Consolidation?

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

My dear friends -

I am thinking of suspending this blog and continuing solely with Cosmic Park Bench. I’ve been writing two blogs weekly since the vernal equinox, and have begun to question why I don’t simply write one. 

Are there any questions in Urban Panther that are not for non-female readers?

Would it be good to share thoughts based on a woman’s experience of life with all readers?

Is this blog segregating women’s attitudes from men’s? Shouldn’t that stop?

At the same time, since our society has been so male-dominated, is it pleasant to have a place for woman-dominated considerations?

Additionally, I am concerned that I will begin repeating myself.

I would value your thoughts. I don’t know why it’s so difficult, or impossible, for comments to be left on Blogspot; I thought I’d chosen settings to make that easy. But perhaps you could respond to marcianna4here@gmail.com to help me with this decision. 

Many thanks.

A poem for the solstice

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

White Owl flies Into and Out of the Field

by Mary Oliver

Coming down out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,

it was beautiful, and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint

of the tips of its wings—five feet apart—

and the trapping thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys of the snow—

and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes

to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows—

so I thought:

maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,

but so much light wrapping itself around us—

as soft as feathers—

that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,

and shut our eyes, not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,

that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones.

Mammon wins again

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

There is this advertisement on television; it’s for a pharmaceutical patch to calm overactive bladders. And it’s pitched to women:  the set pieces are huge pink words like “worry” hanging in the air. The spokeswoman is lithe but not skinny, attractive but not young. She’s wearing close-fitting white pants (a bold assurance in matters of both bladder and menstrual leakage) and a vivid blue blouse that has just a bit of drape. Her voice is soothing, perhaps not unlike the turtledove’s.

Watching the performance of this actress in this ad spot is like a quick course in how to do a commercial. She is walking very slowly, but doing it gracefully so it looks like she’s just being casual. (Try walking at one-third the speed you usually walk; it’s tricky not to look like you’re drunk or imitating someone on a high wire.)

Her speech is distinct but not clipped; her voice is modulated, and she stresses all the right words so the commercial message is clear but seems conversational. She projects intelligence and warmth and wisdom from experience without being weighty or preachy.

Then there’s the close-up. As she expertly raises the product in her right hand, we get to really see her face. She looks straight into the camera as if speaking to a friend, with just a slight smile on her face. It’s quite a perfect spokes job.

Looking in her eyes, there’s a lot going on. This is what I think I’m seeing:

“I’ve played Titania. I got an award for my Lady Macbeth. And here I am baring my (nicely toned) abdomen to flog a drug patch. I had to go through rounds and rounds of auditions, reading this same stupid copy over and over, to beat out all the other actresses and get this job. Now I am the face of adult pants-wetting. Yet, with residuals, I’m getting more money for this damned commercial than I’ve gotten for years of stage work.”

She delivers her parting line, making it sound not nearly as ridiculous as written, and walks smoothly off-camera. It’s an expert performance.

I very much doubt this drug manufacturer supports live theatre. I doubt it supports any of the arts, except by hiring artists to sell not their work, but its products. And that’s the dilemma for the artist. 

Is it also a dilemma for us? It seems to me a sad truth that women only started being recognized in this society when we became a consumer force. Not so long ago, women in commercials were solely portrayed as homemakers. (There’s a wonderful Monty Python skit of a commercial set-up with the Pythons in drag asked to tell the difference between Whizzo butter and a dead crab.) Now, advertisements have women as doctors and executives — but also as wind-up dolls who need anti-depressants.

How much of this are we buying?

Joy to the world

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Christmas lights are going up on the houses, stores are decorated with trees and bows and balls, it’s pretty. I like the decorations, especially the lights at night. What is hideous torment is the blaring music, every tacky version of every holiday song ever written, everywhere you go. You can’t buy cereal or cat litter without hearing “Jingle Bell Rock” or worse — if there is worse.

But I’m thinking about what happened just before the occurrence that ostensibly is the cause for this celebratory mood:  being pregnant, very pregnant, and needing to travel 80 miles through, or around, unfriendly territory because some government official said so. Being perhaps not poor, but not rich, so not traveling in style — though there isn’t much style that can help make a week’s journey tolerable for a woman whose labor is imminent.

I really loved being pregnant, but those last two weeks of the nine months certainly seem designed to inspire a sense of completeness, as in, “Out! It’s time! Out already!”

