Like-Minded

On a morning when a bedtime of after 2AM has left me with less than quality sleep, I feel better, more mentally sharp, more on task, than I have since returning home from my recent trip to Colorado.  And there's a reason for that.  I finally blogged last night.  An entry on Push-Ups.  And though it wasn't the exact entry I had in mind, and I nodded off into instant deep sleep for several long minutes at a time right there at the keyboard -- it's a minor miracle I didn't inadvertently delete the entire post -- I satisfied that persistent itch which has plagued my fingertips and brain cells for almost two weeks.  That itch which settles in with aching familiarity on a highly regular basis whenever a subject leaps into my consciousness.  That itch which longs to block out the every-day rotation of chores and responsibilities which is presently my life and chain me to a desk and keyboard for infinity  That itch which maintains a running inner dialogue regardless of what my physical self may be doing.

For those individuals with a driving passion, a talent, a gifting of specific ability, whether that passion bears fruit for anyone outside of oneself, be it music or painting or running, WHATever it is, as human beings the driven among us are never completely fulfilled unless we find and use valid outlets for that passion.  To varying degrees, ignoring these inclinations or putting them off can just about drive one mad.  Historically speaking, I believe there are examples of some who WERE driven mad.  (Though I suppose a handful of those actually allowed their passion TOO much reign over their existence.  I've witnessed enough madness to know it makes a lousy house guest.)

Because my night-writing reflects the dregs of mental energy remaining within me by the end of generally very full days, I thought I would forgo my morning walk and channel that supply of fresh internal sunshine into my blog.  Specifically, an addendum, or perhaps more of a sister-entry, to the Push-Ups blog entry of last night.  Because that brain-bouncing ball has yet to stop rebounding within the tight confines of my cranium.

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There's a word I use with regularity that I find to be under-utilized in our culture of instant messaging and sound-byte conversations.  Every time I say it, I feel good.  I feel as if I have hit a big ol' nail RIGHT on its head and driven it home, thus securing some vital part of an ever-growing framework in my life.  That word: simpatico.  

Dictionary.com defines it thus:

sim·pa·ti·co

   [sim-pah-ti-koh, -pat-i-]  Show IPA

adjective

congenial or like-minded; likable: I find our new neighbor simpatico in every respect.

Origin: 
1860–65;  < Italian:  literally, sympathetic, equivalent to simpat (ia ) sympathy  + -ico -ic.  Compare Spanish simpático, Frenchsympathique, German sympatisch

That will do quite nicely for my purposes here.  I'm even tickled with the etymology given my affection for the romance languages AND my German ancestry (not to mention the country presently hosting my middle child and her spouse). 

Often, my insertion of this word into a conversation has to do with food -- i.e. "I'm totally simpatico with this coconut cream pie" -- or a casual reference to a friendly feeling or instant between me and another person -- i.e. "You and me . . . we're simpatico today."  But it is the second half of the initial definition which interests me.  Like-minded.   

My life is replete with people.  People rich in personality, abounding in love, rife with wisdom, abundant with generosity.  Family, friends, neighbors.  Stating that I am truly blessed is NOT a trite comment nor is it an understatement.  If at all possible, I prefer to be realistic in my description of a thing.  Good people don't require hyperbole.  (Hey!  I sense a Gloria-ism there!)  **Please be advised that I'm in now way eschewing hyperbole as an effective writing tool!**

A significant number of these relationships developed over time.  A slow unfolding of personal histories and beliefs, of similarities and differences.  A delayed unwrapping of an unexpected present.  Untying the ribbon and setting it neatly aside.  Peeling back the colorful paper.  Folding the layers of tissue paper.  Until the final big reveal.  And then there's the appreciation and continued use of the gift in the months and years to come.  Those are most wonderful and life-affirming.

