quite stopped saying happy New Year to everyone yet, but last Friday something else took my attention.

I’ve got the plague. It’s a bad one this year; a lot of people are down. I hope I recover quickly. I’m hearing some people are out for two weeks.

This was NOT the plan for the New Year. Nobody wants to get horribly sick!

As I sit in a fog, I am catching up on TV shows without stress: documentaries. I’ve picked up Ken Burn’s “Prohibition.”

This one is interesting. The drive to outlaw liquor was a cause led by women. Since men were the ones who earned the money, women relied on their fathers and husbands to bring home enough money to pay for food and shelter.

But again and again, men would spend their pay on alcohol and leave the family with nothing.  It was an evil that had to be stopped.

Forces united and a monumental effort was made to have a constitutional amendment.

NO ALCOHOL

But it didn’t turn out the way they hoped.

Alcohol became more of a way of life than it had been before. And it even jumped the gender divide–women had been excluded from saloons before but entered freely into speakeasies.

It was increasingly clear that it wasn’t working.

And one big reaction was to double down. They said it’s not working because the police aren’t enforcing it enough! Take it more seriously!

I know there have been times in my life when I clung to a goal, not seeing the harm I was inflicting on myself.

If it’s not working that means I must try harder!

I used to think that way, but I’ve learned to take a step back and tinker. What’s out of line? Is there something I’m missing? There’s likely a better way.

As I sit in my brand new year, with my brand new plans for the year derailed, I think how it could have been different. What if the temperance unions had been a little more temperate in their temperance?

Could we have had a whole different ending?

And I wonder what a different perspective could do for me in my life too. Taking an enforced break from my usual focus because of sickness has its benefits. I wonder.

As a women, I have the freedom to try new things with my look. I decided to try something different with my hair: go darker.

This is a thing that matters very litle in the world, but matter a lot in my world. It’s my head after all.

So made the choice, and bought the dye. Darker this time.

And i waited for the big reveal. It has to dry before the color can really be seen.

BUT IT”S SO DARK.

I looked into the mirror and it seemed practically black. Then I took a selfie, and the camera showed a much lighter color.

Then I looked in the mirror

DARK

then selfie

over the next few days I couldn’t reconcile it. How do cameras see this differently?

Remember that weird picture that can be a beautiful young woman in a hat, or a big nosed old woman with a shawl on her head?

I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to see what the camera saw. I began to see the glints of light.

What is the truth? What do my eyes see that others don’t?

There is no doubt my eyes focus on the things I’m most insecure about. But they are probably not as noticable as I fear.

Staring in the mirror to worry about my hair being too dark was not making me happy. And it would seem it’s not even true.

What else is true?

Or, how else can I see the picture that would make me happier? That’s worth trying for. It could be so easy to shift my focus.