Right before birthing, your body is larger than you would have thought possible; you’ve entered the realm of epic proportions. All that energy and drive you had in the second trimester has vanished; you’re tired, you’re not comfortable sleeping, your internal space for both breathing and eating is seriously reduced. Imagine sitting on a donkey and traveling 20 miles a day. 

The civilizations all around the Israelites worshiped goddesses who were strong and powerful. And despite the fact that the Judeo-Christian chroniclers degraded goddesses, their priestesses, and eventually all women, this story of Mary about to birth her son inspires my admiration for this goddess who is so strong, so powerful, that she can be marginalized and still survive.

Christianity is a religion in which the god figure does not exalt himself, but sacrifices himself. What if we see that the goddess mother also does not exalt herself, but patiently endures hardships of human life? Can’t we see Mary and Jesus as mother goddess and son god, like Isis and Horus and Inanna and Damuzi (later Ishtar and Tammuz), who were worshipped in places close by?

Mother goddess birthing her god son. I’d like to hear a song celebrating that.

Baggage

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

You know how you get a song stuck in your head (a friend calls them “ear worms”)? For some incomprehensible reason, I am suffering with the song, “I Enjoy Being a Girl” from Flower Drum Song looping in my brain. Can you imagine?

So, in the spirit of doing whatever it is you’re supposed to do with the dog that bit you, I’ve read a bit about Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Flower Drum Song. It’s based on a novel written by a Chinese emigre, about the inter-generational struggles of assimilation. A man wrote the story, a man directed the stage show, men wrote the script, music, and - ack! - lyrics.

I'm a girl, and by me that's only great!

I am proud that my silhouette is curvy,

That I walk with a sweet and girlish gait

With my hips kind of swivelly and swervy.

I adore being dressed in something frilly

When my date comes to get me at my place.

Out I go with my Joe or John or Billy,

Like a filly who is ready for the race!

When I have a brand new hairdo

With my eyelashes all in curl,

I float as the clouds on air do,

I enjoy being a girl!

When men say I'm cute and funny

And my teeth aren't teeth, but pearl,

I just lap it up like honey

I enjoy being a girl!

I flip when a fellow sends me flowers,

I drool over dresses made of lace,

I talk on the telephone for hours

With a pound and a half of cream upon my face!

I'm strictly a female female

And my future I hope will be

In the home of a brave and free male

Who'll enjoy being a guy having a girl... like... me.

When men say I'm sweet as candy

As around in a dance we whirl,

It goes to my head like brandy,

I enjoy being a girl!

When someone with eyes that smoulder

Says he loves ev'ry silken curl

That falls on my iv'ry shoulder,

I enjoy being a girl!

When I hear the compliment'ry whistle

That greets my bikini by the sea,

I turn and I glower and I bristle,

But I'm happy to know the whistle's meant for me!

I'm strictly a female female

And my future I hope will be

In the home of a brave and free male

Who'll enjoy being a guy having a girl... like... me.

I hardly know where to begin. How many young girls listened to this and thought this was how they should think? How did woman, Asian-American and not, hear this and keep from screaming?

The character singing “I Enjoy Being a Girl” is a nightclub dancer and stripper. In another insult to Asian women, The World of Suzie Wong is about a Chinese woman who works as a prostitute, and her relationship with a British man. It appeared as a novel written by a man, a stage play written by and staged by men, a film written by and directed by men, and two ballets created by men. 

Roget lists more than 50 expressions for prostitute, plus some in French or from ancient Greece. I’m sensing an obsession here. How many times do we need to hear another moth-eaten story, in whatever time period and whatever culture, about a fallen woman? It seems to me to be a very hard way to make a living, and the stories never delve into what this line of work does to the woman’s heart or soul, only what it does to the man enamored with her. So even these portraits are not really about their female objects. Is there really anything more to learn here?

Aren’t we done yet?

Mount of olives

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Quite a number of years ago, I had a realization about a new testament text. I’ve made it clear, I think, that I have serious problems with the bible. Just one is that I wonder why people who say they are Christians still obsess about the old part when Jesus superseded it. That’s what saying he was the “new covenant” means to me — that people could move on.

If we wade through the mass of ignorance and violence that have been the trademarks of the “big three” male, monotheistic religions, we find that the words of Jesus Christ — even through centuries of translation — resonate as balanced, yin with the yang, female energy present with male. It seems to me that his sermon on the mount can be read as particularly woman-oriented. His beatitudes replace the “commandments” of the old book:

Blessed are the poor in spirit; theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn; they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek; they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice; they will be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful; they will receive mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart; they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers; they will be called children of God.

