"A Woman's Mind Half Naked "

Woohoo

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 18:58:43 GMT

Sometimes, a girl just has to let loose.

I usually shop for groceries at a giant wholesale warehouse filled with huge packages of everything. One of the side benefits to shopping at this type of store is that they usually have the best-designed carts.

The wheel base is wide, so they don’t tip over. The handle is thick enough to get a good grip. The lower rack is a solid platform on which to stand. I’ve tested myriad grocery stores’ carts and most are not safe at high speeds.

After paying for my groceries, I wait in line for the doorman to check the receipt against the contents of the cart. Once through the door –- and my children expect this now -– I put my purse into the cart, check for traffic, put my right foot on the bottom rack of the cart, and I’m off!

I push the cart as fast as I can to the car. About five meters before the car I jump off and run to a walk. Then I look back to see my children walking along as if nothing extraordinarily fun and satisfying just took place.

Scooterrific

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 18:53:59 GMT

My best scoot ever was coming home from the grocery store on a brilliant summer day. The luscious salty sea fragrance filled the air. I was wearing a miniskirt, t-shirt and sneakers. My bag of groceries was on my handlebars and I held a magnificent bouquet of flowers across my handlebars with both hands as I steered. I sang. “I feel like a bride,” I whispered to myself.

Happy Wheels

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 18:49:44 GMT

When my children were quite young, each one of us had a scooter. These scooters were the kind you pushed with a foot like a skateboard and steered with a handlebar. They had a little brake on the back wheel to step on when you got going too fast. And they folded up, so they were easy to carry.

We lived near the San Francisco Bay and scooted everywhere. To the grocery store –- each child draped a bag over his handlebars en route home. To the beach. To karate lessons. To school. We rarely drove. I loved it!

When we moved to the countryside, the distances between everything were so great and there were no sidewalks, so scooting did not work anymore. I really miss scootin'! The first thing I'll do when we move to a metro area again is to buy more scooters.

Loneliness

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 18:43:40 GMT

My jazz concert husband experience leads me to write about a different kind of loneliness. In my experience there is loneliness born of fear, self-doubt, overwhelm and society-induced expectations. But then there is a different kind of loneliness that aches and echoes from great beauty and joy, that natural inclination to share the beauty, make love about it, celebrate it. This is a loneliness that derives from the passionate desire to share laughter and life most precious.

Sometimes, I feel so happy that I start to be this kind of lonely. I feel so rich, that I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve learned the hard way that I musn’t seek another during these times or assume a Manguin is perceptive enough or willing to see and celebrate with me (assuming is a great way to get into trouble). Rather, I’ve learned that I must create when I’m in agony from being so full of bliss. A poem. A painting. A cake. Something. Anything.

My Jazz Concert Husband

Jennifer ann gordon — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 14:43:07 GMT

Louis Armstrong liquefies me. Brings me to my knees. Melts me into Jnfr-butter. When I hear Louie, I want to make love, to dance slowly, to paint.

My son Justin is a jazz trumpeter. He loves Louie, too. When Justin solos, I can’t move. Every cell in my body listens. I drink in every note. And this is not just because Justin is my son. Honest! His playing affects people. He has it -- the ability to converse, to transport people to his colorful universe through music.

Justin has two mouthpieces for his trumpet. One I call “Dark Chocolate.” The tone is rich, conversational, a bit grittier. The other I deem “Milk Chocolate” for its brighter, more sparkly tone.

Justin’s musical expression is so full of feeling. I like to watch him play almost as much as I like to hear him play. When he is soloing, he is at the height of receptivity, intuition and beauty, at the epicenter of the pulsing heart of creation. He’s one-hundred percent Justin.

I was helping with Justin’s high school music program’s spring concert. I forewarned my fellow parent-workers that when Justin solos, I quit working and listen and that this was non-negotiable. Parents themselves, they understood completely.

I stood motionless and listened to Justin’s second solo. The beauty of it was so intense that it was almost painful. A man I had always considered strange and obnoxious walked up, stood by my side and, without a word, put his arm around me. I lay my head on his shoulder. We listened like that for minutes. Perfection. I wrote him an email to thank him for paying attention, for being there.

