Amy Lu's View

Although the AARP did officially start trying to recruit me this year, I don’t consider myself a “Golden Girl” yet.

But I did tackle the theme song for the television show “The Golden Girls” at a recent church online Coffee House.

My inspiration for choosing the song (“Thank You For Being a Friend”) was topical–a song of thanks the Saturday after Thanksgiving definitely seemed appropriate.

I did not choose the song because I’m a huge Golden Girls fan. Oh, I certainly watched it back in the day when it originally aired and enjoyed it, but I don’t remember that much about it and I’ve been mostly oblivious to it’s resurgence. (When it first was on TV I was in high school, and my friend Jenny declared that I was either the “Dorothy” or “Sophia” of our group, depending on how bitchy I was on any given day).

I also decided on this song because it more or less fell in the sweet spot of songs that are in my vocal range that I can also more or less play the chords on.

I was surprised and stymied by the bridge–I had no idea the song had a bridge, much less one that was so vocally and lyrically weird:

“And when we die and float away, into the night, the Milky Way. You’ll hear me call as we ascend. I’ll say your name then once again”

What’s going on here? Are these friends with a suicide pact?

But I wasn’t going to let this goofy-ass lyrical meandering thwart me, OR be defeated by the melody I didn’t know and couldn’t quite figure out. I just sang something that was as close as I could come to matching the actual song that fit the chords. Really, who in the world was going to know this part of the song well enough to know that I wasn’t faithfully recreating it. And if someone did notice, I could always claim it was an artistic “choice”–a choice not to bother to learn the song, but still, a choice.

And most importantly, a choice to sing.

Recently I had a conversation with friends about singing–why we love it, how it is primal and rooted in our very beings, how vulnerable it makes us feel and how absolutely terrifying it can be to sing in front of other people.

This week I discovered a poem with this line:

“Here is where I began to look with my own eyes and listen with my ears and sing my own song, shaky as it is.”

–from “Map of the Journey” by Victoria Safford

This line really “struck a chord” with me (pun intended) because I frequently get shaky when I sing, especially if I’m trying to play piano at the same time. (Yes, I do realize the poem doesn’t have to refer to a literal song).

Any song we sing becomes “ours”–because the song is made with our voice and our body, it is our song, at least for that moment (even if it is a cover of a silly 70’s song).

Perhaps one of the reasons many of us love singing so much is because it IS terrifying and makes us vulnerable, and when we find the courage to sing anyway, it’s exhilarating..

Like one of the characters I play in our upcoming Christmas show, I/we can approach life with:

“Head back, eyes closed, voice raised in whatever song I can muster the courage to sing.”

from Robert Fulghum’s “Uh-Oh, Here Comes Christmas”

I’m not sure what my through line is for this post (yeah, I couldn’t resist saying “through line”) except courage. It takes courage to be a “Golden Girl,” and courage to have a friend and be friend, and courage to sing,

And it takes courage to listen to your aging friends sing.

*I do NOT expect to be doing this song anytime soon, as wonderful as it is, because sadly it doesn’t fit in my musical sweet spot.

I LITERALLY ran into some teenagers today.

One of my pet peeves is when I think people misuse the word “literally,” (even/especially my imaginary friend/favorite podcast host Luke Burbank) so I want to be clear that I was really running (although slowly) when I ran into some teenagers who were blocking the sidewalk by walking two abreast.

I’m not proud of this act of running aggression, but I thought they would move out of the way. I’m hardly a stealthy ninja runner, and I assumed they would eventually hear the loud breathing of the middle-aged woman coming up behind them. I guess not. And by the time I realized they weren’t going to move and yelled “Excuse me!” it was too late to stop. But don’t worry, I didn’t do a full body slam into them and no one got hurt–it was more a gentle shove as I pushed through them. I’m sure they were more perplexed than anything.