Blessed are those persecuted for justice’s sake; theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

This could be a prophecy for women worldwide, no?

Have a heart

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

It seems to me we live in a “brain-biased” culture. Rational thought, intellectual action, these are seen as the pinnacle of human development. And it’s true, our brains are amazing.

But what if the developmental goal, the state we’re evolving toward, doesn’t concentrate on just one — what if it’s all? What if the growth and expansion we are headed for is a combination of our amazing brain with our even more amazing heart? 

The heart generates more energy than the brain, and its pattern is made of multiple energies — electrical, magnetic, sound, pressure, temperature. As it pumps blood to every cell of the body, the heart transmits information and energy, and integrates the whole.

In his work with water crystals, Masaru Emoto has shown how water takes on and transports energy vibrations. The energy of words written on paper and taped to a glass jar of water shapes the crystals that water forms when frozen. Dr. Emoto’s photos of the crystals are nothing short of astonishing. Water listens, water feels, water responds. 

It makes you stop and think about the consequences of every single thing you do, doesn’t it? If I have an angry outburst, does that energy impact the water and air around me? Does that spiky, explosive energy upset my lymph system, or my alveoli, disrupting their smooth operation?

We’ve been told that aerobic exercise is good for the physical heart. What do you suppose would be good for the energetic heart? Love, of course. Others? Gratitude, empathy, reverence, delight, forgiveness, playfulness, trust, compassion. We can think of more. Dowser Michele Fitzgerald calls them “heart potions.”

I remember that old poem about chores (women’s chores, that is):

“Wash on Monday, iron on Tuesday, mend on Wednesday, churn on Thursday, clean on Friday, bake on Saturday, rest on Sunday.” 

What if we choose to concentrate on one of these heart-feeding emotions each day? Our new poem would be something like, “Caring on Monday, enthusiastic on Tuesday, encouraged on Wednesday, cheerful on Thursday, appreciative on Friday, generous on Saturday, joyful on Sunday.”

It’s the heart of the matter, don't you think?

Dragon lady

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

In this country’s consciousness, snakes are cast in the villain’s role (a British actor made a similar complaint about Brits in American movies). Why? The entire U.S. has only about 20 venomous snakes, and none of the huge constrictors. Generally our native snakes, like wolves, cougars and other slandered beasts, avoid people; they bother us only when we’ve startled or threatened them. People have slaughtered all — snakes, wolves, mountain lions — yet there’s something more; people fear, loathe, abhor snakes.

Now, I could understand this attitude in a chipmunk; lots of chipmunks are eaten by snakes. But most of us have never met, and will never meet, a venomous snake in the wild; considering where these snakes live, we’d have to go really out of our way to meet one — climb a mountain or rocky ridge, hang out in a southern river, walk around in a southwestern desert — and then mess with the snake we (literally) stumble upon. Doesn’t it seem the snakes should fear, loathe, abhor us?

So this revulsion isn’t based on our experience. What, then? How about that often-quoted source of mindless hatred, the old testament? In its very first section, we’ve got a snake talking a woman into causing nothing less than the fall from paradise. Neither snakes nor women have been treated well since.

But in that same neck of the woods, in the oldest stories of the oldest civilizations — Mycenaean, Egyptian, Sumerian, Babylonian — the ancient creator goddess was a serpent or cobra. Later goddesses retained snake symbolism — her scepter entwined with serpents, snakes coiled around her body, a snake looking out from behind her shield. The serpent was the wisest of animals, the Gnostic Testimony of Truth tells us.

These snakes symbolize wisdom and prophecy, mystic insights, dream interpretation. The sites where holy women — priestesses, oracles — received and interpreted divine revelations were dedicated to goddesses, and snakes were present at these centers of divination, of prophecy. The oracle Pythia at Delphi is said to have sat on a stool encircled by a snake known as the Python. Initially known as female, Python became male in later Greek writings. It seems clear that the murders of Python by Apollo and of Gaia’s serpent by Zeus represent the confiscation of these shrines, and of the godhead, by men.

And snakes have been paying for it ever since. The symbol of divine wisdom became the symbol of evil. One of the most recent goddess depictions, the Virgin Mary, is a testament to both the twists of stolen iconography and the endurance of subconscious images. In a common image, Mary stands on a crescent moon, and a snake.

Something always seemed wrong to me about this image; the whole thing is passive. Mary’s eyes are not looking inward, like the Kwan Yin’s. Although the palms are facing forward, Mary’s hands are not active, like Tara’s. Mary’s head is turned to the side but tilted down, not strong like Isis. And Mary’s foot is closing the mouth of the snake, making us deaf to the wisdom of the divine.