But every now and again a truly incredible meeting happens across my path.  One which seems to mesh perfectly with the elements of my life in that very present circumstance.  To me, given my very real Christian faith (of which I do not specifically highlight in my blogs but guides me around the bases in every entry), these are anything but chance.  Behind these lightning flashes of familiarity is a divine orchestration intended to encourage and mobilize both me and the other party.  And regardless of how often we actually engage in one another's life in the future, the life-changing aspect of that meeting of simpatico forever alters my spirit for eternity.  Whatever that turns out to be.  I must be very specific here and emphasize that I do not intentionally seek nor choose these relationships.  They have been made-to-order at some point in the past, every seam expertly stitched, each hem of exacting length, cut to enhance every contour and feature, and they rest upon a padded hanger awaiting the the specified minute that they will be fitted to my life.  Until they are given to me, I didn't realize I even needed them.  But once they are in my possession, I can't imagine what my days and nights were before them.  And this in now way detracts from my developed friendships in any way.  There are many holes within to be filled and fitted with lovelies who come to me in forms and ways as varied as the stars in the black velvet of the night sky.

Recently, a moment of simpatico occurred at my husband's multi-class high school reunion of all places. My mind wasn't even focused on the event, excited and distracted as I was to surprise family and friends with my unexpected presence for a family reunion taking place over the same weekend.  An introduction to a group of siblings led me to a dazzling smile so unassuming in nature, so naturally placed and fully lacking any guise or guile, that it stayed with me without need of any photographic reminder (though I did, indeed, have ONE, just ONE) every day after that.  In the ranks of these siblings were a brother and sister duo, Carrie and Chris.  In high school, they were fellow musicians with my husband and played in a band with actual talent and not one simply fueled by dreams and ambition.  I'd heard a good many positive stories about them.  Never had I met them though I shared space in their small town of La Veta for a summer.  (That's when me and my hot pink shorts, but fully decent, unwittingly garnered my husband's initial attention all those many years ago.)  They knew nothing of my dead-snake-slinging episode, an intimidating moment for my husband-to-be in which he watched with horrified fascination as I swung an impressively large bull snake carcass around my head for some unknown but entertaining reason.  They knew nothing of my 23 years with their high school chum.  Nothing about our trials or our children or our travels from state to state in search of employment and peace.  I left La Veta.  End of story.  

But what was clear from the onset, and was only brought into sharper focus during dinner conversation, was that we knew the same God.  We had endured separation from Him and restoration to Him.  And that created a simpatico, a like-mindedness, that can't be replicated with human efforts, no matter how empathetic or brilliant one might be.  Our character was evident in the short span of time we were given together.  That we were all completely unique individuals could not be discounted, but the connection had little to do with such concrete elements as traits and habits.  It was clearly one of those defining Jesus-moments which can't be fully described, or understood, unless that particular thunderbolt has knocked you flat on your spiritual behind!  On one hand, before these two -- TWO in one fell swoop -- I can count the specific people who have entered my life in this manner.  I won't be do that here but they know who they are.

From that moment on, after breaking literal, and spiritual, bread over a crowded table in a non-air-conditioned gymnasium, with rivulets of sweat running the length of my legs and belly beneath a pretty darned knockout of a bargain dress (if I do say so myself), I found myself close to tears whenever thoughts of these two came to me.  I found myself praying for them out of the blue.  An amalgam of gratitude, humility and awe had settled over me . . . and was there to stay.  A constant rendition of a blog entry ran through my head, hour to hour, day to day.  I wanted to take note, record it, share it, explore it.  I went to great lengths to explain it to my husband.  Because he figured largely in this happenstance.  Knowing that these two were his friends at a hugely important time of personal shaping and influence in his life moved me beyond the power of my beloved words.  I felt such joy in realizing he had made a choice to gather them in his circle.  And that they had all exerted influence over one another during those critical high school years.  Meeting them closed the gap of understanding about who this precious man of mine is and how he came to be who he is.  I knew of his family.  I am a part of his family for life.  I dearly love his family, both nuclear and extended.  But aside from a few guy friends that he hung out with regularly, I hadn't met anyone who shared his passion for music from way back in the day.  And as I started out this entry with a rundown on the drive of passion, it is only fitting to close it out in like manner.

