Amy Lu's View

I’m not comfortable touching a stranger’s sausage patty. 

I actually pride myself in not being overly squeamish, but I’m not really looking to touch anybody’s sausage patty–they’re greasy, even slimy, by design.

But the sausage patties were on my windshield, in the context of Egg McMuffin-like sandwiches, accompanied by several unopened packages of chocolate mini-donuts. So I felt the most expedient course of action was to handle them–as briefly as possible and using a wrapper as a shield–to remove them from my windshield.

Yeah, it was an unexpected, and decidedly weird situation. I got in my car to go home after an awesome night of outdoor music at the local Silverwood Park, and realized there were seemingly uneaten Egg McMuffins and wrapped mini-donuts on my windshield. I can be oblivious and unaware of the details of my surroundings, but I’m 98 percent certain the food items were not there when I got out of my car. 

I was so discombobulated by the situation that I didn’t take in all the details, and unfortunately, can’t capture the situation in accurate detail.

I also opted NOT to take a photo, which I regret, but, well…I was confused, AND embarrassed. I’m not sure why I was embarrassed–I wasn’t responsible for the situation, but there were people around, and I just wanted to remove the food from my windshield as quickly as possible without drawing more attention to myself. 

(I do want moral high ground points for gathering up all the food and depositing it in the compost bin). 

Now that I’m comfortably at home with all traces of sausage patty grease washed away, I’m burning with questions and curiosity. WHAT IS THE STORY BEHIND THIS? 

I belong to a family with at least one notable instance of food-throwing (which I’m happy to talk about in direct communication), so I know this can be a sign of a rich and complex narrative.

Plus, I just wrote in my last blog post how deeply troubling, and potentially meaningful, I find wasted food–so I am primed to be intrigued by this. (I find wasted food so disturbing that I briefly wondered if I should save the wrapped, unopened donuts and try to find a home for them). 

Questions are swimming around in my head that I may wrestle with until the day I die. (Maybe this whole incident should be tackled in the next season of the Serial podcast). My questions fall into two main categories that I will label “logistical” and “narrative”.

Logistical Questions:

• Were these actual Egg McMuffins? 
• Were they purchased at breakfast time and held on to until the evening? 
• Where can one buy Egg McMuffin rip-offs? 
• Where can one buy authentic or knock-off Egg McMuffins in the evening? 
• Why all the mini-donuts? 

Logistical Conclusions: Based on the lack of clear McDonald’s branding and the presence of mini donuts, I think this was food stuff purchased at a gas station. Time of day unknown, but probably post-breakfast. 

Narrative Questions:

• Who threw the food?
• Why? Was it thrown in anger? Anger at a person? Frustration in the quality of the food? 
• Why was it only at my car? Random nature of the universe, or does someone have a grudge against old Honda Fits? Did I unknowingly piss someone off while I was parking my car? 

Narrative Conclusion: I think some teens had some gas station goodies that they were tossing around to each other that accidentally ended up on my windshield. 

This was just a random and perplexing little incident–that illustrates not only are there “…eight million stories in the Naked City,” but at least eight stories at your fully-dressed local park. 

And, sausage grease is hard to clean off a windshield. 

Our new refrigerator* is almost a couple of weeks old. 

This time with our new refrigerator has been wonderful. Not only is it lovely to have a working refrigerator so that I can eat fresh vegetables and yogurt and eggs without worrying obsessively about food poisoning, but it feels luxurious because we have so much space. 

Getting to this place of new refrigerator ownership was not wonderful, mostly because we had to clean out the old refrigerator/freezer. This process was annoying, time-consuming, embarrassing, and depressing. 

This was an endeavor beyond the initial “I’m freaking out and throwing most of our groceries away because they’ve been improperly refrigerated” clean-out. (That was dispiriting and stressful in its own way but very different). This was the “Now we need to clear out the dregs of food stuff that has been hiding in here for years” phase. 

The freezer required the most attention. It was a monument to broken dreams and promises, a repository of the remnants of past aspirations. And while I wasn’t necessarily scared of or averse to eating old freezer-burned food (I’ve been pleasantly surprised in the past with how a frozen offering can be resurrected with microwaving) it seemed like a good time to declutter. If something had been lingering in our freezer for years and years (some of the “best buy” dates were 2014) did I really need to hang on to it, much less go through the effort of transporting it to our new freezer?

