My dad was the Pastor of First Christian Church in Madera, California, for 21 years. Madera is where I was born and raised. It’s a small town tucked into the center of California, with nothing to claim but a hot valley of immigrant field workers. Growing up as a pastor’s kid is difficult to describe. I always struggle with answering people’s questions of what it was like or whether or not I liked it. There’s no doubt that growing up a PK had it’s perks; sneaking into potlucks early to score the only non-burnt brownie on the dessert table, finding all the secret hiding places before a youth group game of hide and seek, and hiding in dad’s office when the chairman of the elders went looking for all the reckless kids who broke the communion display.
I tend to liken the role of pastor to that of a politician, a blasphemous comparison to most but the truest in nature to those who have experienced either role. Dad was important, influential and led a congregation that was more demanding than the American public. In a crisp suit and a smile on his face, he could shake hands with the best of them. He was a social chameleon; to the rich and proud he stood tall and respectful; to the poor and downcast he knelt down in compassion. He was truly all things to all people and they loved him for it. If a vote was ever in question, he would win it by a landslide. As his wife, mom was always put together; hair neatly groomed, skirt and blouse perfectly pressed, always with stockings and scuff free shoes. She stands to the side and slightly behind her husband, smiling supportively while remaining submissively quiet. The children stand by in a perfect row of well behaved, neatly dressed and gleaming smiles; all glowing in the limelight of a great and wondrous family.
As kids, we all reacted differently to this façade. My sister, the oldest of us all, bought into the game with everything she had. As the first born female, she grew in the perfect parallel to my mother; she was the perfect child, with perfect grades, who married her perfect high school sweetheart. She completed her degree at the Christian University our church supported and then bought a house and settled down in our home town where she had her first daughter.
Second in line is my brother Andrew. He led a silent revolt against our family ideals, quietly aggravating my parent’s strong direction. He was the debater of the family; always questioning and arguing. He was also the comedian. He could debate any subject and argue until you were mad as hell, then he’d turn around and make you laugh. Most people developed a love hate relationship with Andrew. He was a good kid who just didn’t follow suit very well. His strong will defied it.
Frank is four years younger than Andrew and couldn’t be more different, from all of us really. Frank was one of the myriad of foster kids my parents took in over the years. They had him since his infancy and as soon he was put up for adoption they adopted him. Frank’s personality didn’t fit the Brazier standard but it worked well for him in the grand scheme of things. He was a cute little kid with a personable persona; he didn’t know a stranger, sometimes to a fault. Everyone loved Frank and as difficult as he could be, he could do no wrong.
I’m the baby of the family. I’m also a bit schizophrenic. I spent a great deal of my childhood striving to follow my sister in my mom’s footsteps. After a time I realized that perfection wasn’t really my thing, so I went for the comedic smart ass role, like Andrew. It worked much better for him than for me but I tried it on for size anyway. I knew I could never get away with Frank’s happy go lucky mantra, so I just straddled between being perfect, funny and anything that would label me as me, something with even a hint of individuality. It was a tough break though, because everything I did was seen as a result of me being a PK. If I did well, followed all the rules, excelled or achieved, it was all due the supposed advantage I had as a PK. If I rebelled, acted out or did anything wrong it, was made clear that I was simply acting out in response to the expectations placed on me as a PK. Nothing I did or didn’t do was in any way attributed to who I was as a person. My identity was my family, the pastor’s family; I was the pastor’s daughter.
I was the center of attention by default; popularity comes with the pastoral territory. Everyone knew who I was, even when I had no clue who they were. Not only did they know who I was, but they always seemed to know everything about me. I figured there was some underground newspaper detailing the ins and outs of the pastor’s family’s daily affairs. That’s probably a dramatic assumption but by the information everyone had on me, it doesn’t seem too far fetched. The church newsletter served more as the congregational tabloid and the prayer chain was just media hype in order to dig up more dirt for the tabloids. It was a fantastic system really.