There lies a deep well of passion within me.  I've used that phrase several times in this entry, "within me."  Though I often become entangled in my residual battles with self-image via the body, it is the 'within' which most concerns me.  And it is there that my COMpassion resides, spilling over into my desire for a deeper understanding of, and relationship with, Christ and the people He sets in my path (and not all of them sharing the same faith or set of beliefs).  A compassion which completely covers and nudges my desire to relay through word and sentence and paragraph the warp and weft of the ever-growing fabric that is my life, my experiences, my lessons.  

Writers are to write what they know.  I . . . know . . . me.  In the most completely non-narcissistic way possible because my desire is to be stretched and pulled and reshaped for a glory beyond and above my simple, though often quite wonderful, human existence.  There's nothing very glamorous or flattering in that sort of personal knowledge because it is a mirror I hold up to myself and NOT rose-colored glasses.  That's probably why I hold those stylish Ross dresses in such high regard!

Are we simpatico in that?           

Bunny Hopping

I think I may have discovered a lingering - not lingerie - prejudice within my soul-searching, people-loving, Christ-seeking self. I say 'linger' because it first blipped onto my radar over two years ago, bringing me up short as an odd epiphany burst in my brain, scattering previous misconceptions on the matter into the void where hurtles and collides all manner of discarded thought.

For the case of this writing, I am using this variation of the definition for prejudice: an unfavorable opinion or feeling formed beforehand or without knowledge, thought, or reason. These feelings I have identified are not hateful, nor do they incite me to the point of exacting either physical or verbal harm on another. No, what these feelings stir within certain windowless corridors of my mind is annoyance, on whose heels follows rather quickly awareness.

This mental malingerer first appeared on the scene February 8, 2007. On this day an ex-stripper, ex-Playboy model from Texas - a fitting origin for one who was larger than life on a several different planes - by the name of Anna Nicole Smith died of a drug overdose at the age of 39. (I am 39 this year; it is difficult to imagine death robbing me of the chance to hit my 40's.) During her life, her body and her choices paved the way for her media celebrity without much evidence of her brain actively participating in the fray. After making Playmate of the Year - a pinnacle achievement - and divorcing her high school sweetheart first husband, Anna Nicole married an obscenely wealthy octogenarian oil tycoon while she was yet in her mid-20's. He passed away a few years into their marital bliss -- which is not surprising as she would have been a healthy handful for a robust young man let alone an aged billionaire with lusty tastes. She spent a good many years embroiled in a bitter lawsuit over the estate. From her first marriage she had a son who lost his life to drugs at the young age of 20; she also left behind a 3-year old daughter. Riding the coattails of earlier success stories, Ms. Smith tried her own hand at a reality-based show; she was continually portrayed as a vacuous, doped-up, dumbed-down, boobies-and-blond caricature of a woman. Pathetic in a nutshell. None of this conjured up the makings for a three-dimensional, in-depth, and worth-watching public personality. Not to me, anyhow.

Her death was covered and dissected and regurgitated, along with blow-by-blow analysis of why and where it all went wrong and who was the real father of her baby girl and endless interviews with publicity-seeking 'close friends,' by every news agency on television and online. Each day brought urgent developments, dished out for public consumption by folks like Matt Lauer and Ann Curry of THE TODAY SHOW, whose media talents I felt could and should be much better utilized with real news. I mean yes, it was tragic for anyone to die in that manner at a relatively young age (thank you, very much). It was doubly tragic that she lost her son and now her daughter was left without a mother. But, she chose to live as she did: live by the sword, die by the sword. Surely, somebody of true social importance had passed away, a real movie star, a Pulitzer-prize winner, a scientist, a social activist or major religious figure, heck, even a nobody young woman who chose to keep her clothes on and actually put attentively raising her kids above raising her cup-size for attention?

All perfectly good and witty opinions based on prejudice must come to an end.