There’s almost always something at least a little sad to me about uneaten food–it represents a plan gone awry, and is a tangible artifact symbolizing an error in judgment. But maybe it can also mean a welcome change of mind and/or heart, a course correction, or a fresh start. 

We have a chance for a fresh start now, at least in terms of food purchasing and storage. And I am going to try hard from now on to only buy food that we will actually eat within a reasonable amount of time. Food waste is not only a problem for the environment–having an overstuffed, disorganzied refrigerator and freezer weighs on the mind and soul. 

(I can also learn from my mother here–after she died and we were cleaning out her kitchen, we discovered at least 40 boxes of stockpiled jello. She wasn’t particularly attached to jello–any more than any white midwestern Lutheran woman of her time–but she stored it in a hard to reach cupboard and I think it was always easier to buy more than to remember and retrieve what she already had. And while there are many qualities of my mom that I want to emulate, weirdly building up an archive of food isn’t one of them). 

I wrote earlier in this post that the clean-out process was embarrassing, but I think “humbling” is a better way to think of it. We can’t always know or control how life is going to go, and the hidden and forgotten curiosities in our freezer are a testament to that. 

Ah, perhaps it’s most helpful to approach this experience with a curiousity mindset: Why did I buy that? Why didn’t we ever eat it? 

And perhaps most importantly, and entertainingly, what in the hell is that under all that ice?

*Our new refrigerator is a white top-mount Whirlpool, in case you’re interested. I made Chad pick it out–I was happy with anything that fit in the space that we didn’t have to wait too long to have delivered.

“Are you serious?”

I felt defensive as soon as Chad posed the question as we were watching the new Dr. Strange movie, but I quickly realized he wasn’t being snarky. 

Chad was sincerely incredulous. Had I indeed once again mixed up the superheroes The Black Widow and The Scarlet Witch?

Yes, yes I had. 

My confusion became apparent when a quarter of the way into the movie, when I wondered aloud why The Scarlett Witch was on a murderous rampage when she seemed fine at the end of the last Marvel movie. Answer: She wasn’t. I was thinking of an entirely different character, and I’ve mixed up those characters at least once before.

I guess all white, conventionally attractive, female superheroes look the same to me?

(I understand that many people, including some of my dear readers, lead happy lives without any idea of who The Scarlet Witch and The Black Widow. I’m trying to think of an analogy for the non-superhero inclined to illustrate this…it’s like confusing Ringo Starr and George Harrison, or Coke and Pepsi, or Instagram and Twitter). 

I’m not saying that you should know, but I should know. I want to know. I have the means to know–I’ve seen all the Marvel movies and the television show “Wanda Vision.” I’m by no means a Marvel Universe expert, but our dog is named after beloved Marvel creator Stan Lee for goodness sake. 

There’s probably not a great life lesson in my mistake, but it does make me wonder why this is a repeat mix-up for me. My question above was flippant, but I am actually a little distrubed to think I might be so unconsciously dismissive of female characters that I lump them all together. That would definitely tarnish my feminist credentials. 

Or am I simply bad at paying attention, and processing and retaining information? While the consequences in this situation aren’t that dire (I mostly just made poor Chad’s brain hurt), it makes me a little nervous about what else I might be confused or forgetful about. 

Maybe I keep getting tripped up by the semantic similarities of the characters’ names–they both contain a color, and a descriptive noun that starts with a “w” (it could be a similar reason as to why I keep mixing up the bands Dr. Dog and Dinosaur Jr.). 

The answer is probably a combination of all these factors and more. At any rate, I still highly enjoyed the movie, and Chad’s not likely to fire me over my extremely embarrassing Marvel faux paus. (If I get fired for anything super-hero related, it will probably be because I don’t really like Batman). 

I just know that if I ever get a superhero name, it would be really cool if it has “purple” in it. 

I was just sitting there, contentedly latch hooking away. I was not expecting any big feels. (That’s the whole point of doing latch hook–it’s calming and not very emotional, although I do sometimes get irritated when my yarn frays).

