So you say its time...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pntXwbk-bTA

Listening to this old Carly Simon song after oh, 30 years, I was struck by its fly in amber 1960's feminism. I remember, even as an adolescent, hearing this and wondering if marriage was all about learning to be "me first, by myself."

Young Carly apparently also had a pretty dark view of marriage. In hindsight, "couples cling and claw and drown in love's debris" also sounds a bit dramatic, very much in harmony with the ethos of the generation just in front of mine.

Of course, I don't recall thinking that at the time.

What sent me back to Carly was a conversation I had with a pastoral counselor about a commentary I'm working on about clergy in hot water -- why they end up there, and how they can help themselves and be helped.

One thing he said was particularly relevant, and not solely to clergy. "If you can't tell your spouse what you are doing" he said, "you shouldn't be doing it."

I've become pretty convinced that he's on to something. Yes, there are some conversations that need to be confidential -- there are laws about what doctors or therapists can tell others, including their wife or husband.

The point is, I think, to be open about the relationships you have with others. Are you telling Mary or Connor more about problems in your marriage than you are telling your spouse? That may not be a cause of your problems -- but it could a possible symptom.

Happy marriages may have struggles -- who does not? Yet generally, these couples seem to be each other's best friends.

Not every unhappy marriage is replete with secrets. Some marriages that fail, sadly, seem to collapse inward under the weight of tragedies, disapproval from outsiders or struggles with children.

But some are on the slippery secrets slope.

Clergy, as with others in helping professions, aren't good at admitting they have human needs. In an age when Protestant mainline clergy and priests in some Catholic circles have lost the unique sense of authority that used to come with the collar, it's even more tempting to think that they can go it alone -- but eventually the loneliness can lead to all sorts of unhealthy behaviors.

If you are in a helping profession, and you know (yup, you know) that the boundaries are starting to get a little unclear (friend/lover? parishioner/confessor?) -- call a friend in your profession. Find a therapist. Pray. Run. If you don't like these options, clean your house!

And think -- if you feel that 3 hour coffee with that cute male parishioner or female gym friend was so innocent -- then why aren't you telling your spouse?

Update -- Reading the story of the Obama's marriage in this past Sundays NYT magazine, I was fascinated by, at a certain point, how willing she was to tell him how unhappy she was. She asked for what she needed -- and they negotiated from there.

It was a mash

I don't understand why the town fathers decided that they would shut down Creek Road in the late afternoon. Early evening for trick or treating still makes the most sense -- it's truly dark and people can sit out on their Victorian porches flooded with candlelight and strange Halloween gizmos from big box stores.

But although we rushed to get Mr. C to the development with the biggest and safest place to trick or treat, he quickly ended up walking to our local park with his friends. There squirrels and Phillies fans (of course), wizards and other characters, including what seemed to be a pregnant blonde man, ate pizza and hot chocolate donated by our local business owner and town supervisor, Bryan.


The DJs played "YMCA" and other pop classics, and affluent city escapees jostled happily with less-wealthy long time Wallace residents. One of the things I love about the town is that, though grudges can run deep sometimes, everyone gets together and socializes, at least a few times during the year.


Some things have changed. Last year my daughter rang doorbells for chocolate with a friend -- this year, she went to a town close to Lancaster to go out with a group. Mr. C's two best friends from last year (still good friends with one another) aren't as close to him anymore -- though they spent hours in the videogame truck together. He doesn't seem worried, but I feel a bit sad.


None of my adult friends were there this year, telling me that maybe next year my own offspring may be too old for the pagan feast.

And yet -- as I sat by myself, sipping hot cider, I appreciated being part of the crowd -- sweaty and wet and a little loud.

We left just around the time of the Halloween parade -- behind us the tennis courts, ahead the graveyard, and the old church, and across the quiet street Bryan's deli, the only food in town.

Coming back from Parkesburg, the DQ and I listened to a little rock and roll on our longtime Philly station. A woman, at a party, called in to ask for a song -- we haven't played that yet, said the announcer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxcM3nCsglA

Wa - oooh, the DQ and I sang softly in the car, cornfields and tree farms speeding by, moments from home. When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you.

You gotta believe

Don't you?

Not in God, neccesarily.

Maybe in aliens, or life in outer space. Thats what some scientists substitute for faith.

Possibly in capitalism, or marxism or humanitarianism. On my mother's side, we adapted a kind of soft socialism. I had some remarkable ancestors, who weren't at all religious and did a lot of good work.

Perhaps you are a huge Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens fan -- it's your decade to be a little smug.

Or maybe you believe in the Grateful Dead. Tender is the memory of sharing music, brownies and smokes with thousands of other fans. Hard to explain if you weren't there. I wasn't there, and I've never really "gotten it".

Perhaps you try not to believe -- there have been times in my own walk when I loved the questions and didn't want to look for any answer.

That being said -- most of us are wired to have faith in something, or someone. So don't be so tough on that atheist in the office across from you, or the conservative Christian in your hiking club. They are only being human.

