I am Woman, Hear Me Roar.

Once, a long time ago, I had to research Joan of Arc and, with a friend, create a video depicting important moments in her life. As I remember it, we were quickly approaching summer vacation and I and my friend were already a little giddy. Anyhow, I loved researching this gutsy, probably slightly off-kilter woman. I remember we decided to enact her final moments in the throes of death with Morrison's "Come On Baby, Light My Fire," playing in the background. Yes, the ham in me was in rare form. We had a blast. Anyhoo, this is leading to my love of learning about gutsy, vivid women (you many not have seen that coming).

I just read 2 biographical books that left me ready to confront dictators, convert millions to a cause or traipse across Africa. Seriously, you read about these women and you wonder how you will ever be satisfied with laundry and internet shopping again. Inspired and disillusioned all at once - who knew a book could do such a thing?

So, first book up: Dancing to the Precipice, by Caroline Moorehead. This biography follows the life of Lucie De La Tour Du Pin. Born in 1770 to an elite family within the French aristocracy, she lived through the tumult of the French Revolution and its repercussions. She was first a lady-in-waiting to Marie Antoinette and then in the intimate circle of Napoleon. Just so you don't think this girl is fluff, she also managed, during the French Revolution, to escape with her family to New York where she ran her own successful dairy farm, only to return several years later. Crazy.

Fair Warning: Lots of french names go whizzing by and that can get a bit old.
Next up: Wildflower, Mark Seal. For all of you who love Out of Africa or West with the Night, this book will surely be more than comfortable in their company. Joan Root grew up in Kenya in the 1930s and was the silent partner to her husband/adventurer/filmmaker, Alan Root (hiss). Their nature films were huge in the 1960s and Joan was devoted to the success of her husband and to the preservation of her beloved Africa. I will not spoil the ending, suffice to say, how this woman did not machete chop dear Alan, I'll never know. Joan was both tenacious and tender at the same time - a rare achievement.

So both books are very well written and inspiring. They also leave you with a foreboding feeling that a life well lived - adventure, integrity, people to love - does NOT entitle one to a happy ending, as so aptly exemplified by dear Joan of Arc.

Please share your latest books that you've loved.

Bits

My thoughts are in a million and one places right now, but listing sounds wonderful. So here is a nice general list - the things I'm loving right now. Please share something you are thoroughly enjoying right now, mundane or exotic, doesn't matter. How I love hearing from you!

Miscellaneous Things/People/Places I'm Loving (in no particular order):

1. Celestial Seasonings Tangerine Orange Herbal Tea

2. Aveda's Tangerine Oil (sensing a theme?)


3. The series "White Collar." So many things I could say, but probably should not. Anyhow, delightful.

4. The idea of travel - I crave the Orient Express, Istanbul, Prague, Buenos Aires, Barcelona, Seville and ALL of Italy.

5. Tiny, little cherry tomatoes.

6. Letters in the mail - nothing better.

7. Commenting on soccer players' (or futbol, whichever you prefer) hair styles. This drives my husband slightly nanners.

8. The word "screed." Great word. I'm sure we've all endured a screed or two in our lifetimes.

9. Velvet couches. Lux galore.

10. C.O. Bigelow's lemon lip gloss. Yum.

11. The color Peacock Blue. Don't know if I have the courage to a paint a room in it, but maybe a chair.

12. Walking, walking, walking.

13. Polite people. A dinosaur nearing extinction.

14. And this picture:


Thank heavens for the little things that brighten our days!

The Art and Science of Female

I am a woman searching for her high heels, her cream blush, her bra, her favorite bag. A robber? Temporary amnesia? No, daughters. I am smooshed between a toddler and a twelve year old. The difference? Surprisingly, very little. I find my high heels on my toddler girl. She walks beautifully in them and with far more nonchalant hip sway then I could ever muster. My blush discretely disappears yet my twelve year old has the enviable color of youth and roses on her cheeks. My bra? Well, it's on my toddler's head as a hat - a true re-configuration.

They are each pushing - pushing to know what is female and to put it on like a coat, a pink coat at that. But it is so much more then the trappings of Sephora. But this is what I get a kick of - their quest for independence. This I relate to. My toddler will no longer wait for me to place her in her highchair. It is a tower she must climb. I stand just behind, my hands ready to catch her, and even this annoys her ego. My 12 year old girl wants to roam a mall with her friends and have her very own cell phone (ah, the bane of our relationship).

When my oldest girl was diagnosed in the hospital with Type I, diabetes, we all felt thrown into deep water. A wonderful nurse came in to teach my 8 year old girl how to take her shots (at least 5-7 shots a day). The nurse called us over and said, "Okay, mom and dad, I'm going to teach you how to give this girl her shots." Well, my daughter wasn't having it. She told the nurse, "No, you teach me. I'm going to give myself my own shots." The nurse looked at us. My husband and I looked at each other and then we took the plunge, "Yeah, okay. Teach her how to do it." And since then, that's how it has always been. Independence personified.

Toddlers, girls, women crave to prove, mostly to themselves. I can hack this. I will master this - the high heel, geometry, the art of flirting, rollerskating, taxes. I'm watching it before my very eyes - two girls determined to figure it out. It's fun to watch.

