An Upside Down Worldview

An Upside Down Worldview
by Lisa Mikitarian

In the end, all of life is meaningless, a swirling vortex of nothingness.

It would be an abomination to profess:
Jesus Christ’s sacrifice on the cross offers eternal life
He abides in those who accept His gift
The chief purpose of man is to live to the glory of God
I tell you the truth—

man is here through chemical processes.
It is part of the great deception to pronounce
that human life, at any stage, is sacred
that we exist because of the unfathomable love of a Creator—
Those who number themselves among us, marvel
that parents have a duty to raise their children in the ways of the Lord.
Christians actually believe—

The union between a man and a woman is a covenant not to be broken
Marriage is a shadow of Christ’s fidelity with the Church
He will never forsake mankind
My heart understands

I may not be perfect now, but perfection is a matter of time.
I hold to the tenet that
I am intrinsically kind. I need no forgiveness.
This does not resonate with me:

There is an unchangeable God of objective truth, justice, mercy, and grace.
My experience in the world tells me with certainty
beauty and goodness are accidents—
though I wouldn't conclude that
life is like the ephemeral flower—blooming but for a day,
I am familiar with Christian thought—

The fall of man brought death and forged gaps only Christ can fill.
I don’t understand such dogma, knowing instead:
science and philosophy are the explanation
sexual promiscuity assuages
money and power and fame plug empty spaces
I will never grant:

There is an almighty Creator of heaven and earth.

reality is found—
where it begins—
here—
at the end—

reading from the last line, back up to the beginning…

 

There I was...with Dan Synder

There I was…imaginary conversations…

 

There I was waiting for Sam on a bench at the Tidal Basin in Washington, DC.  I was watching the afternoon sun glimmer along the ripples of water created in the wake of paddle boats.  A man, who wasn't Sam, with slicked-to-the side-dark hair strolled at the basin's edge. I don't know what made him look my way, but he did. I nodded a good afternoon.  He returned the nod and curved toward me, sat down on the opposite side of the bench I occupied.  He stretched his legs out before him, clasped his hands behind his head—like he didn't have a care in the world.

Pbbbbt.

Dan Synder, owner of the Washington Redskins. He had plenty of cares in the world—a revolving door of coaches, too many non-winning seasons, a politically incorrectly-named sports team—and now me.

I might not have recognized him but for the Redskin cheerleader I'd met the weekend before at the Shenandoah Apple Blossom Festival.  Oh, how I recognized him now. He was responsible for the one dark spot in a beautiful weekend of ladies' luncheons, parades, fancy-shmancy cars, and SUPER welcoming people.  Winchester must surely have the highest per capita population of friendly citizens.

But I digress.

"So Dan," I said. "It is Dan, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes it is." His posture remained relaxed. He hadn't even turned his head.

"I met a Redskin's cheerleader recently, and guess what she told me?"

"Haven't a clue," he said.

"She said the cheerleaders don't get paid."

He brought his hands down, folded his arms across his Armani worsted-wool suit. "It's the policy with all the teams in the league—"

"You could be the first to pay them, set an example, be a champion for what is right."

"They're paid in other ways."

"Right, I heard all about that. The girls get to make appearances—where every once in a while, they're paid. There could be product endorsements. Being a cheerleader is a stepping stone to a bigger career. It's all about the prestige." I slapped the palm of my hand on the bench. "Oh, give me a break!  Just because these girls are willing to work for free doesn't make it right. And you can say you don't have anything to do with the cheerleaders, that they're a separate entity, but you know in your heart it's wrong—you, you, exploiter, you! You buy a franchise for $800,000,000 dollars, make over $245 million a year, pay your football players millions, AND YOU CAN'T MAKE SURE THE CHEERLEADERS GET PAID?  THEY PUT IN A TREMENDOUS NUMBER OF PRACTICE HOURS ON THE TEAM'S BEHALF!  SHAME ON YOU!!!"

"Look, lady, you're going to pop that vein sticking out on your forehead if you're not careful." 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Sam was walking toward me, rather quickly. The cherry blossom trees, no blossoms left, provided a canopy for him.

Dan continued, "I bet you're one of those repressed women—that you always wanted to be a cheerleader yourself, but weren't what?…slender enough?  Coordinated enough?"

