Be a Star...

Farmer...

"Every atom in our bodies was once part of a star." (Gattaca)

I saw a Star in person today.  She walked down the Graduation aile of Ventura High School's Senior Class of 2011, and as she walked, the effervescent light she gave off was as blinding to my eyes as if I'd stared at the sun.  My oldest, and my one and only daughter, graduated on this date, inside this time continuum of this particular dimension, and it was oh so sweet. So, Bitter-Sweet.

Almost (not quite) 18 years ago, the child that is now an adult passed through the gateway of my tender womanhood, passed by the shaky monuments of my trembling knees, was lifted up into my arms and became her own human being.  And with every moment of her birth I literally prayed (in between the fevered curses that she would hurry the hell out of me)... for her life-long happiness.  I even bargained with the Gods, the Buddha's, the Spirits and whatever power that may be greater than me, that any negative karma this child might have, would bypass her and stick to me. I prayed that I be allowed to take on the debt of her lifetimes, and I happily offered myself to taking it ALL.   I secretly begged for the life of my dearest daughter to be filled with Grace, to be imbued with Hope, to be infused with joyful Laughter, and I prayed that she know the ultimate soul-encompassing meaning of Love.

And, you know what?  So far (for the most part) every prayer has come true.

It was a selfish bargain really.  I mean, seriously, what parent does not want their child to succeed?  What Mother does not want to see her daughter leap up like an offshoot of her own fertile self and witness that her child has sprouted spectacular sunflowers of success surpassing the original plant of her own being?

I am no different than the sea of parents that stood up and clapped at graduation, proud of their child and proud of their accomplishments...because in some small way, those accomplishments are my accomplishments too.  Because in some small way, we (my husband and I) helped it all to happen.  And it is, altogether, an amazing feat.  An amazing journey.  It is a spectacular event to behold.  And as much as I am proud of my daughter, I find I am humbled before the Miracle of Life beyond measure. I am struck to my knees to be a part of it.

Now, my dearest daughter is out partying at Grad Night, and I sit on my front porch typing this note while sipping on a bit of Glinfiddich, and smoking a Cuba Libre (definitely a favorite) and I wonder what my daughter's life will be like as she steps into the world of Adulthood.  I don't think High School really prepares anyone for that.  At least not yet.

The childhood bliss of Senior Prom and Monday Mornings at School after the Facebook gossip of the weekends, the small Political battles between Rivals and the Music of High School plays...these things don't quite prepare a young adult for the Piranha soup that stews in the world, threatening to gobble up one's soul with the least miscalculation.  I tremble in both fear, and in weird anticipation, to watch it all happen (a curious spectator, me)...and I hope...yes, I HOPE, that she will emerge from the feeding frenzy, not only unscathed, but impervious to the teeth.  I HOPE and I pray, she will wear the armor of her life, her love, and her creativity as boldly as the best knights on the battlefield, and that she will leave that field proud...head held high, knowing she truly lived a life that was the best it could be lived.  And that she lived it with LOVE.  That is what I hope.  It is a simple request in words, yet it is a huge thing to hope in reality.

And as my mind, heart and soul contemplate this, I turn my eyes towards my beautiful and radiant son, who at only 13 years, has watched his sister grow, and who has also (unknowingly) soaked up the very same prayers from his watching Mother.  He doesn't know it, but I hope the very same things for him too.  I hope for him.  I pray for him.  And I wait with each passing day for those invocations to the heavens to come true. 

I have never cared at what cost to my self, their happiness.  No price is too high a price to pay for their joy.  No mountain of burden is too great to bear if it means they can fight the fires of the world and emerge unscathed.  Not because they are me, or even a small part of me.  But because they have, in their own turn, taught me how to Love.

~Cin

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig...

I first heard this bit of nursery rhyme on the 1982 Sci-Fi movie "Blade Runner" with Harrison Ford, and Darryl Hannah, believe it or not.  The words are probably the sum statement of my travels to and fro...whatever a "fro" is.

Just after noontime, the Lufthansa plane I'd spent 12 intimate hours inside  (high-five I got an aisle seat this time) pulled in to LAX.  I had the incredible luxury of finally being able to turn on my Blackberry and text my husband that I was there.  What a gargantuan freedom!!  I hadn't been able to use the cell phone the entire time I was in Germany and in Afghanistan/Kuwait.  Jim and I hadn't figured out how to turn on the International calling program, and weren't quite sure about the cost.  I wasn't even sure I could use my program in Afghanistan. "Roshan" is the service there, and I don't think they've been officially introduced to AT&T.

Our plane taxied what I was sure the entire span of the city of Los Angeles, and finally arrived at a designated parking space. Once the polite little "ding" of the plane hit the air waves, officially signaling that passengers could unbuckle and get up out of their seats (always reminds me of the Kentucky Derby), the fight for survival was on.  I was pushed down the aisle (I was already standing up, trying to let my fellow seat mates out to get their carry on's) and struck in the head with several luggage bags in wild attempts for people to hurry and get their carry-on bags out of the overheads so they could wait 10 minutes before they could disembark the plane.

After de-planing, I made it through a wide network of corridors, and airport alleyways, that sent me on a journey to finally arrive at a counter and have my passport stamped.  On this excursion, exactly two people bumped me out of the way with nary an "excuse me" (Yep, 'nary' is a word. Use it in your next scrabble game for points), and while waiting at baggage claim I was jostled, pushed, nudged, budged, riffled, ruffled, and trompled...(OK... you caught me...trompled is not a word, but it should be.  It fits better than trampled and sounds right), and I think (at least one person) even groped me for a second.  But that could have just been wishful thinking.