2010: Slaying the Dragon

So we have stumbled, nay tripped, into 2010. Lovely blank calender with so much possibility. Possibility is so alluring, sort of grabs your imagination and runs with it. Being a list fanatic, of course I have developed a list for 2010, but I will not bore you with the entire list. Over the years, and the course of much reading on the subject of goals, I have learned to try to keep goals specific and in the realm of realism. Hate that word - realism. How ugly. But that said, realism in part is so ugly because it means dealing with the hard, inescapable nuts and bolts of what is. My ugly dose of realism: I can't sleep. So the ugly, corresponding goal: To learn how to sleep like a normal person. Go to bed at a normal time, wake up. No fits of tossing and turning, no hot baths at 3 in the morning, no raiding the fridge at 4.

Kudos to me - I was sent to a sleep neurologist. Brainy woman and her side-kick told me that there is no medicine to cure this inability to sleep, especially one associated with chronic illness. Sigh. No quick fix? No. She told me that my brain had completely forgotten how to sleep, when to sleep, etc. Side note: I understand forgetting how to use your Cusinart - totally get that. Forgetting how to sleep? NOT a good sign of things to come.

So I went home with a stinking list - yes, I am giving the word "list" a negative connotation here. This is not pretty. I am to take no nap, beyond a 1/2 hour nap in the afternoon. Doesn't matter how yucky sick I am or brain dead. Too bad. I am not to go to bed before 1 o'clock (AM!) and I must be up by 6 0'clock - no matter what. No pity, if I am unable to sleep at all. Up, up you sad bag of bones. The idea is that by sheer torture, my body will submit and eventually return to a regular sleeping pattern. Key word: torture.

These are the hard knocks of an insomniac. But I am determined to kick this baby to the curb. This sleep thing has me by the throat and 2010 will be the year that this woman takes back the night. Yeehaw.

(dear friends, are you busy sharpening a sword? Preparing to slay any dragons? What is your quest?)

Glory Cloak

"A little kingdom I possess, where thoughts and feelings dwell; And very hard the task I find of governing it well. " Louisa May Alcott

Has anyone ever come into your life in the nick of time? A bright spot, completely unforeseen. This happens to me regularly. I find inspiration and guidance from the experiences and words of all sorts of people. They give me courage and help me in the inevitable course corrections. Tonight I found kinship in Lousia May Alcott. Unexpected, certainly. I watched a wonderful adaptation of her life taken directly from her letters and journals. There was so much going on in her head, so many thoughts and passions and wit. She struggled hard on many fronts, but always rallied. But she was blessed with a circle of people who inspired and encouraged her. Her mother once made her a cloak, named "the glory cloak" to aid her in her struggle with the manuscript Moods. Louisa was told to wrap it tight around her and the words and stories would most certainly come. She wore that cloak and her book was published, as well as many thereafter.

Her mother was inspired and knew what to give her daughter in her moment of hesitation and fear. Not all glory cloaks are tangible, but I have been wrapped tight in the intangible kind many times over. Even tonight, I felt the encouraging hand of a woman long gone. I think I need to read Ms. Alcott's letters and journals; I may have found yet another friend.

Homesick Holiday

I have avoided a holiday post of sorts; the reasons are not essential. Tonight, my family and I worked on decorating our Christmas tree. The white lights were a hassle. My littlest one kept climbing under the tree while my son was a caped crusader thanks to a handy tree skirt. Old newspaper littered the floor and lines of dead lights lay in a tangled mess. But I was busy fighting off some introspection while I put up ornaments from when I was 4 or 5 years old -- a gold ornament from 1978 from my grandma and 3 ballerinas with net tutus. The truth is, Christmas makes me homesick. Is that awful? Homesick not so much for a place, but for people. My grandma and her bowl of red and green ribbon candy. Our Christmas Eve drive into Boston as a family. To my brother, as a small boy, every plane that left Logan Airport was Santa and his sleigh. And he could sing all of Bing Crosby's "Christmas in Killarney" complete with the Irish accent. I remember our Disney blanket that covered the entrance into the living room (and thereby the tree) - tacked tight to the door frame every 5 inches or so. We were not allowed to even see the tree until after a warm breakfast was eaten and pictures had been taken. Torture at the time, but happy memories now.

Anyhow, tonight while my little tribe of hooligans put up their ornaments, Judy Garland's song "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" came on. There is something about Judy Garland's voice that breaks my heart a bit. I just listened and, for a few moments, her song captured in both emotion and words some of the feelings I've had this last month or so. The original lyrics, first sung by Judy, have a melancholy aftertaste to them. It was Frank Sinatra that came along and altered them in preference for something all bright, all happy. I could try to say more, but the words aren't coming very easily lately and Judy can sing it so much better. Suffice to say, dear family and friends, past and present, you are in my thoughts this Christmas.

Tell Me A Story

My husband and I approach music very differently. He listens for the intricate riffs, the melody, the improvisation. I, on the other hand, am always listening for the story. Sadly, I have quite a bit of gray matter devoted to useless lyrics, except for Simon & Garfunkel. They are never useless. This pre-occupation with story goes far beyond lyrics and pretty much merges into every aspect of my life. For instance, when I get to heaven, I will kindly ask to see the Bible containing all the fascinating accounts and stories recorded by the females. It is sure to be quite the read.

Recently, I came across the New York Public Libraries Digital Gallery. Quite the gem. Anyhow, I became sucked into their trove of old photos. Look at them and tell me that each face doesn't beg to tell a story. Real people abuzz with thoughts, energy, hang-ups. Which brings me to another bit of lyric, a true classic. Remember the tune?

There are places I remember

All my life, though some have changed,
Some forever, not for better,
Some have gone and some remain.
All these places had their moments,
With lovers and friends I still can recall,
Some are dead and some are living,
In my life I've loved them all.