How can we open our ears to the pythoness within?

With a little bit of luck

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

What qualifies as romance? When I was a young teen, my sister, nine years older and newly in the working world, went to New York City with some girl friends. They toured around, saw the sights, went to a show - My Fair Lady.

She was telling me about how romantic that show was and I was following closely. So when she got to the ending, the famous “Eliza, where are my slippers?” line, I really came up short. To put my response into today’s lingo, I thought “WTF?”

Romantic? This patronizing, pedantic man treats her like a lab rat. She succeeds in the programming, and finally gets the strength to walk away. He grudgingly acknowledges he misses her presence. She returns, and his response shows he’s made no movement, no change. This is romance? 

Somehow, it became conventional wisdom that a man didn’t need to tell a woman he loved her — she would just know. Who foisted that canard on the world? Women are encouraged to believe something despite little or no evidence or outward expression. It seems to me it’s a terrifyingly small step from “He loves me even though he doesn’t say it,” to “He hits me because he loves me.”

So maybe women have more and deeper emotional resources than men. And maybe women use both hemispheres of their brains more equally, and the communication between the hemispheres is stronger and quicker. How does that translate into women having full emotional responsibility for both partners?

For decades in this culture, men were allowed to express two emotions — rage and lust; that was the gamut of their sanctioned emotional range. Good women could express many emotions, as long as the emotions were selfless and the women were passive. It has been stifling for both men and women to have weaknesses made weaker through disuse, while overused strengths become bound up and calcified.

We’ve stumbled through the sexual revolution and the second wave of feminism. We hope these have resulted in both sexes having more emotional freedom — free to feel and free to express it. Yet it still feels to me like a work in progress.

How long a way have we actually come, baby?

Now you see it

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

A BBC story this August told of a woolen tunic found on a Norwegian mountainside. It had been buried under snow that is now melting in our changing climate. The tunic was made of wool, had a diamond pattern, was brown in color, had been patched -- and was more than 1,700 years old.

Because cloth and clothing are perishable compared with, say, marble buildings, there just isn’t much old (as in historic) stuff around. We have metal and stone tools and weapons and artifacts from many eras, but not the clothing. It seems to me there would likely have been more cloth than anything else -- not everyone had a weapon, but everyone wore clothing. 

Fiber and cloth have been used to cover the human body from prehistory. And women made the cloth and the clothes. In her book, Women’s Work: The First 20,000 Years, Elizabeth Wayland Barber looks at archeological evidence and sees the work of women in developing textiles -- a critically important advance in craft and commerce and civilization.

Working with fibers, whether from plants or animals, is work that is not dependent on chasing or catching animals. It is not dangerous for little ones to be around. It has many stages, and so can be interrupted without harming the final product. In other words, spinning and weaving could be done by women with young children.

Bronze Age Mesopotamian women ran their own cloth businesses, often supplying their trader husbands with merchandise. Two thousand years later in Athens, women were still making cloth but did so as virtual prisoners in the home. What happened?

Barber says, “We women do not need to conjure a history for ourselves. Facts about women, their work, and their place in society in early times have survived in considerable quantity, if we know how to look for them.” At the same time, she has titled the book’s final chapter, “Postscript: Finding the Invisible.”

Perhaps we all need to be in the business of making the invisible visible.

How quickly we forget

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

It seems incredible to me that I have nearly forgotten I ever had a menstrual cycle. This was something I did every month for 40 years, and it was gone from my consciousness within 12 months. In six years or so, it’s entirely out of my memory. 

There’s no stash of feminine hygiene products in the glove compartment of my car or at the bottom of my purse. I don’t have to check the sheets on the bed for stains. My consumption of ibuprofen is down to nearly zero. I have no idea where the hot water bottle is, or even if I still own one.

These alone could be reason for post-menopausal glee, but there’s more. My head is not fogged with hormones. I can trust my moods -- and there are fewer of them. I can make up my mind. My view of myself is not subject to careening extremes.

We’ve all heard that old age is not for sissies. Well, being a woman is not for the weak -- being a menstruating woman takes strength. Although I’m still active, I doubt I’d have the energy now for a monthly cycle; the complexity of chemical and physical changes involved is quite costly energetically.

There is a kind of resistance, an inner resilience, needed to undergo these physical changes every month. A woman has to find a way to come to terms with her cycle, in order to live with it and not be ruled by it. I seriously doubt if you asked some young women what they would like to do with one week every month, that any would say she wanted to bleed. Despite our preferences, that is what happens; it is only smart and self-nurturing to be okay with it.

