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Dressing Room Drama

My mission was to take her shopping and to buy her a sweet little church dress.  Visions of Lilly Pulitzer danced in my head and she tried desperately to co-operate  with my expectations.  I noticed her resolve quickly breaking down as dress after dress brought her nothing but despair.  We left in search of a much-needed ice cream cone.

Relieved to be the grandmother and not the mother, I resolved to salvage the experience. I hated to disappoint my daughter, but I knew that my granddaughter and I could find joy in something we both have less than average interest in doing, shopping for clothes.  I found out that all she really wanted was fun, funky play-clothes from a store called Justice.  We headed to the mall.

She picked out arm-loads of cut off shorts with studded pockets, glittery shirts, colorful tanks, pink baseball caps, and bangles.  The dressing room over-flowethed.  The one dress she did choose had an army camouflage print  (we put that back).  She was so happy with her purchases that she begged to wear one outfit out of the store.  I let her, of course.

Now I know that she still does not have a cute little church dress.  Her mom will have to use her wits do make that happen.  I want her to have the nice things that define a well-groomed little girl and I want her to keep her awesome self-image.  She lives in a world in which the style of one’s clothes can define who people think she is. It’s a tension that in time she will ultimately work at and resolve.  For now, she’s dazzlingly happy!

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My husband remarked that my granddaughter reminded him of somebody else he knows and I remembered a poem that I wrote 8 years ago.  The dressing room drama continues.

Burberry Scarf

I’d rather have a tattoo,

Then wear a Burberry scarf.

I’d rather drink a beer with my housekeeper,

Than sip wine with a fancy senator.

Once I thought I was special,

Really thought I’d make a difference.

Still my yearbook post beckons,

“When I finally get myself together

I’m gonna get down to that sunny, southern weather”

In the end, do we all 

Go back to where we started?

Perhaps.

In the mean time,

I will dine with senators

But, I won’t wear a Burberry scarf

 

This post is part of the Word Press Daily Prompt –http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/29/daily-prompt-dickinson/

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What to wear to the big dance

I’m thrilled to be going to the Big Dance with my favorite man! We get to share our date with some vibrant, interesting people.  And here I am, fretting because I don’t know what to wear.  Red and Yellow, seem to be the colors of preference for this particular event.  I do look better in red and yet…

I want to be the perfect southern lady, oozing with hospitality, minus the bless your heartisms.  I certainly don’t want to offend anyone and I don’t know which color our guests prefer.  And there is the possibility that someone I know may see me and I don’t know which color they prefer.

I could weigh in on the animals.  That may help.  Let’s see, cardinal vs wolverine?  Everyone who knows me, knows that I do have a thing for cardinals.  Not that I have anything against wolverines.

I could go with the state angle and I have so many friends in Michigan.  But, Kentucky is my neighbor.

I did not enter one of those pool things, so I have nothing to gain or lose there, but my sister did and she has been all Louisville from the get-go.  I really love my sister.

Oh I know who I’m for, of course, but I haven’t even told anyone who I voted for in the Presidential election.  Talk about stirring up an instant firestorm.

Call me chicken, call me pathetic, I think basic black is what I’ll wear, always in vogue.

Though I can control my outfit, I have a poor record of controlling my mouth.  Once the tip-off.  GO ??????!!!!!!!!

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Israel

“Tell me about your trip,” my friends ask, curious about my first visit to Israel or just being kind.  So I begin to try to adequately describe a piece of geography where seemingly every square inch tells a story of world-changing significance.

“The Jordan river is way smaller than you think,” I weakly begin.  ”We ate breakfast on the Sea of Galilee and saw a fishing boat that has recently been discovered that dates back to the time of Jesus.  The Dome of the Rock is huge and impressive, we were not allowed to go inside.  The stations of the Cross are just tile numbers in buildings around the old city and people crowd the narrow streets doing business in the market, as if nothing ever happened there.  We visited an olive factory and bought some crosses.  The fort at Masada is quite moving and the view from the top is staggering.  We saw the Dead Sea.”  I ramble on in no specific order.  I pull out my cell phone camera roll for a little memory boost and try to ignore the nagging image that my heart recalls.

I see a wall.  It is made of beautiful cream-colored  ancient stones, piled way above the bobbing heads of the people who line it’s base.  They are rocking and chanting and praying, reaching up, out and over the wall to an unseen hand.  They are placing little scraps of paper into crevices in the wall.  One can’t know the content of their lamentations but it’s easy to imagine that they contain some version of unuttered need that screams, “I am in need, hear me.”

The wailing wall

Less than 6 miles away there is another wall.  It is made from ugly columns of dirty concrete and topped with tall rows of electric wire. To enter Bethlehem, the birthplace of Jesus, one must cross this formidable barrier through turnstiles and checkpoints.  Scrutiny from guards shouldering rifles is a daily ritual for those passing from one side of the wall to the other.  The wall begs to be breached and the lamentations of the Palestinians are as unique and numerous and as they are evocative.  Each mark expressing a cry for help and the need to be heard.

I profess to have little to no understanding of what it is like to live in this region of profound historical and religious heritage and ever-present fear of imminent conflict.  As an outsider, I try to wrap my mind around the people who stand and weep before both walls and wonder if I too should weep.

Palestine Israel WallIsrael Palestine WallIsrael, Palestine Wall

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Is there any hope?

“For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility.”

Ephesians 2:14 NIV