And then, I heard a choir start to sing the hymn “Abide With Me.”

I wasn’t having an auditory hallucination–we were watching the recording of our church’s national worship service held last week in Portland. 

I wasn’t surprised to hear the choir, but I wasn’t expecting them to perform that song, which I strongly associate with my past. It was one of my favorite hymns as a young conservative Lutheran. (The song is in our Unitarian Universalist hymnal but our church rarely sings it and I definitely didn’t expect it at a national service). 

I loved it so much that my friend Jennifer and I sang it for a senior concert when we graduated from high school. 

Even more powerfully, I remember playing it on piano at my parents’ house when I was staying there when my mom was dying. I didn’t give a performance for my family or even my mom or anything like that–it was just something I played to comfort myself (although I do think my mom said at the time she liked hearing me play it–along with whatever else I was noodling around with).  

Beyond the emotions stirred up by the connection to my youth and my mom, this encounter with “Abide With Me” blew my mind. After the choir sang the first verse, a spoken word artist, Lea Morris, wove her performance–her beautiful, powerful, profound performance–into the song. 

I won’t try and describe the awesomeness of the performance of this song–you really should just watch/listen to it. (https://youtu.be/66NdjDRPvhU?t=3533). As a small taste of it, Lea Morris offers this line: “Liminal space is feeling so breathless.” I don’t pretend to know what that means, but it is beautiful and opens me up to all kinds of ideas and thoughts. 

“Liminal space is feeling so breathless.”

–Lea Morris

And to be honest, and hopefully not offensive, the juxtaposition of a song that I think is so embedded in white conservative culture with a spoken word performance by a black woman in a way that feels totally authentic and creative and relevant and not at all cheesy makes me feel that music can be so powerful that anything is possible.

Just a few blog posts ago I wrote about “The Wedding Song” by Paul Stookey, and I think this morning’s experience of “Abide With Me” is very similar–the intense feeling of being transported to the past by a song, while simultaneously being inspired to think about something in a different way. 

Music, and ritual, can connect us to the past and honor that past while still inspiring us to have new ideas. We can be comforted by familiarity and challenged by a different perspective–a perspective that’s new, or one that’s only possible after gaining some life experiences.

What can it mean to ask someone, or something, to abide with you? Who or what could that be besides or beyond the understanding I had of God way back in time when I lived out on the rural Wisconsin tundra? 

What if the song isn’t just about asking for or seeking comfort, but a reflection on how we can give solace to others? How can we abide with each other in community and love?

I could finish several latch hook projects as I ponder that.

I left my phone at Target. 

I think I would have been happier if I had left my heart. 

I’m surprised by how deflated I feel. Frustrated? Absolutely. Annoyed? Totally. 

But I almost feel sad, which seems a little off base. 

I don’t think I’m sad because I’m uber attached to my phone, but because this was a completely preventable calamity. I was a dumbass who was careless, and I don’t like that feeling.

I also don’t like feeling that someone picked up my phone and didn’t return it (we were able to track my phone from Target as it went on a bit of an expedition. Yes, we erased the phone so no one should be able to do anything nefarious with it).

And yeah, I AM pretty attached to my phone. Luckily, I’m able to use my old phone to listen to audiobooks via Audible. I guess I can use our Chromebook for most of my interweb needs. But I probably will be less communicative and–GASP–the world will be temporarily deprived of Amy selfies. 

I may even use this time of making do without a current smart phone to reevaluate my smart phone dependency. Perhaps I will learn to focus more and live more in the moment without constantly looking at my phone for the next dopamine hit.

Perhaps…but I’m not too optmistic.

I DO have a new phone on order (thanks to Chad for taking of that) even though I don’t feel like I deserve one (do the Germans have a special word for being depressed by your own dumbness? Seems like the people who came up with “schadenfreude” would).

I’m also bummed because this was supposed to be a special day–the day we got our new refrigerator. (Fittingly, today is actually the “National Day of Joy.“) And while we did successfully get our new refrigerator delivered and installed, this joy in being able to buy and store eggs and salad is tarnished by not being able to photographically document it.

I’m sure I’ll continue to wallow for a bit about the fate of my phone but I’ll get over it…eventually my melancholy will be replaced with rage as I try to learn how to use my new phone. 