***
To be continued...
***
Monday, July 21, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Don't Worry, I'm A Professional!
This evening I picked up an old copy of The Sun magazine that was sitting on my coffee table. I had special ordered a couple of back issues so I could research the magazine before submitting my work. After receiving the copies, I placed them on the coffee table and proceeded to write an article that I was sure would be published as soon as it hit the editor’s desk. Months later I received the inevitable “thanks but no thanks” letter from The Sun and tacked it up on my “ode to rejection” wall with all the others. I read my inspirational quote before walking away, “A professional writer is simply an amateur who didn’t quit.” I didn’t even consider at the time why it hadn’t been published. “I’m an amateur. It figures.” was all I thought.
A year later I find myself enamored, flipping through page after page of the May 2007 (yes, 2007) copy of The Sun magazine. It is full of brilliant, thoughtful, witty narratives, short stories and prose. I can’t even remember what piece of work I had submitted over a year ago, but I realize now exactly why it hadn’t been published. I am sure it was definitely a piece of work. How embarrassing. Maybe I should have done far more with those back issues than place them on my coffee table. Whatever piece I submitted must have been a monumental waste of the editor’s time. I feel like writing a letter to the editor apologizing for submitting such a royal piece. Then again, making them read an apology letter would just waste more of their time. Maybe that’s not such a great idea.
It got me thinking though. How often I run after grand ideas, skipping, tumbling, floundering right over the details and then doing nothing more than tacking my rejection letter to the wall and walking away. Chalk it up to an amateur move. My life has become a sequence of amateur moves. It’s a damn good thing I gave up chess years ago. But if my inspirational quote is true, then I will be a professional in no time. Well, except that I naturally quit everything. I set up these lofty goals and try real hard, the first time. Then, once more, chalk it up to an amateur move and walk away.
At one point, I wanted to be published so badly that I figured I would start with the smallest venue possible; the local paper. The Daily Breeze newspaper has a “My Turn” column that publishes local work (one might call amateur work). Not only do they publish the work but they actually pay writers $25, which to this amateur is like a small fortune. So my bright idea was to write and submit piece after piece after piece until something finally got published. I sent out one piece for publication and have yet to receive a response. Care to guess how many additional pieces I’ve written and submitted? You guessed it. Zero. You see, I am a natural quitter at heart. It is one thing I never give up on. Maybe I can become a professional quitter.
When I Googled “professional quitter” the first result was a YouTube video of Mike Johanns, who apparently quits every office he has held. Sucks for agriculture in Nebraska. Who can blame the guy for quitting one thing to jump into something bigger and better? Don’t we all want what’s bigger and better? Maybe not. Every other search result for “professional quitter” was linked to anti-smoking campaigns and programs. It is a shame I am not addicted to nicotine. So much for the professional quitter idea.
Some day, my friend, I will find a way to turn all this quitting into something big. Yes, something great. Maybe I can write the first “Quitting for Dummies” book. I Googled that just to make sure that book has not already been written. Again, all the search results were nicotine related. Whew! Close call. I almost had to quit on that idea, too.
A year later I find myself enamored, flipping through page after page of the May 2007 (yes, 2007) copy of The Sun magazine. It is full of brilliant, thoughtful, witty narratives, short stories and prose. I can’t even remember what piece of work I had submitted over a year ago, but I realize now exactly why it hadn’t been published. I am sure it was definitely a piece of work. How embarrassing. Maybe I should have done far more with those back issues than place them on my coffee table. Whatever piece I submitted must have been a monumental waste of the editor’s time. I feel like writing a letter to the editor apologizing for submitting such a royal piece. Then again, making them read an apology letter would just waste more of their time. Maybe that’s not such a great idea.
