Spirit: Forms of Forgiveness

This tree in Duekmejian Park is called the McFall Oak. During the Station Fire a couple years ago, firefighters surrounded it while everything else burned. Now the rest of the park has forgiven the fire, and it is moving along with its life. 

We live in uncertain times. By "we," I mean we as a world, a nation, a bunch of Southern Californians, but I also mean "we" as the McGrady/Spiller household, our family. Among our major decisions these days: how do we remedy our poor choice in Ikea entertainment centers; should we move to a bigger place; and which is the best sippy cup for 1-year-old Grace. We are on type no. 4 or 5 now.

 I keep dropping things.

Today at the Armenian market I spilled some limes and an eggplant. And also, at the pharmacy while I was waiting in line holding Gracie and trying to unblock the straw from aforementioned sippy cup no. 4 or 5, the stroller tipped over backward. And then I dropped the cup. And then the baby slid out of my arms and onto the floor. She was still and quiet for a second and then wailed, turning kind of pink. I picked her up right away and bounced her and cooed to her, saying "sorry, sorry, sorry" softly in her ear.

 I'd let the woman behind me in line step in front, and she said, "no mama, you'd better go." I was moved and teary by her simple kindness, the kind you expect from friends but is so rewarding when it comes from a stranger.

Gracie stopped crying a moment later and threw her little arms around my neck, and hugged me tight, and babbled on about her day as she peeked curiously at someone (who surely has eight cats at home) reading a magazine with a magnifying glass sitting next to us.

Tonight I am thinking about forgiveness and all its forms. And how forgiveness separates us as a species from something like reptiles, or Ikea furniture. And that I will work harder to forgive strangers and the people I love.

It Never Rains in Southern California

This is my favorite card I've made this year. So far.

I love rain. I never thought too much about it until I moved to California, where it is a rare commodity, a Big Deal. A healer and a destroyer. It is raining and raining and raining and won't let up.  I love cranking up the heater and watching movies under the down blanket my dad gave me in college, propped up legs or neck on Steve's lap, little Cinco dog squished up beside us, sweeting snoring Lucy on her bed nearby.

I love tromping up the hill with Debbie and her dog Elsa, all of us soaked after getting a top-of-the-mountain view of Glendale in its foggy splendor, and then coming back to cut out last year's cards to make this year's Christmas cards.

I love my in-laws. They are good and sweet and kind and true. I took my mother-in-law (MiL) and, not sure exactly what you'd call the relationship but I guess also my sister-in-law, to a completely inappropriate movie today, Black Swan, which I clearly didn't research very well. As Natalie Portman descended into madness we watched scenes of sex, lesbian sex, oral sex, self-sex, imagined sex, cutting, drugs and minor violence. I sat on edge with MiL on one side, a 6-year-old boy on the other whose mother kept putting her hand over his eyes during the dirty parts. Which was about half the film. I was so worried about everyone else being uncomfortable that I probably missed about half the film. But after, the MiL was gracious and hilarious and told me a hilarious true story about a man, a locker room and a hand-dryer.

 And then we went out into the pouring rain to go home.

A Nation of Mediocrity

I don't talk much about work in this blog. But something struck me today. We work so hard to get renewable energy into California. This is energy that comes from the sun, wind, geothermal, water and cow poop and other organic waste sources. Of course you need to get that energy TO people, via transmission lines. Because everyone so desperately needs several plasma TVs, and AC, and computers, and chargers -- but they don't quite understand how electrons get to these devices.

So people all have their panties in a twist about transmission lines for renewable energy running their neighborhoods -- but why aren't they up in arms about the Wal-Marts, the Cheesecake Factories, the Abercrombie & Fitches that mushroom overnight? I understand nature abhors a vacuum, and apparently, so do consumers.

These places make us, as a nation, as a people, mediocre. They are the path of least resistance. They are the beige in the spectrum of fabulousness and character. Don't get me wrong. I've dashed into a Starbucks on numerous occasions, and certainly have shopped 'til I dropped at TJ Maxx. Perhaps I'm being pedantic here. But can't we just put them in some urban center, or promote unique, human-based business, instead of treating the corporation as our parents, depending on them for our sustenence?