Once upon a time, there was a middle-aged amatuer actress who got to be in a local community theater production that was a comedic mash-up of Grimm Brothers’ fairy tales. 

Our show (“The Brothers Grimm Spectaculathon” presented by Applause Community Theatre) incorporated many fairy tales, famous and obscure, but not my favorite fairy tale…because I don’t have a favorite fairy tale. 

This isn’t because I don’t like fairy tales. On the contrary, when I think of fairy tales, I get a warm fuzzy glow. But I think of fairy tales as a collective, without a particular one standing out. 

I remember my mom reading and telling fairy tales to me when I was rather little (seven?) and these were not the Disney versions–these were more traditional tales that were violent and scary and somewhat disturbing, but I loved them because they were weird and uncanny (and hearing them involved spending time with my mother). I can only recall flashes from these stories–there was one that involved a severed head coming down the chimney which was super creepy, and I felt bad for the wolf when he got stones sewed up in his stomach, and I thought “Rose Red” was a really cool name. 

And I don’t mean to needlessly malign Disney (as my character did in our play)–while I’m certainly not a huge Disney fan, I did love Disney’s version of “Snow White” as a kid and was thoroughly frightened by the witch. 

I will also add what I find most disturbing about original or classic fairy tales is not that they’re violent per se, but that they’re often vindictive with a definite “eye for an eye” sensibility. I mean yeah, Cinderella’s stepsisters were bitches, but having their eyes poked out does seem a little harsh. 

I don’t have a favorite fairy tale because they are a stew of images and memories that I’ve loved in different ways throughout my life–part of the canvas of life in different way.

I’m trying to be poetic–but that’s just because I’m lazy and want to do a content dump of my random thoughts and memories about fairy tales in the form of a list:

• When I was a kid I adored pseudo 3-D books that were illustrated by photographs of weird puppets–apparently the genius behind these was Tadasu Izawa Shigemi Hijikata. (Please see images above…I could spend all night looking at images like these. I can’t believe how evocative they are and how many I remember and how they immediately transport me to my childhood. I’m sitting in our living room in our little house on the tundra looking at these right now).
• I also loved the “Fractured Fairy Tales” that were part of “Rocky and Bullwinkle.” I thought they were so clever and that I was so clever for liking them. (I just watched Rapunzel and it held up well, I’ll need to watch more). 
• As a young teen (fourteen) the movie “The Company of Wolves” blew my mind: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087075/. (There was also an angsty and thrilling personal teen drama backdrop to watching this movie that involved seeing it IN MADISON–the big city–that gives this movie mythic “The Life of Amy” proportions). 
• Fairy tales have played a big role in my theater life, especially as a youth and teen. My drama career peaked early when I got to play “Snow White” in a hippie-version when I was in eighth grade (although as I think about it, I realize I had a lot of stage time but not a lot of lines). I had a blast playing “grandma” in a version of “The Red Shoes,” and adored getting to co-rewrite an adaptation of “The Pied Piper” (yes, I thought I was demonstrating how talented and witty I was). I thought the TV show “Grimm” was great fun (even though we never finished watching it). 
• “Into the Woods” is AMAZING and BRILLIANT. “No One is Alone” and the dead mother theme will never NOT make me cry. And “Moments in the Woods”–worthy of its own philosophical treatsie. 
• I’ve had a long-standing, if shallow, interest in cultural, social, sexual, feminist, etc. interpretations of fairy tales.  

I have loved, and continue to love (or at least have passing interest in) retellings of fairy tales–even bad and dumb ones. I love reworkings of myths and legends and fairy tales because I always find the combination of “Hey, I know what this is AND this is new (or off and wrong and weird)” to be thrilling. 

I think the common association of “fairy tales” is with romance (for better or worse) but that’s not why I gravitate towards them. Who cares about the Prince? I like their drama and despair and weirdness. Fairy tales are the gateway (or at least were for me) to being a sci-fi geek. 

And so the middle-aged lady and her theatre friends worked their asses off and successfully staged a show based on fairy tales to the amusement and delight of their audiences (small but much-appreciated as they were). 

