Renaissance

I love going to fairs and festivals.  I love to see places where people gather to enjoy a shared passion.  I don’t care if it’s history, art, music, sports, crafts, or baking.  I enjoy events where people are allowed to express their true spirits and share a piece of themselves and the things that make them happy.  One of my favorite festivals to attend is the Renaissance Fair in Bonner Springs, Kansas.  I became enchanted with this festival about 20 years ago when I decided to attend just on a whim.  I think that is the best way to experience new things.  I had no expectations and no personal gain.  I just attended this festival because my heart and soul led me there.  There is something about the event that just seems to resonate with my heart and soul.  The celebration of Renaissance times always seems to soothe my spirit and places me in a different realm of existence.  I feel transported back to a time and place that seems so familiar to me.

I have been totally awed and captivated by the rustic nature and splendid design of the entire event since my first visit.  I am so enchanted that I have been to the festival about 15 times since it began in 1977.  It was one of the main events I truly missed when I moved away from Kansas in 1996.  Though I have attended other Renaissance Festivals in other cities, none can compare in scope and pageantry to the festival in my hometown.

Th e Kansas City Renaissance Festival is presented every weekend during the months of September and October.  It’s the perfect time for the festival.  This year, I roamed around all of the booths and attractions with the golden leaves falling like raindrops over the acres of festival ground.  After living in the desert of Southern California for the past eleven years, I was as enchanted by the autumn presentation as much as I was intrigued the festival’s dancers, singers, actors, magicians, and musicians.  It was a magical moment in a magical setting which was so refreshing to my soul.  I believe in magic.  I believe in fairies.  I believe in angels.  I believe that the world is blessed and beautiful, so beauty is normally what I find everywhere I go.  Maybe I’m too much of a dreamer.  Maybe I need to get my mind focused on more practical things.  But festivals, fairs, angels, elves, and fairies make me so happy.  Why would I ever consider living in the “real” world?

Several months ago, I went to a friend’s home for a much overdue visit.  My friend, Jane, and I sat in her living room and sipped iced tea while we talked.  Jane was frustrated and upset.  She signed heavily as she told me, “I was called up to my daughter’s school the other day.  The teacher and principal wanted to speak to me.  They had a lot of concerns about Maria.”  Maria is Jane’s beautiful, spirited, charming 5-year-old daughter.  I couldn’t imagine what this adorable young girl had done to upset anyone.  With a roll of her eyes, Jane told me the problem.  “Last week, all of the students in the kindergarten class were asked to pick their careers.”  At my wide-eyed, surprised expression, Jane informed me that the school was encouraging their 5-year-old students to seriously consider their future occupation.  Each child had to select a career, write a paper about it, and then present the information to all of their classmates and teachers.  Five-years-old…really?  I am MUCH older than that and still don’t know what I want to do with my life.

“All of the other children picked solid careers, you know, doctor, nurse, policeman, teacher.”  Jane paused to take a long sip of her tea as if she needed some kind of liquid courage.  “Only my daughter…” she sighed dramatically and shook her head.  “Only my daughter claimed she was going to grow up to be a princess!”

“A princess!?”  I repeated as my eyes lit up and a smile spread across my face.  “Really?  Maria said she was going to be a princess!?  That’s so COOL!”  I suddenly stopped as I noticed Jane’s exhausted, horrified expression.  The expression was a mixture of confusion, anger, and annoyance.  “Oh,” I now whispered as I settled back down into my seat, “that isn’t cool?”

“Of course, it’s not cool!”  Jane answered.  “The teachers, the principal, and I tried to explain to Maria what a career is but she just kept insisting that she was going to be a princess.  I told her she needed to choose an actual profession like a teacher or a lawyer, but she refused.  I told her she couldn’t be a princess when she grew up, but she wouldn’t listen to me.  My daughter is adamant that she is going to be a princess when she grows up!”  Jane sighed heavily and shook her head before saying, “I even asked her why she wanted to be a princess?  Maria said, ‘Because I’ll get to wear pretty clothes and people will do things for me.’  Can you believe it?  I don’t know what I’m going to do with that child?”

II just nodded my head now in obedient agreement with Jane.  I didn’t say anything, but I had an answer.  I know what I would do with a child like Maria if she was my little girl.

