Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Life is but a Dream

Ever drifting down the stream--

Lingering in the golden gleam--

Life, what is it but a dream?                    

                        Lewis Carroll

I’m plowing through Stephen King’s Dark Tower series this summer and just finished book four, “Wizards and Glass.”  A key theme and phrase in these books is “there are other worlds than these,” and there are many instances in the series where characters move in and out of worlds and times in a dreamlike fashion where death is not an absolute and people are never quite who they at first appear to be.  Also, I recently saw Christopher Nolan’s “Inception,” in which Leonardo DiCaprio plays a thief who can move in and out of his own and others’ dreams—but when can he be absolutely sure he’s not dreaming?

In both of the worlds created by these fantasies a person to some degree is able to choose his dream.  In the Dark Tower, Roland the Gunslinger seizes  opportunities to move between worlds (or are they dreams after all?) in his obsessive search for the Tower.  In “Inception,” DiCaprio’s Cobb character moves between dream worlds as easily as pressing a floor button in an elevator, choosing to invade the dreams of others and even plant ideas in those dreams with dangerous and tragic results.  In the end he must choose to return from a dream he’s having trouble letting go of but which he knows is destroying him.  And in the end, is his chosen world just another dream, albeit a happier one?

It seems our experience of life is defined by our perception of it, so we can choose our dream—but it’s so damn hard to keep that in mind (as is the case when you are actually dreaming, especially during a nightmare).  It’s difficult to be mindful that we have far more space and choice than we perceive, and that we can choose to swim up through the murky water toward the surface and the light rather than succumb to the illusion we’re drowning. 

The other thing it’s hard to keep in mind is that everybody else is in their own dream, in various states of unconsciousness or wakefulness, and that their dreams are not yours, or vice versa. 

Nothing is quite what it seems on the surface.  If we’re not awake enough, we box ourselves and other people in with assumptions, “truths,” “limitations” that are not real.  If only we could have a way to jog the memory like Cobb does in “Inception”--to spin the little top to help us see what is real.  On the other hand, if we’re happy and at peace, isn’t that all the real we need?

Are Men Less Adaptable?

M and I read and had much discussion about an article recently in the Atlantic called “The End of Men” by Hanna Roslin. It was about how American women (and actually women in other countries as well to some degree) have actually become the dominant gender in our culture in many ways. For example, more women are now managers in the US (although I can attest this is still not true in high tech). Moreover, countries who allow women to participate in business are measurably more successful financially than those who do not. More women than men are earning college degrees now; in fact, some private schools are so concerned about keeping the gender balance on campus that they’re applying a form of affirmative action and relaxing certain expectations so as to be able to accept more men.
Women are marrying much later in life and more women in their 20s are questioning the value of long-term relationships with men their age, not seeing these guys showing much readiness to be equal breadwinners. They are making sure they themselves can earn their own way and in many ways saying that they don’t need men to have happy, fulfilled lives.

I’ve lived most of my life in what used to be called a “role reversal”—my husband stayed home with the kids and I earned the money to support us all. (When I mention this arrangement to others it is amazing how many men say, “Oh—I always wanted to do that.”) At the time M wanted to write and believed he’d be able to find the time to do that at home and take care of the kids and run the household. Easier said than done, as any stay-at-home parent will confirm, but we were new parents and we didn’t know. I had entered high tech and was making a pretty good salary for that time, more than I’d expected to be making with a BA in English. My hopes to teach English in high school didn’t work out, since jobs in education were scarce back then.

Unlike many “Mr. Moms” I’ve heard about, M took the role very seriously—ran the household, did all the cleaning, planned and cooked all the meals in addition to raising our two children and making sure they got where they needed to go for pre-school, elementary school, piano lessons, softball practice and more in our trusty Dodge Caravan. M and I have always had a very equal relationship and made all our decisions in every area together. It has been a good partnership.

But I’m not sure most men are prepared to do that despite their expressions of interest in it, and I hear that many who have ended up unemployed at home while their wives work have not adapted in such a way as to pick up some of the housework and cooking so that work overall is equally shared. So in that case, the imbalance and unfairness is unacceptable, especially to young women these days who see their way clear to living completely independently of men and having complete freedom to do whatever they want whenever they want, including having children by themselves if they wish.

And if this is starting to happen as the norm it is a huge shift in culture.

Reinforcing this is what I have often observed over the years in my work--that when change and adjustment and adaptation to current conditions on the ground are needed, it is often a core group of women who step in, collaborate, help each other often reaching across organizational boundaries, finding the new path to make it happen.

