Ask not for whom the Bell Jar tolls....

I'm having a Sylvia Plath kind of week. Life, seemingly in order, was moving along swimmingly, as planned. And yet, yesterday I was overcome with a profound sadness, a cavernous hole in my heart. Spiraling downward faster than Sarah Palin shot to the top (of what, I'm not sure), my stinkin' thinkin' took my rational neurons hostage. "STOP" said I. I shall not pay thy toll. I gave myself a couple of hours to grieve the earthly state of affairs that tormented me.

Being a sensitive and empathetic gal, I care very deeply about - pretty much everything. And sometimes I'll hear or see something, or get an email that sinks my battleship. Having nurtured a new strength, faith, and resilience, I worked through it. No booze, no chocolate cake, no Best of Bread. Prayer, warm sunshine on my face, and taking action put the wheels back on the bus.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels the weight of the world's troubles. As human beings we are intrinsically connected - compelled by pain, injustice and ignorance to sing out "fools said I you do not know, silence like a cancer grows; hear my words that I may teach you, take my arms that I may reach you" (Paul Simon)

And in the immortal words of poet John Donne, "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee..." .

Familiarity breeds content.

Not one to argue with Aesop and his fables, but I have a different spin on this one. I'm trying to adopt new eating habits. I'm trying to ch ch ch ch ch..... egads.... change. But I am so familiar with my old ones, they are so comfortable, they make me so.... content. Unfortunately they could be killing me softly (thank you for that one Roberta Flack). I like knowing what I like, where to find it quickly in the store, what utensils and bowls and pans to use, and how it is going to taste. It makes me happy. I can make chocolate chip cookies, instant mashed potatoes and cheese toasties (grilled cheese for those not from Decatur) with my eyes closed. I am quite comfortable with margarine, white flour, velveeta cheese, nestles chocolate chips, and Hungry Jack.

I like the idea of eating clean, healthy, organic, and the impact it will have on my entire being. Heck, I like fruit. I like vegetables. But as inane as it sounds, one of the most difficult parts of moving from idea to action is not being familiar with how to plan, shop, prepare, serve and eat this wonderful food. But I am wandering to the outer corners of the store and into the farmers markets, and I am going to do this unfamiliar thing. And soon this contempt I have for change will be familiar. And that makes me happy.

Less is more

Dana dances with stars on dvd in living room. Hilarity ensues, ceiling fan damaged. Paso Doble will never be the same.

Altered States

Do you remember the 1980 movie "Altered States" with William Hurt. All I remember is the sensory deprivation tank. Based on a novel by Paddy Chayevsky, it is the story of a professor who attempts to explore deep levels of consiousness with this "tank" and hallucinegenic drugs. My guess is the key factor in this experiement is the drug part.

My focus is on sensory deprivation. Sometimes I just want to shut myself off - my mind races; I worry, think, judge, plan, organize, wonder, surmise, dream, and obsess. Yesterday's anniversary of the OK City bombing sent me whirling. As much as I recall the day of the bombing, even greater is the experience of visiting the memorial there with a youth group of high school kids. It is a somber, sad and quiet place. It is far from peaceful. The chain link fence surrounding an empty playground, the chairs placed on the site of the Federal Building, with the names of each person killed, larger chairs for the adults and small ones for the children. The glimmering, shallow, reflection pond with 9:01 at one end and 9:03 at the other - 2 minutes of hell, a lifetime and beyond of agony. The fence with items left by visitors. Becky, a girl in my group, left her favorite necklace - a 15 year old girl... from central IL was so moved by this place that she left her most prized possession as a memorial. There were dolls, items of clothing, band aids, hair clips, we were literally leaving whatever we had on our person to somehow connect with this place and try to replace some of the emptiness with humanity.

I get so overwhelmed with the senseless hatred, fear and ignorance in our world that I can barely function. Who among us is so perfect that we can spend so much time tossing out judgement, rumor, slander and in come cases, execution? Why can't we focus on doing something good, saying something kind, purposefully leading our lives for the betterment of this earth that God has given us? Well, of course, many of us, can and do. But the force of evil is strong - Satan works through men and women in every continent, every faith, every color and every political party. Sometimes his name is Tim.

Cover Girl Nation

For someone who doesn't wear a lot of make up I sure have a lot of mascara. I mean, how many vials of mascara does a girl need? Certainly less than the 15 I own in various purses, desk drawers and glove compartments. I have great lash, BIG great lash, lash blast, and telescopic explosion. That one is supposed to make me look like Penelope Cruz. I'm waiting. And what exactly does one call the container of mascara?

