I came across this link on Facebook and clicked over, thinking I would skim over it quickly and maybe repost. I then spent almost two hours on the site, reading every single submission.
Project Unbreakable is a project spearheaded by Grace Brown, a photographer who has captured the strength, resiliency, and beauty of women (and some men) who have endured sexual abuse/assault/rape and who share their most terrifying moments but wear the faces of survival and healing. It's an amazing juxtaposition in every photograph- a quote, uttered by her or his attacker/molester/rapist, written on a piece of paper, and held by the survivor. Their faces are strong, sometimes weary, sometimes sad, but never broken.
I was molested and raped for five years of my childhood. It shaped many of my views and attitudes on sex, relationships, love, trust, respect, and beauty. I have always felt flawed and inherently very, very ugly, and that continues to this day.
I haven't shared my story with many people at all over my life. I was shamed by nearly everyone I did tell initially, so I learned quickly that this was not something "good people" talk about and that this is one of those things you lock away and don't bring up.
Seeing Project Unbreakable touched something deep inside me, and I can't quite put my finger on it just yet. I watched the whole SLUTWalk movement from afar, feeling that it was all so hostile, angry, bitter, enraged (as well it should be!), but I feel like I've moved past all of that. Project Unbreakable captured the time after...after you work through the rage, the anger, the initial shock and turmoil, and arrive at a place of healing, acceptance, peace, and quiet strength and resolve.
Being a mom with kids now, I am ridiculously overprotective of them. They do not do sleepovers. If they have playdates, I don't just drop them off...I stay. I supervise bathroom breaks at others' homes, public restrooms, playgrounds, etc. Well, playgrounds are my nightmare, especially crowded ones. Chris [the bf] went with me once and couldn't believe how anxious I became when I couldn't keep a direct line of sight visual on all of the kids at once. I have paid for background checks on neighbors, babysitters, and even their friends' relatives. Only family are allowed to watch them overnight and only extraordinarily trusted family-like friends are allowed to babysit otherwise, and even then, never alone (never one adult alone with the kids). I also began open dialogue with the kids under the guidance of a therapist to commence and maintain dialogue about our bodies so that they would feel comfortable approaching me should anyone touch or even talk about their privates.
Am I a bit psycho about this? Maybe, but statistics show that 1 in 3 girls and 1 in 5 boys will be sexually molested, abused, assaulted or raped in his or her lifetime, so if there are any steps I can take to protect my children now while I can, I will.
Even with those statistics and the knowledge that, given those numbers, many of my friends must have endured some form of sexual trauma in their lives, it's still not a conversation many people have among friends. It's OK. I'm not here to force that discussion on anyone. But if you have been through a similar experience, please check out Project Unbreakable at project-unbreakable.org and take some time to examine the photos...read the words, look at the survivor's face, her strength, her courage in participating, and realize that we are all survivors and have the power to heal and move forward. The healing process is truly a lifelong journey, and this project has helped me even more along my path.
Had somewhat of an unusual experience last night, considering I would call myself a "city girl" and much prefer the urban scene than that of small town. Just ask the 1999 calendar where every single day of my senior year is painstakingly X'ed off in red marker, counting the days until I could leave that small town.
Yet it's all about perspective.
A season of youth rec baseball games has softened my heart, I think. At first I was an outsider, standing awkwardly by the fence, counting the seconds until the hour was up. Finally, I moved to the edge of the bleachers, where one or two moms smiled and said "Hi." Now we're sitting hip to hip, standing and flinging cracker crumbs and spittle as we yell at an adolescent ump for a bad call or high-fiving for a great pop-fly-turned-homer thanks to an inept 8 year old shortstop with apparently greasy fingers.