Perhaps we can think about having a menstrual cycle as training for learning what is important in life. We learn we are not in control of everything, so we don’t have to waste any more time or energy chasing that fallacy. We learn to listen to our bodies, so we get to know what we need. We learn that nothing lasts forever, so we aren’t paralyzed when change occurs.

Somehow this impressive toughness of women became seen in our culture as weakness. But that makes no sense. If you just take a clinical look at what goes on physically, emotionally, psychologically in a woman’s body every month, you come away impressed and awed.

The weaker sex? Not by a long shot.

Keep the change

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Now that it’s autumn -- and it most definitively is autumn, as if the trees all got a memo on the equinox -- I have to wonder if I evolved from creatures that hibernate. All I want to do is eat and then sleep. Does this happen to you?

I’m craving comfort food, though my life is really quite filled with comfort already. My feet relax into socks, and scarves are once again wrapped around my neck. If I had fur like the cat, I’d be brushing it.

It seems true to me that we reflect the natural world around us, and we don’t have to do so deliberately or consciously; it just happens. In winter, we can be cozy and focused within. The spring that follows seems that much more miraculous -- all that life bursting up from the earth -- inspiring us to get moving, plant gardens, make plans. Summer’s warmth helps us find the balance between moving and resting, and the extended days are a gift of time. Come autumn, we can ponder the season’s lesson that what seems to be loss is preparation for new life.

Change is the way of the world, quite literally. And women bodily reflect change every month. So why do so many people fear change, fight change? Why, on this changing planet, do people dream about permanency? Is that the Eden lost so long ago?

Maybe, instead of demanding an immutable existence, we should work on becoming more comfortable with change. A good exercise for this could involve our habits. What if we think of habits as acquired for the sole purpose of breaking them?

There is little else so readily available that tests will or improves flexibility better than breaking a habit. Taking coffee without sugar or putting cream in tea, getting up a half-hour earlier or changing our route home -- making small changes can prepare us for big ones. Changing a behavior pattern can show us our strength and help us believe in ourselves. 

And that’s a good place to be whatever the season.

The body electric?

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Some years ago, there was an amusing television ad; I can’t remember the product or message, but I do remember the ad. Some ordinary-looking men were standing around in a bar or in a locker room or somewhere, and one guy with his back to the camera turns his head over his shoulder and asks the other guys, “Do these pants make my thighs look big?” He might have asked if they made his butt look big; I can’t remember. Either way, it was so incongruous, it was really funny.

Yet what’s incongruous with men is completely normal with women. Haven’t we all asked someone, or at least ourselves, some version of that question? Does this *insert type of garment here* make my *insert body part* or “me” look *choose all that apply: fat, flat-chested, dumpy, thick, scrawny, too tall, too short, yadda, yadda, yadda.

When confronted with a photo (likely altered and air-brushed) of a well-built young man, all defined muscles and tapering torso, we say, “Nobody looks like that.” And we’re right. We recognize that this beautiful man’s occupation depends on his looks, and that he’s unusual. But when we see a photo (quite certainly air-brushed) of a beautiful woman, long-legged and flat-bellied, we say, “I need to lose weight,” or “Maybe liposuction,” or, worst of all, “I’ll never look like that, and I’m ugly.”

I know we’re a visually based, some might say visually susceptible, species. But our species comprises both women and men; why are the women, at least in this country, so much more obsessed with meeting a “model” image?   Those women are also unusual; they’re not typical, that’s why they have their jobs.

When I was a kid, during the Miss America pageant’s swimsuit competition, each contestant was introduced by state, name, height and measurements, as in, “Miss Ohio, Erie Laker, 5 feet 4 inches tall, 34, 24, 34.” 

Reminiscent of a 4H livestock show, that was bad enough, but those body specifics did describe an actual woman’s body attainable without surgical intervention. Now, it’s “Miss California, Simi Dotcom, 5 feet 9 inches tall, 36, 27, 33.” Or, as one fashion show review in The New York Times put it, “... skeletons with artfully arranged blobs of fat.”

Now there's an image.

Shoo!

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Have you tried to buy a pair of women’s shoes lately? It’s scarier than a slasher movie. Heels five inches tall with a two-inch platform sole. Wedges that lift feet four inches off the ground. Those are the dangerous ones. Then there are the simply stupid ones -- sandals with leather ankle covers like spats attached, short boots with open toes. It’s as if people who’ve never walked on feet are designing footwear.