I stood up. "WHY YOU, SANCTIMONIUS, SMUG—"

Just then I felt Sam wrap his arms around me from behind; he had my own arms pinned to my side. "Sam!" I yelled, "he won't make sure the cheerleaders are paid!  His team is the highest grossing team in the NFL! Why isn't what's good for the goose, good for the gander? With his reasoning, why should the players even be paid?  There are plenty of them who'd do it for free as a stepping stone, too!"  A goose in the Tidal Basin honked on cue.

"Calm down," Sam whispered in my ear.

I couldn't stop myself from stretching out and kicking Dan's black alligator shoes.  He reared up so suddenly, I almost knocked Sam down as I jumped back. That he'd startled me riled me even more. I went to kick at his shoes again, but Sam lifted me a few inches back and off the ground so all my flats hit was empty air.

"We're going to be leaving now," Sam said to Dan.

"Sam, those owners are exploiting those women!" But Sam was already turning me, heading toward the car.  "Exploiter!" I yelled over my shoulder, wishing I could come up with additional nouns in my fury.

"What are you trying to do, get arrested?" Sam asked a few minutes later. He was depositing me in the passenger seat of the car.

"Look, I don't begrude the owners and players their wealth, I don't.  Just tell me you don't think it's okay to pay the cheerleaders nothing or that lousy $50 per game that some of the teams cough up."  I needed to hear it from one of the least politically correct and most free enterprise people I knew—because this didn't have anything to do with either of those issues.  It didn't have anything to do with being a femi nazi—which I wasn't.

This was decency—doing what was right.

"I don't think it's okay," he said.

I was relieved to hear him say it, but pouted all the way home, refusing to be mollified. It took the vein in my forehead several hours to relax. But even now when I think of it, I can feel it bulge in indignation. 

In college both the players and cheerleaders are amateurs.  When they're signed to the league, they all become professionals. The cheerleaders should be paid, too.

It's just plain wrong not to.

 

Not Only Flags

Not only flags fly at half-mast—the heart can fly that way, too. And it's not a product of lost faith, depression, or lack of hope.

 

Hearts that fly at half-mast grieve loss.

 

They know good overcomes evil, but they take a minute, an hour, a season, to feel sorrow for what is gone. They may have been knocked down, but they are not out—though to outsiders it may appear that way because they take time, deliberate time, to get to their knees, and then to their feet. They brush themselves off, adjust their shirts to fit squarely upon their shoulders, smooth the hair from their foreheads, and then look evil squarely in the eye.

 

They don't flinch.

 

They are not afraid.

 

Light overcomes darkness.

Draws the heart to Itself.

Ever higher.

May your heart feel drawn.

All in Goodwill,

~Lisa

Speaking Engagement Brings Heart Palpitations!

The Women's Auxiliary of the Virginia State Horticultural Society has asked me to speak at their annual luncheon which takes place during Winchester's Apple Blossom Festival.

They obviously have not seen my garden.

No "Yard of the Month" winner here, either. 

At least not until Sam finishes the front porch—which is currently on a five-year building plan.

That aside, just thinking about speaking to hundreds of women is causing heart palpitations. If only I could speak to them one at a time. Then maybe I wouldn't be so awkward.

But, I tell myself:  you have spoken in front of large groups.

Like to all those military commanders in Korea when I was developing a post-wide Mom's Day Out Program to help mothers who lived far away from family support. Forget that I tripped up the stairs—the commanders were receptive, and we made it happen.

Or to the groups of teens, talking about abstinence, engaging them in experiential learning exercises that involved duct-tape, spitting into cups they exchanged, and ex-lax. What could be more awkward than that?  Yet, it was fun.

The last time I spoke to a group of people, I had trouble remembering Sam's name—that is when I finally got around to the "Introductions"—which had been the second bullet point on my notes after "Welcome/Housekeeping."  I can't remember what I skipped to, but at some point while I was looking out into the audience, I saw my mother-in-law, and immediately realized I'd missed the introductions.

Awkward.

I compounded it by laughing, saying something like:  well whadaya know about that, and then showing the audience my notes, to prove that I had intended to make introductions—had just hopped right over them.

And yet, (I believe) it all went well.

And I believe this luncheon will be wonderful. I can't promise that I won't trip up the stairs, or forget a bullet point, or say something ridiculous because my filter is out taking a bathroom break, but I can promise every woman who attends that I'll be there to encourage and build and laugh with you.

Because while no man is an island, no woman is an island, either. And the things that are important to you, are important to me—even though we may come from different places. The theme for this year's Apple Blossom Festival is "Love to Bloom," but sometimes we hold ourselves back, or in—tighter than Spanx. Yet, it is the existence of those outside of ourselves that makes the good things of this world better, and the bad things more bearable.