And the middle-aged lady lived Happily Ever After…until she started worrying about what role she might possibly be able to wrangle next. Perhaps she can make a deal with a supernatural being or two to procure a role (but damn, she’s way to old to offer a baby…).

“Hey there, Hot Stuff….Oh wait, that’s me.”

me, as the Devil, in “The Brothers’ Grimm Spectaculathon“–catch a performance this Friday or Saturday!

Yes, I have literally been hot stuff this last week–our central A/C is broken. And yes, this happened right before it got in the upper 90’s and has included yesterday, when the temperature soared to 100 in Minneapolis. 

Luckily, we’re able to have our A/C and furnace system replaced this Thursday. So there’s no need to worry about us or feel too sorry for us–either now or retroactively. Chad was able to pick up and install a window A/C unit for our bedroom, and that has made this whole experience much more bearable–at least we can be relatively cool to sleep. And he installed awesome ceiling fans last summer, plus, our basement stays quite cool. 

Chad even got me an “Arctic Air Pure Chill” personal portable cooler which is surprisingly effective and includes mood lighting! (I’m also thinking it will come in handy when I hit menopause).

I know we’re so fortunate to be able to afford new Central Air, and window units, and fans, and Pure Chills. Many people around the world don’t have these amenities. We’ve never been in danger, just uncomfortable and grumpy. This has been a lesson in gratitude and perspective (I never thought an 85 degree day would feel as good as it did today after yesterday’s 100).

I should be tougher. Didn’t I grow up without Central Air or even window units until I was at least 25? Yes, indeed I did…but I’m more pampered these days and it’s hard to go back to a more spartan lifestyle. And, sadly and scarily, I do think global warming has made summers hotter in my not THAT extensive lifetime. 

So we’ve been fine, if slightly surly…until our refrigerator died (to be precise, it’s only “chilling” to 65 degrees–just enough to keep Diet Coke, etc, slightly more refreshing than room temperature). 

We’re still fine (unless we get food poisoning) just more surly.

Yes, appliances in our house that are in the cool business are mutinying. (Is there a specific deity for them that we’ve offended?) 

We have to take some responsibility–we knew our refrigerator was failing, and Chad’s been looking for a replacement, but we just didn’t expect it to give up when it did. 

Again, we’re lucky that we can afford a new refrigerator without too much stress, but what a hassle. (Definitely feel free to get out the tiny violins). 

Mostly, I’m swimming in a pool of anxiety about our food going bad. I thought it would be okay if we transferred everything to our basement refrigerator that we have mostly for beverages, but then today realized that refrigerator was only cooling down to a 46-51 degree range. (Refrigerators are supposed to be at 40 degrees or lower for food safety). 

Was our food already bad by the time we realized our main refrigerator wasn’t working? How bad did it get sitting in our basement refrigerator before I realized that also wasn’t cold enough? When will we know? Surprisingly to me, food poisoning takes 6 hours to 6 DAYS to kick in. Wow. I really hope it doesn’t kick in during one of our play performances (did I mention we’re in a play and you can catch a show this Friday or Saturday night) because even though we have a bit in the show about actors getting food poisoning, I really don’t want life to imitate art in this case. 

So I just got finished with throwing all our refrigerated food out (freezers are still working, crossing my fingers.) I DID think “Well, we’ve already eaten some of it so why bother?” but I think it’s likely just to become more problematic and that our risks for problems will go up. 

Throwing food out is a tedious and dispiriting process (which I did about a month ago when we lost power) that makes me sad–I really hate wasting food. I know that many folks probably think I’m overacting (Chad does) but it’s just not worth me obsessing more than I already am. (I feel I should add I often eat vegetables without washing them which is definitely a risk that I recklessly embrace).

Fortunately, I think our cheese can be saved, and the worst thing that happens to not-properly-refrigerated kombucha is it starts getting alcoholic. (Although if we died by improperly refrigerated cheese that would be REALLY stupid, and another unfortunate example of life imitating the art of our play). 

I’m not sure what we’re going to do with any fresh food until the new refrigerator comes next week, but we’re hoping once we defrost the basement fridge it will once again be up to the task of food chilling. Maybe we’ll just eat frozen food and chips, which we have been known to do. 