It got me thinking though. How often I run after grand ideas, skipping, tumbling, floundering right over the details and then doing nothing more than tacking my rejection letter to the wall and walking away. Chalk it up to an amateur move. My life has become a sequence of amateur moves. It’s a damn good thing I gave up chess years ago. But if my inspirational quote is true, then I will be a professional in no time. Well, except that I naturally quit everything. I set up these lofty goals and try real hard, the first time. Then, once more, chalk it up to an amateur move and walk away.
At one point, I wanted to be published so badly that I figured I would start with the smallest venue possible; the local paper. The Daily Breeze newspaper has a “My Turn” column that publishes local work (one might call amateur work). Not only do they publish the work but they actually pay writers $25, which to this amateur is like a small fortune. So my bright idea was to write and submit piece after piece after piece until something finally got published. I sent out one piece for publication and have yet to receive a response. Care to guess how many additional pieces I’ve written and submitted? You guessed it. Zero. You see, I am a natural quitter at heart. It is one thing I never give up on. Maybe I can become a professional quitter.
When I Googled “professional quitter” the first result was a YouTube video of Mike Johanns, who apparently quits every office he has held. Sucks for agriculture in Nebraska. Who can blame the guy for quitting one thing to jump into something bigger and better? Don’t we all want what’s bigger and better? Maybe not. Every other search result for “professional quitter” was linked to anti-smoking campaigns and programs. It is a shame I am not addicted to nicotine. So much for the professional quitter idea.
Some day, my friend, I will find a way to turn all this quitting into something big. Yes, something great. Maybe I can write the first “Quitting for Dummies” book. I Googled that just to make sure that book has not already been written. Again, all the search results were nicotine related. Whew! Close call. I almost had to quit on that idea, too.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The Girl in the Mirror
Who am I? It shouldn’t be such a difficult question. Right? I suppose for some it isn’t difficult at all. I however, have spent much of my life ignoring who I am for the sake of who others are. It’s a sad reality of unhealthy extremes. So indulge me for a bit, as I remember who I am and indulge myself on a selfish journey of discovery.
I love…
Lazy afternoons.
Writing on my lap top in coffee shops.
Email.
Watching Sex and the City while drinking a glass of wine or stuffing my face with popcorn laced with sugar.
Text Messages that make me laugh or smile.
Beer and hot dogs at Dodger Stadium.
Watching planes fly in and out of LAX at night.
E.B. White, Shakespeare and J.D. Salinger.
A night on the city with my girls, talking and laughing about all the wild, crazy and even mundane things that happen in our wild, crazy and even mundane lives.
Driving around with the windows down and the music up, rocking out in my car.
Laughing.
Jogging at the beach.
Lounging at the beach.
Walking at the beach at night.
New York.
LA.
Chocolate.
Coffee.
Chocolate Chip Twists from Coffee Bean.
The way a fresh coat of nail polish makes me feel like a whole new person.
The sound of silence.
A cool breeze.
The color green, and blue, and sometimes brown.
Backyard BBQ’s in the summertime.
Watching the rain from inside a warm living room next to the fireplace.
The happy and friendly atmosphere of the holidays.
The way the trees turn colors in northern Cali in the fall.
Watching it snow.
Dressing up and being girly.
Dressing down and watching sports.
Oh! Sex and the City just came on… gotta run!!
I love…
Lazy afternoons.
Writing on my lap top in coffee shops.
Email.
Watching Sex and the City while drinking a glass of wine or stuffing my face with popcorn laced with sugar.
Text Messages that make me laugh or smile.
Beer and hot dogs at Dodger Stadium.
Watching planes fly in and out of LAX at night.
E.B. White, Shakespeare and J.D. Salinger.
A night on the city with my girls, talking and laughing about all the wild, crazy and even mundane things that happen in our wild, crazy and even mundane lives.
Driving around with the windows down and the music up, rocking out in my car.
Laughing.
Jogging at the beach.
Lounging at the beach.
Walking at the beach at night.
New York.
LA.
Chocolate.
Coffee.
Chocolate Chip Twists from Coffee Bean.
The way a fresh coat of nail polish makes me feel like a whole new person.