After a great game of joking with the "team mom", who affectionately calls my son Grasytie (much to his chagrin and our amusement), and a shut-out score of 16-6, we were driving home down country roads at twilight. The sweet smells of honeysuckle and clover was thick in the air as we smiled into the warm wind rushing in the open windows. Grayson turned the radio to country music, and we turned it up and coasted over the rolling hills, laughing and yelling at cows staring curiously at us, and drinking in the beauty of the southern meadows until we were drunk on life, love, baseball, and family.
I still have tattoos, rock out, am blatantly liberal, and love urban life, but the small town southern girl who ran barefoot in summer rains at my grandpa's farm has begun oozing out the edges at the sight of my son's tanned face glowing from first base, where his hat tips back and he returns onlookers' heckles with a hint of southern twang and lightning-quick wit. I'm a southern mama, born and raised, it's an essential part of who I am, and it makes me unwind a little, sit on the porch a little longer, smile and laugh a little slower, and accept all the parts of my heritage that make up the patchwork that is me.
I just finished reading Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies. I've never read a more poignant account of finding faith. A lot of what she describes resonates so deeply with me.
She writes of her childhood in the sixties, and many people my age say we "wish" we grew up then. She assures us we do not, in fact, want to grow up then. Drug and alcohol use and abuse rampant, philandering parents, openly broken homes, political strife, the feeling of never quite being settled or at peace- none of this was fodder for a healthy childhood. Lamott, like many of her generation, recklessly abused drugs and alcohol until making a spiritual decision to get and stay clean.
Her story to finding faith chronicles some especially difficult times, getting clean one of them, and then the more mundane issues that face women universally, over all generations and times; our self-esteem. Lamott scrutinizes every aspect of her being, from the hair on her head to the dimples on her thighs, in excruciatingly familiar detail. Me personally? My hair is thin but I have lots of it...so it appears voluminous until I want to put it up or do something with it, when it shows its painful thinness. My collarbones are never as pronounced as I'd like, no matter how much weight I lose. My belly...three kids. Forget it. My thighs stubbornly and with the resolve of prisoners of war refuse to smooth themselves, no matter how small they get, and retain their dimples along the backside, just under my butt. I have what I consider "man hands" from too much scrubbing with Clorox around the house, my pinkie toes barely have toenails, and I was teased mercilessly about having "buck teeth" from 6th grade until ninth, when the rest of my face caught up to the Chiclets shoved in my mouth, so I'm still terrifically self-conscious about my smile. So when I read her accounts of struggling with self-acceptance, I want to grab her and give her a huge hug. She writes of walking down a beach in Mexico while vacationing with her son in a one-piece bathing suit that's admittedly too small with no cover-up. The bravery! The heroic courage! I still wouldn't walk around without a cover-up, and may never again.
I couldn't identify with the first part of the book, which chronicled the drug abuse. The only drug I've ever had interested in doing was marijuana because it's a plant, all-natural, and no chemicals. I've never had a desire to do any chemical or man-made drugs (pharmaceuticals included!), so I just couldn't identify with that aspect of her story except to feel very strongly for the pain that was so severe it drove her to such lengths. I've always maintained a very strong boundary with alcohol, as well, feeling an extraordinary weight of responsibility being a single mother to not set a bad example and not allow myself to be "messed up" when my children need me, which is always. But even before I had children, I refused to let myself be "an addict". I have an older brother who ran the gamut of substance abuse and criminal behavior and, in my mind, an addict is quite possibly the worst thing a human being can be, so I curtailed my behavior accordingly. However, I've used food in place of drugs or alcohol in my life, and so I could identify with Lamott's resolve and courage when she didn't go to rehab or some other "program"; she found the peace and strength within herself to stop the substance abuse and get clean, one day at a time. When she detailed the self-negotiation and "deals" (only two beers today), I heard, "Sure, stop on the way home and get the cheeseburger...I'll work out tomorrow. It's OK." and completely identified. Oh, the wheelin' and dealin' we do with ourselves over our vices.
