Writing Letters

I wrote a letter to my Congressman today.  That in itself is not newsworthy; I am quite accustomed to writing to my elected officials to voice my opinion on various topics.  What's unusual, for me, is that this time I wrote to a member of the other political party.  I'm not sure if I've ever done that before.

I'm kind of surprised to realize this about myself. 

What's the big deal, where is the real effort, in writing to members of one's own political party?  Certainly, if one is concerned that said official is not going in what would seem to be the proper direction for a representative of that party, one should speak up.  But for the most part, I know how my Senators are going to vote, and I normally agree with their votes.  My occasional letters (and sometimes phone calls) to them are usually just to let them know I agree with their direction and to keep going.

My representative is a completely different story.  He pretty much votes the opposite of whatever I stand for.  To me, his emails and newsletters are frustrating doublespeak. I pretty much ignore him as much as I can.

Today I got another email from my representative, about the failure of the Congressional supercommittee to reach a budget and deficit deal.  Having not been surprised one bit by the failure, I was actually a little interested to see what my Congressman would say about it.  Would it distress me? Frustrate me? Anger me?

As it turned out, his email was essentially a few paragraphs of platitudes, citing principles we can all pretty much agree upon: fiscal responsibility! enact policies that will remove economic uncertainty! restore confidence in the marketplace! put more Americans back to work!

On the surface, I'm ok with these statements.  But how to accomplish these things?  Ah, therein lies the rub.

After I read his email, I sat and thought.  I realized a few things:

• I had never written to him because I thought he wouldn't listen to me. 
• He had been writing to me throughout his term, whether I was listening or not (and I wasn't). 
• I was being unfair to him, not letting him know what I think, not giving him a chance to listen. 

So I gave him a chance.  I wrote him a letter, admitting that I hadn't ever written to him before because I thought he wouldn't listen.  I explained why I had thought he wouldn't listen.  Then I told him what I thought, and invited him to respond.

I hope he does respond, and I will read whatever he says.

Ages and Stages

I was Skyping with my daughter the other evening.  She is 19, away at college.  As we talked about this and that (the Thanksgiving decorations she could see over my shoulder, our puppy tearing ass all over the living room, the sounds of her brother throwing something together for dinner in the kitchen), I noticed something that tickled my heart.  Her nostrils were flaring as she talked, in just the same tiny almond shape they did when she was a baby.

I mentioned it to her, and she chuckled, quite used to this kind of observation from me.  When I look at my daughter, I see her at every age and stage all at once, as if every moment of her life is vibrant and present within her all at once.  And in a way, it's easy to see how that could be so.  In my mother's heart. she will always be my baby girl no matter how grown up and mature she may become.

Oddly enough, I am having quite the opposite experience with my son.  Nearing 14, he towers over me.  Seemingly overnight, his voice has changed.  He's started shaving (more an experiment, I think, to encourage the growth of hair on those peach cheeks I love to kiss).  He's learned to modulate the amount of cologne he sprays on before he heads off for his 8th grade day (one spritz will do it, thank you very much). He's not telling me everything about which girl he might happen to be interested in on any given day. He's figured out that the right way to keep me from being a mad grouch when I get home from work is to clean his stuff up in the living room, wash the dishes in the sink, and bring in the mail. 

When I look at him, what I notice are all the things that have changed so quickly.  I am hard pressed to imagine him as my tiny boy.  Athough those memories are still clear as a bell (the golden curls, the impish grin as he pinches his older sister, the constant talking - to me, to his sister, to himself, to an invisible audience), it's as if he's a different person.  The physical changes are simply that pronounced.

But oh, how beautiful they both are, at all ages and stages.  I am blessed to be their mother (even on the crazy days).

Crossroads, Turning Points, Nexus (Nexi?)

The first word that came to mind when Google prompted me to name this blog was "crossroads."  It seems like such an appropriate word to describe my life - not just at this given moment, but at any given moment.  I've learned to thrive on, and even enjoy, change.  I consider it a survival technique.

But I quickly decided I couldn't use "Crossroads" - too evocative of a certain SuperPAC with which I vehemently disagree.  Nexus had recently come up in conversation (what IS the plural - nexi?) but it reminded me too much of a certain legal search engine that I used to have to use quite often as a junior associate in a law firm.

Then the very neat phrase "Turning Point" popped into my head.  Singular, not plural.  I realized that, to me, every single day is a turning point.  Daily decisions and actions (or indecisions and inaction) play a vital role in the flow of change in my life, no matter how seemingly consequential (wait for it... or inconsequential) they may be.

That was yesterday.  Today I have seen the phrase "turning point" (singular, not plural) in at least two mass media articles about the impact of the NYPD raid on, and clearing of, the Occupy Wall Street encampment at Zuccotti Park this morning.  Will the raid be a turning point for OWS?  No question about it.  Will it be a positive or negative change?  Oh, I definitely think positive.  The genie is out of the bottle.

And every day is a turning point.

Neighbors

I've been a renter for most of my adult life.  I am quite comfortable with that, since it (a) gives me the mobility I need when it's time to make a change, and (b) the landlord has to pay to fix anything big that breaks. I have been very happy in each of my rented spaces.  Big farmhouse, small city apartment, two-family duplex, each of them has met my needs according to the circumstances of my life at any given time.

Only now do I find myself becoming discontented.  Why? Because I have an inconsiderate, noisy, obnoxious, messy neighbor who doesn't give a flying fig what anybody around her thinks.

This is shocking to me.  I can't say that I have necessarily prided myself on being a good neighbor (though I certainly do strive to be such). But I can't imagine not caring what anybody thinks. I can't imagine having people mightily pissed off at me and not minding it one bit.

It's also shocking to me that this is happening in suburbia.  I've lived in cities (NYC, Washington DC, even a stint in Florence, Italy) and I've never had this problem before.  Maybe it's because people in cities are more accustomed to being closely surrounded by people, and they've learned to adapt out of necessity (if you piss off the people around you, you might find yourself with a non-metaphorical knife in your back).

Or maybe it's just her.  She has a sucky life, I must admit.  A single mom like me, she lives in the same town as her highly dysfunctional family (who all seem to come visit at the oddest hours, taking up space in our shared driveway). She has her own business and seems to be struggling to succeed.  She's going through a divorce, but inexplicably, her someday-ex-husband has moved in with her and their son because he lost his job and his car.  She has a boyfriend, so she can't be happy that she's got the albatross husband around her neck.  (Although I do have to ask, if only in my own mind, why did she let him move in?).  She was recently arrested (in front of her son) for punching said husband in the face to try to stop him from searching her car for weed.

Did I mention her poopy dog?