We would go to the Renaissance Fair.  We would dress in classic full long skirts and laced corsets.  We would have tea with the Royal Court, and visit with the Queen, King, Prince, and Princess.  We would chase after the fairies and play games with the jugglers.  We would wander through the glen and marvel at the colors of autumn.  We would try to catch the golden leaves as they fell from the trees.  We would eat turkey legs and drink punch as we marveled at the parade of knights in heavy armor riding strong horses as they made their way to the jousting arena.  We would cheer on our victor as he fought in the joust to defend our honor.  We would buy small crystals to plant in our home garden and daydream as we listened to the flute and harp music.

Later, we would go to museums and art shows.  We would dye our hair purple…or pink.  We would stare at the night sky on clear evenings and watch for falling stars.  We would play in the rain and jump in puddles.  We would love and respect all people, especially those who struggled to fit into society but believed in their souls they secretly were royalty. We would daydream in endless fields of wildflowers and look for four leaf clovers.  We would believe that life is fun and should be fully enjoyed.  We would believe that the world was full of endless possibilities.  We would continually count our blessings and be grateful to God and his universe for creating such a grand design.

If my daughter was a princess, I would behave like a queen.  I would love and respect myself so my daughter would have a living example of a confident, strong woman.  I would admit my mistakes and learn from them.  I would be artistic and let my imagination create a fantasy world that does not contain the tragedies of the world we currently know.  I would make solid decisions and take on new experiences and challenges so my daughter would have an example of courage.  I wouldn’t spend a single day living in fear.  I would not want my daughter to experience a single day of anxiety or depression.  I would not want my daughter to know the agony of contemplating suicide.  I would not want my daughter to experience a single moment of shame or guilt over her body, her thoughts, or her emotions.

But maybe I would not have to be a queen…isn’t this what all good mothers already do…

I don’t know…I don’t have children…I don’t know if I could advice my child on a profession like Jane had to…How could I help my child….I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up…

…But I do know this…

I go to Renaissance Festivals and art shows.  I dye my hair and wear long skirts.  I dance in the rain and believe in angels, fairies, and elves.  I live in a world of art and magic and imagination.  I don’t fit in to society.  I am the outcast, the one on the outside, the loser…I am laughed at, mocked, teased, and ignored.

But it really doesn’t matter…because in my heart…I truly know…that deep inside myself I am a princess and destined to be queen.

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Marilyn

I’m going to reveal a secret. I think it’s time I confessed. Whenever I am alone at home, in the car, or at work, I am constantly singing. I can’t seem to stop. Lately, I have found myself bursting out in song even when I am at the grocery store. I will stand right in the frozen foods section and belt out a few verses of “Heat Wave.” My voice, however, quickly dissolves into a heavy sigh or raging cough whenever someone approaches. I don’t sing around other people. I don’t want anyone to tell me that I am off-key or out of tune. I already know my voice is weak and pitchy. But that doesn’t stop me when I am alone. I still continue to sing using my hairbrush or television remote as a microphone. It’s a childhood activity I have never outgrown.

So I continue to sing and scribble down lyrics on napkins or in my class notes. I have been writing songs since I was six-years-old. In high school, I would sit in the back of the room scribbling silly love songs in my notebook instead of paying attention to my history lesson. I had dreams of being a singer/songwriter back then. Unfortunately, the dreams are recurring. By all rights, I should be Shania Twain or Taylor Swift. I can close my eyes and see a complete picture of myself on stage dramatically singing my songs to a large cheering crowd.

In reality, though, when the dream ends, I’m not on stage. Instead, I am usually in the audience. I love to go to concerts. It is the only thing I splurge on. I will go without new clothes and shop for groceries at the 99 Cent Store just to have the extra money I need to buy a concert ticket.

Last Saturday night, November 1, I had a ticket to see Reba McEntire at Fantasy Springs Casino in Indio, California. I have never seen Reba before and was excited for the show. I arrived at the venue early that night so I decided to go to the bowling alley snack bar and get a cup of coffee. Not being a gambler, I decided to just relax and read until the doors of the theater were open.

I sat at a small round table and alternately stuck my nose in my coffee cup and my paperback book. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me say, “Where is the trash can? Is that the trash can?”

I looked up and saw an elderly woman standing behind me. She was slightly hunched over and she shuffled across the floor in a slow awkward tilted gait. The woman was wearing white pants and a blue striped shirt that was covered by a white cardigan. A little white hat that looked like a sailor’s cap turned inside out sat on top of her gray curly hair and drooped down around her large black framed glasses. I smiled at her for a moment and then pulled my chair closer to the table to make sure I was out of her way.

The woman thanked me and then dumped her trash in the metal can behind me. She turned slowly to go back to her table but then stopped and looked at me. She asked me if I was going to the concert that night. “Oh, yes, I’m really excited about this show,” I answered and the woman happily clapped her hands together.