But yes, I may have been unreasonably brash, as one of my other, even more firmly held pet peeves is oblivious people who block the sidewalk when they are on their strolls and I am running. This irritation combined with my obsessive desire to never stop while on a run (even to pet cute dogs or talk to friends–much less accommodate discourteous walkers) means I am a force to be reckoned with. Okay, a week and annoying force, but still a force. (I DO stop for traffic and, I feel I must confess, occasionally to walk when I am just beat)

I came close to literally running into many other people today on my “virtual” Moustache Run Half Marathon. Yes, it was 50 degrees in late November so apparently other people thought they had some business being out and about to take advantage of the last precious warm weather. The Stone Arch Bridge was a maddening obstacle course of human bodies.

So my run was irritating, and slow, and humbling, and exhausting, and even a little painful (thanks to a blister), and uncomfortable (my hands were numb even though the rest of my body was at a fine temperature) and momentarily disquieting. I wouldn’t say I was exactly “lost” but after my turnaround at the halfway point I ran by the Stone Arch Bridge and briefly had to make an exception to my “No-stopping” rule–getting my bearings is easier when I’m not running for some reason–to realize I had run past the bridge. Luckily the throng of people on it made it easy to spot so I didn’t have to call Chad to come rescue me.

My Garmin watch even had a total fail and gave me wildly high inaccurate heart rate readings throughout my run.

AND still I love that I got to do this run–even though, to repeat–I was very slow. This literally was the WORST HALF MARATHON I have ever run. There are several mitigating factors I can point to, and this would have been a fine training run, but for a “race” it was terrible.

But I wasn’t sure I could do it, and I did. THAT felt really good.

More importantly, I now feel like I’ve earned my Moustache Run sweatshirt, the most excellent, most comfortable sweatshirt I have ever owned. Perhaps my favorite piece of clothing ever. I even got a cool stocking cap! The Moustache Run definitely has amazing swag.

Technically, I could have earned that sweatshirt on Nov. 7 when I ran a Half Marathon (which was faster, though still slow), but that was my (self-proclaimed) “Post-Election it Looks Like Biden Really Won Thank God” Half Marathon where I wore my Biden t-shirt even though it was too hot and sticky for it. I could have also counted that as my Mustache Run (it just has to be completed between Nov. 1 and Dec. 15) but I’ve discovered that one of my self-created rules for life is that races shouldn’t double-dip like that.

More importantly, I didn’t yet have my race bling at that time so I couldn’t take selfies with my most awesome medal.

Theoretically, I still have two-ish weeks yet to do another Half Marathon where I don’t totally suck but with cold weather and whatnot that doesn’t seem likely to happen. I’m definitely going to keep running (so the world will not be spared from Amy running selfies), and doing cardio workouts (thank you stationary bike) but long distance running requires a whole different mojo that unfortunately dissipates pretty quickly. (Not to worry–I can build it back up when the spring rolls around).

Teenagers take note–the sidewalks of NE Minneapolis aren’t safe for you yet!

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I used to successfully use a phone to communicate with people. No, not with texting, but in actually using the phone to make and receive calls. I used to have conversations with people by using a phone to talk with and listen to them.

I think I even enjoyed it.

This seems remarkable to me now as I currently have a strong dislike for talking on the phone. I almost never talk to people on the phone unless I’m trying to solve a problem or accomplish something like scheduling an appointment or complaining about a missing Instacart bag. The only person I regularly call for personal reasons is my 80-something year old friend, and I get rather stressed about doing it.

It’s also remarkable to me how drastically my use of and attitude towards phones has changed in my lifetime. Obviously, this has largely been driven by technological changes.

When I was a kid, not only did we not have cell phones, we had a party line. This meant that several neighbors shared the same phone line so not only did we not have a phone with us at all times, we couldn’t even be guaranteed we could use our own home phone whenever we wanted without some awkward social negotiation with the neighbors.

