Mumford and The King

In middle school I overheard my mother saying that, Katherine Belding, a former babysitter I absolutely worshiped, was going on tour with the Grateful Dead. I was so jealous I couldn't see straight. I wasn't jealous of seeing Jerry Garcia. I just thought how cool Katherine must be to leave the beautifully appointed house that was afforded her by her orthopedic surgeon of a father and take to the road with nothing more than a hemp knapsack. I imagined her meeting like-minded people all over the country, singing along to songs that suggested some deeper understanding of the world, and using various substances to help them plow even deeper into the meaning of the universe. It was all so romantic. Well, I may be a little late, but I've finally found the spirit of Katherine Belding. And my band of choice? Ah, there is no other. I owe this to first, Adam Whiting and second, to my sister. Many, many months ago Adam posted a clip of a new band that he liked. Sally saw it one time and fell in love, you may even go so far as to say it awakened her soul. It wasn't long before, I too was enlivened and begun singing along to "White Blank Page" and "Winter Winds." In very short order, Sally and I had bought tickets to two Mumford and Sons concerts: one in Boston, one in NYC. We planned and prepared and before we knew it, it was time to get on the plane and head to Boston for our first show.

What happened at those concerts was nothing short of transformitive. We sang, waved our arms, and jigged for two hours straight. I stood there, in The House of Blues in Boston, Massachusetts and began to think about the world differently, much the same way that I'm sure those deadheads felt when humming and swaying to "Friend of the Devil." I know how dramatic that sounds but it's true, and there wasn't even any weed involved. Instead of tye-dye t-shirts and acid bears, there were turtlenecks and PBRs. From the second smattering of people I looked up at that stage and the feelings of romance washed over me. The entire show testified to the fact that we are comprised of divine fibers.

Recently, when I was preparing to speak on Post-modernism to a group of women, my father reminded me of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin's claim that "We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience but spiritual beings having a physical experience." This truth could not have been more evident as we raised our hands, sang in unison, jumped up and down and thought about the beauty of the human spirit as the melody of "Love: it will not betray you, dismay, or enslave you; it will set you free, be more the many you were made to be" danced through the air. The music of Mumford and Sons awakens the soul.

But the real surprise occurred about an hour before my beloved band took the stage. A very strange man waltzed out in tight, white trousers and a navy coat with tails. These details were practically obscure, however, in light of the long dreadlocks that fell from his head. I laughed and raised my eyebrows and then this man opened his mouth and sang, "The Brightest Light..." and the rest of the room went dark. And I fell in love. This was King Charles.

He went on to claim that, when he's in turmoil his Lord is with him, that he loves his homeland of England, and that "love will set your soul on fire" and I couldn't help feeling like I was no longer in the House of Blues but in some 18th century library with a well-read, classically trained fencer/theologian who enjoyed discussing philosophy while drinking espresso. He takes me to another place.

I've always loved and adored music, whether it was New Kids on the Block, Counting Crows, or some good 'ol Black Eyed Peas, but for the first time I think I truly understand why Katherine Belding left home, slept on the ground, and went without showers: true love.

The Girl Experiment: Mary Poppins' Bag

Julie Andrews was the ultimate "girl" in Mary Poppins. She embodied femininity, grace, determination, and organization while embracing singleness and demanding respect. She was the total package. As was her bag.

Mary Poppins' bag was truly the total package. When she arrived at the home of Jane and Michael Banks she carried only her sturdy handled bag and her famous umbrella. As she unpacked, she pulled out all manner of items. A lamp, a coat rack, shoes... It seems all Mary Poppins could need resided magically in her handy, lightweight carpetbag.

My snakeskin purse may not be quite as sturdy, but I can't help but feel that I am carrying around Mary Poppins' bag. I will dig for hours in search of my keys only to find my hand going deeper and deeper into the infinite space below. I will tell friends that, "No, I do not have a safety pin" after thoroughly scouring the insides of my seemingly normal sized purse only to find three in plain sight later that day. My bag is a mystery.

But in the spirit of the girl project I decided to unleash the contents of my purse, get organized, and finally discover the mystery of this alternate dimension.

Here are the results:


Let's take a closer look, shall we? The contents of my bag include, but are not limited to:

10 pens, 3 belonging to Elevation

Two Tom Petty tickets

An assortment of programs, fliers, and notes.

My passport


1 bracelet

A copy of The Bluest Eye

An entire pile of trash

Lipgloss

Two lipsticks

Two cameras

Camera charger

48 toothpicks

A gift certificate to The Cheesecake Factory from 2003

Hand sanitizer

A metal lamp rod (told you I was Mary Poppins)

A destroyed tampon

Almond butter

$1.18 in change

40% coupons at Banana Republic

Hairspray

An empty pack of gum

Loose gum

A lighter

Fingernail clippers

Safety pin

One pair hot pink, leopard print Hanky Panky thongs

A mutilated cigarette (I don't smoke)

And...a receipt from Trader Joes, perfectly in tact, from last year

I mean, honestly, what else could a girl need?

Forging On!

