It's Not Pie

See this gorgeous chocolate cream pie that S made? This is not what we are talking about today, folks.

I could pretend that I don’t know why I feel violent every time I hear my husband chew. Or swallow. Or breathe.

I could act like I don’t know why I want to scream every time my restless son pesters the dog until the dog air-snaps at him.

I could tell you I don’t know why I screw up my face, silently jumping up and down, every time my daughter repeats some crucial information in an absolutely inaudible voice as she lies on the sofa, hidden by its back.

I could pretend I don’t know, but I do.

I am absolutely furious with all of us. With all human beings. Wake up! All this pain and suffering? All the agony and stress and anxiety? All of this mess??? We could fix it. What? Why? How? 

Because IT’S NOT PIE, FOLKS!

I first heard that expression a few years back—“Equal rights for others does not mean fewer rights for you. It’s not pie.”

Read that again.

Every. Single. Thing. we humans are wrestling with right now is also not pie. Justice is not pie. Listening is not pie. Compassion? Not pie. Respect? Not pie. Basic manners? Common sense? You guessed it, also not pie.

If we show respect, if we speak civilly, if we listen attentively, we won’t be less respected, less politely addressed, or less heard…there’s no guarantee, but odds are that will be more respected and heard. No one can eat up all the slices of the listening respectfully pie because we can always listen respectfully some more. You know that is actually like? Doritos. Remember “Crunch all you want; we’ll make more”? Yeah, that.

Respect people all you want; we’ll make more.

You know what is guaranteed to grow if we stop fighting over it? Justice. Shockingly, justice for all actually means justice for all. No system can be fair if treats anyone unfairly. In an unfair system, the people in the currently advantaged group are always at risk for falling into the disadvantaged group. If the system’s rotten, it’s rotten. Whether it’s affected you personally or not is just dumb luck.

Fixing the system that screws other people will actually protect you from being screwed.

Even money isn’t pie. Yep. You heard me. It’s actually a symbol of human labor. Sure, a few multi-billionaires trying to die with the most toys would like you to believe otherwise, but paying EVERYONE a living wage will not bankrupt anyone. In fact, money moves when people are financially secure and the number one thing economies need is moving money so…. Gosh, it looks we all might benefit from doing the right thing.

Other things that grow when you use them? Honesty. Integrity. Character. If any public figure, if any leader steps up to do the right thing, it gets easier—easier, mind you—for everyone else to act ethically.

I’m not claiming to be an expert on any of this. I’m just a tired woman approaching the far side of middle-age, getting to the point where I can plant my wooden spoon-holding hand on my apron-covered hips, adjust my glasses, and tell you what.

And what am I telling you?

There is too much pain in this world, kids. And you can fix it without losing a damn thing.

Love all you want; we’ll make more.

Starry-Eyed Wonder

I’m sure none of you will be surprised to hear that I’m an introvert. Gasp! I know, right?

It may surprise you to hear that I love walking with the circus float in the local Christmas parade. That is, I love it under certain conditions—let’s not get crazy, okay? This year the conditions were peak—perfect temperature, the float went in the first third of the parade, and I got to walk behind it pulling the wagon with all the performers’ belongings.

This ideal position lets me watch the float (at least the back half) and the crowd while lurking in shadow not interacting with anyone. Per-fection! And while the young—so young!—performers on the float put on a fabulous show, the crowd drew my eyes this year.

I tend to see the crowd in chunks. The lights from the float define the people that I can see. And in each and every section of crowd, I saw at least one person full of Starry-Eyed Wonder. The folks with Starry-Eyed Wonder mostly range in age from around one year old to around ten years old, though every year I spot an occasional person full of S.E.W and advanced years. Mostly I notice them because they’re dancing around.

Sure, I can filter out audible clues that I’ve found one—usually either “How did she do that?” or “I could do that!”—but mostly I find them because they follow the float with totally open faces, reflecting its lights and projecting their own joy. And in those magically alight faces, their eyes have cartoon fireworks going off inside. If our eyes act as windows to the soul, these folks see a galaxy of wonder in a circus performance.

It only gets better in the arena, when the young circus performers give it their all as a team, with equipment, lights, music, and the magic of live performance. This year, the lady beside me clapped so hard that she kept knocking her cane into the next row. The young one behind me—about five years old—gasped at almost every act. And my own heart soared. Every time I think I’ve seen it all, I haven’t. Circus shoots a direct stream of Starry-Eyed Wonder into my heart.

People make bucket lists, but I’ve never seen the point. To me, it’s not what you do, it’s how you do it. I want to live my life filled with Starry-Eyed Wonder, no matter what I encounter. Whether it be a nice retiree who lets my student driver change lanes on a busy rush-hour road or a performance of Hamilton or a trip to a new place. It’s all Wonder-full. I want to keep my eyes open to it.