I could do a deep dive here on the technology and design of all the different types of phones I’ve experienced in my life–I’ll just say in roughly 40 years of being a phone user I’ve encountered everything from a candelstick phone to my current moto x4. (I AM devoutly anti i-Phone, for admittedly no good reason). Throughout my adult life I have been plagued by sporadic but traumatic stress dreams of trying to use a rotary phone in an emergency and getting to the end of the number and making a mistake and having to start all over.

As a rural kid, I was also limited to who I could call without it being “long-distance.” I only had one friend, my good friend Jennifer, that I could call and not have to worry about wracking up extra charges. Sharing an area code was an instant bond. (My mom was pretty liberal about long distance calls, but still…).

I think I’ve also grown to dislike talking on the phone because of my poor hearing and people not being able to hear me. Between bad cell phone connections and my apparent inability to successfully place a smart phone next to a my face, my phone calls are often a continuous series of “What?!”

My anti-phone orientation was working okay for me, but life in the Times of COVID is causing me to re-think my attitude toward the humble phone call. In some ways, my social life now is more like it was when I was a child on the tundra outside of Augusta, Wisconsin. I can’t take it for granted that I’m actually going to reguarly interact with anyone outside of immediate family (consisting of Chad and the pets) in person.

So I was already thinking about re-thinking my non-use of phones, when I heard about this study of “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me”: Phone Calls Build Stronger Connections Than Texting. Well, of course. Obvious, but I needed this inspiration to attempt to change my ways.

I’m really struck by this heading in the story: “Phone calls aren’t as awkward as they might seem.” Eurkeka, that’s it–phone calls DO feel terribly awkward now. After going so long without talking to someone on the phone, it just seems really uncomfortable to start now. How do I call someone seemingly out of the blue without scaring them (no, I’m not calling because it’s an emergency or bad news). How in the heck do I actually END a phone call without seeming rude?

But awkwardness (and even inconvenience) seems like a small price to pay for getting to stay connected to people.

I may have better odds of success if I think of phone calls as a Zoom interaction without video. Because strangely enough, I have not had it with online meetings, church, Happy Hours, play rehearsal, etc. In fact, I often prefer being able to do all these things from the comfort of my home (in sweatpants, with alcohol at hand, and I do make liberal use of both the video and audio mute function). And I have now figured out how to make phone calls via my laptop and/or with using earbuds, so hopefully the “What?” factor will be significantly reduced.

So I’m going to try and re-develop my phone conversation muscles. My apologies in advance for any dorkiness around this endeavor (which may include sending you this blog as exposition).

As Minnesotans have been busily trying to finish up raking their leaves before a winter storm rolled in (or so I’ve been told–I don’t actually do home maintenance work. Okay, I shovelled a few steps today, it was a holiday after all) I turn my attention to the Frog and Told story, “The Surprise.”

That’s right, it’s been on hiatus, but I have NOT forgotten about or given up on my Frog and Toad Blogging Challenge! I did say there was no time limit for completing it.

In “The Surprise,” both Frog and Toad decide to suprise each other by raking the leaves in the other’s yard. They happen to go to each other’s place at the same time and successfully and secretly rake each other’s leaves into big piles. However, on their respective ways home, a big wind blows all the leaves around (they apparently missed the important step of putting the leaves in a yard waste bag).

The story ends with each of them coming home to the same leaf situation they left with, but happily thinking to themselves “My friend will be so pleased and surprised that his leaves are taken care of–I’ll deal with this mess tomorrow.”

Maybe I’m just in a mood, but this story challenges me. I get that it’s lovely that they did something nice for each other without expecting any recognition, and that doing something kind and generous for someone makes us feel good. But shouldn’t doing something for someone actually benefit the receiver?

It seems kind of selfish just to focus on how giving makes us as the giver feel.

Perhaps I’m just sensitive about stories that explore giving. I’ve always been extremely annoyed by the O. Henry story of “The Gift of the Magi.” I’ve never found the gifts the poor young couple exchange in that story to be wise or sweet but just stupid. (Super quick recap: She cuts and sells her hair to buy him a pocket watch chain, he sells his watch to buy her a comb).