The Girl Experiment: It's All Coming Back to Me

In seventh grade, mean girls circulated rumors and names about me. Devastated, I swore never to return to school. I did not disclose my shame to anyone, banking on the hope that denial would be the best coping mechanism. I refused to acknowledge that everyone at school was calling me...a flirt.

They used colorful and hurtful acronyms to describe my tendency to garner the attention of boys and I found myself sobbing into my pillow.

After four days of The Girl Experiment, I can tell you this: those girls were right. But, this time there are no tears.

I don't know what's come over me. It might just be that the guys in my life (the ones who've been in my life that I've never even looked at before) are suddenly looking at me since I am logging hours upon hours being "a girl." Or, it might just be that my attitude has changed and I am now ready, confident, and hopeful enough to flirt. My bets are on the latter, but who's to know?

The point is this: The Girl Experiment is working!! Hooray! What fun. Suddenly men are no longer marriage prospects but these adorable entities who long for a little ego stroking. The project hasn't been easy. I've been waking an hour earlier in order to shave, blow dry and apply all manner of creams, conditioners, and concealers. But oh the payoff is extraordinary. Sally, Megan, and I have all reported tremendous growth in overall effectiveness. We've seen a particularly sharp increase in the quality of responses from the UPS man, the desk clerk in Central Services, and the random, handsome stranger who offers to provide directions. The world may just be as hungry for girls as we have been for real men!

Let the beauty, helplessness, and power of being a girl continue on!

The Girl Experiment

As a result of several unrelated forces in my life, I have decided to embark on what I am calling "The Girl Experiment" and I have recruited Megan to join me on this quest.

Here's the why:

1. My small group is reading Captivating, and though most aspects of that book aggravate me more than empower me, I am intrigued as to why it is so provocative. Why do I want to say "ugg!" and avoid having conversations about feeling like a princess. It all kind of makes my skin crawl. That's not good, I'm guessing.

2. It is very common indeed to hear all of us single girls moan about the lack of good men. I want a man to act like a man. So I guess I should act like a woman or keep my mouth shut (or are those the same thing?). Either way, I need to take my own cues and embrace my gender.

3. I've been hurt very badly and I am cynical. I just realized the full import of this recently and decided to release the bitterness I did not know I had. I am ready to smile at strangers again.

Here's the how:

For one week, Megan and I are committing to being girls. Real, true girls. Here are the conditions:

1. Must make bed every morning.

2. Must have everything properly shaved at all times.

3. Must apply lotion directly after leaving shower.

4. Must blow dry hair into a style.

5. Must apply proper and complete makeup.

6. Must not leave house unless prepared to "bump into" ex-boyfriend.

7. Must encourage and scream appropriately for girlfriends.

8. Must pretend men are funny and charming even when they are not.

9. Must always be wearing "sexy" underwear.

10. Must always behave like we are wearing "sexy" underwear.

The Materials:

In preparation for "The Girl Experiment" I spent $100 at CVS. Here is my shopping list:

1. Navy blue eyeliner

2. Pink lipstick

3. Pink sparkle nailpolish

4. Nail polish remover

5. Facewash

6. Feminine Deodorant (figured I should throw out my Old Spice and not smell like a man).

7. Shampoo that smells good

8. Firming/Tinted lotion for legs

9. Lotion for arms, elbows, hands and rest of body

10. Razorblades

11. Shave gel

12. Exfoliating Body Wash

Let "The Girl Experiment" Begin!

Why I Write

I know, as an English teacher, I am professionally obligated to believe in the value of writing. But I think the love for writing is why I became an English teacher. There's nothing like seeing your words on the page. When a piece is finished and something that I can be proud of I feel like a creator, an artist, a craftsman. This must be the feeling that the musician gets when he finds the right bridge, or the carpenter when he drags his hand across the sturdy, beautiful table, or the designer when she steps back from her transformed space. This feeling of accomplishment and creation is the mark of God.

During my time in London, I disciplined myself to write more frequently than I ever had before. I detailed my walks down flower drenched lanes, my trips to neighboring countries, and my moments of emotional turmoil with gut-wrenching honesty. I would get emails from my prudent father warning me not to put certain details in writing for fear of "documenting" certain parts of my life that I wouldn't want my employer, future children, or the neighbor to know. And I know he's right. But now I realize that the extent to which I shared myself in that digital diary is in direct correlation to the degree that I enjoy reading them now, a million miles away from my European adventure.

When I write there is a double reward. First, I have the immediate satisfaction of stoking that creative energy that longs to formulate a real and timeless artifact as a testament to my existence. And second, I have the pleasure of returning to that thing many days, weeks, or years later and through the awesome power of language returning to that very moment as well.

But, if I were being honest, I am completely neglecting the sole reason that I write. Therapy. Writing provides the couch, the shrink, and the awkward pauses necessary to figure out my life. As I sit and search for the words to describe what it feels like to sit on the front porch, in a sweatshirt, with a cup of coffee and a friend, typing this, my ever anxious heart begins to rest and I realize just how good I have it.

So I write not as an intellectual exercise, not for my mother (who I am certain will be the only person to find my ramblings amusing), but for myself. I write for me.