Many reasons were offered in the article for why men are not the kings of the castle they used to be. Modern businesses call for more social intelligence, more collaboration and communication skills, to balance the competitiveness. Men turn too often to competition first and foremost, and do not seem to draw on the other skills where they would work best. Also, the suggestion is made in the article that men are less adaptive to the constant and inevitable change in business today than women are. More men than women are unemployed these days since some of the hardest hit job categories are primarily male-oriented, construction and manufacturing for example. And when men find themselves booted out of a job that then completely disappears, they seem less able to see the paths to reinvent themselves, to adapt to new careers and learn new skills.

You might think, as a woman, I’m glad to see this. But I’m not. My long-time relationship with M is based on equality, respect, and a refusal to be boxed in by assumptions about what our roles should be. In other words, we have both adapted and continue to adapt to a wide variety of changes and this is why we are still a happy couple. That is not to say we haven’t had our difficulties and had to adjust to major changes (the empty nest is so very empty at times, not to mention the changes that deaths in the family can bring). But we have continued to make it work and learned a lot along the way. I hope my son and daughter both find someone they can share this kind of relationship with. I also want them both to be able to have strong, productive careers that give them satisfaction and the feeling they have accomplished good work.

Meanwhile, gentlemen, please don’t underestimate what women have to offer-- and how about paying us an equal wage for equal work? That would be a good change.

Skullcandy

Last Sunday I decided to venture out and buy a pair of headphones for our home PC so that when I wanted to listen to music or video clips while I’m on the PC in the family room, I can freely do that without having to worry about disturbing M while he’s reading or watching TV.

So we went to Best Buy and got some advice from a patient young man, very tall, very skinny, a huge mass of long, golden brown curls haloing his head. Since I’ve never owned headphones before (I know, hard to believe), I had amusing questions for the young man like, “do you think that little hole in the front of my computer speaker is for earphones? How can I be sure?”)—but he answered all my questions with a bemused look (you can also plug these headphones into the similar little hole you will find in the IPod you have). He warned me that the earphones were quite powerful so I should take care not to blast my ears to kingdom come on the first try.

I wanted something fairly inexpensive since I had no idea what I was doing, but of high quality that would shut out ambient sound pretty well so that I don’t have to hear the Nuggets game in the background when I’m listening to Joni Mitchell. I ended up walking out with the somewhat age-inappropriate earphone brand “Skullcandy”, thoroughly secured in snappy clear and black plastic packaging decorated with ominous looking skulls. The brand name has made me feel slightly more dangerous than I have any business feeling, I think. 

I went home and plugged these headphones into the little hole in the speaker without incident, and then (being careful to keep the volume low at first), tried listening to a song I had recently downloaded to iTunes, Bonnie Rait and John Prine’s version of John’s “Angel from Montgomery.”

Wow. It was wonderful.

Now I understand better why my kids make sure they have music wherever they go, in the current age a possibility when previously it was not.

The music came through beautifully, in all its nuances and glory, and I was left wondering why on earth I had waited so long to treat myself to this “skull candy.” I was so transfixed that an annoyed M had to stand right in front of me waving his arms to get my attention—he’d been trying to talk to me from behind, and I hadn’t heard a thing. In the classic teenage move I lifted up one of the earphones and said, “WHAT??”

Anyway—lesson learned. This was another reinforcement of the importance of treating my brain regularly to new experiences and sensations—great music, books, art, nature, conversation. What else have I been unwittingly starving for? And what are you starving for?

Remember what the dormouse said,
Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head.

                        "White Rabbit" - Grace Slick

Finding My Voice

                                                 Maggie Kuhn

  

After a long blog drought it struck me on a hike today that what I wanted to write about was finding my voice.  Have I finally found my voice after these many years, or not?  And what does that really mean?  To me it means speaking the truth out loud, clearly, kindly, rather than “stifling myself” constantly.  I stifle myself because of fear—fear of rejection, of authority, of dismissal, of my own sense of worthlessness.

I think finding my voice is not a one-time achievement but an ongoing quest.  I’ve won some battles in this respect but I’ve not won the war, since I often still have to drag myself kicking and screaming to the point where I’ll speak up even when it is absolutely warranted.  Part of me firmly believes that if I actually spoke my mind clearly, honestly and kindly at every opportunity that there might be such a radical change in my life that it would become unrecognizable.  Often it seems ever so much safer to be satisfied with the sounds of silence (Paul Simon had much to say on this topic).

But more and more I’m noticing physical reactions to my forced silences that might be strong hints that I really must speak out more—reactions like insomnia-producing pain from my jaws due to the clenching and grinding I’m unconsciously doing day and night. 

A wise woman asked me recently if I was singing these days.  I am not—even though the songs and their lyrics were always a source of joy and a way I could express deep ideas and emotions in my life no matter what was going on.  So the other night I got out the songbooks, pulled up a chair on the back porch, and told myself I only had to sing three songs and then I could quit if I wanted.  Of course, I sang many, many more—folks songs, spirituals, Leonard Cohen, James Taylor, John Prine.  It felt good.

