Blooming Mondays: A Token Of Appreciation (rose, 07.11.11)

I’m having a moment. I’m rocking back on my heels, falling into grace and spinning in joy.

Why, you ask?

I HAVE NO IDEA.                       HA!

But I will take advantage of this bizarre state of bliss and cell-infused appreciate for life in all its mysterious facets to say thank you to you, my readers – both known and silent. You inspire me to return, time and again, to this space and place parts of myself – from the frivolous to the profound – on the page. And because I get to do that here, I’m finding the freedom and courage to do it – be all parts of me – more and more in the rest of my world.

And, holy hell, that is liberating!

So on this absurdly delightful Monday, I wish the same for you…

May you feel the freedom and courage to reveal as many parts of you as you wish today! xo

by zenonline / flickr

It’s a superficial freedom, lacking the profundity of freedom from prosecution or persecution or fear.  It’s simply an expansion of possibilities, really, flavored with an extra helping of love, or rest, or release, depending on how your life is structured.

But, still, it is sweet.

Sometimes, I want to savor the flavor by myself, choosing a solitary few days of reflection. This usually translates into laundry, dusting and Netflix – not so dramatic or compelling, but necessary and valued. At other times, the taste inspires vigorous celebration.

This weekend, I will be busy.

I’m venturing into something new.

I’m revisiting old friends.

I’m creating.

I’m completing.

I’m living.

And it is good.

What are your plans for the weekend?

by Sharons Web/flickr

An amazing event happened yesterday as I was waiting in line at the post office. A man in front of me started dancing. He had on headphones. He wasn’t shabbily dressed, at least not for Hollywood. But he wasn’t just nodding to the tunes. He was FULL OUT GROOVING. And everyone else in line immediately averted their eyes, glanced nervously at each other and took a step back, including me.

And then, I was struck by a thought.

Why are we all reacting with a combination of fear, embarrassment and pity? Why are we assuming he must be some homeless dude off his meds?

Why does this man’s joyful dancing terrify us so, and make us so uncomfortable?

WHY AREN’T WE ALL DANCING WHILE WAITING IN LINE? Seems like a damn good use of our time…

If there had been any kids under the age of 5 in that line, I’ll bet they would have joined that man.

***

In the moment, as I looked around at the group of “adults” in which I found myself, I felt a little sad for all of us, for the exuberance and self-confidence we’d lost, for the self-consciousness and inhibition we’d somehow acquired.

I wished for a camera, to capture this man’s freedom. But then I caught sight of a woman ahead of me who was slyly attempting to record the line dancer with her iPhone.

She had a smirk on her face.

I wondered where her little video would surface, and with what kind of commentary. I had a sinking feeling the sentiment attached to the image would not be one of celebration but rather one of ridicule.

The man caught sight of her as well. His face suddenly sagged. He appeared to visibly shrink. He stopped moving. The music continued in his headphones but he became one of us, one of the expressionless adults standing in line.

It made me want to cry, to scream, to apologize, to encourage him to dance again, to dance in defiance myself.

But I did nothing.

And then a postal worker called out, “Next!” and the line moved forward and we all lost a chance for… something.

But I’m adding DANCING IN LINE to my list of intentions.

Would you have the courage to dance in line?

Is it possible for a trip to be the best and the worst at once? It seems so.

I went to Ireland this year, you see. I have red hair, and a wee bit o’ Gaelic blood, and I’ve always wanted to go. And so I put my wish out there. On a sigh. Or, actually, in the middle of a rant among girlfriends. I said, “I’m about to turn 40, my life sucks, I haven’t traveled in years – cause unless it requires a passport, it doesn’t count, and I really wish I could go to Ireland!”

I say things like that on a fairly regular basis.

But on this one day in March, a very dear friend in the midst of all these fabulous girlfriends, actually paid attention. With an impulsive “I’ll go with you” and a wave of her wand – or, actually, a few thousand hotel points – she made it happen.

Before I could take a breath, but just in time for me to dismiss her impulsiveness, she’d bought her airline ticket.

And so, I bought mine.

And we went.

Eight days. Driving back roads as much as possible. Laughing and singing and drinking our way through Kilkenny, Waterford, Cork, Kerry and Shannon before returning to the amazing city of Dublin for a final few days of pub crawling and rugby viewing.

It was green. Very, very green.

The beer was good. Very, very good.

The people were friendly. Very, very– well, not that friendly, but really nice.

And I felt like I was able to breathe again, after months of suffocation.

I was born to travel. I love doing it more than doing almost anything else you can imagine. I hold strongly the belief that if more people picked up a passport rather than a gun, we would obtain peace. I spent my 20s living out of a suitcase. And when too much time has passed between one trip and the next, I miss the freedom, challenge and adventure of travel like an amputee misses her limb.

This trip was stupendous. Even when my friend tripped over a curb our last day and sprained her ankle, thereby putting the kabosh on our much anticipated literary pub crawl. We simply shrugged off the change in plans, as one becomes adept at doing while traveling, and lounged in the hotel room debating the highlights of the proceeding week.

Neither of us had any way of knowing that seven days later, she would be dead of complications stemming from that damned sprained ankle.

