Too much of a good thing

Have you ever heard the saying "You can't have too much of a good thing"? I've been pondering that thought this morning. Try putting together a definition of "too much" and "good" and see what you get.

It all started on Sunday when I wanted to wear a top I had recently purchased. I remember seeing the bag in my bedroom. I don't remember ever taking the top out of the bag, but I am certainly not foolish enough to trust my memory. This is the same system which allows me to call my children by a label sounding something like "Erikbeccawillflitwhoeveryouare!!!" At any rate, I started what I thought would be a simple search of the likely landing spots in my room. Three days later, I have yet to find that piece of clothing, but I have unearthed a ridiculous amount of everything else!

Books are good. We want to encourage our children to read. Everyone in our house enjoys relaxing with a good book. Chad, in fact, relaxes with good, bad, ugly and completely pointless books on a regular basis. His $5/bag Library sale finds yield both treasures and crap, in about even measure. But we have read them, and they're still here. On the nightstand, on the dresser, on the shelves. Sure, a few are worth keeping, but how many will I ever read again?

Socks. Necessary, functional, good clothing. We all have socks. I have a dozen or more pairs, some for work, some casual. The kids have various cute and funky socks, others for hiking or sports. And then, on top of my dresser, is the sock basket from hell. This is where all the rejected, dejected, disenfranchised socks end up. I do not know where they go. I think they are swallowed by the washer, or the dryer, or the corners and closets of the rooms from which they originate. But I cling to the survivors, thinking surely their mates will come eventually in one of those happy-ending reunions played out between the soldier and the ever-faithful lover who believed in his return.

shoes. shoes are good. I have shoes from the Eisenhower administration. THAT is not good. I wasn't even born during the Eisenhower administration. They need to go.

Suitcases. And I include duffel bags in this collection. I keep these under my bed. Entire generatiosn of dust bunnies have taken their yearly holiday greeting card pictures in my carpetbag collection which rarely moves. We have a couple faves, and the rest just take up space. I actually have a suitcase full of duffel bags. How crazy is that? Why do I have them?

I could go on, but you get the idea. The idea of wading through everything I've unearthed is absolutely exhausting. It's one of those task which will send couds of dust flying. It will require boxes, and decisions, and an inordinate amount of time I rarely have in lump supply. I know even when I finish this room, I have only to go to the next to find the same situation. Then there is the question of what to do with said boxes once they are full and ready to be heaved. Why would anyone want all this stuff I once considered good, and came to realize is more hindrance than help?

Sigh. I just want my top. Where the heck did I put that thing?

Harvest Time

There is something about September. The days, no matter how hot, take on a different hue. The sun is at a new angle, hinting at the cooler air to come, and the sky is a sparkling blue. Even clouds have more personality, more texture. It is a month of random clothing changes. The morning jeans and sweatshirts quickly give way to summer's comfort as the sun warms the day to remind us it is still summer. Let the sun go down, though, and suddenly Friday night football games, bonfires, and hot tea are perfectly acceptable.

The calendar pushes past Labor Day, the kids are well settled back in school, and the morning mist takes on the crispness and clarity which speaks to something in my heart. I hear the call of a bountiful harvest, and feel a need to savor the earth's abundance by "putting up" for the long, cold months ahead. On Thursday, the pull to the Farmer's Market was strong enough to override everything else on my to-do list, and I found myself wandering from one tent to the next, discussing the merits of Roma's, Beefsteaks, and Pink Posy heirlooms, sampling the tart sweetness of a Damson plum, delighting in the velvet fuzz on the perfect southern peach. There were peppers, still a few zucchini and yellow squash, and just the beginnings of field squash, pumpkins, and the first crunchy apples of the season. I came home with boxes and baskets and bags, my mind delighting in the plans for salsas and sauces, jams and jellies, relishes and sweet baked treats. My heart was lighter, anticipating the sparkling rows of jars, the sun catching the jewel-toned treats and sending their rainbow prisms dancing onto the walls like fairies in a grand parade.

The annual rite of preserving and canning used to be one of necessity for those whose toil was the only way to nourish a family through a harsh winter. Now, we have modern manufacturing to bring almost any food from farm to processing to table. Sure, I can run to Kroger on any cold, gray January day and find shelf after shelf of tomatoes, or beans, or pears. But when I take a Mason jar from my pantry shelf, and pop the seal on the labor of love from my own kitchen, I not only get the fresh taste of a Kentucky summer, but I think a whole lot of harvest sunshine drifts out of that jar and right back into my heart.

The Estrogen Factor

I can remember several years back, when I did a stint assisting in preschool classrooms. I loved the work, and I adored watching those little people when they adopted a "big people" stance. The differences between the boys and the girls was unmistakable. The girls were more affected by emotion, drama, and a distinct ability to dredge up a memory from last week if need be. They whined, cajoled, pitted one against the other, declared undying devotion, and ended the year the best of friends. The boys, on the other hand, would clash briefly, shrug, and move on.

Walk the halls or eavesdrop in the bathroom of any middle school, and you will find the same situations, multiplied exponentially. I don't know how students at these ages find the capacity to learn anything, what with their minds so saturated by the daily struggle of keeping the emotion boat from capsizing. It continues into high school and college, where the fights are bigger, the results more devastating, the psyches more fragile, and the environment made utterly dysfunctional by a wicked social caste system capable of knocking the most promising and confident young woman to her knees with one wrong wardrobe choice. Young men resist being dragged into a fray which is totally foreign to their thinking.

One hopes, as we become adults, that we move toward supporting and deepening our relationships with each other. We put the high drama and nonsense behind us, and look for ways to lift each other up. In many ways, we do break free of the crap. We are moved to reach out in compassion to those around us, ignoring the separation of work and leisure. We move beyond boundaries and borders to help those who may be strangers to us, out of a sense that it is the right thing to do. We develop a sisterhood, finding women who make us the best we can possibly be, who stand beside us thick and thin. Blessed indeed is the woman who, like me, can identify a few women we can call day or night, for whom we would mutually drop anything at any moment. Friendship among women is a deeply emotional bond. Those are true treasures in life, and women do that in a way men can only envy.

But any person who works in an office of women will tell you the dark side of estrogen is right there under the surface. One breach in the armor, and all hell breaks loose. When the drama is at its peak, and emotions are bouncing off walls like a light show in a house of mirrors, when gossip, rumor and sniping are the order of the day and bitchiness is the language of choice, you can be quite certain that a group of women are the primary players in the three ring circus. While we may not always like or condone this behavior in ourselves, when it happens--we get it. And the men around us are still standing at the sidelines shaking their heads.

The good thing about this gender-related quirk, if you will, is that it is not a constant. We can't maintain this level of conflict for long, so we find ways to get through it. Occasionally, all we need is a good bitch session--blow some steam, and the pressure eases. But we are strongest when we can focus our energies on improving that which fans the flames. We are catalysts for change. Good things come out of it: greater understanding, fairer policies, closer ties, new approaches and solutions to old problems. If at times there are painful endings, they open doors to other pathways. When the dust settles, we all brush ourselves off, proclaim our solidarity, and stand again as friends. And the men come back out of hiding.

Vive le difference!