I’m just thankful that we have peanut butter, english muffins, oatmeal, and coffee for breakfast tomorrow. And that alcohol doesn’t have to be refrigerated.

As a kid growing up in rural Wisconsin in the seventies, there were elements to a wedding that seemed like a given, including: A reception filled with drunk happy guests, the dollar dance, and hearing “The Wedding Song” (by Paul Stookey of Peter, Paul, and Mary fame) featured in the service. 

When Chad and I got married in slightly less rural Wisconsin in 1995, it was up to us to decide what aspects of ceremony and ritual and celebration to include in our wedding service and festivities. We landed on a mix of the new and the old. We definitely had the drunk, happy, guests (never in question) but we did decide to forgo the dollar dance, which I now regret. I think we thought we were too cool or sophisticated or something. (If you’re not familiar with the dollar dance, I’m sure you know how to Google, but you can also check this out: https://www.brides.com/money-dance-tradition-5074509). 

We also had “The Wedding Song” in our service, but as I felt a little uncomfortable with the God language of the song, we had our pianist play it while we did the unity candle thing (rather new to me at the time) and we didn’t have anybody sing it. 

I’ve been reminiscing about our wedding as we recently hit the milestone of our 27th Anniversary on May 27 (sort of our golden anniversary, but of course not to be confused with a 50th anniversary which is the actual “Golden Anniversary.” The traditional gift for a 27th anniversary isn’t gold, but sculpture, which is kind of cool, but we didn’t have any time for gifts this year. We do have a Groot Chia Pet that we’ve had for years, maybe sometime this summer we’ll get around to “planting” it and consider that our anniversary sculpture?)

To commemorate our anniversary, I decided to perform my version of “The Wedding Song” for our church’s online coffee house. This gave me an opportunity to revisit the lyrics of the song. The inner monologue of my emotional/spiritual/philosophical journey went something like this:

“I don’t want to be so self-righteous as I was in my youth about using God-as-a-Being language, but I also don’t want to just stick with God as “He”..can I mix it up and use “She” and “They” for God? Why yes, I can, but singing “Wherever two or more of you are gathering in HER name” is surprisingly making me think about my mom and now I’m tearing up and I don’t know if I can sing this! And yes, wow, I can NOT sing “becoming MAN and wife” and I will make ‘husband’ fit even if it’s awkward.” 

I unexpectedly went from making a theological statement to being pulled through a doorway of remembrance and love. I was thinking about my mom, my dad, and Chad’s grandparents, all of whom have died since our wedding, and all the other relationships that we’ve lost or have changed in ways that feel like a diminishment. I can’t adequately define it, but I had a new appreciation of our wedding as a time when we all gathered in love, not just in Chamy Love, but love of family, friends and community. 

The Covid-19 pandemic has definitely inspired me to reconsider what “gathering” means and to appreciate it in new ways. How can we gather in ways that don’t involve physical proximity? How can we gather in ways that are inclusive and honor the past and appreciate the present moment? 

How can I make my mom “real” not by thinking some platitudes about Heaven or even sharing memories of her with those who knew and loved her (although that is awesome and I’m always up for that), but by gathering together in love with others? Does the mere attempt of trying to connect with others honor and invoke all our past expressions and experiences of love?

I don’t know, but just thinking about trying makes me feel closer to my mom.

AND I will now totally dance with anyone who asks me to, no dollar needed (although with inflation, would that be a TWO AND A HALF dollar dance? But do not blame Joe!)

P.S.–(okay, I think that is technically only for letters but I don’t know what the blog equivalent is…I know I have definitely been Amy Grumpy Pants of late which makes me feel like I’m in a precarious position to write about love, etc., but may also explain why I’m particularly interested in it).

I want to blog, but I can’t.

I’m too busy.

I have to learn my lines and rehearse for the play I’m in that opens in less than two weeks.

Okay, that’s too passive. Let’s try reframing that.

I’m choosing not to blog because I’m prioritizing learning my lines for the upcoming play I’m in (which you should all see: https://dreamlandarts.com/the-brothers-grimm-spectaculathon/!)