Which doesn't tell you about the existence of God -- just that atheists too have faith.

The dreams they dream

It seems as though I've listened to lots of stories about children's dreams recently as I drove around the area. Or perhaps I'm hearing what was so often there...

As far away as an ocean and a continent, as close as tears.

A high school student in a Chicago ghetto, dreaming of attending college on a scholarship, an innocent bystander gunned down as he walked home a few weeks ago.

A Russian boy penning notes in a diary -- fantasies of bread and candy and potatoes as he starved in the siege of Leningrad during World War II.

Children in a Washington charter school, wondering what it would be like if beating them up wasn't way of initiating members into a D.C. gang.

Though no area is totally safe from violence, my kids by and large don't have to worry about being shot on the way to school.

They have enough to eat -- a lot more than enough. "Remember families tonight who are praying for food" said the leader of a local youth group, as he took the sixth and seventh graders out on a local food tour, from McDonald's to Dairy Queen to the WaWa.

These children are wanting what so many of us simply take for granted.

And don't they deserve it as much as our children?

To whom much is given, much is required -- that's what Jesus said to his followers.

I happen to believe that children's dreams are sacred-- whether they are those of immigrants or rural Southerners or the mostly white, Indian and Asian kids who live near us. What do you believe?

And, more to the point, what can we (I, you) do to help other's people children survive long enough to enroll in that college, attend that prom, find the right dress for the job...or have a slice of bread without the bombs falling, and the sirens blaring and the brutal murder of hope.

No child deserves that -- do they?


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yt-IBJpEMzA

Views and trolls

OK, so I post this new picture on the dating site (in this case, a rather ironic name).

Personally (if I may offer a "personally") I don't think it's too bad.

I get around 150 guys viewing it -- or maybe guys viewing it multiple times. OR maybe it's the SAME person viewing it 150 times.

And about 50 winks -- mostly from trolls.

But only one man actually writes -- something like "I like your profile. You are sexy."

Well -- how does he know? Did he see something 149 other men didn't -- or did he mean to write the 27 year old in the next profile down?

Many of the men on this dating website my age want to date younger women. And they seem to spend months, even years, waiting for that 30 something to realize how incredibly virile they are. Executives, or guys with lots of money, often can actually date 20-somethings. Only I don't think it makes them very happy.

John Fowles does a wonderful job of describing this situation in a novel he wrote about 30 years ago -- about a movie producer and the starlet he's bedding. And not a hell of a lot has changed. Only in the novel...OK, I won't tell you what happens.

Apparently, from what I picked up in a recent NY Times story, men my age don't even like women their own age. But as I wrote a fellow ten years older than me: you might be missing the perfect woman your own age.

Knowing what I do about these men makes me wonder if dating is what I need to be doing.

Maybe I should take up curling, like my friend Allen.

Or fine sewing like my friend Salin (married friend Salin).

Or maybe I should try a few more craft brews.

Any advice?

Closeting the shingle

I think it's time, I said to a therapist friend last night. Then I stopped, a little anxious at my own daring. I think it's time, I said softly, to start thinking more about myself.

Duh! she said. Well, not in so many words.

Iwas still a little surprised. You see, I don't have a martyr's habits. I don't "sacrifice" myself for my kids -- and let everyone know. I don't deny myself the eye shadow, or the velvet jacket (on sale, of course). I buy milk chocolate and strong tea from England (dark comes from Trader Joes).

But, like many mothers, I tend to live in the shadow's of my kids crushes, academic successes, failures, jokes, friendships. Given the chance to hang out with my children or go out on a date, I'll almost invariably choose the kids.

Where does responsible parenting end and, eh, fear begin? Or cynicism? I've protected my children from any hint that there have been, for fleeting moments, men in my life. They don't need to be dragged into it, I reason. It's better that they know I'm here if they need me.

Easier to be the counselor, the confessor, the journalist, than the lover.

But I've got the sense that this might care have been as much for my sake, as it was for my children. Daring to imagine a relationship -- how do I start?

Senseless acts of violence

I wonder if my son, who is rather gentle and trusting, will begin to not trust girls.

After all, in the past four months a 16 year old girl hit him on the right ear, perforating it in 2 places.

Yesterday he was in the school cafetorium when a girl his own age, Clair, hit him on the forehead.

Why was Clair provoked? Because, apparently, Mr. C said he was thinking of inviting another girl to the Halloween dance.

Now Clair doesn't even like my Mr. C. She told the principal she doesn't know why she hit a boy she calls "boxhead."

Detention. It doesn't seem like she's being punished enough, but frankly, I could give a flying fig for Clair. It's the boy, chuckling with his friends, red mark on his forehead, dizzy in the nurses office, talking to the principal -- he matters to me.

As your kids grow, they spend more and more time away from you -- mostly beneficial, sometimes boring, and occasionally traumatic. Let this not have been one of the last.