Lamott's long and winding road to finding faith is also very familiar to me, and I fear I still am on the journey to the front gate and haven't found the peaceful inner voice that she has. She talks of being still and listening to God, and then trusting that voice. That's the part that gets me...putting trust in this nameless, faceless, voiceless...thing. I have tangible, real needs...how is some invisible man going to provide concrete results? I grew up in a religious household, unlike Lamott, and know much of the Bible backwards and forwards, yet nowadays I'm hearing Christians use the book to make others hate each other, and I want no part of that. I won't darken the door of any church that wouldn't just as readily accept a black family or a gay couple as they would accept my white face and the white, well-scrubbed faces of my children. And because of that, I have no community of faith to fall into as Lamott did when she finally gave herself up to the quiet, still voice.
I had hope when I moved to SC and less than a mile from my home was a big "Community Church", to which I was planning a visit when a "prayer group" came into Starbucks and quite loudly and self-righteously condemned Obama, the democratic party, homosexuals, unmarried couples "living in sin" and on..and on...and on....until I felt I was going to be physically ill. Other customers went green around the gills as well and quickly left. They weren't praying for anyone, they were united in hatred against all of those people, and that is a real and distinct difference that needs to be acknowledged and addressed by the Christian church as it's driving away more and more people. Lamott just happened to find an open, affirming church who helped her through getting clean, becoming a single mother, and raising her child as a village..a united family in Christ, concerned more about making sure they had clothes on their back and food in their bellies than criticizing and belittling her struggling faith. I firmly believe this is where the true spirit of Christ is found, and this is how she came to develop such a strong faith was through the fellowship and community of a good church.
I'm going to be picking up more of Lamott's books. I identify very strongly with her. Struggling single mom, struggling to write, struggling to make a living with a craft when, as she puts it, "The job at the Laundromat looms around the corner," struggling with faith, struggling with our own minds and internal dialogue....it's a constant struggle punctuated with glowing days of light, happiness, friendship, children's hugs, small rays of enlightenment, self-love, and peace. I dig it.
When I share with you my art
it is not
for you to judge.
When I share with you
my words
it is not for you to review
like a bespectacled, khaki-clad
Times columnist.
I'm aware that I'm no Hemingway
my words are rough
tough
they don't always flow like water over rocks
in cool summer springs
because cool is not my thing.
I am white, I'm a mom,
I drive an SUV
and yes
I may
or may not
have a child enrolled in soccer.
To behave as if an artist must have a degree of street cred
if my hair must be dirty
and my T-shirts ironic
to give my art some sort of depth...
well that just shows your small mind.
Not mine.
Sometimes I use big words, as the mood strikes me,
but most of the time
I'm simply a spigot;
I let the words form, gently swirling inside, before they begin to bubble up,
and I wash the dishes faster, corral the kids into the living room,
so I may be at a computer
or some paper
when it overflows,
and then I just try,
I reach and strain,
to rescue every dripping word
as it spits from my soul.
So if you judge me,
on your common throne of hipster arrogance,
for not being what you want me to be,
I laugh,
but I'm also a little sad.
That the beauty and raw power of what has come from me
is being willfully ignored by the likes of you.
You, who claim to "have black friends"
and are "cool with gay people",
yet you pride yourself in your righteous condemnation of the artistic community,
spitting vitriol over the works that have come from people's souls...
which is,
you know,
like spitting directly on their souls.
When someone puts a pen to paper
or a brush to canvas
or a buzzing needle to skin
or fingers to a keyboard
or picks to strings
or notes on a bar
they are giving you,
you selfish, arrogant prick,
a priceless gift.
They are extending to you
a tiny piece of their soul...
and don't think it hasn't come with pain,
there is a jagged bloody hole from whence that gift comes.
Some degree of pain,
memory,
experience,
a time or day or place or tears
that inspired this piece.
Artists aren't typically made
of especially happy people.
So all I ask,
my dear reader,
is that when I present my words you keep this in mind.