I am thankful that I get to spend my time and energy on this creative endeavor. It’s an opportunity I’ve chosen and not a burden imposed upon me by outside forces (such as the capricious deities of theater).

But okay, yes, I do feel a little put upon because I could probably learn my lines and rehearse more successfully and still work and run and blog more if life didn’t seem to be throwing some extra drama (not the stage-based kind) my way and I could actually focus on something for more than ten minutes.

Maybe I could even stop eating so many chips and crackers before I need to give away a quarter of my clothes. (Giving away a quarter of my clothes would actually be a good thing as far as closet space goes).

Wait, it seems like I CAN actually focus on something for more than ten minutes: Whining and feeling sorry for myself. Not a good look.

I wanted to illustrate this post about not posting with one of those old-school “Technical difficulties–Please stand by” images TV stations used to use when something went amiss. (Maybe they still use them but I don’t think so?) I’m not having “technical difficulties” exactly but that phrase has become a euphemism for things being a hot mess behind the scenes, which feels like a pretty apt description for why my blog needs to be on a bit of a hiatus.

However, I couldn’t find a “technical difficulties” illustration that wasn’t copyrighted. So instead, I found a free “time out” image, which might be more helpful. Maybe I can even find a little wisdom in this image. It’s very calming, and even contains a little message of gratitude with its simple “thanks.”

I’m putting my blog and myself in a Time Out, but we’ll be back.

Sometimes time travel is possible. 

I say this not as a geek, (although I proudly am one–just ask me about being a Dr. Who fan way before the Era of David Tennant) but as someone who recently experienced a random connection between objects separated by almost 40 years. 

“Hey that’s my rose!” I said to myself at church this Sunday as I surveyed the collection of flowers we could choose from to take home with us and spotted the pink rose. This flower claiming was part of our annual Flower Communion, a beautiful and simple ritual celebrated by Unitarian Universalists churches throughout the world.

There is a great deal of symbolism and meaning in the Flower Communion, but for me, in that moment, the meaning was wrapped up in communining not so much with my fellow congregants or the beauty of the natural world, but with my 16-year-old self. 

The communion wasn’t necessarily all that deep. It was basically “Hey, once upon a time I was 16 and now I’m 52 and then I enjoyed art class even though I wasn’t that good at it and now I enjoy church and yay I’m still here and enjoying things, including roses I create–even if not very well–and roses that are a gift from someone who didn’t even intend to give it specifically to me.”

When I got home, clutching my pink rose, I was pleased to discover that I did indeed still have my rose painting that I created so many years ago. (I knew that I had recently discovered it, but wasn’t sure if I kept it or threw it out in my recent decluttering efforts. Happily, I kept my artistic creation–it was the “original” poster by artist Brian Davis that I tossed). 

I think I was also particularly happy to get a cool pink rose and ponder roses because we now frequently do the icebreaker “rose, bud, thorn” at work. (No, I am not the leader of these meetings or we would not have an icebreaker–or check-in fellow MSUS folk–but I try to rise above my snarkiness and participate in good faith). It’s a simple and innocuous icebreaker–you are asked to talk about (from your professional or personal life) a current “rose” (something good), “bud” (something you’re anticipating, looking forward to) and a “thorn” (something that’s painful or a pain in the ass). I just think about icebreakers too much…What is appropriate to share at this meeting? How can I be entertaining and interesting and relevant and brief? 

And, most importantly, how can I get the song “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” out of my head after any mention of or thought I have of roses? I don’t even know who that song is by. Poison? Okay, going to the Google in real blog time…YES, it is by Poison! It was released in 1988, the same year I graduated from high school and two years after I created my rose painting masterpiece inspired by the work of Brian Davis (which really is oh so very, very 80’s).

Of course I could do a blog deep dive, and maybe someday I will, about the wisdom of Poison’s song…DOES every rose really have a thorn? And what does it mean if it doesn’t? But that is a question left to tackle at a later day, or perhaps left an unsolved mystery.

Hmmm, this post really doesn’t have anything to do about time travel, but about memory and the boundaries between my past and current (and future) selves getting blurry. Or maybe me just drinking a wee too much and my thinking getting blurry.

Or maybe I just need to do a cover of Poison’s song at our church’s coffee house and take up painting again!