The sound of silence.
A cool breeze.
The color green, and blue, and sometimes brown.
Backyard BBQ’s in the summertime.
Watching the rain from inside a warm living room next to the fireplace.
The happy and friendly atmosphere of the holidays.
The way the trees turn colors in northern Cali in the fall.
Watching it snow.
Dressing up and being girly.
Dressing down and watching sports.
Oh! Sex and the City just came on… gotta run!!
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The Rambling, Part Two
I never thought that I could learn so much, from the most random places, people and situations, in the course of a single day. Sometimes it’s like God just embodies every person I come across and screams in my face, “CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?!” And it’s so obvious and bizarre that it makes me laugh out loud. Seriously, at the end of the day, I find myself sitting alone in my living room, laughing out loud.
I sat in a fireworks booth for four hours this morning doing pretty much nothing, which at face value seems like a monumental waste of time. And yet, I totally enjoyed myself. I loved sitting there with a random mix of people; some I knew well, some I just met today. We talked about everything; the weather, city politics, news, illegal fireworks, the vacations we’re taking this summer. A reporter from the Daily Breeze showed up. She was trying to find out if some comment the governor (or was it the president?) made about fireworks was impacting the sales. She tried to interview a few of the customers but most refused to talk to her, which I thought was funny in and of itself. She talked to us for a while before heading off to another fireworks stand. As soon as she left, we got the low down from the Chamber of Commerce president on who she was. That Chamber lady knows everyone, it’s awesome. I found myself totally envying that reporter. Not that I want to be a reporter by any means, but anyone who gets paid to write is pretty high up on my list of people I envy.
I don’t know why I told you about any of that because it’s not even the most random part of my day, as I was alluding to earlier. I could go back and delete that whole paragraph because, well, it’s pretty pointless. But I’m not going to do that because I plan on titling this “The Rambling, part two” and, well, what good would that be if I didn’t ramble?
So there I was, sitting at the bar…
(I have always wanted to start a story that way. I can’t believe my moment has finally come!)
No really, there I was, sitting at the bar. Well, actually, I was sitting at a table adjacent to the bar and some random guy was sitting at the bar with his back to me. I noticed him when I first sat down because the back of his hair came to a point at his neck and it reminded me of someone else I know and I kind of thought it was him but it turns out it wasn’t. As it was, I paid little attention to the guy because he had gray hair and was wearing a suit jacket with jeans and flip flops. Okay I’ll be honest, the suit jacket, jeans and flip flops means nothing. It was the gray hair that did him in. What can I say, I’m 26!
My friend and I were the only other people in the bar at this point so it was inevitable that the three of us would end up in at least a casual conversation. An hour and four rounds later, we’re engaged in a lean-forward-gather-round-we’re-becoming-best-friends-conversation that quite frankly, I don’t think any one of us would ever have anticipated had we been told a head of time that this would happen. For months I have been wrestling with questions that he seemed to have all the answers to. Right there in the bar was some random guy with all the right answers to all my tough questions. We laughed, we cried and I’m sure at some point I drooled over his seemingly intense wisdom. Okay I didn’t cry and I don’t think I actually drooled, but either response would have been appropriate, I’m sure.
This amazing moment, this incredible collision of paths crossing and lives being shared in such a pure and authentic way, this jaw dropping, wisdom sharing, insight finding moment was completely ruined when Mr. Random shifted his attention from insight into life, to insight into my pants. All of the sudden it was, here’s my number, can I get you’re number, you’re amazingly attractive, do you think I’m attractive, let’s have coffee, let’s get a drink, when can I see you again? Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your roll buddy.
Did I mention the gray hair!? My friend quickly intercepted and we bolted. Phew! Got out of that one alive.
Although Mr. Random was a little too random for my taste, I was able to hold on to what little wisdom he was able to spew out before falling pray to whatever it is all single men in LA fall pray to that makes them turn into complete morons (yes, harsh, I know). I have taken those words of wisdom and put them into a little compilation I like to call “Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random” (If you’re thinking “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handley, I love you.)