And I was humbled. Before the concert, I had judged this man, put him in a nutshell, and even joked about him with my son. But he was the one who paid attention and responded to the moment. (R.S.V.P., n’est-ce pas?) Whereas before I avoided him at all costs, since that concert we have become friends in a howdy-do sort of way.

Cake

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 16:11:44 GMT

I like cake. Cakes are celebratory. And pretty. Cakes are romantic. Can you imagine being sent an exquisite, elegant cake from your lover? Or fed cake by candlelight on a summer evening? Evening miniature cakes, petits-fours, are delightful. What about a picnic with petit-fours? What about sitting alone with a slice of cake and an espresso, overlooking the ocean? Cake holds infinite possibilities for elegance, romance and celebration.

The owner of a local bakery-café heard that I was an artist and asked to see my work. While I had several paintings ready to show, her inquiry inspired me to paint a giant cake. In fact, it’s over one square meter of cake heaven.

Spreading the pink paint-frosting on the three-tiered cake, I began to feel celebratory. I decided to add some grapes that became lilac blossoms, and then some leaves. (The leaves weren’t quite right, though. Someone asked if they were jalapeño peppers. I didn’t care. I decided not to mess with them.)

The background evolved, along with the table cloth. I decided to paint the tablecloth gold to signify a rich life and to fill the background with the colors of joy, swirls of yellow and white and blue -- of music and laughter and anticipation. I decided to uh-myooz myself by adding one more thing. I wrote the word gâteau (cake in French) on top of the cake. This pleased me. A sort of private joke. Obviously, this was a cake. To state the obvious completely cracked me up. Gâteau.

The owner of the bakery came over to choose some paintings. Interestingly, she didn’t choose the cake (probably due to the jalapeños).

So ... the enormous pink gâteau now hangs in my dining room, an every-day reminder to celebrate life.

Manguin

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 15:57:18 GMT

My last conversation with Louis occurred when I bumped into him at the grocery store. I was really excited to tell Louis that Manguin stayed in the trash. He congratulated me.

Louis is a fabulous married friend of mine who really “gets” women. Every conversation with Louis is nourishing. I always leave Louis feeling heard, honored, fascinating and beautiful.

I was shopping one day and found a small ceramic mama penguin wearing sunglasses just like mine, with her three penguin children. Honestly, these penguins were an accurate portrait of my family in a penguiny sort of way. They looked just like us!

At the time, I was entertaining the notion of marriage to my then-boyfriend. It was an on-again-off-again affair. I just couldn’t commit. The whole relationship felt scrambled.

As I looked at these penguins in the store, I thought they’d be perfect atop my wedding cake. The only glitch was there was no boy-penguin. Then I saw a lone ceramic boy penguin on the shelf. So I scootched him close to my children and me and decided to buy them.

Eventually, I broke up with my boyfriend. Rather than get rid of Manguin (man+penguin=Manguin), I decided to use him to visualize a mate. I have this glass bottle shaped like the Eiffel Tower. As I am a passionate Francophile, I decided to place my family and the mysterious Manguin in France by Le Tour Eiffel.

Sometimes, I and my children would gaze at the Tower, and Manguin would notice us from afar, charmed by the scene and longing to find an excuse, any excuse, just to talk with such a stylish, fascinating woman who loved her children so incredibly much.

Other times, Manguin was actually with us at the Eiffel Tower. Manguin felt so blessed to have such a great family and we were having fun! He was showing my daughter a map of France. He and I were deeply in love. And he read lots of books, spoke French fluently, and was a great kisser!

I changed the scenarios daily.

Whenever I returned home after a particularly abysmal date, I put Manguin in the cupboard. Also, when I was feeling financially well-off, Manguin would usually go away for awhile to give the mama time to celebrate her independence and wholeness.

One day, Louis came over to fix a plumbing problem in my bathroom. He saw the mama penguin and her three fabulous children enjoying their time in Paris. I told him everything. He asked questions throughout to make sure he understood (something I so cherish about Louis -- he’s interested).