“I’m going, too,” she told me. “I go see everybody. I don’t care if they’re white or black, gay, lesbian. It doesn’t matter. I just want to hear the music and see the shows. After every show I’ve ever seen I always thank God for blessing me so greatly. I got to witness the talents of so many great people and I always say thank you Jesus for blessing me so. I got to see Sammy Davis, Jr and Elvis Presley. I saw Librace four times! How lucky am I! I’m Marilyn.”

“Hi, Marilyn,” I told her as I reached out my hand. “My name is Jamie.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Marilyn stated as she grabbed my hand warmly. “How wonderful. We are going to witness a great talent together tonight. I’m 85-years-old and I’ve gotten to experience so much! God is so good!”

As I stared at Marilyn for a moment, I tried not to reveal my shock. This beautiful woman with this amazing spirit was 85? I know much younger people who don’t possess a fraction of her energy and enthusiasm. Marilyn was excited now and she couldn’t stop talking. I didn’t mind. I do the same thing when I am happy. So I put down my book and looked right at her as I listened to her voice that rattled, shook , and cracked as she continued on. “Yes, Barbara Walters turned 85 in September. I’m turning 85 in December. She retired. Why? I think I’m going to last longer than Barbara Walters. I’m so excited. I’m so lucky. What good fortune that I have seen so many shows and so much talent. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for creating all of the lovely talented people. Thank you for blessing me because I get to see all of the talent. I love to see these talented people. Black, white, gay, lesbian…I don’t care. I love them! And I’m so lucky. What a blessed life I have had to witness such amazing talent. Look how Jesus has blessed me! I’ve been in the audience at the best shows and witnessed the greatest talent.”
Marilyn’s great enthusiasm dimmed only once when she mentioned the government. Or as my friend Marilyn stated, “The fucking government…Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She giggled as her small hands rose up to cover her mouth. I just laughed. I figure if someone is 85-years-old, he or she has earned the right to say anything. The light in Marilyn’s eyes returned as she continued to talk about all of the great shows she had seen.

A few minutes later, Marilyn’s friend arrived and they left the snack bar. I trailed them through the casino where Marilyn, who claimed to have stopped gambling four years ago, was walking around the slot machines cheering on the gamblers or offering them unsolicited advice. I felt brilliant in her presence and dazzled by her enthusiasm.

An hour later, I was sitting in the audience of the Fantasy Springs performance center listening to Reba’s amazing talent. And when the concert was over I thanked God for blessing me so. I walked by Marilyn and her friend on my way out. I leaned over and took her hand. “What did you think, Marilyn?” I asked her. “Did you have fun?”

“Oh, I used to be a schoolteacher,” Marilyn told me. “Reba gets an A plus plus plus. What an amazing gift she has. Thank you God. I have been so blessed.” I squeezed Marilyn’s hand then and left the theater after saying good night.

I walked out of the performance center with a prayer of my own. Thank you God for allowing me to witness so many amazing and beautiful spirits tonight. And thank you for the lesson I learned from my dear 85 year old friend, Marilyn. A gift is a talent we share with others; a blessing is the ability to appreciate those gifts. Thanks to Marilyn, I now know the difference. I may not be gifted like Shania or Taylor or Reba, but now I know God has continued to bless me endlessly.

I

The Randomness of My Life

I was reading back over my blogs the other day and released that there’s not really a theme. Was I supposed to have one? I noticed that most bloggers write about a certain thing–fashion, food, travel. But I can’t seem to focus. I can’t seem to choose one thing. I realized then that my blogs are just as random and unorganized as my life.

It made me think of a writing assignment I was giving a few years ago. What was the best year of my life in a 5-year span? I still don’t know how to answer that. Nothing actually stands out in my mind. I have never climbed Mount Everest, sailed around the world, or performed a heroic feat that saved another person’s life. Maybe I didn’t know what to write because I couldn’t think of a specific moment that turned my life around. I have never married. I don’t have children. I have never won the lottery. My life instead has been very different. It has been a day-to-day process. It has been a continuous unfolding of insight and understanding. I see my life as being an endless progression of trial and error.