I'm not looking for validation,
I'm expressing my thoughts,
my feelings,
my experiences,
and my hope is that you may identify,
connect,
rejoice,
mourn, feel as I have felt and can find solace in the shared pain or joy of another.
If you can't,
that's cool,
kindly shut the fuck up...
and walk away.
This being my first attempt at either pho or sushi, and because the ingredients, especially for the sushi, were pretty pricey, I was nervous. The final result, however, was amazing.
Vegan Pho
1/2 package rice noodles
yellow onion (1/4 small onion, minced)
2 green onions (1 for soup, 1 for top)
minced garlic, about 1 Tbsp
grated carrot (1/2 a large one...the other half I sliced into a fine julienne for the sushi)
3 large mushrooms, sliced (I used cremini)
2 handfuls bean sprouts, I'd guess about 1.5 cups
low-sodium soy sauce
olive oil
juice of 1/4 lemon
lemon thyme
pinch cinnamon
pinch brown sugar
salt to taste
water
Begin with olive oil...heat and saute garlic, onion, minced garlic, grated carrot, green onion, and add mushrooms last.
Add 4-5 generous shakes soy sauce, bring to simmer.
Add water (I added about 4 cups)
Bring to slow boil, then add lemon thyme, cinnamon, brown sugar, and lemon juice.
Add bean sprouts.
Simmer for about 15 minutes.
Salt to taste.
Bring to rolling boil, add rice noodles and boil for 3-4 minutes.
YouTube how to roll sushi. Much easier to watch a video than for me to attempt to describe it here. Serve with low-sodium soy sauce or, for the daring, wasabi. ********************************************************************
The pho was super easy, and considering the small amount of ingredients needed to make 5 generous bowls of pho, very economical.
The sushi was definitely more difficult (although something I think I could master with more practice), and while the ingredients are more expensive, they are vastly cheaper than sushi at a restaurant.
**Do NOT purchase or attempt to use caught raw fish- the type of fish used in sushi has been selected for that purpose. Attempting to use raw meat ingredients can result in illness. If you don't have a market that provides it, don't try it.**
All in all, an amazing, cheap dinner...fun to try for something different!
~m
For years, environmental activists have been referred to as "tree huggers" (which, for most of us, is fine), but the term is definitely intended as some sort of insult.
So when I read this story about a man named Jadav Payeng who has spent his life planting a forest..with his bare hands...an entire forest of over 1,300 acres, I think, "That's a real tree-hugger."
We all don't have time, resources, and space to plant forests with our bare hands, but what we can do is do our part to make changes in our lifestyles and to get involved in local environmental causes.
Here are ideas at home:
1) Reduce, reuse, recycle. Find out where your local recycling center is and use it. If your city has curbside pick-up, even better! 2) Conserve...water, electricity, paper, plastic..whatever you can possibly do to reduce, do it. Not only will your utility bills lower, your carbon footprint will shrink.
3) Bike, walk, go on horseback, whatever you can do to avoid driving. If you can walk there, do it.
4) Raise your children to be mindful conservationists and environmentalists. Children mimic what they see, so be a good example for them. One year, after a parade in Norfolk, my kids and I were horrified at the trash on the ground, so we stayed after the people left and cleaned off one city block. They were all wearing gloves, so I tossed the gloves in the wash when we got home to rid them of the germs, but it made an impact on them and they still talk about it to this day. BE the change you want to see in the world!
In the article a minister is formally reprimanded for officiating the wedding of his son...to another man.
This hits particularly close to home for me as I grew up in the Methodist church
and with a Methodist minister as a dad. One thing I remember about visiting other churches and then watching my dad preach after experiencing another minister: 1) My dad is quiet. He is no hellfire and brimstone, pulpit-pounding evangelic. He speaks with quiet precision. 2) My dad never, ever (to my knowledge or recollection) preached politics from the pulpit. When parishioners would raise questions of that nature to him after service or during potlucks, etc., he would gently but firmly steer the conversation away from the topic. 3) My dad is extremely intelligent, well-read, and highly educated. This comes across in both his subject matter for sermons and in his daily conversation. He wasn't reared in a hellfire and brimstone household or environment, so it's just not in his nature to be that way.