I am left with beautiful pictures. Bittersweet memories. An unshakable passion for travel. And complete confusion. I still wade through a shitload of emotions with the weight of molasses. I struggle to reconcile the joy of the trip with the devastation of its aftermath, to retain the hope I rediscovered for myself in the midst of despairing grief for… everything.

There are seven stages of grief, I’ve been told. I thought they would come in a brief, orderly fashion, like months of the year. I was wrong.

And now, I just really wish I could go to some forgotten island in Greece and let the sun and the sand and the sea dissolve all the pain that comes with life. But then again, if I’ve learned one thing this year, it is definitely… be careful what you wish for.

If you’re still reading this, you may be wondering where the hell the positive, pleasurable spin is in all this. After all, this was supposed to be one of the BEST moments of 2009, right? Here’s what I can give you or, perhaps more importantly, give myself…

I spent eight intense, incredibly memorable, very personal days with an amazing woman who gave me more gifts with her friendship than I will likely have time to pay forward.

I journeyed through a greater spectrum of the human experience as a result of this trip than ever before.

And I’ve now been to Ireland.

I can recommend it.

A few months ago, Lubna went to a cafe. She was wearing pants. She was arrested. Other women were arrested too. The other women accepted their punishment. Lubna did not. In the past month, Lubna has attempted to raise awareness about the punishment and, more importantly, about the law itself – a barbaric misinterpretation of Koranic Law resulting in Sudanese policy that women can not wear pants in public.

And Lubna has been successful, both in Sudan and abroad. She wants the law changed. Others agree. Her courage has inspired theirs. They showed up at her trial today, to lend her their support. Some of the women even wore pants (and were promptly arrested). Faced with so much attention, the judge decided to fine Lubna rather than force physical punishment on her.

And this is the moment.

This is the moment in which most people would see a straight road to freedom, accept the ruling, and run. For Lubna, however, this moment is her crossroads. She is refusing to pay the fine. She risks imprisonment, and potentially worse physical punishment than the initial charge conveyed, but standing by her charge that the law itself should be invalidated.

This has never been about Lubna not wanting to get hurt. She wants to change the system. And, as much as the idea that a woman could be brutally punished for wearing pants shocks me, the idea that one individual could have the courage to suddenly stand against the status quo, with a rallying cry of “NO MORE,” awes me.

Lubna isn’t the first person to do this. She isn’t even the first woman. And, I hope, she won’t be the last. I just wonder what mixture of nurture and nature made it so that she is one of the select few who step so far out of their comfort zone that they attempt to change the world for the rest of us, and enter the annals of history.

I do not think I am this kind of person. Perhaps I am, but I have yet to be tested. It’s possible. It is more likely, however, that I am one of the many who would have just accepted the flogging. I could easily have been the one to pee my pants in fear. Or, hell, I probably wouldn’t have worn pants in the first place. Fear is a powerful thing.

Thank god there are people out there, like Lubna, who remind me that, while fear may indeed by powerful, it isn’t ALL POWERFUL. It can be overcome.

Designed by Shepard Fairey

Rachel, from Mom in Real Life, puts it very eloquently:

“We are not marching for gay marriage, we are not marching to hate on the Bible, we are marching to get federal rights for all of America’s citizens. We are marching so that a person who fights and risks their life for their country should be able to carry a picture of their partner in the uniform. We are marching so that when a gay man gets beaten and tied to a fence post to die, it is considered a hate crime. We are marching so that a good teacher will not lose her job because she loves another woman. We are marching so that a senior citizen can honor the wishes of their partner of 50 years when they get seriously ill and be allowed to stay by their bedside to provide comfort.”

You can find the rest of what she has to say at mominreallife.com. It is worth a read.

Now, you may wonder why I’m bringing this up. After all, still having to fight for equal rights isn’t exactly the most pleasurable of subjects. But here’s the thing. I believe that love is pleasurable. I believe that companionship is pleasurable. I believe that freedom of choice is pleasurable. In fact, I KNOW all this, because people who came before me ensured that, as a white, single, heterosexual, educated woman in 2009, I can act on my beliefs and experience the benefits of acting on them. Hallelujah!

How could I possible wish anything less for anyone else, anywhere?

So, while I won’t be able to hit the pavement in D.C., I will certainly be there in spirit.

Let me know your thoughts on this subject, whatever they may be. And do tell me if you’re spending the second weekend in October heading toward the west lawn of the Capitol. I’ll be cheering from the long state on the other coast, the one that has given the innocent number 8 a very bad name.

I love my pants, particularly my jeans. I appreciate dresses and skirts, too. However, I must pause a moment and, with a sigh of relief, acknowledge how happy I am to live in a country where I can choose what, where, when and how I want to wear what I wear.

I cannot imagine what it must be like to live under laws such as those enforced in Sudan, and many other countries, where fear of women and their bodies results in rules such as the one which Lubna is accused of breaking.

I wish Lubna much luck with her trial, and thank her for her courage and conviction. I will follow this story and wish for a positive outcome. I am simply grateful that I am not in her shoes. Or her pants.