In “Mrs. Doubtfire,” the man dressing as a woman walks home from his first day and curses “the misogynistic bastard who invented heels.” We all know that high heeled shoes add height and make legs look longer; what we forget is the damage high heels do to the alignment of the pelvis and the cascade of troubles that follow down hip, knee, ankle, arch, toes.

Aside from horsemen, for whom a higher heel provides stability in the stirrup, men haven’t consistently worn high-heeled shoes. Men of gentility wore heels like women’s -- not very high and situated under the arch -- in the late 16th century and on and off through royal courts. But high heels stopped being the fashion for men for some hundreds of years now, while during the same period becoming more extreme for women.

I remember learning to walk in my first pair of heels (black patent leather, kitten heel) and falling on a slippery floor at work (amber-colored suede platform heels). I took off time from high heels when I was pregnant and running after toddlers, but dressing nicely always included shoes with some heel height. Like many women, I am susceptible to the allure of high heels. Why is that?

Part of the reason is being in fashion, and part was that for many years you couldn’t find an attractive pair of flat or near-flat shoes. That has fortunately changed, but as there is finally some choice in low shoes that are pretty, now there’s a marked increase in the outrageous -- and dangerous -- heights of fashionable shoes being shown. There can’t be that many foot fetishists around, can there?

A shoe should cover the foot, keeping it warm and protected from injury, support the arch, provide traction to avoid slipping and falling. There have been advances in all other garments for ease of wear, comfort, durability, design -- why not women’s shoes?

I’m equally alarmed at the opposite trend -- flip flops. No arch support, unprotected feet vulnerable to any impact, and open to dirt, stubbed toes, and objects penetrating the sole. And they have no style, which is fine for an item designed for walking on the beach or to the shower -- which they are.

Flip flop sandals and four-inch heels, both remind us that women have not yet become comfortable in our own skins to insist that fashion not expose our bodies to damage, to harm.

From the ridiculous to the ridiculous, with no sublime in sight.

Fashion victims

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Some years ago, I saw an exhibit on the corset. It was fascinating and awful. An early style was a wooden board, six inches wide and rounded at the top, worn from under the breasts to the pubic bone by women and girls, quite young. Styles progressed to stays and whalebone (a genuine breakthrough in comfort), curves became wildly emphasized, bodies became deformed. It remained the style for women for hundreds of years. 

Upstairs in the same museum, I came upon a painting done in 1890 by Julius Leblanc Stewart, On the Yacht “Namaouna.” There are five figures in the foreground, two men and three women, and the women all seem to be posed seductively. One is standing and holding onto a brass rail behind her; two are sitting in chairs, both are leaning into the back -- one has her arms raised to hold the top of the chair, the other is tilted to one side coquettishly.

At first glance, the postures seem very come-hitherish. But with my mind still filled with the garments that squeezed lungs and squashed intestines, I saw these women’s postures for what they were: attempts to somehow escape their confinement, to find some comfortable position. They had hour-glass figures and tiny waists; they were pale and languid; they could not breathe.

With their restrictive undergarments and draped with long skirts and tight bodices, one assumes a woman so dressed could not run or even raise an arm, and certainly needed help getting out of her outfit. Her clothing impeded her, provided no defenses (except perhaps for a well-aimed hatpin), and actually rendered her close to helpless. But if a woman wanted success and marriage, she had no choice but to corset herself.

The ideal size of a bound foot in China was three inches. It, too, became essential for attractiveness and marriageability. Started on girls by the age of five, binding broke the toes, deformed the foot, hampered movement for life. Infections were common, flesh became necrotic. Foot-binding in China lasted for one thousand years.

Are we insane?

Bona dea

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

I enjoy spending time with my three-year-old grandson. His play is rather truck-intensive, with some dragons and dinosaurs thrown in. He loves books and reading, but trucks are his first, second, and third love.

This got me to thinking about how my children played when they were three. My son was a dinosaur aficionado and fascinated with trains. My daughter enjoyed adornment; she wore a little pink tutu skirt over her clothes every day for months. I was beginning to get worried, as mothers do, until we met a little boy in the supermarket who wore, in true Viking fashion, a metal colander on his head. I stopped worrying about the tutu.

Someone gave my girl a tall bride doll, one that had been in the family for a while and its white dress was a bit tattered. My mother made a sapphire blue velvet dress for the doll; my daughter nearly swooned with happiness.