Maybe I am trying too hard. Maybe I am overthinking the question. Maybe I should think about the happy moments of my life. Maybe I should think of the times that have made me feel alive and joyful to be in this world. I think of my miraculous moments. I have seen angels and other visions. I have helped people heal through massage and energy work. I have traveled extensively around the world. I have gone to several different schools and graduated with honors. I have taught in several different schools and helped others graduate with honors. I have waded in the oceans. I have gazed at mountains shining purple in the sunlight. I have received hugs from family and friends. I have experienced painful breakups of relationships. I have watched friends and family suffer and pass through my life no matter how hard I tried to hold onto them. I have read great books that showed me a different way of life. I have seen great movies that have inspired emotions deep within me. I have listened to amazing music that moves my soul in the same way it moves my feet. I have screamed for victory at sporting events. I have competed in the race of life for an attainable victory. I have tried to be kind, though I know I don’t always succeed when I am tired or stressed. I have taken beautiful photographs and have become frustrated when others don’t see the amazing things that I do. I have been strong at times and shown amazing courageous. I have been shy at other moments and cowered away from perceived threats. I have held babies. I have watered plants. I have cared for pets. I have treasured objects that would have no value to anyone else. I have lived life to the very brink of its existence. I have slept and being lazy on warm summer days. I have eaten great food and then worried about my weight. I have exercised and loved my body. I have hated my body and every one of its flaws has left me depressed and feeling unlovable. I have moments when I have doubted God’s existence. There were days when I have doubted my own existence. There are times when I have been a great believer just because I saw a sunrise or a drop of rain. I have great faith that won’t diminish even on days of sadness. I have great sadness that can sometimes diminish my faith. I have had a life filled with many years of great joy and tremendous sadness. I have had many years that I want to live again and others I would wish to erase from my memory.

So to answer what is the best year of my life, what can I say? Maybe I haven’t lived enough. Maybe I have lived too much. I can’t concentrate on one idea. My life is swirling in front of my eyes as if I am about to pass over into a new existence. When I finally do pass over into a new existence, will I look back on the best year of my life? Will I know then when the best time of my life had been? No, I will only know that I had a life…

My Writing Journey

When I was 16-years-old, one of five poems I had sumbitted to a publishing company was selected for inclusion in a quarterly journal. However, there was one small stipulation. My poem would only appear in print as long as I was willing to purchase 5 copies of the journal. Ignoring my father’s comments that the deal was a scam, I took $60 out of my next paycheck from McDonald’s and sent it to the publishing company. Three weeks later, the journals arrived. There, on page 59, was my poem, which I had written for my mother. One poem–16 lines–with my name printed underneath the title “Songbird.” My grandmother stared at the page for just a moment and then looked up at me. Her eyes sparkled excitedly as she squealed, “We have an author in the family!” I looked at my grandmother in surprise. It was just one poem. One poem on half a page of a hundred-page journal and my grandmother called me an AUTHOR. I turned the word over in my head and thought of the way Grandma’s voice had rang with pride. An author–me? Well, it could be a possibility.

I am one of those people who can’t NOT write. Due to a speech impediment, writing has always been the best way for me to get out my emotions when I stumble over my words. I have kept journals for most of my life. My journals are always very detailed. I record everything—where I was, who I was with, what we were wearing, what words were said. Recording the events of a lazy Saturday afternoon usually takes up twenty pages in my journal. I can spend a weekend in Vegas and write a 100 page essay on it! It’s not just about expression. Jounraling is also my way to hold on to the special moments of my life. I want to record and relive the major moments of my existence.

For example, I want to remember in detail the year I lived in England and the days I spent roaming around Europe. I want to especially remember for the rest of my life what it felt like to backpack alone across Malaysia. I want to recall my shocking reaction to the unusual foods. I want to relive the amusement of the kind strangers who mistook me for Princess Diana one day in the town courtyard. I want to remember the night I was attacked by an amorous baby lizard on a moonlit beach. Details, details, details….

This attention to detail served me well when I worked as a reporter for Hullfire, in Hull, England and The Los Alamos Monitor in Los Alamos, New Mexico. Working as a reporter also helped me become more observant. My personal journal writing became even more intense. It was my sister, Theresa, who suggested one day that I publish my journals. I’m not sure if she was joking or not…I chose to take her seriously.

Two years later, my first book, The Sweetness of Life, was published. From all of my adventures, I chose to concentrate on the journey I took wit my mother. Mom and I set a goal to drive through all fifty states in America. We made it to all but four states before I lost my mother to colon cancer. I will always treasure those moments with my mother as we stumbled around America and discovered more than just the states. My mother taught me a lot about life, love, and death…and it’s all in my journals and, now, in my book. Oh, details, details, details…..

And I really hope now that Grandma is saying to some random angel somewhere in heaven, “We have an author in the family!”