For that matter, the gifts the Magi brought for Jesus don’t seem all that hot. I know, I’m not the first one to point this out, but gold, frankincense, and myrrh for an infant? I guess eventually Mary and Joseph could sell the gold for food and baby supplies.

At least Frog and Toad don’t end up any worse than they started out–since neither one of them apparently understand bag technology, they both would have had to rake their leaves twice. And they got a little variety by raking someone else lawn.

Hmmm, for all we know, Frog and Toad continue to spend their fall days in a sisyphean purgatory of constantly raking leaves into piles that get blown away (good exercise, I guess?) Or perhaps they both eventually just say “Oh, F#$k it” and let the leaves blow around as they will without worrying about bourgeoisie standards of lawn care.

My perception on gift-giving could also be skewed because I have a snarky monologue about the subject in our upcoming Christmas show (over Zoom of course), “Uh-Oh, Here Comes Christmas” (https://www.act-mn.org/). (Really a lovely an life-affirming show that you should see, don’t let the snarky monologue mislead you).

I might not totally agree with the wisdom of this Frog and Toad offering, or even be sure what it is, but as usual, our little amphibian friends made me think. And when I’m not feeling surly, I do agree that giving with an open heart without expecting thanks or anything in return is a blessing to us as the gift givers.

And, yard bags are totally essential.

My mom died 20 years ago today. She was 64. She died at a nursing home in Chippewa Falls, WI, approximately 10 weeks after she was diagnosed with colon cancer. She was very sick those entire 10 weeks and her death felt both drawn out and sudden.

I was in the room when she died, but I’d been in and out of her room that day and was actually sitting in the common area for the most of the time right before she died–the “death rattle” of her breathing was too hard for me to listen to for long. A staff member came to get me right before my mom died.

I wish I had known or understood when she died (and for many years afterwards) that it was “okay” to be devastated and completely messed up by her death. I wish I had known that grief is hard work and it’s a slow process that takes time and is never really done–although even now that I’m older and presumably wiser I’m still not willing to put in all the time and effort to really process what I need to. 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

I wish I knew how to share these experiences and learnings with friends dealing with the death of a parent without making their grief about me or seeming like I’m giving advice. I wish I knew how to be vulnerable and empathetic without creating an “Amy wants attention” moment.

I feel “cheated” out of years and years with my mother that I always expected to have, but I also feel relieved that I didn’t have to experience a long, slow decline in her physical or mental health, much less have her isolated in a care facility during this Pandemic. 

The most profound revelation I’ve had since my mom died is realizing the depth of loss over things I’ve missed out on with my mom. I’ve had 20 years of her NOT being here–not seeing any of my plays, not knowing all the pets we’ve had, not being mystified/worried by my running, not pretending that she always wanted to be vegetarian now that I am (more or less), not getting to know that I started playing drums again.

And how did 20 years go by? Yes, this makes me feel very old and disoriented. My mom has been dead so long that she entirely missed the era of social media. And I’m FIFTY–only 14 years younger than my mom was when she died. If I’m lucky and I live to a “reasonable” age I’ll have spent more of my life without my mom than with her.

So yes, grief is hard work and you’re never “over” the death of someone you love, but I also don’t want to wallow, and finding that balance is tricky for me. I’m think I’m still shying away from and dancing around all the hard feels about my mom’s death, but I’m also grateful that I’m basically an optmistic person and I’ve had the resiliency to carry on. And I want my experience of my mom’s memory to be weighted on the side of love and gratitude and laughter rather than sadness and anger. 

So today is a very BIG DEAL and an important milestone, and also just another day, full of mundane concerns and pleasures. I ran, did laundry, attended several work meetings (virtually, of course) and struggled with writing a report, ate more crackers than I intended, and am now drinking wine and bourbon. 

