Saddled by Shoes

I heard about a study through either Stanford or Harvard University (can’t remember which, and it doesn’t really matter) that a child develops about 80% of their intellect, skills, and personality by the time they reach 6 years of age. I would like to insert the word beliefs to the list of this sponge period. In that time, imagine how much good and bad information is coming in around the conversation of the self and ultimately, self-worth. Personally, I have logged many hours in thoughtful curiosity toward my responses to people and situations, how I live, love, and the choices I have made, tracking it back to those informative years. Informative—informing, inform, in form. Here is one story that comes to light in my query around my low count of (by many women’s standards) shoe ownership and clothing, and the ever-so-popular conversation about—self-worth.

It’s 1963 and saddle shoes continued to be a fashion rage, or who knows perhaps they were merely a practical purchase by my parents—the shoes that went with everything? Knowing my family dynamic, post depression era people, I think that the latter may be more of a true statement. Nonetheless, I loved my saddle shoes, and besides my patent leather Mary Jane's for the special occasion and a pair of sneakers for everyday, they were the prized fashion statement of a six-year old kindergarten school girl. Never mind, that my clothes were handmade out of my mother’s old maternity dresses by my maternal grandmother, as long as my black and white’s were on my feet I felt I had a place amongst the other fashion-forward little girls on the playground. But in truth, there was already something plaguing on the inside about—self-worth. 

I remember very distinctly, as if etched in my brain, about a very happy little girl named Anna Marie. She was in my kindergarten class and during recess she was the girl that everyone wanted to hold hands with, skipping and running at recess. She was always at the side of the favorite yard-duty teacher, and in my six year old brain, if you were lucky enough to hold her hand, then you were something. My woman brain, is still struggling with her little girl’s less than sense of self, but then there are the shoes. And the shoes mind you, are only part of the story, but they are a profoundly simple metaphor which I’m getting to. There was also the birth of my sister, which I believe to be the beginning of the unconscious seed planting years for me—at three. Apologies, I digress, that story for another day. 

Back to the shoes! My parents both worked and my sister and I were under my grandmother’s care during the week, with weekend stays at our family home. So granny was in charge, of everything, including the maintenance of the beloved black and white saddle shoes. As you can imagine, the shoes would come home after an active day at school, a little scuffed up and by granny’s standards, required to be polished before the ringing of the next day’s school bell. This ritual, I presume, proved to be too much of a burden or inconvenience for her, for the next thing I know the white polish disappeared and out came the black instead. Insert little girl tears here. The white of my saddle shoes were now painted with the black polish, and my word today, for I how I felt then is—orphan. I felt like an orphan. Little Orphan Lori, dressed in hand-me-down rags and all black shoes, like the ones you would see beneath the Catholic nuns’ habits at church. Compounding the already shaky ground of self-worth, the feelings of shame comes in. No wonder, thinks I, the six-year old girl, she is not the one that the other girls on the playground race out of class to hold hands with during recess. The all black shoes...not my magic shoes, at all.

I find it amazing and quietly sad, that the information received and perceived during those in-form-ing years still has some kind of hold on me today. I write it down today as a way to honor the ripe and precious feelings of the little girl—grown to woman who has been saddled by shoes, not saddled with them.

A Double Bed is Easier to Make – Wisdom From a Bedroom

I tried it. This is so true. Why have I never thought about that before? Especially after moving from a suburban home where my bedroom could have easily accommodated three beds, as compared to my modest vintage home, where the rooms are sometimes no larger than 11' x 11'. At least I ditched the California King and downsized to a Queen. Yet it has been a challenge to accommodate a flanking two night stand configuration and small dresser. But I digress from the deeper conversation about double bed wisdom.

I had an opportunity to get a change of scenery and perspective, staying overnight with a friend at his out-of-town parent's condo. I have never met his parents, however, after less than 24 hours I have come away with a real sense of knowing who they are. Some knowing of course comes from the the conversations we have had about his parents, spawned by my innate curiosity about people and the under-nurtured journalist within. Last night, however, my information about these people (I refer to them now as 'my people') came from the warm and loving environment of their home, the artifacts of their evident world-wide travels, the books on the shelves, their eclectic color and style choices for the decor, the easily missed inspirational notes and reminders unassumingly placed around the house – some no bigger than 1/2" x 2", and the double bed in their master bedroom supported only by the box spring base without a frame. This would be my room for the night and the first thing I noticed in that room was the bed. A double bed. So many questions and thoughts came rushing into my head I could hardly wait to put down my bag and start the inquiry with my friend about his parents, the people I had not met...yet.

The first thing I commented on when I came out of their room was that I noticed that his parents slept in a double bed, this in high contrast to my parents who not only sleep in large beds, but they also sleep in separate rooms from one another. My mom in her queen size and my dad in his king. He said that his mom only recently had commented on his own large bed, by sharing her wisdom of how making a double bed was so much easier. Which is true, I think I already said that. But here is where my mind really went around the wisdom and value of the double bed. If I am sleeping alone – why do I need such a big bed? If I am sleeping with the love of my life – why do I need such a big bed? The conversation I was exploring around the size of a bed had multiple layers. From the angle of materialism – bigger and more is better mentality, to other subjective matters around simplicity, love, and intimacy. There is plenty of room in a double bed to both snuggle and to find your own space if you need it. I love too that their bed was literally grounded and needed no framework...easier to get in and easier to make. Simple, accommodating, and unassuming.