Then I showed him Manguin, who was upside down in the bathroom trash can. Just having been the target of an Internet love scam based in London (I kid you not -- I now call Internet dating “snatch-dot-con”), I decided that I had no clue how to meet the man o’ my dreams and that I had better give up trying. So I threw Manguin away.

Louis said, “I bet he’s out of the trash in three hours.” I laughed, knowing well my resiliency and pattern of eternal hopefulness, even when it works against me. But I never did pull Manguin out of the bathroom trash. The trash can was emptied into a bigger trashcan outside. The disposal company came on my regular trash day and emptied the big trash can, along with Manguin, into their truck and hauled him away.

I and my children are now on my kitchen shelf enjoying Paris wholeheartedly. I haven’t given up hope. But I no longer feel that finding my Manguin is a project with a timeline, or a project at all. My hope remains, but it no longer feels like an insatiable hunger. I have learned how to nourish myself daily with friends, art, children, life, ideas and silence. Being starved –- not nourishing myself, but looking for a mystical other to nourish me -- is what has led to every misadventure in love I’ve ever had. Being starved led to my ignoring everything I knew from my molten magma core, those proverbial red flags and other things that did not make sense.

Now I feed myself daily, take good care of moi-même, and know that I’m able and responsible for living my own big, fabulous life of joy. I enjoy this demandchallengeprivilege, even though, oftentimes, it feels like a battle because neither societal norms nor the media support women’s wholeness.

Walking my own life only makes me stronger and clearer as I learn to nourish and honor myself. Counter to popular belief, I am convinced that no one is able to do this for me. Nor do I want anyone to do this for me. And bless those Manguins who love us for our wholeness and independence!

When I do wander off course, I quickly remember how disinterested I am in looking at a man as a “solution.” How boring and terrifying must it be to be considered the solution to a life found wanting? I certainly don’t want to be anybody’s “solution.”

I don't want to be a noun at all. I want to be a verb, an action word! I want a Manguin who is a verb, too. I want to see my life and everyone around me with new eyes every bon jour and celebrate it. And to establish the habit of celebrating myself everyday.

How to Speed Things Up

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 15:51:52 GMT

Recently, I had a fresh thought that excited me. Patience increases our velocity. Impatience slows everything way down. This understanding helps me considerably.

I reason that if I want things -- relationships, projects, learning -- to flow smoothly and full steam ahead, then I must be patient. When I am feeling anxious, impatient or pushy, I slow or obstruct good things from happening.

Tragedy

Jennifer ann gordon — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 17:03:52 GMT

There is absolutely nothing on earth so important that we need to honk, push, hurry, pressure, swerve, force, and, possibly, kill to get there.

The tragedy of impatience was illustrated in the Oakland Tribune’s lead story one day. A car had its right-turn indicator on at an intersection. Even though the traffic light had turned green, the car was not moving. The impatient driver in the car directly behind this car –-who also wanted to turn right -- honked at the stationary car, then swerved around it and made his right turn.

The stopped car had not proceeded because a child was crossing the street. The child was not visible to any but the stopped driver. The impatient driver who raced around the stopped car and made his righthand turn hit and killed the child.

I carry this example of the fatal nature of impatience with me every single time I get in my car.

Iris

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 17:25:11 GMT

I had never gardened before. Twenty-one years old and newly married, I lived in a condominium with a tiny backyard.

A friend gave me some iris bulbs from her flower beds to plant. Very carefully, I planted each bulb, just the way she had instructed. The leaves appeared. They were so strong and beautiful. But nothing else happened. I waited. And waited.

And then I saw irises in full bloom at the florist. As I didn’t know anything about hothouses, I immediately assumed that my irises were defective because they hadn’t yet bloomed. I pulled all the bulbs up. There they lay, some with their leaves ripped off, on the patio.

The friend who had given me the bulbs stopped by. When she saw the destruction, sh exclaimed, "What the hell have you done?" I told her why I had pulled them up, that they were defective because they hadn't bloomed yet. "Jennifer," she said, "They are not supposed to bloom for another two months!"