By Any Other Name

What’s in a name? Do you think you would be a different person if you had a different name? Have you ever thought of changing yours? I know I’ve thought about it many times. In fact, I’ve even acted on the impulse.

Yes, ladies and gents, I have changed my name, more than once. My boss recommended I use a different name at work, because future employers might act wonky if they knew I’d once punched the clock at a dildo factory, so I have. When I started college, I attempted to make people call me by my middle name, but it never caught on. I even tried out numerous alter egos while pursuing an acting career, going so far as to practice various signatures in case my “real name” was already taken by some other ingenue in SAG; I eventually went with my given name when I joined the union – due to indecision rather than conviction.

So it should come as no surprise to you that when I started this blog, I created a new name for myself. It wasn’t far from my given name – everyone calls me Em. You see, I was unsure about how much of myself I would end up revealing in this blog, what subjects I would eventually want to discuss and how many secrets I might reveal. I did not want to censor myself for fear of upsetting someone I love or have my personal opinions affect my career – the one that doesn’t involve the dildo factory.

Recently, however, my cyber identity and my “real” one collided, and my anonymity was accidentally broken. Luckily, people before me, like the amazing Lemmonex, have been in similar circumstances and shared their experiences. I know I am faced with a choice, either to put a great deal of effort into keeping my two lives separate or to trust that a name does not define me.

While I am not going to now shout the name and social security number that are on my birth certificate to the roof tops, I’ve discovered that I don’t care anymore if someone puts two and two together. I have grown to really love the name Emma James, and how I express myself while identifying so. When someone refers to me as Emily, however, I’m not going to pretend they’re actually just discussing that Dickinson chic. For whatever reason, Emma does provide me greater freedom, or at least I perceive myself as more free – to be me. Strange, perhaps, but perception is everything.

How do you think people perceive you, based on your name? Do you think you fit your name? If not, what name would you choose, to express who you are?

Today marks the 50^th anniversary of the Dalai Lama’s forced flight from Tibet after a failed uprising against Chinese rule. In anticipation of this crucial and sad milestone, the Chinese government has closed Tibet to foreign tourists and media, and put severe restrictions, such as banning prayer, on monastic life – a cornerstone of Tibetan society. My heart breaks at the injustice of it all.

Reunion

A few years ago, I went to the Roof of the World, as the Tibetan plateau is sometimes called. Though the visit was all too brief, the experience had a profound effect on me. I want to share with you my impressions of a magnificent place and an even more phenomenal people.

Old Woman in Hat

First, let me clarify that I was born with wanderlust. As a result, I have travelled fairly extensively, I have lived in various countries, and I always ensure my passport is within easy reach. I have seen Wonders of the World. I have met fascinating people. I have touched and tasted and smelled the definition of exotic. No place, however, has come close to shifting my soul the way Tibet did.

Traveling

Tibet introduced me to many firsts.

Fear and Innocence

Challenges. An old woman defecating in the gutter of a bustling street. A cluster of giggling nuns scattering in terror at the sight of a uniform. A teaming pile of maggots waiting for the heat of my urine at a road-side Ladies Room.

Girl

Revelations. An old man, barely able to walk and held up by two family members, making a full salutation to his faith at every step between his home, miles away, and Tibet’s first Buddhist temple, Jokhung. A child handing her stuffed monkey to a stranger in a gesture of utter innocence and generosity while her mother looked on with approval rather than fear or greed. A group of laborers weatherizing a roof by dancing the tar into place and singing in harmony… A smile on the striking face of a young man from Kham, a smile matched by every other member of his impoverished clan, a smile that illuminated not just his eyes but, I swear, the very air he was breathing.

Men at Work

The smiles are what slayed me. The Tibetans are a persecuted people. They are told they can’t speak their native language in school if they want to continue their education past the primary level. Their sacred mountains are flattened to make room for box-like structures with gaudy, blue-tinted windows. Their poverty is extreme. And yet… They smile. I mean, they really smile. And when they do, it is obvious that they have more capacity for ethereal joy than any other people I have ever met. It is as if they have discovered the secret of life.

Two Women

Now, I am aware that none of my photos capture those smiles. The Tibetans are not comfortable posing for the camera. Most of these pictures were taken on the Cora, the pilgrimage path around the Jokhung, and people were focused on their spiritual journey rather than the inquisitive tourist with the camera. So, I don’t have proof.

Monks on the Phone

Without proof, you could roll your eyes, groan at the sappiness of my sentiment, kindly suggest that perhaps I was affected by the altitude more than I knew. You would be wrong.

Pool Hall

We, in the “Western” world, are surrounded by stuff. We worry about losing our McMansions and SubZero kitchen appliances. We moan about our crappy cell service or the price of gasoline or how we’re being forced to take a service job since being laid off at the hedge fund. We medicate with television, with Prozac, with Bourbon. And we spend millions in a desperate search for happiness.

No Small Obstacle

From what I’ve seen, the Tibetans don’t waste their time in that pursuit. They embody happiness, in a more profound way than I could ever express with words. It would be madness to crush that gift, or try to profit from it.

Children at Play

Free Tibet.