I was watching her dressing up this doll. She put ribbon bows on the dress, a flower garland and a veil on the doll’s head, flowers in each hand. And I realized that the result looked very like the shrines of Mary statutes in my grammar school, similarly decorated during the month of May. With positively no external information to sway her, my three-year-old was performing a ritual; the impulse, apparently, and the method, certainly, were much the same as common adult religious practices.

Where did that come from? Was my girl expressing an inherent link with the goddess? Great Mother, Queen of Heaven, Goddess of the Universe -- can knowledge of her be hard-wired in us, demonstrated by little ones too young to have it burned, beaten, or mocked out of them?

As I get older, the concept of the divine for me has no personality, is rather a great force, energy, unifying all. But when I need a face there, the divine face is always a goddess, and has been so for decades. But I’ve kept this sub rosa; it’s still not completely safe. Study most any culture’s stories, and a male pantheon has been superimposed upon an older goddess religion and even the memory of that erased, or consigned to “myth” and “fertility rites.” The violence of the new religions tried to wipe the goddess from the earth.

Suppressing women’s religious rites made suppressing and subjugating women all the easier. Blaming Eve for the loss of paradise has allowed -- no, justified -- male dominance and oppression of women. In her book When God Was a Woman, Merlin Stone asks, “What had life been like for women who lived in a society that venerated a wise and valiant female Creator?”

Can you imagine?

Ladies and gentlemen

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Is anyone else bothered by the title “First Lady,” which seems out-of-date and inadequate at best, classist and archaic at worst? We need a better title, something like “the woman-whose-support-was-instrumental-in-her-husband’s-getting-to-be-President.” I guess that would be awkward on the stationery.

Some First Ladies were clear that they worked closely with their husbands. Florence Harding said, “I put him in the White House. He does well when he listens to me and poorly when he does not.” Several First Ladies found the position unpleasant, even odious; Margaret Taylor prayed for her husband to lose the election. But, like it or not, they sacrificed their preferences and performed this very difficult duty, which they had not sought.

Lots of people probably know that Eleanor Roosevelt resigned from the Daughters of the American Revolution when that group refused Constitution Hall as a concert venue for black contralto Marian Anderson, and that she helped arrange another site for the singer -- the Lincoln Memorial. Eleanor Roosevelt set an example as a woman who was not dominated by her husband, who had strong convictions about social justice, who was not afraid to express her mind

Another First Lady, Mamie Eisenhower, was mostly known for her aplomb as a hostess and her taste in pretty dresses. One could hardly call Mamie a rebel, yet when she and her husband revived the tradition of the White House Easter egg roll, she invited black children to participate in the formerly segregated event. In that one deed, this conventional woman, who did not even try to hide her distaste for the young Kennedys following her and Ike’s tenure, still set a model and wielded important influence for the public good.

Michelle Obama promotes community and families. Ladybird Johnson saved native wildflowers. Laura Bush fostered support for education and libraries. Rosalynn Carter aided senior citizens in need. A great deal of what is best in our society has been brought to our attention, and often secured, by the interest of the First Lady, usually quite quietly and without fanfare. And not once has a First Lady’s project been called a war on anything. 

There will be a woman President someday. But what about her husband? Will he be asked if he can make a pie? Will his wearing knickers constitute a major fashion faux pas? Will we be expecting of the First Gent anything different from what we now expect of the First Lady?

This will be interesting to watch, don’t you think?

What to do

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Okay, I promise not to belabor twerking or the ill-advised young woman whose pursuit of being noticed led to unfortunate behavior choices. She’s hardly the first to do so. The flaming crashes of such beings have become so prevalent that we are nearly inured to them. Lindsey Lohan, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton -- the most long-lived references are punch lines. The first two of these youngsters evidenced some talent, which is not true of the third, but all seemed possessed by a demon, forcing them to seek fame, and when that palled or wasn’t available, simple notoriety.

I think, “poor things” and “where are their mothers?” Where were the women in their young lives who could teach them to recognize their worth?From whom could they have learned that a woman’s behavior is a window onto how she values herself?

Is the problem in this culture today that fewer women are comfortable with or want to take on the role of elder? In a society that seems to worship unalloyed youth, where is the benefit, the respect, in being less quick, less shapely, less attractive -- in a word, older?

Can’t you remember your grandmother looking like a grandmother and not like the women in ads for drugs to correct erectile dysfunction? Perhaps because they were born in Europe, my grandmothers didn’t wear tight jeans and tee shirts or pastel track suits; they dressed like Maurice Sendak’s grandmother bear in Little Bear’s Visit. 