A-hem. Cough. Cough. Like I was saying…….
Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random
(Hold on. I think I set this up all wrong because now you’re all waiting for more of my witty, sarcastic, painfully harsh humor and you’re going to take everything I’m about to say the wrong way. So let me back up and say that although this guy, now called Mr. Random, ended up on my “you’re total a duce bag” list, he didn’t start out that way and I’m thinking that his fourth glass of wine probably contributed to his unfortunate decline from Mr. Wisdom to Mr. Random. So with that said… I continue.)
Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random
“At any given time you can walk into a bar, see ten guys lined up and find maybe one who has the qualities you’re looking for. Or maybe none of them do. And if that’s the case, who cares? Move on. It’s not worth it.”
He went on to ask me what it is I’m looking for in a guy. I threw out a few noble characteristics; intelligent, responsible, grounded. He interrupted, “No you’re not. Women don’t go for that. Why is it that women always go for the bad ass, motorcycle riding guys who break their hearts? “I had to laugh at the irony of that statement. So I did. I laughed.
He continued, “Seriously, tell me about the guy you dated last.” I laughed even more when I had to tell him the truth, “Well, he’s a bad ass motorcycle rider who broke my heart.”
“See. I told you so!”
Thank you. Thank you, Captain Obvious!
How do even complete strangers know I’m an idiot when it comes to dating?
Anyway, I know that this guy said much more that I’d love to share with you but I was just distracted by a receipt that fell out of my bag with something scribbled in ball point pen, “Lane 949-232-….” And I’m reminded that Mr. Random, or Captain Obvious, or Mr. Wisdom, or whoever he was, has a name and it’s Lane. Actually, it’s Lanan or something like that, but he said to call him Lane. Which is humorous because when he first said it, I thought he said “lame”. Sure buddy, I’ll call you lame anytime.
Looking back in all that I have rambled on about, I realize that I started out telling you that I learned a ton of stuff in the most random ways and from the most random people today, and I didn’t really end up tell you much of what that incredible stuff was. And I don’t think I’m going to, because in all honesty, I’m still wrestling with the profound implications of it all. But if you just stop, and listen, tone down the ego and really listen, you’ll hear it.
At least, that’s what Mr. Random told me.
I sat in a fireworks booth for four hours this morning doing pretty much nothing, which at face value seems like a monumental waste of time. And yet, I totally enjoyed myself. I loved sitting there with a random mix of people; some I knew well, some I just met today. We talked about everything; the weather, city politics, news, illegal fireworks, the vacations we’re taking this summer. A reporter from the Daily Breeze showed up. She was trying to find out if some comment the governor (or was it the president?) made about fireworks was impacting the sales. She tried to interview a few of the customers but most refused to talk to her, which I thought was funny in and of itself. She talked to us for a while before heading off to another fireworks stand. As soon as she left, we got the low down from the Chamber of Commerce president on who she was. That Chamber lady knows everyone, it’s awesome. I found myself totally envying that reporter. Not that I want to be a reporter by any means, but anyone who gets paid to write is pretty high up on my list of people I envy.
I don’t know why I told you about any of that because it’s not even the most random part of my day, as I was alluding to earlier. I could go back and delete that whole paragraph because, well, it’s pretty pointless. But I’m not going to do that because I plan on titling this “The Rambling, part two” and, well, what good would that be if I didn’t ramble?
So there I was, sitting at the bar…
(I have always wanted to start a story that way. I can’t believe my moment has finally come!)
No really, there I was, sitting at the bar. Well, actually, I was sitting at a table adjacent to the bar and some random guy was sitting at the bar with his back to me. I noticed him when I first sat down because the back of his hair came to a point at his neck and it reminded me of someone else I know and I kind of thought it was him but it turns out it wasn’t. As it was, I paid little attention to the guy because he had gray hair and was wearing a suit jacket with jeans and flip flops. Okay I’ll be honest, the suit jacket, jeans and flip flops means nothing. It was the gray hair that did him in. What can I say, I’m 26!