 

Others help us to bloom. We are community.

As part of that idea, we'll have a "Paper Airplanes" video session at the end of the luncheon. Paper Airplanes are shout-outs to family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, anyone who has touched you, blessed you. Those who attend will be able to send these Paper Airplanes via video clips we'll be making that day, and then my daughter, Maddie and I will turn them into a quirky little film that will be accessible to the community. Here's a sample of one we made for Shenandoah County—though our video-making skills have improved—we hope.

I'm still working on a title for the luncheon—maybe something like:  Ripping Off Your Spanx and Really Flying Free

What do you think?

The Ladies Horticulture Luncheon will be at 10:30AM, on May 3^rd, 2013, at the Lee Jackson/Best Western Hotel in Winchester (711 Millwood Ave.)  The cost is $25. The atmosphere will be welcoming, warm, beautiful, and delicious—as will be the food.

 

For a glimpse of last year's luncheon, you can go HERE. Last year's speaker, btw, did an awesome job. No pressure. Right. Anyway, to purchase tickets, go HERE.

I truly hope to see you there. We are going to have a blast. Even if it's at my expense.

 

No, no, no—just kidding.

 

I hope.

All in Goodwill,
~Lisa

A Top Ten List!

The Top Ten Reasons I'll be Reading Tangerine Morning

by Rita Garcia

 

 

 

 

#10—because I have a love for the color tangerine.

 

#9— because the main character Jezzica is a widow who wonders if she will ever love again—and I, coincidentally, have wondered if I were to become a widow, would I ever love again—of course I came to the conclusion of no way, Jose.

 

#8—because with all the garbage in this world, sometimes a good inspirational romance (with a dose of mystery and suspense) is just what the Doctor (Love) ordered.

 

#7—because I've actually never read an inspirational novel and it's about time!

 

#6—because Sam is SUPER supportive of all things romantic…

 

#5—because I want to compare how Sam and I operate during conflict with how Jezzica and Zack operate, and then use it correct Sam.

 

#4— because the author, Rita Garcia (besides being an awesome writer and a spunky red-head) is one of the kindest, loveliest women I know, and I can't wait to read what she's written from the overflow of that spunky, lovely heart.

 

#3— because the story's set in sunny southern California, and I'm stuck here in Virginia in eight inches of snow.

 

#2—because it's a valid and enjoyable way to procrastinate on doing other activities that are also valid but much less enjoyable.

 

#1— because I ordered it and it's waiting on my nightstand!

 

 

So, if you'd like some mystery, suspense, and romance in your life, you can order Rita's novel HERE!  It comes in a multitude of formats, and is a lot safer than on-line dating.

 

Just Sayin'!

 

All in Goodwill,

~Lisa

 

 

There I was...with Beyonce...

There I was…imaginary conversations...

There I was a costume designer by day, writer by night waiting for my 2:00 pm. I knew this "appointment" was a she and that she was a celebrity—but you could have knocked me over with a feather boa when Beyonce strutted through my garage-converted-into-a-showroom door. 

She wore patterned pencil pants and three-inch heels with long straps that reminded me of a straight jacket. Those feet weren't going anywhere but where she directed. One beefy looking male in sunglasses followed a couple of feet behind.

"What?" she said. "Weren't expecting royalty?"

"Um, no—welcome." I waved a hand towards shimmery material, hoping to remove her gaze from me. I said, "I thought your mom designed your costumes."

She made a sound, a snicker really, as she moved to a table over which I had draped jade-hued georgette trimmed in gold brocade.

It's not in my nature to dislike people, but arrogance cloaked her, and it made me queasy—and juvenile; I didn't want her fingering my fabric. "How's that new single, 'Bow Down' working out for you?" I blurted. Heat burned my cheeks—yet I was curious for an answer.

She shrugged, leaned over the fabric.

You were "Destiny's Child"—or at least one of them, I wanted to say. I remember reading that you were grounded in upright ways, that you were close to your godly parents. You were one of the few celebrities to first get married and then have a baby.

What happened? Why did you choose this direction?

She remained bent over my georgette, but lifted her head. I could feel she didn't like me, either. "My new single—is fine, juss fine.  Some backward fans were juss slow getting on board. But they're on board now. Bowing down, juss fine."

Here was People magazine's Most Beautiful Woman, yet I found her repulsive.