The pandemonium that ensues in Baggage Claim gives a person real insight into the dark side of humanity, especially at the International baggage claim where 'culture' has very little foothold.  Many people from many countries, few commonalities, and each individual highly concerned with their own personal agenda.  Very little concern for others. It's like an episode of "Survivor" every time.

I seriously think if a shooter had come in while we were getting our bags, and had begun shooting wildly with an AK-47 while tossing out a couple of frag grenades, most folks would continue to hurriedly get their bags, maybe turn on their i-phone cameras to capture the event on video for You-Tube, and then run quickly away using their Smart-Carts as super shields, hoping they could make it through the second Customs counter before anyone else.  For many, the shooting may have even been considered a pleasant diversion, in order to be the first ones out of the gates.

Make no mistake...leaving the airplane, and getting to the baggage carrousel, not to mention getting through Customs, is really all about being FIRST.  I've seen the worst come out in people during these events, and believe me the worst is not pretty to behold.  I guess spending over 12 hours on a plane sitting next to a toddler and a crying baby will do that to folks, but I've also seen the same behavior raise its ugly head on flights that are less than two hours.  So what's the excuse?  I don't profess to know.  I do know that when I'm not extremely exhausted, I find the behavior highly entertaining.  This time around, I wasn't entertained.  Just battered and bruised, and ready to be 'voted off the island'.

My wonderful hubby was waiting for me when I emerged from the mayhem of the air travel odyssey, and it was really great to see him and get a REAL hug.  Traveling among strangers for over three weeks, there is very little genuine human contact, and certainly none with those who really love you (the groping really doesn't count).  It can be more than a little lonesome when you're on the road.

Traffic was quite congested riding home in the car, along the beach-line on the *1, but Jim finally negotiated the Toyota Camry back to our house in Ventura,... back to a fantastic welcome from my 13 year old son, who'd drawn and colored a lovely "Welcome Home" sign on several sheets of copy paper (complete with a picture drawing of an owl), and hung them on the wall, and... (this was cute) ...he had a bottle of wine and a glass ready for me in case I needed it. (I didn't.  All the traveling had actually made me quite nauseous.) What a wonderful hug I received from my young man, who is (I hate to say it) as tall if not taller than me now.  Jim maintains that he thinks Sean is as tall as him.  I'm fighting against the possibility of it.

After watching Sean play some "Infamous" on PlayStation (cool game, really), I went upstairs and took a nap, and awoke to my dearest daughter hugging me, with tears running down her face.

Climbing out of the depths of my slumber, I turned and mumbled to her, "What's wrong, Baby?"  She broke her mother's heart when she just said, "I missed you so much, Mommy."  My maternal coronary muscles just twisted in pain with her sobs, and I held my 17 year old baby girl (who is graduating high school this year) as closely as I did the first day she came out of my womb.  I never knew motherhood could be like this.  I never knew what it would be like to be loved, to be missed.  The magnitude of it is really overwhelming sometimes.  The emotion of it chokes me so hard I can barely breathe when I deeply consider it.  But regardless...it is good.  Incredibly, wonderfully...good.  And beyond scary, to be a parent.

I'd wanted to get back up later and watch movies with the kids, but the jet lag won out over my tired corpuscles and muscles, and I stayed asleep for a few more hours.  Till about 3AM, when my internal alarm clock woke me and forced me downstairs to work on the computer.

I was working on my Dr Stench novel, and editing some blogs I haven't released yet from my travels, when I heard the garage door open.  The dogs were going crazy barking, and I knew the internal household was all accounted for, so who was opening the garage?  I thought the situation was weird, but I didn't hear that creepy music playing in the background...like in horror films when you know the stupid person is going to get it... so I figured it was safe, and opened the door.  The garage door was wide open, the overhead light was on, and the driver door to the Camry was wide open as well.  Giving the garage a scrutinizing look around, to make sure no one was hiding there, I walked over to the car (which is partially in the dark) pushed shut the driver's door (I didn't take time to look inside) and then went back to the garage, shut the door and locked it.

About thirty minutes later, the whole thing was bugging me so much, I called the police and then went on line to fill out a police report of the incident.  I got Jim out of bed to go check the car to see if anything was missing.  Sure enough someone had burgled the inside (Jim had forgot to lock the car), and took two pair of reading glasses (I thought that was odd, I mean...they were ugly glasses) an i-Pod charger, and an i-Pod audio cable.  (The robber didn't take the GPS, which led me to think s/he was clairvoyant, because the damn thing never seems to get us where we want to go anyway.)

The burgling person only took small things to sell, I guess, and either deliberately thought s/he would try the garage door to see what was there, or accidentally hit the door opener, which makes a lot of noise, turns on the lights and triggers the dogs to go all "Cujo".

Jim told me the neighbors recently had their vehicle broken in to, too.  I guess with the economy so bad, some folks are looking for any opportunity to steal and sell what they can for money.  So, folks, remember to lock your shit up.  Locks, for the most part, keep honest people honest, and thieves will sell their wares to anyone in heaven or hell.  It doesn't matter who buys, so long as the color of the cash is right.  Which comes to the end of the rhyme and this story...

"To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,

Home again, home again, market is done."

And, yes, despite the hassles and the vehicle burglary, it is really REALLY good to be home.

~Cin