I don’t have a snappy way to end this post–not that I ever do, but I usually try. For the last 20 years, I have missed my mom every single day, and I keep hoping that loving and grieving her will make me a more wise and compassionate and present and loving person that lives and appreciates life and my friends and family to the fullest.

…and I keep falling short.

But I keep trying. So back to laundry (and wine and bourbon).

I never thought I would run a “virtual” race, but there are some definite advantages. Mainly, it’s a luxury to be able to run the race whenever I want (within a given date range) and to pick a day whenever the weather cooperates and a time that doesn’t involve getting up between 4:30-5:30 a.m.

But we do need a better word than “virtual” to describe how we’re doing things now to avoid being in physical contact with other people.

That’s not really a groundbreaking observation, but it really seems relevant to me in the context of “virtual” races I’ve been running this fall.

Of course we all know that “virtual” is primarily used to connote that something is going to happen via the internet in some way and that people aren’t going to be actually getting together in the same physical space.

No matter what the activity, “virtual” can make is sound like it isn’t somehow real. But I find this more irritating when it comes to a race–I want to be clear that I have actually run the specified distance. I didn’t just have an avatar do it for me or only visualize doing it. The virtual aspect really only comes into play with recording results. (Obviously, I still would have taken all the selfies and posted all the social media updates for an IRL race).

So I’m not missing out on the social media experience with a virtual race, but I do, of course, miss the inspiration and motivation of running with others and getting cheered on by spectators–even, or maybe especially, strangers. I miss the pre-race excitement but I also don’t miss standing around in the cold waiting for the race to start. I’m not sure if I miss or don’t miss trying to dodge other runners–that’s both irritiating and challenging.

Obviously I miss the post-race partying–even if it does end up being more post-race milling about and shivering. The “now-what?” post-race feeling is amplified after a virtual race and I don’t have anywhere to wear my medals.

I should also be clear that a virtual run has worked well for me for up to 10 miles–I even got a “PR” (Personal Record) on my Women Run the Cities 10 Mile. Actually, I’m not sure if I should consider that a bona fide PR or not–in some ways I feel like I was “cheating” because I did get to make sure I was rested and I got to choose my route, but on the other hand, I missed out on the inspiration and structure of an organized group run.

And I’m not sure how a Half Marathon would go and I can’t, at this point at least, even comprehend doing a full marathon without all the support and fanfare of a shared and organized event.

But just 5 years ago I couldn’t have imagined completing a marathon under any circumstances, so who knows? Running has definitely taught–and continues to teach–me that I can do things that can seem impossible and that I’m stronger, tougher and more flexible and resilient than I ever realized.

Celebrate our 25th Wedding Anniversary from the comfort of your home!

Yes, our 25th Anniversary was just over 4 months ago, but due to a terribly rude pandemic I have not been able to fully leverage its social capital.

But I can still use it to try and guilt everyone I know into attending our terribly romantic play that we are performing via Zoom.

That’s right, you can be in your pajamas while watching us perform a sweet, funny and insightful little one-act about the humor, joy and heartbreak of marriage. Not only can you watch in your pajamas but you can enjoy your favorite snacks and alcoholic beverages during (and immediately before and after) the show. (I’ll be drinking as soon as our show is done–no need to wait until we get served at Green Mill).

Our show is “Post-Its (Notes on a Marriage).” Yes, the premise involves Post-it Notes. And marriage. It’s a take off on the classic play “Love Letters.”

Oh yeah, and there are other plays and monologues performed and directed by our dear and talented friends in the lineup for the evening. Our show is just one in a collection called “Talking Heads, or (One Acts in the Key of Zoom).

We are taking a big risk in trying to do something we don’t really know how to do. (Hmmm, that could also describe what it was like when we got married).

Get your ticket for “Talking Heads” now: https://dreamlandarts.com/talking-heads/ and watch us in a one-act via Zoom October 9 or 10.

