And it is STILL my favorite Christmas story. Here’s hoping each of us wears what becomes us this holiday season.
I was listening to NPR yesterday—an interview with Sir Tom Stoppard, screenwriter for the new Anna Karenina movie. When asked about the meaning of love he posed the question, “Are we born self-interested and we have to learn to be good? Or are we born selfless and merely corrupted by competition and institution?” I’m guessing there’s not any black or white answer to the question, though I was taught in my young religious days that we were born in total depravity with the need, of course, to be saved in an institution that just happens to make a lot of money off such doctrines—a truth that seems to belie the first argument in support of the second. Then there’s my own parenting that seems to betray the truths of corruption.
When my older son was five, he had a passion for Mary Poppins. He loved her magic, her command, her…
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Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size… That serves to explain in part the necessity that women so often are to men. And it serves to explain how restless they are under her criticism; how impossible it is for her to say to them this book is bad, this picture is feeble, or whatever it may be, without giving far more pain and rousing far more anger than a man would do who gave the same criticism. For if she begins to tell the truth, the figure in the looking-glass shrinks; his fitness for life is diminished. How is he to go on giving judgement, civilising natives, making laws, writing books, dressing up and speechifying at banquets, unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is?
A Room of One’s Own Virginia Woolf, 1929 Continue reading
Remember Susan Boyle? The 2009 Britain’s Got Talent contestant who stunned the judges, the audience, and any in the world who happened to be watching? Continue reading
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What was the spirit in her, the essential thing, by which, had you found a glove in the corner of a sofa, you would have known it, from its twisted finger, hers indisputably?
Virginia Woolf on Mrs. Ramsay, To the Lighthouse
Mother’s Day, and I’m writing something my mom will never see though mostly she loves to read these little musings of mine. Here’s why she won’t see it: Continue reading
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January 1, 2014. It’s been a while, and I’ve not much to say for myself, except that I joined Facebook (probably enough said) and have spent no small amount of time chasing shiny objects to ends sometimes worthwhile, other times… not so much. I joined conceding that, just maybe, social media really is the best way to spread information. Continue reading
My son came out when he was 16, several months before I told him I was gay. I’d wondered about his sexuality long before I began questioning my own. At four, even before he loved Mary Poppins, he carried Barbie to show-and-tell and preferred making necklaces to tossing footballs. His love of Hotwheels was a little inconsistent with his other passions, but mostly he preferred arranging them in interesting patterns to actually racing them. Continue reading
I spend many a Saturday morning at my favorite little coffee dive in Denver seeking stories. Stories of gardeners and parents, of nurses and mixologists (looking for that perfect rosemary cocktail if anyone has suggestions), of environmentalists and spiritualists, stories of courageous transgendered youth and adults, of young lesbians and, eh hem… those more mature. It’s humbling, opening to that sea of human experience, only to find that my own story is at once unique and not-so-very original. Continue reading