When they faced no longer being generally regarded as sexually attractive -- which feels like anonymity after years on the “meat market” -- there was a recognized and esteemed place for them in society: the old, wise, woman. She may not have been the Delphic Oracle, but my grandmother was wise simply for having lived longer, and we listened to and valued her perspectives accordingly.

Youth is wonderful, but by nature usually self-absorbed. The task of the young is to learn, and some of the most important things we need to learn come through just having lived. And we are helped through that by having a guide, someone to look out for us, or, short of that, models to see and perhaps emulate. 

Don’t we need to re-establish the role of older, wiser, woman -- not only for our own self-respect, but also to protect these young women, before they twerk themselves into humiliation?

Dear diary

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Have you ever picked up an old diary and cringed at what you wrote? I remember doing that when I was probably 13, looking back at what I wrote when I was 10 and someone had given me a diary for my birthday. (I can’t remember if I tore it up or burned it.) Even when I was 10, I soon tired of writing my daily thoughts; they were too boring, even for me, the person writing them.

So I never developed the journaling habit. I know it’s a large part of developmental workshops, creative exploration, self-healing. But I just can’t do it, can’t bring myself to write about myself every day. My life is quieter now, but even in the midst of lots of activity, I never thought to chronicle it.

I’m sure lack of discipline is one reason. (It’s a good justification for not doing just about anything, don’t you think?) Another is that I didn’t think there was anything unique about it; it was just me, you know?

I guess that feeling is the opposite of what we in this country are seeing now -- all kinds of Americans acting as if they deserve everyone’s attention. On television there are the reality shows -- whether the topic is surviving or baking or designing dresses or buying them. Tell me -- why should we care?

Then there is what happens on the Internet. How did that tool for communications become the exhibitionist’s dream-come-true? People tell us they’re having soup for lunch or what groceries they bought. I wonder: who’s the audience, who could possibly be interested?

Have we somehow morphed the American ideal of equality, so revolutionary in a world of stratified societies, into the mistake of insisting that everyone is equal in talent or intelligence or beauty? And worse, we seem to have twisted the measure of a person’s worth into how much screen time she gets -- whether it’s a movie screen, a television screen, or a computer monitor.

Maybe it’s time to call “Cut!”

Once upon a time

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Now that I’m reading to my grandson, I’m mindful of what books I heard and read as a child -- and wondering how they affected me and whether I’d feel the same way about them now.

Here’s an example. In Aesop’s (and La Fontaine’s) fable, The Ants and the Grasshopper, the grasshopper sang all summer while the ants were gathering food, and in the winter, when the cold, hungry grasshopper asked the ants for food, they told him to dance to keep warm. Essentially, they slammed the door in his face.

As a child I knew we were supposed to appreciate the moral lesson of the virtues of hard work and the dangers of not planning for the future. But I thought the ants were rude, arrogant, selfish, and either totally without appreciation for the arts or envious of the grasshopper’s joie de vivre (though I didn’t know it was called that). That’s pretty much how I still feel.

I never cared for fairy tales as a child, not because they were gruesome -- and some certainly were -- but because they just didn’t hold my interest. (Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to write fiction.) I read the Greek myths instead, which had equally scary or alarming features -- but those were never the important part of the story. As a child reader, I used my judgment and discretion in what I took away from fables or myths, poems or stories. And I think the freedom to do that is critical to the developing brain.

For some years now, so many of the popular stories (or the videos that replace stories) geared to children have been devoid of most anything unpleasant, or subtle, or artistic, or truly funny. How you ever watched Barney, the purple “dinosaur” with capped teeth? One could, I think, get diabetes from it -- except it’s all saccharine instead of real sugar.

Why do the current makers of children’s entertainment, so much of which is branded “EDUCATIONAL,” assume that children are dim, with banal interests and no appreciation of quality? Watching these shows may well fulfill that prophecy of banality and dimness, as will having every thought predigested for them and served on a bed of “feel good” cliche. 

Kids understand; they get ideas, humor, contradictions. They are smart -- not in the annoying, smart-alecky way of sitcom kids, but with the essential smarts of figuring out the world. Stories should help them wonder, and trace cause-and-effect, and doubt, and find proof that satisfies them.  Of course we need to keep our children safe, but isn't part of that helping them stretch and expand their understanding of life? We wouldn't feed their bodies only pablum; why are we doing so with their minds?

And really, clever Brer Rabbit is so much more interesting than smarmy Elmo, don't you think?