I'm trying to look a little more put together these days. I used to say I didn't care what I looked like or if I wore make-up; that I didn't need paint to be validated as a woman. That is only partially true. I certainly don't see myself as high maintenance, but basically I had just thrown in the towel, raised the white flag, given up... on me. I distinctly remember the first time I felt depressed, so to speak. I was 7, sitting on my bed in my room and was distraught because I thought my thighs were huge. Now, I could have been depressed because it was 1968. That year was a doozy. But the underlying current of melancholy follows me to this day if I let it. It has usurped too much of my time and energy. And it is exhausting to appear to have your shit together. Luckily, I've had angels looking out for me in a variety of ways and in a multitude of forms. They guide me, re-direct me, and occasionally hit me over the head with a 2 x 4.

I don't need make up to validate my beauty, on the inside or the outside. And I could go on and on about the disorted perceptions of beauty thrust upon a girl. Another day for sure. For today, I encourage you to care about you. You and I may never look like Penelope Cruz, but loving ourselves is gorgeous baby!

It's been a long travel day and I'm almost back to the prairie. My wanderlust has been satisfied for awhile and I'm ready to go home. If you've seen "Up in the Air", Vera Fermenga I'm not. She is an astute, organized, chic and savvy traveler. I'm the Un-Vera... clumsy, messy, ruffled, and unabashedly in awe of my surroundings. I don't fly often so I admit I still get a little excited about the experience.

Even as a minimal flyer, I have still managed to adopt a routine that, yes, I had to fiddle with as a "new" woman. Instead of Starbucks caramel mocha latte, and a ciminun crunch coffee cake I got a bottled water and .... wait for it... fruit. Instead of Garrett's popcorn, I got a low fat cone from McDonalds. Instead of a philly cheese steak (back in Philly) I grudgingly ordered soup and salad. I used the work out room (ok only once, but I used it!). And I did not buy once single candy bar the whole time. Does it feel good to make good choices? Not at the time I'm making them, that is for damn sure. But soon, a feeling of "yeah me" self-praise bubbles to the surface, and I feel like throwing my hat up in the air and singing "she's gonna make it after all".

Town and Country

Reporting from Philly - I'm at a conference. Which is a whole other blog on its own! For today, I'd like to share something I'm a little ashamed about and how I taught myself a lesson. We all do this. And an airport is a great place to do this. Noooooooo - not that. Shame on you. I love to observe people... a quick glance at a passer by and I can create a whole backstory for someone. Clever, you may say. What a waste of energy you may think. Judgemental is the word I have chosen.

While purchasing my $10 bottle of tylenol at the airport gift shop on Saturday I overheard a woman asking for a Town and Country Magazine. I'm going to call myself out and admit that my first thought was "Why is this a little scraggly, middle aged (about 60) woman in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, long blonde/gray hair asking for a Town and Country Magazine?" The thought that she was even homeless zipped across my mind.

I couldn't stop thinking about this lady and how I passed judgement so quickly, not just on how she looked, but her choice of reading material. Who was I - Stalin? Sarah Palin? (those letters just flowed together well - talk about your mixed metaphors! :-) So anyway, I've been chiding myself ever since, and am going to refrain from leaping to judgement based on outward appearances.

And I've created a backstory for "Beatrice" - she grew up in Philly in the late 50's and 60's. Her dad was a dock worker and her mom worked at a grocery store. Bea idolized Grace Kelly and many had told her she even looked like Grace. She used to buy movie magazines and Town and Country and pretend she was a starlet just like Grace, with a house on the Mainline. Her parents worked hard and were able to send her to college. She fell in love with Joey, who was going to be a writer ...maybe for Town and Country! But Joey got drafted, and went to Vietnam. Bea found out she was pregnant, and Joey came home in a wheelchair. Bea quit school and worked at the docks to support her family. Their daughter took after her father and became a gifted artist, a photojournalist. Bea never stopped imagining herself in the pages of Town and Country - it was the dream that inspired her to keep going, hoping for a better life for the light of her life, her daughter, Grace.

And don't we all need that dream? What is yours? What did dream about while lying (laying?) on your bed listening to the AM radio on summer nights? Dust it off and love it. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. Reporting from Philly, this is Carly Simon .... I mean, Dana Paulson Spies.