My mind wandered to my friend's three-year-old granddaughter and her burgeoning rhyming skills.  If I said "riches" to Piper, I imagined she would innocently enough get around to "Mitches" which is how Beyonce derisively referred to Mitt Romney supporters, and the "B" word which is in abundant use in her new song.  The latter is who she's telling to bow down, but both references are ugly.

Beyonce is merely growing as an artist. This was the explanation given to the fans who had trouble with the lyrics. As a writer by night, I know about the struggle of wanting to tell more complex stories than I have in the past. It calls for digging into the stuff of life, of humanity—a place rife with words I don't usually use.

I'm a grown-up, I can use those words if I want—no one's going to wash my mouth out with soap. But I struggle with each one I put into print because the last thing I want to do is add profanity to a profane world.

In addition to words, live ideas. How is becoming cruder and baser in our thinking translated as growth?  I thought personal growth meant (at least partially) inculcating that which is excellent and true and beautiful and good into ones spirit—thereby making us want to be better singers, writers, people.

Beyonce's attention, amazingly enough, was still riveted on my georgette—or maybe it was the gold in the brocade trim.  She was unwinding the fabric's modest length around her hips. It could make a lovely costume.

"What about Blue Ivy?" I asked.  "What will your daughter think when she hears those lyrics coming from her mother's lips?"

Another snicker sounded. "It's juss a matter of time—then those (rhymes with riches) will be bowing down to her, too."

Her response rang in my head. Dislike dissipated. I found pity for her beyond my own understanding. I prayed this was not how her story would end.

Because she was right—it was just a matter of time before every knee would bend and every head would bow—but it wouldn't be for Beyonce or for her daughter.

All in Goodwill,

~Lisa

I Love Sue Heck--and other revelations of the past year

I LOVE Sue Heck. She's the geeky teenager on "The Middle."  The world conspires to bring her down, but most of the time she's oblivious. On the occasion that it does register, her extreme optimism buoys her spirit in a timely manner. She's geeky in a way that isn't cool—cool as in being a book or science or music nerd or wearing rectangular, boldly rimmed glasses. No, Sue's not particularly intellectual nor notably gifted. Her hair's stringy, her figure non-descript, her clothing choices bad—in an un-artistic way. She's socially inept.

Just oh, sooooo average.

Yet with all that's not going for her (and with emotions that run the gamut) there's no denying it:  she reeks of joy.  

She knows about things, feels things most of her peers don't care about—but perhaps should.

I hope they never make her character cool.

Yes, I love Sue Heck.

On the topic of Oma Heidenstecker's grave (which I realize is a stretch)…I had a need to sit at my grandmother's marker the last time I visited my family. That's when Tante Helga told me it no longer exists.  Apparently in Germany you get fifteen to twenty years (depending on whether there's a living spouse) to visit your loved ones before they make room for someone else's loved ones. I wish I had known that the last time I could have but didn't visit…

My aunt also told me about the time my grandmother tried to end her life. She was irritated with my grandfather (not unusual) so she marched out into the middle of the street and waited for a car to hit her. Unfortunately, there weren't many cars on that particular road in those particular days. So after an hour, she gave up.

That shouldn't make me laugh, but it does.  It's sort of Sue-Hecklike.

This past year I've been reminded that whether it's Woodstock, VA, or Haiti, the world's not a level playing field. On the other hand, I've discovered that God's love is.

For anyone out there who has considered sponsoring one of the children in Haiti, here's the Heart of God Haiti website.  Every penny of your $30 goes directly to the children. There was a day while there, when I couldn't hold back tears. I'll never forget what Junior (our translator) said to me.  "Lisa," he said, "I could take you to places where you would never stop crying."

 

And I knew he was telling the truth. So, I tried to keep Theodore Roosevelt's words in mind: 
 

"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."
 

Yes, these are the declarations/revelations of the past year…and maybe no one cares about them but me…and maybe it's already February and I'm a month late and a dollar short…

But I'm always late.  And a dollar short.  Still, life is good because there is a Grand Plan and I'm not in charge of it.

 

No homecoming queen here:).

Yup, I'm a card-carrying optimist.

It's part of my geeky-yet-not-cool being who sometimes hides behind a non-geeky façade. I'm thinking there are LOTS of not-cool geeks out there. Sidekicks, even. The urge to sing Glenda the Good Witch's song is strong: come out, come out, wherever you are…

 

Maybe it's time to let our Geek Flags fly!

 

To all the Sue Hecks out there—stay dense, stay strong.

Stay optimistic and joyful.

All in Goodwill,
~Lisa