Of course, my dad is also extremely conservative. Extremely. I think I can imagine his stance on homosexuality, well, I've had a brush with it myself. Let's say he's not exactly "open and affirming".
It's all very painful to think on and discuss. While I love my dad very, very much and have a great deal of admiration for him, and I know he would never be openly discriminatory towards anyone (one of his best friends was the first black bishop of the United Methodist Church in South Carolina), I also want desperately to talk to him about this and help him to see that the LGBT community needs faith leaders, needs acceptance, needs fellowship as well, or they are being driven away from Christ, and that's an unspeakable travesty.
The Methodist church seems to be a giant ship that's ever so slowly turning with the tide, and I can only hope that a lot of love, compassion, openmindedness, and faith goes into every parishioner, layman, and pastor's decision on how to steer that vessel.
Around the southeast, starved "clean eaters" are rejoicing over the seasonal openings of their local farm markets. It's reached the local market here in SC! This Thursday, from 5-8, the Rock Hill Old Town Market will be having its season opening, complete with live music, kids' activities, etc.
When you support local business, you support cleaner living and the growth of local economy, not to mention helping your neighbors by keeping farms, dairies, and artisan craftsmanship alive and well.
Saw this video with brief interviews with homeless veterans on the street.
We have men coming home, suffering with crippling PTSD (and that's if they don't have a physical disability), facing a shaky economy and widespread unemployment, and some wonder why there are homeless veterans?
It's hard to find a job in this economy in the best of scenarios: you have a little in savings, you have a car to get to interviews, you have a home, shower, clean clothes. What are your chances without all of that?
Most veterans do OK when they receive their honorable discharge. They find a job pretty quickly and they use their military career as a launch pad. But many don't. They struggle to function outside a combat zone, much less find gainful employment. Those are the ones who need the extra help, a boost to make their transition successful.
It's not called a handout...last time I checked, these guys were getting shot at for our nation. The least our nation can do is give them the respect of a decent segway to civilian life with proper medical and psychiatric treatment and housing options for those struggling.
If you want to get involved or find out how you can help, or if you are a veteran struggling with housing issues, here are a list of resources:
Read this article about solar flares on Friday that were powerful enough to black out radio signal on Earth for a while.
That's intense.
I know people all across the spectrum, from those who barely believe in science to those who think global warming will kill us all and destroy the earth during our life time. While I'm not that extreme, I do think global warming is a very real problem that is going to have very real consequences during our lifetime. That being said, do you have a "contingency plan" if something goes awry? Natural disaster? Terrific solar flare? Tsunami? Earthquake?
I'm sad to say that I don't...now. When I lived on the coast, the realities of hurricanes were much more immediate and real, so I had a huge emergency kit and we had emergency plans for where to go in case of evacuation. I bought one of those giant Rubbermaid bins, the one you could use for a deck box, and it had cases of bottled water, blankets, tarps, canned food, dog food, first aid kit, a crank radio, flashlights and batteries, etc. We were uber-prepared (and had to use it a couple of years ago). Now that I've moved inland, I have nearly none of that. I need to get on that.
Of course, it's silly to act like we're the first few generations to have natural disasters. History has documented massive floods and droughts, earthquakes, forest fires, etc. for thousands of years. The difference is that now humans are having a very real impact on causing some of these to occur through massive pollution and global warming.
Do you have an emergency plan? What are your thoughts on global warming vs. just another earth cycle? Chime in...comments, messages, email...
So over the past few years, I've undergone a conscious and intentional process of self-improvement. From eating better to being more environmentally conscious, volunteering my time, being a better friend, being a better mom, etc.
Now I'm tackling what seems to be one of my most difficult challenges yet: to stop yelling.