But there is more. As I was brushing my teeth getting ready for a night in the double bed, my eyes darting about the bathroom vanity, I was intrigued by the abundance of inspirational quotes of wisdom dotting the decor. One of my favorites read, "You can't have everything. Where would you put it?" – Comedian Steven Wright. The notes soon led to scanning book titles. You can learn a lot about people just from that. I found myself surrounded by profound positive energy and a library of love. I know it, because I felt it...empathically. As I nestled in for the night, I was looking forward to absorbing the love and nurturing energy of the people who usually inhabit the room.

In the light of morning my eyes landed on a string of books just above the bed on a shelf. Literal soldiers of information. "The Four Agreements", "Why Sinatra Matters", "Strange Change", "The Playful Brain", "Behind the Beautiful Forevers", and lastly the one that put me over the emotional edge "Living Your Best with Early-Stage Alzheimer's".

I came to visit for a change of scenery and perspective, but not from where I expected. It didn't come from the urban landscape, the aliveness of the city sidewalks, or the usual visual stimulation that I dearly love. It came from the visceral place of a simple double bed and the people who live and love there.

Divan Intervention

A young woman, barely past the age of teen, is contemplating a critical predicament alone, while her baby boy sleeps nearby uninterrupted in his crib.

Her Catholic–esque upbringing, with the added flavor of her grandmother's roots in Santeria, is now standing before her in judgment. The angry and punishing God that she was raised to believe in, disintegrating in this moment of stillness and calm. The realization of her present life course comes into full view of it's insanity laced with voices of the matriarchs saying things like, "You made your bed, now you lay in it." Compounded with more encouragement from the familial archives "You were born alone, and you die alone." Taken literally forward into her life, the over–achieving "A" student seeks advice and help from no one, and why would she.

It was 1978 and all marriages in her family, on both sides, were intact (regardless of how unloving they were) except for her favorite aunt on her mother's side. She witnessed her aunt being the object of gossip and dark judgement, as spiteful and ill–tempered as the God that was painted for her. The idea of leaving her marriage was not an option, for she couldn't swallow the thought of becoming another object of family ridicule.

Sitting on the once floral–patterned, Early American design (design being a very loose term here) divan, a 70s hand me down from the family home she left is now covered in a plaid Herculon™ fabric. It sits against a wood–paneled wall and is providing somewhat of a safe haven amongst the chaos on pause. Her young abusive alcoholic husband is away at work allowing for what would become a turning point for her future history, both life altering and life saving.

With crossed legs and mind bent, thoughts and questions arising and spilling 'out of her mind' grasping to reconcile all that she had been taught to believe about the rules, regulations, and religious consequences around marriage and divorce. Feelings of isolation and being boxed–in between family values and the reality of living daily in fear for her life and safety of her child, a whisper of sanity appears. It was more like the sound of a voice in your head, the kind that is often referred to as messages from above. 

She heard from the lips of Jesus, God, or whatever welcomed stream of divinity it was, that how and what she was living was not love and that no one was meant to be living a life like that. What she was taught and delivered as truth by her family was wrong. That is not what they, the divine ancestors, meant in their dissertation on love and matrimony–for her or anyone else. With that, permission was given to her to leave the bed she had made. And so she did. 

Imagine for just a minute the absolute collapse of everything you thought to be true and real for 20 years. Taught to you by your tribal people, only to be dissolved in an instant, laying in a mound of dust on the living room floor. This was most certainly my moment of Divan Intervention. 

Special Note: Thank God, Buddha, Jesus, Krishna, Archangels, and anyone else including myself who were involved on that grateful day of clarity and ultimately freedom. 

Casa Milagro - Miracle House...The Symbolism of Landscaping: Phase II

After removing the lawn, a loose hardscape plan in mind and literally no materials or budget...I spent the next two years battling the seasonal growth of weeds following winter storms. On a positive note, that time allowed me to really sink into the creative concept behind the Jacaranda tree shadow as basis for the hardscape plan and to develop more fully. This is probably a very typical approach to a Do-It-Yourself project. It would be good to mention at this point that I did have some amazing garden angels for whom I would not have accomplished what I did. My winged friends include, Susan Lanterman, Sonny Vyborny, Karen Martino, Donna Guhl, Susan Bainbridge, Ann Mitchell and Mark Vyborny.

Insert lawn removal here for this is a funny story in and of itself. I'm frugal. Having said that I set out to remove some 500sf of lawn...by hand! My friend Susan offered her help and never said a word, just went along with my idea of the pick and shovel approach. That lasted about 30 minutes at which point she breathed the words of relief, "Thank God", after which we set off to rent sod removal equipment. As we drove away in her truck fully equipped with trailer hitch, pink gloves and equipment in tow, we could see in the side view mirrors all the rental yard men with perplexed looks and a tilt in their heads. A minor mention of the nice discount we received at the check-out counter...it's good to be a girl!