My friend and I were the only other people in the bar at this point so it was inevitable that the three of us would end up in at least a casual conversation. An hour and four rounds later, we’re engaged in a lean-forward-gather-round-we’re-becoming-best-friends-conversation that quite frankly, I don’t think any one of us would ever have anticipated had we been told a head of time that this would happen. For months I have been wrestling with questions that he seemed to have all the answers to. Right there in the bar was some random guy with all the right answers to all my tough questions. We laughed, we cried and I’m sure at some point I drooled over his seemingly intense wisdom. Okay I didn’t cry and I don’t think I actually drooled, but either response would have been appropriate, I’m sure.
This amazing moment, this incredible collision of paths crossing and lives being shared in such a pure and authentic way, this jaw dropping, wisdom sharing, insight finding moment was completely ruined when Mr. Random shifted his attention from insight into life, to insight into my pants. All of the sudden it was, here’s my number, can I get you’re number, you’re amazingly attractive, do you think I’m attractive, let’s have coffee, let’s get a drink, when can I see you again? Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your roll buddy.
Did I mention the gray hair!? My friend quickly intercepted and we bolted. Phew! Got out of that one alive.
Although Mr. Random was a little too random for my taste, I was able to hold on to what little wisdom he was able to spew out before falling pray to whatever it is all single men in LA fall pray to that makes them turn into complete morons (yes, harsh, I know). I have taken those words of wisdom and put them into a little compilation I like to call “Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random” (If you’re thinking “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handley, I love you.)
A-hem. Cough. Cough. Like I was saying…….
Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random
(Hold on. I think I set this up all wrong because now you’re all waiting for more of my witty, sarcastic, painfully harsh humor and you’re going to take everything I’m about to say the wrong way. So let me back up and say that although this guy, now called Mr. Random, ended up on my “you’re total a duce bag” list, he didn’t start out that way and I’m thinking that his fourth glass of wine probably contributed to his unfortunate decline from Mr. Wisdom to Mr. Random. So with that said… I continue.)
Words of Wisdom by Mr. Random
“At any given time you can walk into a bar, see ten guys lined up and find maybe one who has the qualities you’re looking for. Or maybe none of them do. And if that’s the case, who cares? Move on. It’s not worth it.”
He went on to ask me what it is I’m looking for in a guy. I threw out a few noble characteristics; intelligent, responsible, grounded. He interrupted, “No you’re not. Women don’t go for that. Why is it that women always go for the bad ass, motorcycle riding guys who break their hearts? “I had to laugh at the irony of that statement. So I did. I laughed.
He continued, “Seriously, tell me about the guy you dated last.” I laughed even more when I had to tell him the truth, “Well, he’s a bad ass motorcycle rider who broke my heart.”
“See. I told you so!”
Thank you. Thank you, Captain Obvious!
How do even complete strangers know I’m an idiot when it comes to dating?
Anyway, I know that this guy said much more that I’d love to share with you but I was just distracted by a receipt that fell out of my bag with something scribbled in ball point pen, “Lane 949-232-….” And I’m reminded that Mr. Random, or Captain Obvious, or Mr. Wisdom, or whoever he was, has a name and it’s Lane. Actually, it’s Lanan or something like that, but he said to call him Lane. Which is humorous because when he first said it, I thought he said “lame”. Sure buddy, I’ll call you lame anytime.
Looking back in all that I have rambled on about, I realize that I started out telling you that I learned a ton of stuff in the most random ways and from the most random people today, and I didn’t really end up tell you much of what that incredible stuff was. And I don’t think I’m going to, because in all honesty, I’m still wrestling with the profound implications of it all. But if you just stop, and listen, tone down the ego and really listen, you’ll hear it.
At least, that’s what Mr. Random told me.
