Time Won't Give Me Time

In the 80's, we danced with our arms way up high, and spun around slowly with intricate little footsteps. Perhaps this move, with our bodies open to the wind, was an expression of freedom from the tight, dancy shoulder-shakes of disco, a smoothing-out of the Travolta-esque rapid-arm bag punch. Maybe we were reaching upwards for four minutes at a time to draw the air and sky and sun toward us as we entered an earth-conscious age that joined us in world-wide human love and ended the Cold War. The time proved us eager to dissolve the board room establishment, escape land-line constraints, and render "the Man" powerless. We greeted each other with open arms, hugged trees, and lifted ourselves into the bliss of self-awareness. Our dancing jived with our anthropology, a fluid uprising of collective souls.

Debasing these noble evolutions through truth and vanity, I must admit that logistics played more of a role in our dancing style that any earthy or spiritual expressions, because we wore huge clothing. Our physical movements had to accommodate for our enormous outfits, and our sleeves in particular. Dolman sleeves, they were, and our jackets and shirts had big shoulder pads and tight cuffs, with yards of swingy, wingy fabric to connect them. The nightclub crowd looked like a party of bats trying walk upright, moving with arms above our heads and cautious little steps.

We wore our big, beautiful sleeves in lime green and neon yellow, with matching bangle bracelets, pounds of them at a time, jangling above our heads. Girls and boys alike rocked those sleeves sewn into grey pin-striped zoot suits, in fatigue army jackets, and in torn black sweatshirts (which made us all, instantly, flashdancers). Eventually our pants went dolman ("can't touch this"), and we were sailing through the 80's like paratroopers, arms and legs wide open.

Now, I am a creature of habit not only in my day-to-day, but from decade-to-decade. I've made my bed, every single morning, since I could walk. I cannot sleep without shutting all the closet doors in the house and whispering the prayer that I learned before I could speak. And when I feel crappy, really blue and despondent, I play a smooth beat like "Clock of the Heart" and dance around with my arms up high above my head. For thirty years, nothing can compete with that song to get me nearer to cool again, I close my eyes with a shy smile on my face, and I find comfort in every breathy word. Today, I needed to breathe like that again, and smile that smile again, and dance just that way. I wore the closest dolman top I could find, a whispy robe that flows around my arms, and turned up the speakers to hear my youtubed savior, George Alan O'Dowd. I gave myself 3:40 break from my chores, and danced like I did when I won my junior year dance contest. And like the clock of my heart, it worked.

Here, try it yourself, and check the billowy lab-coat:



PS. If you don't feel quite awesome yet, or you have nothing much going on right now, check out this original video. You don't want to miss the sleeves on Boy George's Amish-inspired overcoat at about 1:20.

A Communion of Us

My friend Karen talks about the Second Step of 12-Step recovery in a way that skinny old chainsmoking bar flies can really hear: The First Step tells you, "You're fucked!", and the Second Step whispers, "Maybe not!"

When you finally admit you've got a problem, it is suggested that you find a "higher power", or as my sponser refers to in her text messages, a "HP". This can be a challenge for those who can't seem to shake their disappointment in God, or the hypocrisy of religion, or the self-righteous indignation of very right and judgemental churches. The need for the HP is urgent and real; you need to know that there is a power greater than you, and it is...NOT YOU! Face it, your ideas, as far as being a drunk goes, suck. So, mull it over, argue with your sponsor, tell the Lord what you really think of Him, and then pick something, anything, that is iconic enough to keep you from drinking. And do it quick.

There are those who, like me, start out with AA itself as their HP. After all, I thought, the room is full of people who found a way not to drink so much that they fall down the stairs today, so, maybe I should shut the hell up and listen to what they have to say. I have a friend who has taken a deceased group member as her higher power, and there are a few who may have followed that lead, and just don't say it out loud. (Believe me, this guy is worthy.) There are myths and legends of AAs that chose a non-conventional higher power, like a pet, or a squirrel, or grandma's quilt. Then there is the woman who, whenever she raised her hand, thanked her higher power, whom she chose to call "wood". Hey, whatever gets you through the night, right?