It hit me while I was sweeping the kitchen floor, getting under the counters' edges and beneath the fridge. The blank eye of the TV stared at me, indignant at having been switched off by my irritated self after discovering more Anna Nicole coverage on a reputable news station that was decidedly not 'E! News.' Suddenly, POW! -- the freight train hit me. Would my death be more important because I chose not to gyrate around a pole for money while strange men ogled my body? Because I chose to remain fully dressed and out of the glossy pages of porn magazines? Because I chose to value my brain and decisions more than the lure of this world's money and pleasures? Further, was I more important than this ex-Guess model who slipped and fell victim to a prescription drug addiction? To men who treated her like a big juicy slab of prime rib ready to be devoured at their leisure? To a world that watched while she painted herself into a narrow corner and reduced her to celluloid fodder? Somewhere along the line, this mother of two lost her life-navigator-system and fell to wandering aimlessly through a one-dimensional life. If I was judging all of this using the yardstick of my developing-Christian perspective, I had measured Ms. Smith unjustly. I should not have considered her measurements . . . at all.

I cried for her as I should have done when first I heard the news of her death. I cried knowing that even as I prayed for her and those hurt by her passing, I had missed the chance to pray for her while she lived. I prayed for other lovely lonely women who sought attention and fame, or infamy as some cases often turned out, at the high cost of their sexuality, their individuality, their spirituality. I thanked Anna Nicole, posthumously as the case may have been, for opening my eyes to this invaluable lesson.

Except, the lesson was not learned. Not fully anyway. On Tuesday of this past week, I experienced another jolt. While in the kitchen (what is it with the kitchen and epiphany?) preparing a fantastic fish taco feast for dinner, my ears picked up the high-pitched strains of a girlish giggle. It sounded like this girl was repeatedly flubbing marriage vows. I asked what my daughter was watching on the living room TV set. She informed me it was a wedding show. Kendra Wilkinson, another ex-Playboy bunny, reality-show blond bomber, ex-live-in-girlfriend-to-nasty-ol’-Hugh-Hefner, was marrying Hank Baskett, a fine-looking hottie (Sarah’s description) of an NFL player for the Eagles. I rolled my eyes, still chopping the red cabbage, and tried to endure the next few minutes. But, after hearing Kendra gush about how her life had been transformed by this man’s undying love and devotion to her every need, while the sun’s reflection glinted off the whirring blades of the paparazzi-filled hovering helicopter overhead, and the crowd oohed and aahed from the transformed lawn of the Playboy mansion, I lost it. “Uh, yeah, right. Okay-y-y-y, then-n. . . “ Sarah, quick to discern the vast quantities of unspoken sentiment inherent in that statement, shot right back, “Mom. Just because she posed naked and is on a show you don’t like does not mean she is not a person. She is allowed to have feelings. Just like you,” she drew a breath, “and I thought you said Christians are not supposed to judge people. That is up to God!”

Well, I was proud of my daughter in that moment. No, not for defending a bunny I hoped my cat would never drag onto our back porch. No, not for exposing herself to empty programming which wasted perfectly good gray matter . . . and, yes, the chances were high that she enjoyed getting in that dig about my faith as she was not venturing with any apparent interest into that arena of belief herself. But, her core statement she spoke with conviction. All people mattered. All people were supposed to matter. Just as with Anna Nicole, I had formed - without much thought, little reason, and biased knowledge - an unfavorable opinion of this woman which kept me from allowing her any validity. I had more compassion for addicts, wife-beaters, and murderers. How was that possible? Because I detested the pornography industry and knew the pain, loss, and warped perspectives it engendered in so many, and because these two people seemed to go willingly into that dark night, I downgraded their human status. I fell prey to the media-hype, didn't do my own thinking, and thus became a bit one-dimensional myself in that area.

While I won't be picking up a Playboy magazine any time soon, I will remind myself that the women inside those slick pages are also somebody's daughter, mother, sister, aunt, friend, and the cornerstone of my faith says they, too, were created out of divine love and are worthy of my prayers.