At work and in my personal life, I’ve often kept my silence rather than be shut down or dismissed.  I think it’s dismissal that’s most painful; it feeds into my thought patterns about losing another person’s love or esteem.  But in my saner moments I know that someone else’s dismissal of me or my ideas is often much more about them than it is about me.
 

When I was young, my father (who I loved dearly) had particularly strong ideas about a child’s behavior.  A child was to be obedient (even though he himself was not in his own childhood, as his stories revealed).  Above all, a child should not “talk back,” but should show respect for her parents.  At times I was chastised for talking back when, in truth, I had no idea that I was guilty of this nefarious and disrespectful deed.  If I did talk back there were usually consequences that to me seemed devastating—mainly "the look" or angry yelling.  I’ve never been able to tolerate being yelled at without becoming incredibly upset about it—and so I’ve developed a variety of techniques for avoiding yelling and conflict of any sort. 

Many of these techniques can be used constructively—diplomacy, fairness, kindness, strong listening skills, excellent verbal skills, empathy.  But in the end it is only with great willpower that I’ve steeled myself over the years to “talk back” to those who have power over me.  I have to overcome a myriad of unpleasant physical reactions, including tears, trembling, a shaky voice, clamminess, hot flashes and a sinking stomach.  Not to mention the catastrophic mental responses like fear that I will lose the love or esteem of the person I’m confronting, questions about how important this issue really is (when weighed against my very survival), questions about whether I am perhaps dead wrong about this particular issue after all, and fear that speaking up at this juncture will irrevocably destroy the relationship and the person I’m confronting will lose respect for me or never speak to me again.  To someone who is not familiar with this kind of conflict avoidance, these fears must seem incredibly neurotic.

The interesting thing is that often when I finally force myself to have a conversation with the person in question I find that they have a perfectly reasonable response, or at least a response that does not result in the end of the world as I know it.  Of course, this isn’t always the case, and sometimes I have battles that leave me the worse for wear or that lead to more trouble for me.  But even then I usually feel as though they were battles worth fighting in the end—words worth saying for my own self respect. One of the first confrontations of this sort I remember daring to have in my life was, not surprisingly, with my father.

I was around 21.  My father had decided he didn’t want to “subsidize” my “shacking up” with M any longer.  I was finishing school and my parents were still paying some of the expenses, although I had a job.  I was living with M (we would not be married until many years later) and we were absolutely in love.  We are still together today, 39 years later.  Despite all my efforts to avoid confrontation on this, it was clear that I had to stand up to my father.  I was shaking so hard I could barely speak, even though it was a hot summer night on the deck looking out on the deep green, firefly-lit Indiana woods.  My mother fluttered around in the background like a firefly herself as the confrontation became more heated.  I had learned many of my confrontation avoidance techniques at my mother’s feet and I realize now she might have feared she would lose me somehow if the confrontation continued.  But I gathered together every inch of courage I had and told my father that if he was suggesting I choose, the choice would not be in his favor, and that I would support myself from now on in order to remove money from the equation.  The consequence:  voices were raised but the world did not end, and over time my father came to respect, trust and love M.

Many confrontations have happened since then—usually with far more angst beforehand than they deserved and with much better outcomes than I had expected.  And so, I have found my voice—I just have to keep finding the courage to use it.

People talking without speaking

People hearing without listening

People writing songs that voices never share

And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence

                                                Paul Simon

Do you have a story to tell about finding your own voice?

24

Today I have a son who is 24 years old.  He’s many things including a mountain climber and a risk-taker—and he loves Boulder.  I know well that he also has a growing wanderlust and I would predict road trips and other adventures in the not so distant future.  Neil Young really had it right:

Old man, look at my life

Twenty-four and there’s so much more

Live alone in a paradise

That makes me think of two.

Love lost, such a cost.

Give me things that don’t get lost

Like a coin that won’t get tossed

Rolling home to you…

                              Neil Young

When I was 24 it was 1977.  Just a few months before my September birthday, M and I had packed everything we owned (mainly books, a typewriter and two guitars) into a tan square-backed VW and moved ourselves from Bloomington, Indiana (where at the time both cheap housing and jobs were in scarce supply) to Boulder, Colorado, mainly to follow our dream of living near the mountains.  I had graduated two years before.  We left everything behind in Indiana—all our friends, our family, our low-paying jobs, the abundant green of Hoosier woods, the orange-red of the Indiana fall.  I am surprised now that we had the courage to make such a monumental change, but at the time it seemed like exactly the right move.  We did have each other, after all.