OK, when I say "yelling", I'm not saying I walk around screaming like some old Italian grandmother all the time. Sometimes I'm just yelling into the other room because I don't want to walk in there. It's not always angry, but it does create a very loud environment around the house, especially when you have three mini-me's who are picking up the habit, as well. Four people yelling, a couple of them in much higher registers. It gets loud.
So my latest challenge is to take the time to stop folding laundry or doing what I'm doing, walk into the other room, and quietly ask the kids to pick up their toys or if they've finished their homework, and, if I'm angry, to stop, breathe, and address the problem quietly instead of immediately yelling.
This is hard, undoing a lifetime of this habit. My mother yelled and spanked...so did everyone else's moms in the '80's! I'm not blaming her- that's how she was raised. On top of that, we were raised in a "children should be see and not heard" type of household, so my frustration at not having my feelings heard or validated would boil over and I would yell, as if projecting my voice louder would project my feelings to my parents at a level at which they would have listen and notice (which they did not, I would just get spanked or grounded). One of the biggest issues that I've had with my relationship with my parents is my feeling (and it continues to this day), that they do not listen, respect, or acknowledge my feelings but rather dismiss them as trivial, immature, overly-emotional, etc.
Now, as a mom, at Grayson's baseball game, his Papa and I were both yelling to him. "Keep your eye on the ball! Get behind that ball! Get under that ball! Hey, focus, Gray! Keep your head in the game," and finally, from second base where he's waiting for the batter to hit a modest line drive so he could dash around to home and possibly get his team another run, he yells to me and his Papa, "HEY, I GOT IT! LET ME DO IT." Well. OK, then. If I had publicly yelled at my parents like that, I would've gotten snatched up so fast my head would spin. Yet before I opened my mouth, I took stock of the situation. Grayson already had two other, unrelated coaches yelling at him throughout the game. At the end of that inning, I snagged him as he was running into the dugout. I whispered into his ear, "You're doing great. Have fun and just look over there and I'll be there supporting you. I won't yell any more." He grinned and went back to the game, and nailed the last two innings, catching every ball and connecting with a solid pop fly that went uncaught, letting him make it to second base while two tow-headed 8 year olds scrambled for the ball. I think having someone quietly supporting you instead of loudly dictating your every move makes for a better and more enjoyable learning experience.
So I'm trying to translate this into daily life at home. After a ten-day battle of trying to get the kids to clean their room without caving and doing it for them, their room was finally clean. And it wasn't done until I figured out that I was just giving a general "clean your room" to an 8 yr old, 6 yr old, and 5 yr old. They had no clue where to even begin and were so overwhelmed that they would end up sitting in the middle of the mess and playing with whatever toy was nearest. So when I broke it down into doable task, the results were clear: eight days of yelling= no results, two days of calmly instructing with simple tasks=clean room.
Score one for common sense.
I'm experimenting with the concept of treating kids like mini-adults. Now, obviously this doesn't apply across the board...they're kids and need instruction and guidance as they grow. However, more so than the content of what we're saying, perhaps reevaluate the way we're talking to our children. Are we "talking down" to them? And can they sense that? So to attempt to ascertain this, I instituted evening "family meetings" with the kids a few months ago. In the evening, after dinner and after baths, just before bed, we sit down at the kitchen table with drinks (it started with Callie with her chamomile tea and then the boys wanted hot chocolate) and talk about our day. I ask them everything from what they learned that day to how their feelings were hurt that day. Rules are: no TV, no radio, no computer, no distractions, and everyone must contribute something to the conversation. The kids think it's so "mature" because they're holding mugs and having a "meeting", so they really ACT mature: speak calmly and quietly, take turns, don't talk over one another, listen carefully...it's amazing. And sometimes they'll say, "YOU hurt my feelings today, Mom, when you shushed me when I was trying to tell you something." Hey, I never said I was perfect...but it's very cool to learn from that and get and keep open communication about these things with your kids.