I will never forget picking up my soon-to-be-husband’s family from the airport in Roanoke, Virginia before our wedding. His dear family friends, Alice and Al Rossi, were in their 90s at the time—and I’ve never known people who love life more than they did. As we drove north on the interstate, through the gorgeous Shenandoah Valley, Mrs. Rossi could not sit still. She bounced all over the car, peering out every window, until she settled on her knees, looking out the back.

She had traveled all over the world at that point and, that day, she poured her joyous wonder all over us in celebration of the beautiful hills that reminded her of her youth in Germany. Mrs. Rossi lived in a state of Starry-Eyed Wonder.

That’s my goal for this year and for the rest of my life. And I believe that’s a huge part of why I love the Sailor Circus, a band of young people bringing wonder to us all. My wish for you in 2020? May all your days be circus days and may you greet them with Starry-Eyed Wonder!

Thank You

Dear J.J. Abrams and the entire Rise of Skywalker team:

I am a hardcore middle-aged geek (or nerd) in the Wil Wheaton sense of the word. I love my passions…well, passionately. I am passionate about writing, theater, film, and all types of performance. I have loved sci-fi and fantasy since I learned they existed. 

The original Star Trek was a Saturday night ritual as far back as I can remember, though I came of age with The Next Generation. When I grew up, I planned to marry Captain Kirk (or maybe Hawkeye Pierce). An idealistic, eternally optimistic eight-year-old who desperately wanted to be Luke Skywalker, I remember walking out of The Empire Strikes Back 100% certain that Darth Vader was NOT—could not be!—Luke’s father. It had to be a trick. They would explain it soon, I just knew.

Blessed with a fantastic librarian, I read YA fantasy before anyone knew it was a thing—Lloyd Alexander, Susan Cooper, Piers Anthony, Dianna Wynne Jones, and my shero, Tamora Pierce. David Palmer’s Emergence changed my life. Then on to Douglas Adams, Anne McCaffrey, Madeline L’Engle, Ursula LeGuin, Robin Hobb, Guy Gavriel Kay, Elizabeth Moon, Timothy Zahn, and the granddaddy of them all, J.R.R. Tolkien. I read his books once a year for decades. 

Basically, I was the awkward 1980s middle-school girl getting stink-eye from the male geeks in the sci-fi/fantasy section of the bookstore. (Looking back, I realize it may not have been stink-eye, but it sure felt like it.) And I have gloried in the rise of strong female characters in the years since then—on television, too! Captain Janeaway and Buffy kick ass.

I grew up to be a freelance novel editor, working in the young adult, sci-fi, and fantasy genres. I’m also the type of parent who, alongside my husband, draws parenting wisdom from the sages of those genres. Dune really helped us with toddlers—“the slow blade penetrates the shield” makes you feel WAY cooler than “just be patient; eventually he’ll pass out.”

I have never, ever felt more vulnerable in my geekiness than when I walked out of The Rise of Skywalker.

I cannot thank you enough for the artwork you all have made. It felt like I watched the Grand Unification Theory of every created world I knew (and doubtless ones I don’t!) in technicolor and surround sound. It gave me hope.

Can you truly feel what that means? You gave me hope. I’m the kid who has dreamed for years that some higher power will tap me on the shoulder and say, “You have a secret ability. You can save the world.” 

No one has ever said that to me. And the world has gone on spiraling merrily downward into the crapper.

What could I do? I haven’t always known. But right now I have an idea. 

I can remember I’m not alone. I can take a chance on what’s right, believing that enough other people see it, too--that someone will have my back. And I can stand with others when they take those chances. I can do that. We are not alone.

Thank you for the masterful craft of your movie, which I could rave about for hours. Thank you for closing the final trilogy and all its plotlines so beautifully. Thank you for your characters who showed us the unconquerable power of love, Leia’s true legacy. Thank you for all the references to all the original movies AND to all the other epic works of our times. I will probably spend years finding those references, but can I just say right now that I applaud you forever for slipping a Dune worm and an effing hobbit into your film?

Thank you for saying to a so-much-larger audience what Buffy said to all the potentials so many years ago: 

So here's the part where you make a choice. What if you could have that power, now? In every generation, one Slayer is born, because a bunch of men who died thousands of years ago made up that rule. They were powerful men. 

[points to Willow] This woman... is more powerful than all of them combined. So I say we change the rule. I say my power... should be our power. 

Tomorrow, Willow will use the essence of the Scythe to change our destiny. From now on, every girl in the world who might be a Slayer, will be a Slayer. Every girl who could have the power, will have the power, can stand up, will stand up. Slayers... every one of us. Make your choice. Are you ready to be strong?

I have hope now. I have hope that if I stand up, others will show up. I have the courage to show up when others stand up. I have hope that there are so many more of us than them.

I have never felt more vulnerable--or more powerful.

Thank you.