It was May.  We were blessed with warm, summery weather and we had no idea how lucky we were about that—we camped in a tent for a week at the Wagon Wheel Campground up Four-Mile Canyon, and then we found rooms in a house on the corner of Arapahoe and Lincoln, right across from the public library.

Our housemate was a very strange ex-Californian named Peter, who was older than he wanted us to think, and who had been writing a screenplay for many years.  He was short, blond and tanned, and looked like a misplaced stubby little surfer.  His mother was wealthy and he seemed to have a limited but steady income from his mother to follow whatever dreams he might have.  He had once been a member of a cult on the West Coast, the subject of the screenplay.

We weren’t in Indiana anymore.

The year we came to Boulder a lot of construction was going on along a street called Pearl; they were building some kind of new-fangled outdoors mall where the street would be closed off for a few blocks and only pedestrians would be allowed. 

We were both writing a lot—M in longhand, I with my trusty little electric typewriter that my grandfather had given me when I started college.  We’d saved up enough money to not have to work for at least a couple of months.  It was a time of shining hope and vast optimism.  Ten years, later, Shannon, you were already one year old.  Happy 24th ! 

May your hands always be busy

May your feet always be swift

May you have a strong foundation

When the winds of changes shift

May your heart always be joyful

And may your song always be sung

May you stay forever young

                              Bob Dylan

Independence Day

As M suspected, it was sunny up in Breckenridge this morning, despite being gloomy in Boulder.  We drove west on 70 across The Great Divide and when we emerged from the Eisenhower Tunnel, as if we had journeyed from Kansas to the Land of Oz, we had blue sky and a 4^th of July parade, which was in full swing down Main Street with Corvettes, flags, kids, dogs and firemen.  The folks of Breckenridge do have the USA spirit. 

After quite a bit of searching we finally located our favored Breckenridge independent coffeehouse, The Crown, and found a great seat in an alcove just inside the front door with a fine view of the red-white-and-blue hubbub continuing on the street below.  The Crown has antique mirrors set into carved dark wooden hutches and four stone cupids mounted in a row on one wall and two crystal chandeliers. It is a fine place any time of the year.

On our way back to the car later we passed firemen in the middle of the still blocked off Main Street letting groups of thrilled children handle fire hoses, each group pointing at the other and just close enough to get everybody a bit wet. 

Parades are different now than they were when I was a kid.  Today parades have lots of shiny red and blue streamers and glitter and decorated high tech baby strollers and Corvettes.  When I was a kid, all the girls and women got together and spent many hours in the days leading up to the parade making flowers out of pastel Kleenex—you stacked together the tissues, tied them in the middle, then fluffed them out to make pale pink, green, blue or white blossoms.  These were painstakingly woven into the chicken wire shapes built over the vehicles used as the bases for the parade “floats.”  Then, on the day of the parade, the prettiest girls in school graced these floats, sitting high atop them in their pastel prom dresses and slowly waving to the crowd with white-gloved hands.  One girl got to wear the crown—having won the honor of being queen for a day.  Was I ever one of these girls?  No, I was on the sidelines wearing denim, peace symbols and a go-to-hell hat.

Also—we always had multiple marching bands in their uniforms playing Sousa and there were always pom-pom girls and baton twirlers and there was always a drum major leading the parade and marking time with his staff.  Humanitarian men called Shriners wearing red fezes drove little motorcycles in little circles along the parade route. 

Today, none of this was in evidence—nary a piccolo player nor a tuba blower nor a drummer nor a Shriner could be found.  But there was still a lot of hooting and cheering and American spirit, all the same.  The parade concluded with a spirited reading by a man dressed in 1776 garb.  When we first heard the voice coming over the loudspeaker I wondered whether we might be hearing a modern-day Tea Party diatribe, but in fact it turned out to be the actual  Declaration of Independence, indeed a radical document if you ever heard one.  Happy 4th of July! 

Random Acts of Beauty and Musings On Escape

We take a journey to Denver for the day, and the city presents some quirky images in our sojourn around Lodo and down by the river.  A random act of beauty presents itself—colorful crocheted flowers woven into the metal grid of a construction fence.  We ask a local guy passing by which group did this and he explains that it happened just a couple of nights ago—an unnamed group of girls showed up, wove the flowers into the fence, stood back admiring their handiwork and smiling, then moved on.  These small moments of loveliness do come along if you keep your eyes open.

We spend awhile writing at the desk with the blue lamps at the Starbucks next to Confluence Park, and then  wander into Union Station, with the sign that says “Travel by Train,” and the big old wooden benches and the high arched windows.  Train stations always give me the urge to travel, and trains are a great way to really see what your passing through on the journey.  There are trains that go west over the divide through Glenwood Springs and all the way to San Francisco--if a person were ever to take a great notion to quietly escape her life and journey incognito for a few days, or weeks, or months.