We could fail spectacularly with our Zoom show, but we’re thrilled to be able to engage in this art form that we love so dearly but haven’t been able to experience in these last six months. Yes, we’re amateurs and this is all just a hobby for us and our losses pale in comparison to so many others… but thank whatever deity or universal force you choose that we’re getting to do theater again!

And to reiterate… you can support (and maybe enjoy?) all this artistic and romantic exploration from the comfort of your own home for very little money. Not only is this convenient and cheap, it’s a chance for our family and friends who can’t come see us in person to FINALLY get to see us perform (and Chad direct). Think of it as a belated 25th Anniversary present to us.

Honestly you can even buy a ticket but never log in or log in and completely ignore us and we’ll never know.

Just tell me my hair looked great.

Yesterday the world was in perfect balance–at least when it comes to the length of daylight and night. As it was the Fall Equinox, we had an equal amount of dark and light.

The Equinox feels like a beautiful metaphor for equanimity, but it makes me anxious. I love fall–the beauty of the trees changing color is so intense and fleeting it almost hurts–but I hate that the days are getting shorter and colder. And I’m dreading that winter is on its way. I’m not a fan of winter, especially now, when getting together with people indoors is not going to be a good idea (not to mention that winter makes running unpleasant at best).

So clearly I could (and am) doing a lot of complaining about the changing of the seasons, but I am also trying to respect the lessons fall has to teach me. Not only to pay attention to and savor transient pleasures, but to think about balance.

Actually, our church had a service exploring balance about a month ago. It encouraged me to think about the many different meanings of balance and when balance may not be a desired state.

Because that’s my default understanding of balance–it’s “good,” right? A balanced diet, work-life balance, a balanced checkbook, emotional balance, a balanced perspective–aren’t these all things to strive for? If you lose your balance, you’re likely to fall.

Yes, balance is often a beautiful, healthy, peaceful state–but maybe too much balance would get boring? Would the trees ever get to display their magnificent fall colors if they weren’t swinging from one extreme to another?

Hmmm, now it feels like I’m just spouting cliches and making excuses for my bad choices.

Maybe the balance I’m looking for is a mix of honesty, hope, originality, courage, compassion, connection, drama and peace.

And the perfect lighting/makeup balance that will make me look as good as possible on Zoom calls.

I am not always so good with follow through.

And, I like to take action and have resolution.

This combination means I sometimes err on the side of getting things done rather than doing things right.

I’ve really taken my friend Mark’s advice to heart “Right is good, done is better.”

(Although he also rather contradictorly said “If you’re going to do it at all why not do it right?”–in reference to doing the dishes, which I frequently do a sub-par job at but definitely think that’s better than no job. Why not do it right? That takes more time and effort!)

So I consider it an accomplishment that I not only obtained Biden/Harris lawn sign, but actually got our Biden/Harris lawn sign in the our lawn.

(We still have a “Love your neighbor–Your black, brown, immigrant, disabled, religiously different, LGBTQ, fully human neighbor” sign in our driveway. It’s been there so long I’m wondering if it’s too dated to put out. The sentiment isn’t dated but maybe the terminology?).

Anyway, I did a sub-par job in taking complimentary selfies with said lawn sign and to show off campaign shirt (I’ll just leave it at NOT very flattering selfies).

One lesson learned: taking a selfie of a lawn sign on a hill is challenging!

I also learned taking a selfie that can capture a rather long slogan is tricky.

And yes, Chad and I do have matching t-shirts (after days of agonizing which shirts we should get).

Of course one could ponder if the question is “Why do it right?” but rather “Why do it at all?”

Yes, the lawn sign is good…but a selfie (even a flattering one) probably isn’t necessary…

Okay, the lawn sign probably isn’t going to even accomplish all that much in our NE Minneapolis liberal enclave. Our lawn sign is the definition of preaching to the choir–a choir no longer practicing because of COVID.