Jnfr-Time

Jennifer ann gordon — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 17:19:51 GMT

Impatience has been the bane of my existence for too long. Finally, I’ve learned to recognize the first signs that I am feeling impatient and refuse to go there.

I’m rarely impatient with people. And never on the road. The type of impatience in which I specialize is impatience with the gestation time after the conception of an idea, that very important period of development and refinement before the idea is born and bears fruit.

I believe that my impatience is due, in part, to my skewed sense of time. I’m a lot like a dog where one human year equals seven dog years. From my perspective, the ratio is about the same for jnfr-time, except one human month equals seven Jennifer-months.

So, I usually feel that things do not happen fast enough or that nothing is happening because I don’t see immediate results. Many times, clients have thanked me for my quick results. I stare at them blankly because it feels to me like the work has taken an eternity to complete.

Jnfr-time has also led to a few glitches in my time management regarding setting impossible expectations for myself and my clients regarding delivery. To help with this, I have a little formula I use: y=2.5x, where “x” is the amount of time I estimate the project will require and “y” is the time it will really take for things to wrap.

My Crowning Achievement

Jennifer ann gordon — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 15:14:34 GMT

I was backpacking in torrential rain at Point Reyes National Seashore in Northern California. A few other backpackers dotted the beach. Several of these dots were trying, unsuccessfully, to start a fire.

Several years prior, a friend had described to me how he had made a fire in a downpour while camping in Canada. On the beach in the rain was a good opportunity to try to do this myself, I thought.

I hunted for driftwood. I organized the pieces of wood into piles -- tiny, slightly bigger than tiny, and on up to prettydarnbig.

The key is to build a Barbie-doll-sized fire first. Take the tiny, teeny pieces and arrange them in a little campfire shape. Then shield it from the wind and the rain while you light it and it takes. Once you have this miniature fire going well, carefully add the next size wood pieces one at a time until that slightly larger fire is ablaze, and so forth.

It worked! In the pouring rain, my driftwood bonfire was unquenchable. Soon, the scattered dots on the beach formed a circle around my fire. My fellow travelers asked me, “Howonearth did you do this? We tried, but couldn’t get it to light.” I just smiled. I did not mention that this was my first fire in the rain.

The key to good fire building is to refuse to be in a hurry. It takes patience to build a fire, just as it does to build anything else warm and wonderful.

Bonfires

Jennifer ann gordon — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 02:09:53 GMT

Bonfires are fun. Bonfires are hard to resist. They invite even extreme perpetualmotionmachinebrains to sit and rest. Bonfires are the perfect excuse to do nothing. Around a bonfire, people can talk or not. Around a bonfire, silence is comfortable. People are often content just to stare at the flames.

I want to live a bonfire life. To be so lit up that I am a warm, comfortable place for people. Welcoming. A reason to slow down and relax. A do-nothing portal of warmth and simplicity. And, I want to be hot enough to be dangerous!

Bonfires beckon. A crackling bonfire is an irresistible beacon. Ah, a beckoning beacon bonfire. Lovely alliteration.

Fire for Sooty

Jennifer ann gordon — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 02:04:35 GMT

I do not recall ever being called “Jennifer” by my dad. How he came up with “Sooty,” I will never know.

My dad celebrated winter by building roaring fires in the fireplace. In fact, he made his fires so hot that the fireplace bricks began to crumble. When it rained on the tin roof over the patio, I loved to read in the living room and listen to the drumming.

On occasion, my dad emerged from his darkroom in the garage and said, “Sooty, you need a fire!” And then he built me a fire. I’d lie on the floor in front of the flames with the rainbeat and read to my heart’s content.

Flame

Jennifer ann gordon — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 01:59:54 GMT

Every home needs flame. A fire. Even if it’s a little one, like the flame on a candle. Flame is vital. Flame is heat, radiance, movement, passion, romance, enlightenment, color and quiet.

I try to incorporate flame in my everydays. A bath by candlelight. A fire in the fireplace. The inimitably warm and soothing light that can only come from fire.

Sunrise always feels like a sacred ritual to me, one in which a giant candle is lit as a benediction of light and hope for the day. Ah, oui. Le soleil. The ultimate flame on my life’s candle.