Used to be that when you were in an airport, you could tell from the great miasma of people who was from Texas, who the New York punks were, the ladies from Florida, the surfers, the hardcore bankers.

Now it just looks like everyone went to the Gap.

We have this awful place down the street called the Americana at Brand which is kind of like Disney and Vegas with a shopping theme. There's a patch of grass and a fountain with spurts that dance to nonstop oldies music. The good thing is that it brings life to dusty old corny Glendale, with hipper-than-anyone Japanese teenagers; huge families pushing strollers, toting kids and one about to pop out any day; starry-eyed first daters who need somewhere to amble after dinner at the Cheesecake Factory.

My sadness is this: that there isn't the same kind of life or enthusiasm centered around a library, a sculpture garden, a gallery, a museum in this region. That the shrines we build and value as a nation are to consumerism.

Presidential hopefuls, are you out there? Can you help? Can you bring a little soul back into our spirit as a nation?

Friday Night and the Lights Are Low ...

ABBA performs on Wonderama, 1976. My mother dated Bob McCallister, the host, in the '80s. He dumped her when he realized she wasn't rich. Jerk.


I remember being about 9 years old, at the height of the Disco Epoch, and imagining my teen and adult life being somewhat like the songs I listed to under my pillow on a Snoopy AM radio. There were a lot of songs about going out dancing. In fact, I think musicians were jailed and tortured if they produced a song that didn't involve the concept of looking fine and hooking up over a couple well executed Hustle moves. My adult life, I was convinced, would involve lots of lip gloss, some kind of boyfriend in a flared-leg suit, shiny long hair and of course, unlimited disco dancing, occasionally on roller skates.

I do rock the lip gloss occasionally, but I'm not sure when my other dreams bowed out. However, the music will always be with me, laser-etched into my DNA, my hard wiring. Disco is perennially happy and sexy and infuses hope and beauty into the most trite of activities (Car Wash, anyone?)

A couple years ago Special K snagged tix to Mamma Mia!, which is a "jukebox" musical built upon a skeleton of ABBA songs and a wacky story of a girl who isn't sure which of her mother's three lovers is her father -- so she invites the all! To her wedding! Dancing and copious alcohol consumption ensue! We saw Doogie Howser there and got up and danced with everyone, even though it was the "B" company in Thousand Oaks and there was an understudy!

And now (I am only explaining this to those who have been locked in the trunk of a 1973 Olds Cutlass for the past five years) Benny, Bjorn and Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson went ahead and made a movie of the musical. With big stars. Which we decided we HAD to see on opening night at the ghastly Americana at Brand theaters where it's all mediocre and American and crowded and too expensive. HOWEVER, it was fun to see Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan cutting loose.

We didn't dance in the aisles this time, nor did we see Neil Patrick Harris. My advice to you: Even if you're not nutso over the movie, sit through the credits.

And to ABBA, I say, thank you for the music, for giving it to me.

Law of Attraction

Last night, just as I sheepishly popped a couple two-year old frozen Trader Joe's burritos into the oven, my neighbor Mia called and invited me over for a beautiful salmon dinner.

My cousin Dan (I actually have TWO cousin Dans, but this is the crankier one) hates it when I talk about the Universe (and toxin cleansing), but I think the Universe (and Mia) really pulled through for me. And by eating the GOOD dinner, I completely avoided having to cleanse any toxins.

I love when things work out that way. Thanks, Universe! And Mia!

Tonight I wish I had a big declaration to make. I wish I could say I've given it all up to move to Montana and open a junk store. A small town, perhaps, where recycling is encouraged, and they need just my brand of savoir faire for a cafe-slash-artspace that I will open. Also, you could buy the stuff in the cafe if you wanted, like the cup or the table.

But I don't have that tonight. I am not getting married. I am not pregnant. I am not going to get my masters' degree, and I am not even going to freak on the Haagen Dazs in the freezer. I'm living my little life, in little glendale. Which has become Big Glendale over the weekend, with the introduction of the Americana at Brand, a high-end shopping mecca that has made our depressing, dusty main drag a kind of Vegasdisney. Suddenly there are shrubs and grass and a pond and a Kiehl's. And an 18plex theater.

My first thought upon sighting this was, "Wow, maybe if people buy more crap it will make our Salvation Army better."

Here's to trickling down.