Since the beginning of the nightly meetings, the rate of yelling has drastically decreased in our home. I've heard the kids having arguments in their room that includes the words, "I feel that.." and "This isn't respectful to my stuff," so I have faith we're moving in the right direction. Me included.
Do you have issues with yelling in your home? What methods of communication do you use with your kids, your spouse, your roommates, etc. to avoid raising voices? Comment, email, share, etc.
The day was dreary, cloudy, drizzling at times, but that didn't dampen our excitement. We did our hair, packed a bag with a blanket, extra jackets, bottled water, and made our way downtown.
Took a photo at home before leaving...
Sure, I got a few weird looks...holding hands with a little girl, her skipping and smiling, walking to a Bob Dylan show. We went across the street to the VGBG, a restaurant and bar, to get some food that wasn't outrageously expensive before the show. The tables were long and meant to be shared, so she was thoroughly enjoying my quinoa salad and ignoring her kids' meal when I overheard a group of overdressed Uptown types at the other end of the long table proclaim loudly that they "just didn't feel right" about drinking with a kid at the other end of the table, shooting us daggers with their eyes. The place had a friggin KIDS menu...it's not a saloon, people. So I asked Callie what her favorite Dylan song is and if she wanted to sing it with me, so we started singing "The Times They Are A'Changing" loud enough to be gleefully annoying, spittle and food flying from our mouths, as we gave the yuppies huge smiles full of quinoa, black bean, and Dylan words, and then we danced out of there to a smattering of applause and a few high fives.
The venue is nice, large enough to host a big name but intimate enough for it to be a good show. We staked out our spot in the grass , spread our blanket, and proceeded to wait...but it wasn't long before Callie was making friends. The ladies to our right, Dori and Amber, were having a mother-daughter date, also. They drove all the way from Saluda, NC because they won the tickets in a radio contest. Classic mountain types, they wore sandals with jeans, colorful vests and had eclectic bags.
It wasn't long before the spot in front of Dori and Amber was taken by a cute couple, John and Jan, also mountain people coming from Shelby and also won tickets from a radio station (the same one!). They had a really cute blanket/tarp (cool design on top, waterproof, and tarp on bottom...perfect for outdoor concerts, festivals, camping, etc.) that they told me was made by their son, who has a business selling them: Tarpestry (http://thetarpestry.weebly.com/)...[I wouldn't plug them if it wasn't super cool, so there ya go].
Anyway, they hit it right off with Callie also, letting her use their binoculars to see the guys from Dawes and then, when he appeared, Mr. Dylan himself. Callie was amazing. Away from her brothers and their hyper antics, she was cool and collected. She was comfortable talking to the adults about Bob Dylan and his music and happy to lay on the blanket with her head in my lap for the hour or so until Dawes played.
Dawes was a bit of a let-down live. I had never heard of them, so I looked them up before we went and was pretty excited....their stuff on YouTube is really good. Don't get me wrong, their music is really good (their vocals...ahhh, like honey) and they were very good last night, but nearly everything they played was draggy. Yeah, it was cloudy and grey, but I'd like an opening band to pep me up a bit and all their songs were pretty mellow, almost too much so. I feel like they just got in their groove on the last song, where they jammed for over seven minutes, and it almost made me want to see a full show of theirs to experience their whole range....I hope I get a chance to do that.
And then Callie had to go to the bathroom, so we ran, not wanting to miss Bob starting up. Just as we were heading back to our blanket, we hear a guitar and look up to see a sole figure in black strolling out on stage like...well, like he wasn't Bob mothafucking Dylan. Too cool for school.
What? I'm Bob mothafuckin Dylan.
Let me tell you, this man still oozes cool. I don't care how old he is. Stellar wardrobe, iconic frazzled hair, and a voice as gravelly and sweet as really good whiskey on the rocks. When he started singing, most people stopped talking and were mesmerized. And here's where I will indulge in a little rant....