Now, if you are like me, and you choose the group as a starting line HP, all goes well until someone in the group does something really stupid, and then your resentments start to build. After all, you've put this group on a pedestal, and now someone is screwing the young newcomer/gossiping about your ex-boyfriend/cheating on their taxes, and that shaky house of cards begins to fall. You need a real higher power, real quick. Who do you call?

Long story short, I called Mary. Well, maybe she called me. Anyway, I ended up at her feet, and there I remain. She stands in my kitchen, looks down from my car visor, and watches over my classrooms. She's everywhere, she always has been, and she's IT for me. I love her, talk to her, and listen to her. We have conversations. I talk to the Mother of God, and She talks to Me. Crazy, you say? Well, don't whisper Joan of Arc-y things about me to the Pope, or any other Catholic true believer, because they will have to tell you, it's true. The Catechism tells me that not only is it possible, it happens all the time, and the willingness to believe it is necessary to Catholics. "The Communion of Saints" is the interactive relationship of all believers between heaven, purgatory, and Earth. I didn't know this until yesterday, and when I learned it, I cried. I had imagined the communion of saints to be a recited line in a creed I really didn't care to understand, a club for dead stigmatics. Not so. The saints, Mary included, are there to help us and lead us toward what is best for us, even when we don't know it ourselves. They are like kind and loving grandparents, or godparents, or best friends. Mary is my best friend. She hears me, and sets me straight, and the Church will tell you it's all true. How else do you know it's true?

I didn't drink today. Miracles can happen.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

Oh, the past two weeks! A visit from my mom, and she brought a wonderful guest. Seems "Aunt" Ellen is the same good old friend she used to be, as she has grown into her age like a perfect Golden Girl; sassy, generous, and tattooed. Both Mom and Aunt were three days in and out, though, and now it's over and all really good. Except...

My mother comes to visit me (which she swore she would never set foot in my home), invite friends for sleepovers (another of my mother's "never"s), and tease my partner (yeah, pretty crass). Part of her tour de Jersey includes a dinner gathering that I host while my partner grills, my mom shows up late (having left Ellen napping), and my wine snob uncle brings the booze. The wine, I don't mind. The Grillmaster balked at first, but settled down when he saw only two bottles intended for four drinkers (What The Fuck is That?!). Ah, but here's the catch...how to open those bottles in a Wine-less home? Off to the neighbors I go to beg a for a corkscrew. (Another aside, frustrating but remarkable: The 20-year-old neighbor girl does not know what I mean, and calls her mother to ask in Spanish for a translation and description of this irreplaceable tool.) She hands me a silver beauty, fits in perfectly in my palm, and asks, "Is this what you need?" Ahh, I am taken away by the treasure in my fist. A ballerina, I whisper. This is perfect, we call it a ballerina.

I walk on a cloud through my own back door, and the ballerina is plucked from my hand by the uncle and set to work. I have to leave the room. Throughout dinner, it isn't the wine that holds my attention; it's the thought of its necessary accompanist in the kitchen, the little wonder that opens the bottles, the miracle worker. My guests leave, happy, satisfied, and not one bit drunk (they drank only ONE bottle, the other rode to its new home in an old Chrysler). And the ballerina remained an additional house guest. For eight days.

All I had to do was walk her from my back door to the neighbor's, thirty steps each way, taking not one whole minute of my life's time. But I kept her. I washed her and polished her dry. I cleaned around her, moving her gently aside to spray Windex around her special spot and pushing her back just so when I was done. I babied her, romanced her, said her name inside my head a hundred times.

After more than a week of this torturous affair, my alcoholic recovery kicked in to low gear. I set my jaw, grabbed the little whore, and marched outside. She went back to her rightful owners, along with a "thank you" cucumber from my garden. They probably put her in the back of a drawer, and don't give her a second thought. That was three days ago; she's still on my mind.