I am a hopeless romantic. I realized this at my niece's fourth birthday party last weekend. It was a princess party and she of course, was the princess. She had her frilly pink princess dress on with a hot pink tearra that said "Happy Birthday".
She is a gorgeous, beautiful little girl. She has porcelain white skin, wavy blond hair and the biggest, bluest, most adorable eyes I've ever seen. She has a goofy, innocent laugh and a smile that can make the grouchiest old man grin.
We didn't play "pin the tail on the donkey" but instead played "place the star on Tinkerbell's wand". She loves Tinkerbell, who coincidental is also a cute little blond girl, except that she can fly and there is this magical air about her. Which I suppose, is what draws any of us to her.
I was sitting across the table from my niece at lunch, just watching her. It made me smile ever so slightly and I chuckled a little bit at her silliness. She looked up at me, furrows her brow and with all the gusto a little girl can muster up she demands to know "What's so funny!?" Making me laugh harder and smile wider.
There is something captivating in that little girl's world that races straight to my heart and locks me in. Is it her innocence? Her pure assurance of happiness? Her giddy laughter that knows no end?
It causes me to question, where does that go? What happens to all that laughter? At what point did I put the silliness aside and declare life to be nothing more than a chore; a serious, straight faced chore?
"Auntie watch!" She exclaimed, interrupting my random train of deep, methodical questioning. It's really a form of self-torcher, these questions. I don't know why I do that to myself.
I looked up to see this little girl in her pink princess dress, hands placed purposefully on her hips, knees just slightly bent, shaking her butt in the air. And through the laughter she sings, "Shake your smarty pants! Shake, shake your smarty pants!"
I don't think I have laughed as hard as I laughed that day in a very long time. And driving home, on the loneliness of the open freeway, I realized that she has what I long for, what every girl longs for. The pure, hopeful, silliness that settles deep in the bottom of every girls heart. The purity that makes you believe in people simply because they are people and the human soul has value. The hopeful belief that life is not all bad and that dreams are seen through to fruition more often than not. The silliness that carries life on with meaning and joy and laughter.
She is a gorgeous, beautiful little girl. She has porcelain white skin, wavy blond hair and the biggest, bluest, most adorable eyes I've ever seen. She has a goofy, innocent laugh and a smile that can make the grouchiest old man grin.
We didn't play "pin the tail on the donkey" but instead played "place the star on Tinkerbell's wand". She loves Tinkerbell, who coincidental is also a cute little blond girl, except that she can fly and there is this magical air about her. Which I suppose, is what draws any of us to her.
I was sitting across the table from my niece at lunch, just watching her. It made me smile ever so slightly and I chuckled a little bit at her silliness. She looked up at me, furrows her brow and with all the gusto a little girl can muster up she demands to know "What's so funny!?" Making me laugh harder and smile wider.
There is something captivating in that little girl's world that races straight to my heart and locks me in. Is it her innocence? Her pure assurance of happiness? Her giddy laughter that knows no end?
It causes me to question, where does that go? What happens to all that laughter? At what point did I put the silliness aside and declare life to be nothing more than a chore; a serious, straight faced chore?
"Auntie watch!" She exclaimed, interrupting my random train of deep, methodical questioning. It's really a form of self-torcher, these questions. I don't know why I do that to myself.
I looked up to see this little girl in her pink princess dress, hands placed purposefully on her hips, knees just slightly bent, shaking her butt in the air. And through the laughter she sings, "Shake your smarty pants! Shake, shake your smarty pants!"
I don't think I have laughed as hard as I laughed that day in a very long time. And driving home, on the loneliness of the open freeway, I realized that she has what I long for, what every girl longs for. The pure, hopeful, silliness that settles deep in the bottom of every girls heart. The purity that makes you believe in people simply because they are people and the human soul has value. The hopeful belief that life is not all bad and that dreams are seen through to fruition more often than not. The silliness that carries life on with meaning and joy and laughter.
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