When I say "most" people were mesmerized, I mean not all. I mean that there were a good number of young hipster types in slouchy hats, babydoll dresses with indian boots and ironic feather tattoos, who spent the entire time clustered around the beer stands talking, loudly, and ignoring the show. Thankfully, the security team was really good about moving these clusters of losers when they would stand in front of the lawn area and block the view while trying to get cool shots of themselves watching Bob Dylan in Instagram ("Did you get him in the picture? Well, did you at least get me? Haha, OK, that's what matters...like, I'll tag the stage as Bob Dylan...hahaha" SHOOT ME.)
For this reason, I didn't even bring my phone inside...I left it in the car. I wanted to experience the show "old school"...I knew my phone wouldn't get any quality pictures from so far back but just having it there wouldn't prevent me from trying...repeatedly...and then assaulting my friends with god-awful, blurry pictures of a stage with some tiny people on it and insisting that one guy definitely is Bob Dylan. I didn't want to watch the show through a screen, I wanted to experience it live. I wish others had done the same...one of the women near us, an older woman, watched nearly the whole show through her iPhone screen. Ridiculous. Anyway, if you're going to a show and you don't really know the artists' music, that's cool...just don't be rude to those of us who are really big fans. I know it's cool to just "tag" yourself at the Bob Dylan show, but be respectful of people who paid for the show because they actually like the music and are trying to hear it and see the guy playing it.
I digress. Most of the people there were genuine, happy, beautiful people that were content to sit on the wet grass and let a perpetual mist glide over us as we basked in the beauty of good, solid music. I was pretty absorbed, but the few times I let my eyes wander, I saw people dancing, people laid back, eyes closed, just wrapped up in the sound. Callie dozed off during one of his last songs, on her back on our blanket with Jan and John's tarpestry covering up to her chest, where John had so sweetly laid it to block the misting rain, and her eyes fluttered open to "All Along the Watchtower", where everyone around her was up and dancing. She lay there, flat on her back, and watched the beautiful people dance with an ethereal smile on her cherub face. If there were one moment I wished I had my camera, that was it, but it's almost better that it's a sacred snapshot memory in only her mind and mine.
I tried to explain to her that by the time her friends realize who Bob Dylan is, get into his music, or at least acknowledge his massive contribution to modern music, he won't be around for them to go see live, so she went into this show with a very serious, almost stoic, determination to absorb this experience. She watched him, listening intently, with the quiet concentration of a student in a lecture. I couldn't have been more proud (and amazed, honestly...I didn't know how she would handle a concert, nor was I expecting her to behave like a real student of classic rock). After his first song, she broke out of her reverie, looked at me, and said, "He has such a dark voice." I, and the people around me, stared at her. "Yes....he does," I said, realizing she just hit the nail right on the head...his voice has become "dark" over the years. It's the difference from his early music that many people struggle to capture in words, and my six year old nailed Bob Dylan in one word after one song.
The concert was amazing. Bob Dylan was, of course, transcendent. I've been to a lot of concerts, but this was one where I truly felt I was in the presence of a master, someone who has a gift that is greater than most of us will ever comprehend, as he manipulated the sound waves like an artist sculpting clay and pulled from the misty air feelings of love, aching, hurt, a wistful nostalgia of our fondest and most wrenching memories. I found tears in my eyes and looked over to see Callie, brow furrowed in concentration, focused with a deep intent on the wild-haired man in black on stage, and I felt the greatest elation that I could give her the gift of music, the gift that has carried me through many dark times and given me so much joy, and that she should be so receptive and receive the gift with such respect.
Life is about these moments. Away from a camera, where human-to-human interaction is necessary. Where complete strangers huddle under blankets, share fries and festival stories, and feel the pulse of life threading through us all. Thank you, Mr. Dylan, for giving me this night of inspiration and a lesson in humanity.
